THE BED
THEY LOVED each other, but jealousy (whether jealousy of the past or of the future), a common feeling of envy, and a common lack of trust were gnawing away at them. Sometimes, in a bed, they forgot these unfortunate feelings, and thanks to it they survived. I will tell of one of these instances, the last one.
The bed was fluffy and wide and covered with a pink spread. The center of the headboard, which was made of iron, showed a landscape with trees and ships. The setting sun was illuminating a cloud shaped like a flame. When they embraced, one of them, the lucky one, lying faceup, kissing the other mouth and attracted by the unusual radiance that filled that cloud, could look at it through the fringes of a lamp decorated with red and green tulips.
They lingered longer than usual in the bed. The sounds from the street grew louder and then died down as darkness fell. You could imagine the bed sailing on a sea outside time and space, searching for happiness or for some convincing likeness of it. But they are reckless lovers. Their clothes, which they had taken off, were nearby, within reach. The empty sleeves of a shirt hung from the bed, and a light blue piece of paper had fallen out of one of the pockets. Someone picked up the paper. I don’t know what that sky-blue paper had on it, but I know that it produced commotion, investigations, irrepressible hatred, arguments, reconciliations, new arguments.
Dawn was peeking through the windows.
“I smell a fire. Last night I dreamt of fire,” she said, in a moment of horror, facing his anger, trying to distract him.
“Your sense of smell is fooling you,” he said.
“We’re on the ninth floor,” she added, trying to look scared. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject. The fire makes sounds like falling water, can’t you hear it?”
“Your ears are fooling you.”
The room was brightly lit and hot. It was a bonfire.
“If we embraced, only our backs would burn up.”
“We’ll burn up completely,” he said, looking at the fire with furious eyes.
LOVERS
IN HIS plastic wallet he carried a picture of her dressed as a harem girl. She had a picture of him in his conscript’s uniform on her bedside table.
Their families, jobs, the schedule of meals and bedtimes, all conspired against their meeting often, but those sporadic meetings were rituals and always took place in winter. First they would buy pastries, and then, sitting under the trees, they would savor them, like children with a snack.
Uncertainty is a form of happiness that works in lovers’ favor. Through the labyrinths of their days, of crackly, seemingly endless phone calls, they would always choose Dahlias Bakery as their meeting place, and always choose Sunday as the day, but only after discarding other possibilities. Instead of a coat she wore a shaggy plaid blanket that always came in handy. By the bakery window they would exchange greetings without looking at each other, making a show of their confusion. Those who don’t see each other often don’t know what to say, no doubt.
“Perhaps in a very dark room or in a very fast car,” he thought, “I would overcome my shyness.” “Perhaps I would know what to say to him in a movie theater after the intermission, or while taking part in a procession,” she thought.
After this interior dialogue, they went to the bakery, as always, and bought pieces of four different kinds of cake. One looked like the Monument to the Spaniards, cluttered with plumes of whipped cream and glazed fruit in the form of flowers; another looked like some sort of mysterious and very dark lace, with shiny decorations of chocolate and yellow meringue covered with sprinkles; another looked like a broken marble pedestal, less beautiful than the others but larger, with coffee frosting, whipped cream, and pieces of nuts; another looked like part of a box, with jewels inlaid at either end and snow on top. After paying, when the package was ready, they would go to the Recoleta, next to the wall of the old age home, where children hide after breaking the streetlights and beggars go to wash their clothes in the fountains. Next to a frail tree, whose branches act as swings and horses for the children who play in them, they sat down on the grass. She opened the package and took out the cardboard tray where the cream and meringue and chocolate glowed, though already a bit squashed. Simultaneously, as if their movements were projected onto each other (mysterious and subtle mirror!), first with one hand, then with both hands, they picked up the slices of the cake with plumes of whipped cream (the miniature Monument to the Spaniards), and lifted them to their mouths. They chewed in unison and finished swallowing each bite at the same time. In the same surprising harmony they cleaned their fingers on napkins that others had left lying on the grass. The repetition of these movements connected them with eternity.
After finishing the first slice they again contemplated the remaining slices on the cardboard tray. With loving greed and greater intimacy they took the second pieces: the slices of chocolate decorated with meringue. Without hesitating, squinting their eyes, they lifted them up to mouths agape. Baby pigeons open their beaks the same way to receive the food brought by their mothers. With greater energy and speed, but with identical pleasure, they began chewing and swallowing once more, like two gymnasts exercising at the same time. She, from time to time, would turn to watch some passing car that was especially valuable, smelling excessively of gasoline, or very large, or would lift her head to watch a dove, the symbol of love, fluttering clumsily among the branches. He would look straight ahead, perhaps savoring the taste of those treats less consciously than she. The abundant whipped cream dripped on the grass, on the folded blanket, and on some bits of trash nearby. No smile would light up their harmonious lips until they finished the contents of the little tray of yellowish cardboard covered with waxed paper. The last bit of cake, crumbled between thumb and index finger, took a long time to reach their open mouths. The crumbs that fell on the tray, her skirt, and his pants were carefully picked up and lifted with thumb and finger to their lips.
The third slice of cake, even more opulent than the others, looked like the material used to build the older houses in beach resorts. The fourth piece, lighter but more difficult to eat because of its sponge-like consistency coated with sugar, left them with white mustaches and white spots on their lips. They had to stick out their tongues and close their eyes to clean their mouths. If they didn’t dare to take large bites they missed the best part of the cake, covered with peanuts disguised as walnuts or almonds. She stretched out her neck and lowered her head; he didn’t change his position. The chewing followed a regular rhythm, as if they were keeping time with a metronome.
They knew there were other treats left on the cardboard tray. After that first difficult moment, the rest was easy. They used their hands like spoons. Without chewing, they filled their mouths with cream and sponge cake before swallowing.
After finishing the contents of the tray, she tossed the festooned cardboard away and took a little package of peanuts out of her pocket. For several minutes, with the studied gestures of a model, she opened the shells, peeled the nuts, and fed them to him; she saved some for herself, putting them in her mouth and chewing in unison with him. Licking their lips, they attempted a shy conversation on the theme of picnics: people who had died after drinking wine or eating watermelon; a poisonous spider in a picnic basket one Sunday that had killed a girl whose in-laws all hated her; canned goods that had gone bad, but looked delicious, had caused the death of two families in Trenque Lauquen; a storm that had drowned two couples who were celebrating their honeymoons with hard cider and rolls with sausages on the banks of a stream in Tapalqué.
When they had finished the food and the conversation, she unfolded the blanket and they covered themselves with it, lying on the grass. They smiled for the first time, their mouths full of food and words, but she knew (as he did) that, beneath the blanket, love would repeat its usual actions, and that hope, flying farther and farther away on fickle wings, would draw her away from marriage.
THE EXPIATION
for Helena and Eduardo
ANTONIO summoned Ruperto and me to the room at the back of the house. With a domineering tone he ordered us to sit down. The bed was made. He went out to the patio to open the door of the aviary, then came back and lay down on the bed.
“I’m going to perform a show for you,” he told us.
“Is the circus going to hire you?” I asked him.
He whistled two or three times and Favorita, Maria Callas, and Mandarin, the little red one, flew in. Staring hard at the ceiling, he whistled once more in an even higher and more tremulous tone. Was that the show? Was that why he had called Ruperto and me? Why didn’t he wait for Cleóbula to arrive? I thought the whole performance was meant to show that Ruperto was not blind but crazy; that he would reveal his madness through some show of emotion while witnessing Antonio’s feat. The canaries’ flight back and forth made me sleepy. My memories flew around my mind with equal persistence. They say you relive your life the moment before your death. I relived mine that afternoon with a detached feeling of panic.
As if it were painted on the wall, I saw myself marrying Antonio at five o’clock one December afternoon. It was quite hot and, when we got home, I noticed with some surprise, as I took off my wedding dress and veil, a canary in the bedroom window. Now I realize that it was Mandarin who was pecking on the last orange on the tree in the courtyard. Antonio didn’t interrupt his kisses when he saw I was distracted by that spectacle. The bird’s extreme cruelty to the orange fascinated me. I watched the scene until Antonio dragged me trembling to the marriage bed. There, the bedspread, covered with wedding presents, had been a place of happiness for him and of terror for me on the eve of the wedding. The bedspread of scarlet velvet was embroidered with scenes of a journey in a stagecoach. I closed my eyes and was barely conscious of what happened next. Love is also a journey. Over many days I gradually learned its lessons, without seeing or understanding the pleasure or pain it lavished on me. At first, I think Antonio and I loved each other equally, without any problems, except those caused by my innocence and his shyness.
This tiny house and its equally tiny garden are located at the edge of town. The healthy air of the mountains surrounds us: the countryside is nearby and we can see it when we open the windows.
We already had a radio and a refrigerator. Numerous friends filled our house on holidays and on other celebratory occasions. What more could we hope for? Cleóbula and Ruperto visited us frequently because they were our childhood friends. Antonio had fallen in love with me; they knew all about it. He had not sought me out or chosen me, but it was I who had chosen him. His only ambition in life was to be loved by his wife, that she should preserve her fidelity. He paid little attention to money.
Ruperto would sit in a corner of the patio with his guitar and while tuning it would abruptly ask for a mate or, if it was hot, for lemonade. I thought of him as one of the various friends or relatives who form, so to speak, part of the furniture of a house, noticed only when broken or discovered in a different place than usual.
“Canaries are born singers,” Cleóbula would invariably say, though she actually detested them and would’ve killed them with a broom. What would she have said if she had seen them perform those ridiculous tricks without Antonio even offering them a piece of lettuce or a vanilla wafer!
I would mechanically give Ruperto the mate, or lemonade, in the shade of the arbor where he always sat in a Viennese chair, like a dog guarding his territory. I didn’t think of him as a woman thinks of a man; I didn’t even lightly flirt with him. Many times, after washing my hair and messily putting it up, or with a toothbrush in my mouth and toothpaste on my lips, or my hands covered with soap suds from washing the clothes, my apron fastened at the waist, big-bellied as if I were pregnant, I would let him in, opening the front door for him without even looking at him. Many times, my inattention was such that I think he saw me leaving the bathroom wrapped in a Turkish towel, dragging my slippers like an old woman, or some other sort.
Chusco, Albahaca, and Serranito flew to the bowl that held little arrows made of thorns. Carrying the arrows they eagerly flew to other bowls containing a dark liquid in which they moistened the tiny arrowheads. They looked like toy birds, cheap toothpick holders, decorations for great-great-grandmother’s hat.
Cleóbula, who isn’t overly suspicious, had noticed that Ruperto stared insistently at me, and told me about it. “What eyes he has,” she would repeat endlessly, “what eyes!”
“I have succeeded in keeping my eyes open when I sleep,” Antonio mumbled. “It is one of the most difficult tests of my life that I give myself.”
I was startled by his voice. Was that the show? What was so extraordinary about it?
“Like Ruperto,” I said with a strange voice.
“Like Ruperto,” Antonio repeated. “The canaries obey my orders more readily than my eyelids.”
The three of us sat in that dark room as if doing penance. But—what connection could there be between his eyes being open when he slept and the orders he gave the canaries? Not surprisingly, Antonio left me rather perplexed: he was so different from other men!
Cleóbula had also assured me that while Ruperto tuned the guitar he would stare at me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and that one night when he fell asleep, half drunk on the patio, his eyes had fixed on me. In consequence, I lost my naturalness with him, and perhaps my non-flirtatiousness. To my way of thinking, Ruperto looked at me through a kind of mask on which his animal eyes were mounted, eyes that didn’t close even when he slept. His pupils would pierce me, staring at me in a mysterious way, with God knows what in mind, as he would gaze at the glass of lemonade or mate that I would serve him. Eyes that stared so hard didn’t exist in the whole province, in the whole world; a deep blue gleam, as if they held the sky inside them, making them different from all others, from looks that seemed listless or dead. Ruperto was not a man: he was a pair of eyes, without a face or voice or body; that’s how I saw him, though Antonio saw him differently. For days on end he would become annoyed at my inattention, and at the slightest trifle he would speak harshly to me or force me to do unpleasant tasks, as if instead of being his wife I were his slave. The transformation in Antonio’s character upset me.
How strange men are! What was the show he wanted to perform for us? The business about the circus was no joke.
Shortly after we were married, he would often leave his job, pretending to have a headache or a strange pain in his stomach. Are all husbands alike?
At the back of the house there was a huge aviary full of canaries; formerly Antonio had always taken care of the birds zealously, but now the aviary was neglected. In the morning when I had time, I would clean it, put fresh birdseed, water, and lettuce in the white bowls, and when the females were about to lay their eggs, would help them prepare their little nests. Antonio had always busied himself with these things, but he no longer showed any interest in doing so nor in my doing it.
We had been married for two years! With no children! On the other hand, how many young the canaries had borne!
An aroma of musk and cedron filled the room. The canaries smelled like chickens, Antonio smelled of tobacco and sweat, but lately Ruperto smelled of nothing but alcohol. They told me he drank. How dirty the room was! Birdseed, bread crumbs, lettuce leaves, cigarette butts, and ash covered the floor.
Since childhood, Antonio had devoted his spare time to taming animals. He first used his art, for he was a true artist, on a dog, then on a horse, then on a skunk that had had its glands removed, which he carried for a time in his pocket; later, when he met me, he decided to tame canaries because I liked them. During the months of our engagement, to win me over, he had sent them to me bearing slips of paper with expressions of love, or flowers tied with a little ribbon. From his house to mine was fifteen long blocks: the winged messengers flew from one house to the other without hesitation. Believe it or not, they would even leave the
flowers in my hair or the slips of paper in the pocket of my blouse.
Wasn’t it more difficult for the canaries to put flowers in my hair or slips of paper in my pockets than to do those silly things with those damned arrows?
In town, Antonio came to enjoy a great deal of prestige. “If you hypnotize women as you do birds, no one will resist your charms,” his aunts told him, with the hope that their nephew would marry some millionaire. As I said before, Antonio was not interested in money. From the age of fifteen, he had worked as a mechanic, earning however much he wanted, and this is what he offered me in marriage. We lacked nothing for our happiness. I couldn’t understand why Antonio didn’t find some pretext to make Ruperto go away. Any motive would have sufficed, even a quarrel about a job or politics, something that, without their coming to blows with weapons, would have prevented his friend from coming to our house. Antonio didn’t let any of his feelings show, though I could tell his character had changed. Despite my modesty, I noticed that the jealousy I inspired was driving a man I had always considered a model of normal behavior nearly out of his mind.
Antonio whistled, took off his shirt. His naked torso looked as if it were made of bronze. I trembled when I saw him. I remember that before marrying him I had blushed before a statue that greatly resembled him. But hadn’t I seen him naked? Why was I so shocked by him?
But Antonio’s character underwent another change that reassured me in part: his laziness turned into extreme activity, his melancholy into apparent happiness. His life became filled with mysterious occupations, with goings and comings that signified an extreme interest in life. After supper, we no longer had even a moment of rest to listen to the radio or read the paper, or to do nothing, or to chat for a few minutes about the events of the day. Sundays and holidays were no longer a pretext for rest. I, who am a mirror of Antonio, was infected with his restlessness, and came and went through the house, putting closets in order that were already in order, or washing pristine pillowcases, from an irresistible need to take part in my husband’s enigmatic activities. A redoubled love and interest in the birds occupied him for much of the day. He set up new props in the aviary; the dry branch in the middle was replaced by another larger and more graceful one, which made the aviary even more beautiful.
Thus Were Their Faces Page 23