“I am perfectly fine. Secrets are meant to be told in a low voice.”
“They asked you to kill me.”
“No. I tried to kill you to practice. It seemed easier to me to start with a woman.”
“And why did you open the safe if you were only thinking about killing? And why do you wear gloves? And why do you keep your face covered? Aren’t you scared of being sent to prison?”
“I asked you for the keys out of curiosity, to pass the time.”
“Do you know why you wear gloves and cover your face? I’m going to tell you: so you don’t leave fingerprints and so your comrades won’t suspect that you are a coward, a good-for-nothing, a poor devil who is incapable of killing. So now you have to kill me—that’s the punishment you deserve. What difference is there between killing me and decapitating Saint James the Apostle and his horse? You decapitated them, right? If you killed my image in the mirror you would kill me, too. Why are you afraid now though you weren’t before? We human beings are as unreal as images. What church did you burn?”
“As many as I could. I don’t know their names. Don’t think it was easy. Some of them wouldn’t burn.”
“How many virgins and saints did you hit?”
“None. At the very moment—”
“Tell me. I’m not going to look down on you any more or have less pity on you.”
“At the very moment I was going to cut off the head of one, my hand let go.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I have rheumatism. She looked at me with her gypsy eyes, as if she were going to say a blessing. She was the smallest one. Just this tall and I couldn’t hit her. The other guys laughed at me.”
“And wasn’t there an inscription on the pedestal?”
“No. I am sorry that I didn’t cut off her head. Now I see her everywhere. As if she were a soothsayer, she keeps looking at me.”
“She was a soothsayer. Saints are all soothsayers. You have to kill me. You have drunk some of the contents of this glass. In it there was an expensive poison that was very hard to obtain. You are going to kill me. Haven’t you ever prayed? There’s still time. You have to kill me immediately. If you don’t I will spit in your face and call all the mice in the area so they come and eat your tongue and your hands. If you prayed such unpleasant things wouldn’t happen to you like the ones that I am promising. Do you hear me? I am going to scream. Help!”
“Who are you?”
“What is going on?”
“Nothing, nothing. This man was supposed to kill me: he promised me and now he denies having done so. He is going to die in a few moments—and he doesn’t want to redeem himself because he is a coward!”
“Sorry for interrupting. I heard screams, saw the door was open, and came in. I’m not from the police—don’t worry. What’s going on here?”
“This man came to kill me, making me believe that he was looking for something. He opened the safe and scattered everything about. He doesn’t need to steal—he’s a wealthy man. I don’t know what he wants; he doesn’t either.”
“What should I do? Please tell me.”
“Don’t get upset.”
“We’ve let him get away. That’s awful.”
“Why?”
“What would they do to him, with his huge body? Can you tell me?”
“What he deserves: punishment. We should chase after him.”
“Impossible. He’s going to die. I heard a noise. Something has fallen on the floor below. It’s him! He has died like a dog. But don’t you understand—he has died! He drank some poison.”
“I don’t understand at all. First let’s close the front door. Please. Let’s see if the man isn’t hiding somewhere in some corner of the house.”
“I can’t see anything. I’m going to turn on the light.”
“Don’t worry, there are men who have nine lives like cats. Didn’t Rasputin get poisoned a thousand times and yet he survived? What should I do?”
“You should do what that man didn’t do: kill me.”
“Kill you?”
“Yes, kill me. For the last three nights I haven’t been able to sleep because I’ve been looking for a way to kill myself. Yesterday, I acquired this poison and I was about to drink it in the silence of this house when I heard bizarre noises.”
“And the criminal appeared at the door, just like in the movies or the theater.”
“No. Instead of the criminal a little girl appeared, very quietly, stopping at the threshold.”
“A little girl? I hear noises.”
“That’s the mice—lots of mice. They walk like men.”
“And this girl came in with the man?”
“According to her, the man forced her in.”
“What for?”
“To see these dolls. These mannequins were huge dolls according to her. I asked her what her name was.”
“And did she tell you?”
“Yes. She told me her name was Cristina Ladivina.”
“Ladivina or La Adivina, the soothsayer?”
“Ladivina or Ladvina, I’m not sure. It must be a Russian name. When I asked her what her last name was she answered, ‘Ladivina from the Green Rose.’ When I asked her where the Green Rose was she said, ‘On Esmeralda Street.’ ”
“The Green Rose is nearby. It’s an empty coffee shop where the waiters sleep instead of taking care of the customers.”
“That I would never have guessed! Everything seemed so strange to me. In the mouth of that girl the word Esmeralda wasn’t the name of a street but of a precious stone. When I saw her I felt afraid. And I was so disturbed, so very disturbed that when I saw myself in the mirror with her, I couldn’t see her image reflected next to mine. And now that I think about it, instead of seeing the whole room in the reflection, I saw something strange in the mirror, a dome, some sort of temple with yellow columns and, way in back, inside the niches of the far wall, some divinities. No doubt I was the victim of an illusion. These days I have been hearing so much talk about churches in flames!”
“And could you tell me why you want to die? Do you have a date with someone in the other world?”
“And you—why do you want to live? Can you tell me that?”
“If you let me think for a while I would tell you.”
“Is it so hard? Do you have to think about it in order to tell me?”
“I am not as spontaneous as you are.”
“Don’t be afraid of making a fool of yourself.”
“I am aware of my limitations, but happiness, and the lack of obstacles, don’t seem indispensable for me to live.”
“Me neither. Sometimes you make a decision and fulfill it even though the cause that has made you decide to do it no longer exists.”
“Then you operate on the basis of selfishness.”
“No, not selfishness but rather out of impulse, a seeming fidelity to myself.”
“Do you want to tell me why I want to live? I don’t think that this is the moment to think about personal matters. Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not laughing. All men say the same things, they speak about personal matters as if they were a disease.”
“They are a disease.”
“I always think about personal matters, it’s true. Do you look down on me? That wouldn’t bother me. You can sit down if you like.”
“When we passed by the house, the window of this room made me curious, as if I had a foreboding that something was going to happen tonight.”
“Maybe we’ve seen each other sometime in the street.”
“Not likely, because I usually walk looking down at my shoes, not seeing the people around me.”
“Everyone needs to speak to someone who isn’t a person—I with the mirror, the criminal with the keys, Cristina with the dolls, you with your shoes. I look at everything without seeing anything. That’s my habit. People think I’m nearsighted. In a certain sense I am.”
“Do you live here?”
“No, I
work here.”
“What do you do?”
“Do you see these hats? I make them. At night I study and during the breaks I read. This is my library, my dressing room. And what do you do?”
“I am an architecture student.”
“Ribbons, flowers, feathers, veils—these are for me what buildings must be for you.”
“That waltz you can hear is Brahms’s love song. When I hear that melody I get angry with the chatter of the ladies who come here to buy hats. And my aunt waits on them fastidiously. The shrillest ones talk like this, ‘How lovely, oh, but oh how lovely’ and ‘I like big hats.’ They are awful, my dear, just awful. Look at yourself in the mirror. Seeing yourself—doesn’t that scare you?”
“Ribbons, Matilde, they drive me crazy.”
“And will cherries come back in fashion as adornments for hats?”
“Italian straw is out.”
“This hat is very flattering—through the veil your face is visible as if in a bell jar.”
“Too expensive, much too expensive.”
“A person can no longer afford to buy anything, anything at all.”
“I told you so.”
“Why are hats in fashion? Sometimes I ask myself that. Because of the sun, the rain, the wind?”
“It’s our only act of modesty. We use them to cover our faces, like the sultan’s wives with their veils, to protect ourselves from those who look at us shamelessly.”
“That’s not true. Beneath the brims they kiss us fervently, or use them as a screen.”
“Do you think they have velvet hats?”
“Velvet isn’t for this time of year, right? It’s too hot. I want one of yellow straw. One that brings good luck.”
“I have a beautiful one.”
“What would be ideal would be a hat made of moss. I hate straw; it makes my neck itch. I am allergic to it.”
“Where will I find the right hat?”
“Let’s go, ladies, it’s late. Ma’am, could you please bring me a washbowl and some soap?”
“Do you want to go to the bathroom?”
“I am too tired and don’t feel well.”
“I will go look for a washbowl.”
“Are you angry with me? Why did you ask me for a washbowl?”
“My feet are very dirty. I’m going to wash them if that’s okay with you.”
“Get up and look at the hats. There are lots of them. There must be one you—the one made of moss, perhaps?”
“In that hat I will dance ‘The Death of the Swan.’ When I was eleven my mother saw Pavlova dance ‘The Death of the Swan.’ Since that day I have dreamed of a plumed hat and of death.”
“She has fainted.”
“Don’t wake her up, she’s asleep.”
“She has turned into a swan, a true swan.”
“And where is Leda?”
“I am Leda.”
“Rise up, swan, and prepare yourself for your death that draws near.”
“Hats change, they change like we do.”
“People aren’t polite. We’re in a hurry. We’re embarking on the Augustus next month. We will reach Paris in the middle of winter. Will they be wearing something practical and pretty, elegant even, something in the shape of a turban, or a crown, or a cloche?”
“We will be away for a year. This girl was dreaming about Paris. She has some little friends there, but we are planning to go to Italy, and of course to England.”
“Blessed are those who can travel. I would like to always travel back and forth, back and forth, like Englishmen. I know Italy, Venice, ah, Venice—there I have been for all my honeymoons.”
“I like Florence, with those museums and palaces; raw silk shirts, blouses, ties that you can buy for almost nothing, and the perfumes.”
“I wonder what the first hats in the world were like.”
“You are beautiful and everything fits you well. The oldest hat must be of Greek origin. Do they conspire in this house? Is there some plot? Be careful. The Greek hat is called petasus in Latin; it is a small light hat, which was tied on with a string. It was used for travel or in the countryside, and Romans wore it to go to the theater or to greet one another. In China, during imperial times, the use of certain hats was an official obligation. And not only women used decorations like that on their hats: Philip the Third, in his Pragmatics of 1611, allowed men to wear chains, headbands with gold decorations, adornments with cameos, or strings of pearls on their hats. Do you know the story of the top hat? The top hat was invented in 1782, no, in 1797, by the Englishman John Hetherington, who was taken to court and fined for having dared to go out on the street with a tube of silk, tall and shiny, on his head. The fine was imposed because several women fainted and some children were injured by the crowd that ran up to see that strange and terrifying object.”
“How interesting! All the models are at your disposal.”
“I like this one. The one with tiger skin.”
“It’s a cat. How cute.”
“I am worried. Don’t you think that we should chase after that man, find out whether he has died?”
“A person who is about to die tries to forget about everything unpleasant, such as crime and the police. You didn’t believe me, did you? You thought that man was my lover. Clear your mind of that lie! I was going to kill myself. I should have been dead by now. By some miracle, because of that man who came here to kill me, you are talking to me. Do you see that glass? It contains a little bit of poison. At the moment I was going to drink the poison the man entered and I left the glass on the table. The man promised to kill me in a manner that wouldn’t be too painful: with a razor blade. He asked me for the keys to the safe. I gave them to him. At first I thought he couldn’t open it, but later I realized he didn’t care. His feigned anger inspired terror in me and I tried to poison him. I offered him some water. He drank a little. After he opened the safe he told me that he was going to pardon me. I protested in vain. Now I think that man has nine lives like a cat, which makes me sorry. He confessed to me that he had set fire to the churches, that he was guilty of, or pretended to be guilty of, murders.”
“But he is a dangerous man.”
“Aren’t all the dangerous men free and all the good ones prisoners? I don’t want them to put us in jail. I don’t want to postpone my death. Show me the revolver.”
“Be careful.”
“But it’s a toy! Do you always use a toy revolver?”
“No. Only when I’m with you.”
“It looks real. But would the man have gone through with it if it weren’t for this revolver?”
“Kill one of the two of us, and if we’re really lucky, both of us. He was scared. Fear is sometimes original.”
“He was a coward.”
“Do we have to be afraid of cowards?”
“When I spoke to him about the mice and the ghosts he trembled.”
“But that isn’t a symptom of cowardice. I am afraid too.”
“Of what?”
“Of lots of things.”
“But tell me of what.”
“Of being with you, for instance, here in this house.”
“Do I seem so terrifying to you?”
“Yes.”
“So could you promise me something?”
“Anything at all.”
“Will you promise to kill me?”
“I promise, so long as you tell me your life story first, without omitting a single detail.”
“Telling my life to a stranger doesn’t seem so absurd to me. At other moments in my life I would have sought out a person who seemed nice to me or who was very attractive, but now—do you want me to tell you the truth? I would like to debase myself so as to die in peace.”
“You aren’t very detached from life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I notice the way you play with that ring. Are you very fond of it?”
“I am.”
“Who gave it to you?”
�
��Nobody. I myself. Objects fascinate me.”
“In order to die you have to let them go. Why don’t you give it to me?”
“I would never give it to you. You have a very violent character.”
“How do you know?”
“By the form of your hands.”
“Do you devote yourself to palmistry? As I said, you are far from letting go of life.”
“You don’t know anything or understand anything. But I will tell you the story of my life, if it can be called a life: a long time ago I dreamt about the theater, about escaping from my house. I couldn’t tear myself away from the mirror, where I practiced how to move like an actress. That’s why I have such a huge variety of voices! I could imitate the voices of my aunts, of my friends. I was eleven, maybe not the most important age, but for me it was because that’s when I saw Pablo for the first time, in San Fernando. I almost fainted; it was at Elena Schleider’s house, and I adored her. Elena was a friend of my mother’s and she invited us to spend the summer. Since I was very girlish, all of the visitors treated me as if I were a baby girl. However Pablo’s attitude was different with me. Pablo studied engineering but he was interested in literature. Sometimes he would read me passages from a novel he was reading or would hide with me in the kitchen so the visitors wouldn’t see us, or he would seek out my foot or hand under the table, during the meals, to join me in making fun of one of the guests. He used to stare fixedly at me in order to hypnotize me. During the hot days of January, at siesta time, when everyone was lying down or was trying to cool off with fans, we would ride to the river on bicycles. Sometimes we would rest under some tree and talk about Elena Schleider. Pablo would ask me to imitate her voice. How the cicadas sang! And the grasshoppers at night! Now, when I hear them, I feel as if I’m reliving that period. Pablo would say to me, They are going to punish you.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care, and I don’t care.”
“It’s 1:04 and you should be having a siesta.”
“I know. Who invented the siesta? I could kill him. On the other hand, I would hug whoever invented ice cream. Do you want to try some?”
“I hate strawberry ice cream.”
“I hate lemon ice cream. I want you to try mine,” I would say to him, imitating Elena’s voice, ‘Hypnotize me!’ ”
Thus Were Their Faces Page 33