In this exercise, we will enter into a relationship of gradual intimacy with a character who has yet to metamorphose from a `he' into an `I', and will discuss the enormous effort involved in such a manoeuvre (in some cases, in parallel with what is, after all, purely a change of form, something terrible occurs with all the fury of a tempest). Sooner or later, everyone has to undergo a change that is almost as momentous as birth itself, and only when that happens can you be who you are and always have been: you have to stop referring to yourself as `he' or `she' or `you' or `they' (those who do so - out of altruism or self-denial or because it's an easy option - put others before themselves) and at last begin the reinstatement of the T.
The first-person confession will be accompanied by information that merely describes the surroundings or the action, and then it doesn't matter if the third person is used: `He lives in a house in a cul-de-sac, where there are no other houses, only the backs of various buildings that have their entrances in adjacent streets. It is a two-storey house, and not a single ray of light has ever shone into any of its rooms. The first memory he had was of nurses prodding him with pincers and other implements, making him moan with pain; then there was a long period of emptiness, during which he must have been under almost continual sedation. Finally, he was given this house; the State granted him a monthly allowance on condition that he only goes out very late at night, when everyone else is sleeping.'
To describe actual events, the narrative will continue in the third person without as yet a glimmer of emotion: 'Yesterday, in the street, despite the lateness of the hour, he came across a group of individuals talking loudly and deciding there and then, just like that, the fate of some poor devil who had stolen something - a wallet perhaps - and whom they had managed to corner; they were kicking and punching the boy. He approached the group and simply shouted out: `No!' and they fled; it might have been his voice, cracked and shrill, that frightened them most, but it was almost certainly his appearance.
The supposed thief was lying on the pavement and his mouth and nose were bleeding; his eyes were swollen and he probably couldn't see anything. Our protagonist went to him and pressed a muslin handkerchief into his hand; the other man, despite his wounds, first wiped the blood from his face. The wallet was still lying on the ground; he examined it and found it empty: the other passers-by had run off with every last penny. He helped the young man to his feet and almost had to drag him to a bench where he lay him down; the wounded man told him that he had nowhere to go, that he came from a city a long way off, that he hadn't eaten for several days.
He decided to help him; he had never helped anyone before. He lifted him up as best he could, for he had never been strong, and dragged him the few yards to his house.
In a room on the ground floor there was an old bed and he laid the young man down on it as delicately as his own clumsy limbs would allow; he covered him with a blanket and the young man fell asleep. He was little more than an adolescent, but he was obviously hungry and in need of attention.'
Now the central character expresses his innermost thoughts, but still speaks of himself as someone removed from what is happening, and at no point does he mention the `I': `He went up to his bedroom and tried to go to sleep, to no avail: there was a living creature in his house, and he was filled by all kinds of sensations and feelings that he had never had before. So he went downstairs to look at him. The boy was breathing very fast and sweating. He barely touched him, but the boy's forehead was burning. He went into the kitchen and got several damp cloths which he placed on the boy's face, arms and legs in order to lower the fever. The boy also had an ugly wound on one temple and the man cleaned it as best he could. He had read about this in his books - which covered the majority of manifestations of human wisdom - and he at last had the opportunity to put that rudimentary knowledge into practice. He stayed there all night, just watching. Towards daybreak, the boy gave vent to the most terrible screams. He was delirious and was doubtless dreaming about what seemed to him to be hideous monsters ...' Suddenly an `I' creeps into the man's reasoning: `My nightmares, on the other hand, are always filled with people.' However, he immediately returns to anonymity: `The boy slept and slept. He was like that for three days, delirious, shouting out names, places, dates. Finally, on the night of the third day, he woke up, though he could still not open his eyes, because the swelling had not yet gone down. He remained lying on the bed, but said nothing. The man prepared him some food and helped him to eat it; the wounded boy devoured it all eagerly.
Then the boy sat up and, still blind, told him his story. He spoke for a long time; it was a monologue, but then the man had no idea how to respond anyway, since he had never spoken to anyone. Then the boy asked about him. Our protagonist was embarrassed; it occurred to him that he could make up a story about the person he would like to have been and about the places he would like to have visited. But he reasoned that the boy would recover his sight at any moment, and so it made no sense to lie. He told the boy that he would explain everything once he was restored to health. He found it hard to articulate words. On paper it was so easy for him, but it was agonizing to speak, and when he finished those few brief utterances, he felt exhausted.
And thus passed three more days which were filled with the boy's talk; he could still not get up and his eyelids remained sealed tight.
At the end of those three days, the boy said things to him that seemed incredible. He thanked him for his kindness, declared that he was the only person who had helped him in that cruel city; he heaped praise on him, comparing him to certain celestial beings, but this was one subject that was poorly covered in the man's library and so he was not quite sure what was meant. The boy even tried to hug him, sitting up and groping the air with his hands, but the other man eluded the embrace, making him lie down again, telling him that he should conserve his strength.'
The narrative suddenly changes; now the `I' starts to invade the text; there is a gradual intensification of his state ofsomno- lent unrest, triggered by a simple physiological event: `I noticed a burning sensation in my eyes; I touched them and felt something wet: it was like water and tasted very salty; it kept falling in drops, one after the other, and I could do nothing to stop it. Then I remembered having read that when people can no longer contain their emotions, they weep. That confirmed to me that, in some way, I must be a human being, not a monster or some impossible creature as I had heard people call out when they saw me wandering the streets late at night.'
The call of the `I' is irresistible, and the narrative will continue in that form: `I took care of the boy, I fed him and washed him; he couldn't praise me enough and kept saying that he felt a rare affection for me.
One morning, he called to me from his room. I had only just woken up and I heard him saying: `I can see again! I can see again!' I considered not going downstairs, I wanted to run away; if he saw me now, he would be terrified and leave for ever, the one person who had given meaning to my whole existence. Nevertheless, in deference to him, I decided to answer his call, despite the fear and shame gnawing at me inside. I went slowly down the stairs and got as far as his door.
The boy had his back to me. He was standing examining the planks of wood that had been nailed up at the windows, not to keep light out, but so that no one would look in from outside and see me. When I went into the room, I coughed in order to interrupt the thread of his thoughts and to warn him of my presence.'
The character in the story cannot, at that precise moment, withstand the turmoil he is feeling and so he again steps back from what is happening, to regain some distance: `When he saw him, the boy ran to him and embraced him. He said that he was profoundly grateful, that he didn't know how he could ever repay such kindness; he spoke enthusiastically of his decision to go back to his village and work on the land with the other members of his family; he told him that he should come too because there the air was clean and the people were friendly, the days passed pleasantly and the seasons were less harsh; in short, he
declared that life in his village was kinder than in the city and that people appreciated others for what they were. Again he embraced him.'
Having reached this point, he has no option but to confess all with the `I': `I was dumbstruck, I was so moved I could barely breathe, and I wondered how it was possible for the boy not to notice my face and body. I was on the point of asking what he thought of my physical appearance, but to do so would have been discourteous. Then he told me that he wanted to return to his village as soon as possible, and that, once there, he would write to me so that I could join him for a visit or to live if I chose. I gave him the money for his ticket back, and after some initial protests, the boy took it and left.
The house was empty again; I did not want to touch the bed, with its tangle of sheets and blankets; I did not even want to wash the muslin cloths with which I had cooled his fever. I looked at it all for hours at a time. For long days, I waited for his letter to arrive. The only correspondence to arrive punctually was my allowance from the State.
I have been waiting for several months and, although I have not entirely lost hope, I now have my doubts. Perhaps the boy was just saying those things, perhaps he had been frightened by my appearance, but, for some reason, had wanted to pretend otherwise ... fear or money or prudence; perhaps it was all a nightmare and the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me never really happened at all.'
When the letter did finally arrive, so intense was his distress that he had to turn away from himself again: `The envelope bore only the address, not the name (he had no valid name in any case). The page of tiny, blue, spontaneous handwriting was full of joyful expressions of gratitude, sincere apologies for the delay in contacting him. The young man invited him to go to his village: he wanted to show him the hills and the orchards, the river and the local paths, the reaping and the harvest, he wanted him to meet all the people who had helped him to understand who he was and where he should spend his life.'
For the conclusion, however, our character has no alternative but to be brave; he has the strength he needs (although, up until then, he had not known it) and he uses it convincingly (up until that moment, he had thought himself incapable of this); he will never again refer to himself with anything but an `I': `At that moment, I put the letter back in the envelope and I sealed it. In pencil, I wrote diagonally across it: 'NO LONGER LIVING AT THIS ADDRESS'. That night, while everyone was sleeping, I went out into the broad avenue where I had once seen a scarlet letter box. As I slipped the letter in through the slot, I took a deep breath, I felt an enormous sense of relief. Now I could simply go back to being the person I have always been. I too know where I should spend my life; I too know who I am.'
© Isabel del Rio
Translated by Margaret full Costa
There are circumstances - when a silence suddenly falls, when the sun appears for a moment in a sky covered in dense cloud - that make us doubt the certainty of our surroundings, and it is precisely then that it occurs to us - as if there were no other possibility - that we might have invented the whole thing from start to finish. The story could thus begin simply (and the style too will have to be minimalist: short sentences, few adjectives, brief descriptions of real things, but none of any perceived emotional turmoil), with someone arriving home after a short walk, someone who knocks at the door, who knocks and knocks. No one opens it, though. The woman in the story is sure that someone is in, which is why she raps on the door so hard she almost skins her knuckles. It occurs to her that it is a day of celebration (during the brief hour that she was out of the house, the others have had time to prepare a party in her honour). There is no need to specify whether the person has gone out without her key or has lost it. She remembers, at that moment, that there is another key above the doorframe; she gropes for it blindly, but she is clumsy and the key falls soundlessly onto the doormat. There will be some description of the key, that it is a shiny, bronze-coloured key; it is an excessively small key to open such a heavy door. Despite that, however, she turns it just once in the lock and the door swings open. Once inside, she reads the message written on a banner that spans the corridor from wall to wall: HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
When she goes in, however, she is met by a stench - not of celebration - by the silence of a muted room, by an emptiness in which only the colours glitter in the shadows. Our character leaves the hall and goes down the corridor as far as the living room door; she enters the room and realises at once what must have happened only a matter of moments ago: the inert, fallen bodies, one on top of the other, face down, blood still pouring from their backs. She can scarcely see their faces, she doesn't know what their last expression was, she doesn't want to; she looks only at the woman lying there; she has long black hair like hers that reaches down as far as the wound in her back and which is steeped, like the wick of a lamp, in blood; all that remains is a profile blurred by surprise; her eyes, which are the eyes of our protagonist, are wide open and bewildered, but no longer take anything in. In the half-light, this mound of death seems even more improbable, for above the corpses fly helium balloons and coloured streamers, beside them stand the tables with their white cloths, the cake and other delicacies, the sweets, the sparkling wine.
The woman goes out into the street, first closing the door and putting the key back in its hiding place. And it is only then that she is overwhelmed by grief; she does not know the reason behind the crime, or if there was perhaps a clue. She reaches the park and sits down on the grass, still thinking of possible motives. She decides that she must return to the scene of the crime, she must go back in order to raise the alarm, to notify the authorities.
She reaches the white building and goes up the ten steps that separate the house from the street. She again feels with her fingers above the doorframe and she touches something rough. How is it possible? The key is covered in rust, the colour of clay, and it is now so huge that it will barely fit in the lock. Our protagonist has to struggle to manipulate it and turns the key twice before the door gives. As the rusty hinges move, they emit a piercing noise.
Once inside, the air is the colour of amber, full of ancient perfumes and thousands of dust motes quivering in the slender cones of light coming in through the shutters. The various pieces of furniture are the ghosts of a remote past, covered in long white drapes; on the floor are the remains of letters and newspapers, the occasional kitchen utensil and fragments of photographs of unfamiliar men and women. The white shapes belong to furniture that does not correspond to hers. There are no lifeless corpses there; now there are only dead objects.
She leaves again and walks about the streets. That place is no longer her home and she does not know where to go. For a long time, she walks and walks, aimlessly. At last, she stops; she decides that she has no option but to go back.
And on her return, everything is as it was ... the birthday party, the joyful celebration, the coloured balloons; and she thinks about what might have been but was not, about what could happen on some not so distant day, she thinks that it might perhaps be best not to go out into the street, just in case.
© Isabel del Rio
Translated by Margaret Jull Costa
My story is a brief one, so I won't take up much of your time. Besides, there is no time, not for me at least. I haven't a minute to lose, I have no more hours to spend. And if you're prepared to grant me one final wish, let it be this: that I should be the one to give the countdown. I am the only one with the right to do it, because it's my life that you have in your hands. So instead of the usual `Ready, aim, etc.', I will be the one to give the order and I will do so with numbers. That will be my final tribute: I will count from ten to zero, as they do for any important event. And since I will be counting backwards, I will do likewise with the events that have led me to my present situation. No, I don't want a blindfold, really, I don't want to miss the spectacle that you have organised solely for me. I'll begin. Ten, here I am before you, and you still have your rifles trained on my heart. Nine, the local judge said th
at I was guilty of stealing a chicken. Eight, the police found me roasting a chicken leg over a fire that I had lit next to that dusty crossroads. Seven, I caught a chicken in a farmyard and split its head in two. Six, for days I travelled the parched roads that slice the mountains into green and black segments and I ended up at a farm where, at night, I broke into the henhouse. Five, early in the morning, with my pockets empty, I left the city on foot to take a close look at what awaited me. Four, I had a different dream from the one I dream every night, and in this new dream it was revealed to me that the solution was to flee the city and to wander the countryside with no plan, no forethought. Three, I fell asleep on the desk in my office, thinking about the many reports I had to finish for the next day.Two, I drank more than I should, I talked more than I usually talk, I regretted recounting what, until then, nobody knew. One, I explained for the first time in public that every night I had the same dream, I dreamed about the violet-red wallflowers that would grow on the grave dug for me, but I never found my grave in that dream cemetery however hard I looked, that is what I dreamed, doggedly, night after night, and today I lived through the whole incident when the police dragged me along the road, grazing my knees, me still grasping a chicken leg in one hand and a greasy wing in the other because I didn't want to let go of what was going to cost me my life, and I saw that very cemetery on the outskirts of this village, I recognised the landscape of my dream - look around if you like, no need to lower your rifles - the same single cypress tree in the middle and the same fountain with the sculpture of a fallen angel, the three white crosses on one side and the two black crosses on the other, to the left a bare mountain and a grove of trees in the middle of the plain of yellow earth, and I told the police when they arrested me, I told them I'd been through all this before, in a different way, of course, but I had nevertheless been through it all before, and I spoke to them of the circle about to close and of the end that is implicit in each beginning and they said they didn't know what I was talking about and told me to shut my mouth, and that is why I decided not to defend myself when they brought me before the judge, they heard me ask him are you killing me on account of a chicken? and they heard him reply we're killing you because your hour has come, and I'm going to explain something to you who are about to kill me for whatever the reason may be, always remember this: the most valuable thing I have done in my life is to track down the landscape of that insistent dream, which is why I'm giving this countdown now, the way they do on important occasions, like I said, even though what I've found will be my ruin, and my victory will be short-lived, even though everything I have done has come to nothing, and could accurately be described, in numerical terms, as zero ...
The Dedalus Book of Spanish Fantasy Page 9