In the End They Told Them All to Get Lost

by Hero, Natalia; Leduc-Primeau, Laurence;

  They’re not young, beautiful, well-dressed. They can’t live off their art. The drinks loosen my tongue and I snarkily tell them I wish all my new friends a suburban bungalow, a minivan, two blond kids high on Ritalin, and a pool in the backyard. A cliché. That’s all they deserve.

  Waking up, startled, to the leftovers of insomnia, moist sheets, almost falling off the bed, the vacuum again, this feeling that it wasn’t all a dream, that I stabbed someone to death, is this really my room? ¡Ay lo siento! Querida no sabía que estabas. Pero Chloé, levantate, ya son las once.

  Carmen takes me aside at the end of dance class, you missed the last few weeks. Why? A boy? I don’t even have a chance to answer her before she starts ranting furiously. Never sacrifice your life, your practice, your art, for a man. You’ll wake up one day, fat, ugly, tired, having given him everything that mattered, with him gone. Your in-laws will pretend you never existed when you show up at a dinner to confront him—they’ll call the police, they’ll call you all sorts of names. You’ll have nothing left. You hear me? You’ll just be stuck wiping the asses of a couple of kids, you’ll have nothing, nothing but broken dreams and a giant landfill where your heart used to be. Nothing accomplished, you’ll be empty. Too late to start over. And you’ll see what you wasted your life for. For nothing. Nothing. So think carefully. And don’t miss any more classes! I look at her, dumbfounded, and I note to myself that I’ve made pretty impressive progress with my Spanish.

  She puts on her usual face and goes back to leading her life with an iron fist as usual. At the back of the room, behind everyone else, I ask myself whether it’s possible to let everything go, for everything to slide off our backs without piercing our skin.

  And I wonder how much you have to go through before it becomes impossible to recover.

  After the cookies, Adriana’s decided she’s getting into sewing. Little dolls are pinned to all the purses here. With a few friends, she’ll have a booth at the artisan fair outside a music festival. She has to make an army. She’ll barely sleep. I hope she hangs them by their necks in her display. You want one? Not sure why, but I say yes.

  Different fabrics cut up into half-doll shapes, scattered near the sewing machine that she picked up at a bazaar recently. I admire her patience. After stuffing them with cotton she puts on the finishing touches. In the end I stay and help her sew on the eyes. I only give them gouged-out eyes.

  I’ve seen The Birds twice. The first time, I fell asleep, I was 13, a boy was rubbing my back in a big bed. The second, I was alone, maybe 17. I’ve been scared of crows ever since.

  In a recurring dream, I’m in a big space that’s been invaded by them. I can’t move. I can’t even formulate the idea of moving. There are more and more crows. My legs won’t do what my brain is telling them. The crows get closer. They surround me, start fighting amongst themselves.

  One of them goes for it, I watch it come at me like it’s in slow motion. I know it’s going for my eyes, that it’s going to devour me and leave nothing but my bones behind. I know the rest of them will follow. I can’t do anything. I can’t cover my eyes. I’m a statue, an offering. They caw. I hallucinate eyeballs being ripped apart by their beaks. Then they roll onto the pavement, covered in blood.

  Cold sweat, short breath, startled awake, disoriented.

  You still hanging in there, Betty? You don’t move as much as you used to. I hear you whistle sometimes when I’m pretending to sleep. I didn’t know you could whistle. Have you seen my notebook? Do you think you may have taken off with it sometime without noticing? They say it’s going to rain tomorrow. Be careful, don’t stay too close to the window. In case it really does.

  The beast is staring at me, rolling around on its back. The garbage can has been knocked over, its contents spread all the way out to the living room, leftover spaghetti and orange peels pouring out of its mouth. The walls are stained with old sauce. Damning evidence that this is the work of a hardened terrorist. Jesus Christ, you stupid dog.

  I grab the dog and try to put a collar around its neck. It licks my face, tries to climb up all over me. You stink, stop drooling. It takes me four tries. The roommates laugh at the improvised circus, bet on the dog three to one. I struggle all the harder. This fucking animal. I’ll get it out of here if it’s the last thing I do.

  At the park, a man with a dog comes up to me. It’s never ladies who come up to me. Some people like ugly dogs. His is nice-looking. I think I’ll trade with him. I don’t know why he would agree to it. They say we have the dogs we deserve. If we trade dogs, do we trade merit?

  I let the beast off its leash so it can play with the others who are running free. I do nothing to hold it back as it races toward a colossus three times its size like a kamikaze pilot, barking a war cry. They fight, and mine ends up being ejected into the air. It lands at the foot of a tree, its face against the trunk, dizzy and bloody. Tries to get up, stumbles. Stupid dog.

  Officially, The Prophet Ezequiel came over to see Emilio. He makes the walls of my apartment shake as he materializes. I’m crazy about his name. Everyone hide. Be afraid! The long-haired red-caped superhero is here to punish you, to shine the light of truth on this depraved city. Leave this body, Satan. Order will reign over this place before Judgment Day. Bad guys will be punished and the meek will be rewarded. With a technicolour background that follows him around like a halo. You can’t be named Ezequiel and be mediocre. I mean, you can. But it would just sound wrong.

  I have a nobody name. Ezequiel is a prophet. Chloé isn’t a name with a complicated history full of obscure references that we’ll never really get to the bottom of. I have a name that goes unnoticed, not one that evokes miracles.

  But Ezequiel. Ezequiel has no idea he’s a hero. He loves our dog. He pets it. I tell him to take it home with him. Even though it isn’t mine, I’m giving it to you. Then come back and tell me how much you still love it. I’d be so happy not to have to share a home with a monster.

  He doesn’t care about my dog park story. He approaches me, puts his hand on my thigh, picks up where we left off. I dizzy him with words to give things time to fall into place. He makes a path under my shirt, I keep going on about whatever. He finds it funny when I say ¡Maldito perro! ¡Que anda a la concha de su madre! Stays in character. I play my own. I’ve stuck a mask to my face, a mask of a little girl who’s been bested by a pathetic dog. He wears the mask of a boy who thinks he’s a man. He must think I need a strong man, and that he’s that strong man. He says, come over to my place if you don’t want to sleep with that dog. I promise, there are no monsters in my apartment.

  We start kissing and Emilio shows up, looking annoyed. Come on, we’re late, it’s time for rehearsal.

  Ezequiel ups and leaves me. Without giving me his number, without taking mine.

  I spent a long time watching snow fall, that week in February. I could find nothing better to do than stare into the void. What’s the point of thinking?

  The snowflakes in the window looked like fluff.

  You’re just a stain, Betty. No one has ever wanted you, you’ve never been desired. No one cares about you either, there’s no one who depends on you. No one remembers what you do, or what you like. No one asks you why you’re in this country. Your existence has no bearing on the world, not even the slightest impact. You’re useless, unnoticeable. How does that make you feel?

  I turn my back for one second and the streets change direction. I’ve been walking in a straight line for half an hour and this is the third time I’ve passed this place. Everything looks seedy. More lived-in debris. Zombies.

  Even the call girls on the flyers you see pasted on phone booths here are zombies. The classic Pampitas, Daysis, Brendas, showing off their tits and asses, they all have bloodshot eyes and hollow cheeks. All around me, zombies—some screaming from the windows, others inside roasting chicken.

  I could add the
zombie-escorts to the collection of girls on the fridge. It would be lovely. A nice addition to the game the roommates are playing—find the same pictures but with different names and numbers, pile them up, biggest pile wins.

  The garbage lid won’t close anymore, the flies are having a party, Luz hasn’t come. I don’t know where the bags are. I don’t know how to ask. I don’t know when to take it out. I don’t know where to bring it. I really wanted to do it, this time. Stir-fried vegetables. I just burned the rice. All charred and stuck together. A smell of burnt popcorn in the apartment. Couldn’t find coconut milk. Or spices. Or tofu. There’s no one here. No one.

  Never anyone when I need them. I’d let them know. That tonight, I was cooking dinner. I sit on the lid of the trash can. It bounces back up. As soon as I lift my butt off, it opens again, springing, happy. I start drumming on it with clenched fists, like toddlers throwing a fit when you take their toys away. And I let myself fall over, next to some leftover ribs.

  We’re all blindfolded. We need our limbs to be touching. Resist, sometimes, or let yourself be guided. That’s the only instruction Carmen’s given, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Thankfully, no one can see me. The pressure on my back builds. I feel my bones rolling on hers. Slide, turn. I search for a spot that I can lean on. Ezequiel, if only you could be pressed up against my bones like this. Find yourself an excuse to make my apartment walls shake.

  Everyone stop, stop moving.

  Standing on one foot, my leg bent, the other in the air, her hips against mine. Focus only on the point where your bodies are touching. My muscles seize up, a long line of tension crosses my back diagonally, I start getting these spasms in my right leg. I’m not breathing anymore. Everyone stay focused, listen to each other.

  I bet you’ve never seen a sleeping giraffe.

  Emilio and I left the party at the same time. I don’t like you going home alone, he says. Outside the city zoo, he gives me a look that says I’m not game. No lights, no cops around. Just watch me, I grab the fence in front of him, he has no choice but to follow. He knows the zoo like the back of his hand, he’s spent hours in front of the reptiles and hippos. I don’t know my way around in the dark.

  The path barely leaves the trees. We zip along, hiding from imaginary security guards. The owls are watching us. I can hear them.

  Emilio gets me back for my bravado by running too fast ahead of me. Tree leaves smack me in the face. I wouldn’t be able to find the exit without him. I think we’re near the tigers. No time to look, I end up grabbing his hand, so I don’t lose him.

  Everything’s different at night. The animals come out of their cages and inanimate objects come to life. The line between what’s acceptable and unacceptable bends a little. Everything we take for granted can fall apart. He jerks me to the right. When he stops, I fall on him. This is where the giraffes are. We can’t see anything. But we stay to look anyway.

  I call again. Same thing. Three tries, three strikes. I don’t understand how phoning, or dating, works in this country. How do I know if the codes are the same? I still don’t know if there’s a common denominator that unites us. I can’t distinguish the culture from the individual. Is it him? Is it me? Is it this place? I don’t know how to play at love anymore. I mean, I guess I never really have.

  Flies really are social creatures. They hang out in groups, gather to fly around together, land together. Like girls going to the bathroom at parties.

  I pick one, and the hunt is on. I follow it, armed with a rolled-up newspaper and all the determination I can muster. They’re fond of windows and green plants, this one dives in under a leaf. The fucker won’t make it out alive. But it’s hiding, the little rascal.

  I climb up onto a chair, onto the table, I follow it with my gaze through the apartment and I run after it, shouting war cries. This one won’t get away. I’ll fight it to the death. I try again with the next one. I leave little carcasses on the ground, but the apartment’s still swarming with insects, the strongest ones, the biggest pains in the ass.

  The word for waiting in Spanish is esperar, the same as hoping. As in, you can wait for something to happen, you can hope it will happen. But it’s far from guaranteed.

  My time is too slow. It crawls along in never- ending minutes that don’t pass, that taunt me. I want to explain to The Prophet Ezequiel that there’s nothing less constant than time.

  He needs to know that time is elastic. That two days have gone by without him even noticing in his busy, full existence, but that to me they stagnated, endless. But how can I tell him that if he can’t be bothered to pick up? I keep trying. What do I have left to lose?

  The pitcher has deformed the silly girl since she slid into the arms of that boy.

  His name is Marcelo. I wish he were wearing a tank top. Un marcel. I wish the girl were wearing a bright yellow dress with a white lace hem. Or for someone dressed up like a giant bunny to come wish me Happy Easter and bring me a bouquet of roses made of chocolate, skipping through a field of dandelions. Today isn’t Easter. Matías is high as a kite. He’s screaming into my ear. I can hear you! Stop yelling.

  The scene is set. Still life. I like that better than the French, nature morte. Dead nature, that scares me. It makes me think of cemeteries and dried-up flowers. A life that’s still, that’s much better. Closer to something real, something that lives. ¿Me comprás chocolate? I ask Matías, trying not to get my hopes up. He starts licking my earlobe.

  Emilio didn’t come home last night, neither did Adriana. The other morning, new sandals appeared in the entrance, not really Adriana’s style. And a purse beside the shoes. Gloria? Emilio’s door stayed shut for a while.

  I could learn to knit, to pass the time. I can see myself with a pair of needles in my hand. I could make a little coat for the dog. Or little pompoms for its ears. Ezequiel would come over to see. I’d make a sparkly pink outfit. I’d embroider “dog” on it. Unmistakable. I’d find a little bell for its neck, so it can call Ezequiel over. And then, if there’s any wool left over, I could strangle the stupid mutt with it.

  Every time she goes to the flea market, Anke finds treasures like toasters, teacups, paintings, and furniture that would make an antique dealer die of envy. All I see is a pile of old junk.

  She pulls me over to a booth where a vendor is standing with his belly sticking out, looking like an Elvis impersonator. A bunch of faded vintage posters around him. One of them, in German, tries to attract the tourists of its day to their own version of the Alps. Instead, Anke shows me an old wall phone, with the receiver still attached, hidden under a pile of boring shit. Western Electric, Made in USA. It must be from the 1930s! Fifteen pesos. How did it wind up here? What are you even going to do with that? But the vendor looks at Anke like the phone holds a secret he’ll take to the grave. Or, like he knows how to make a sale.

  They silently come to an agreement. He carefully wraps it in newspaper, taking the time to read each page first. I start getting antsy. When he’s done, he asks ¿de dónde son? Without even waiting for an answer, he strikes the same pose, the one that makes him look so funny and yet, at the same time, so profound.

  The flies. Again. It’s 4:07 p.m. I lie down, close my eyes, roll over in bed, think of fresh vegetables, tangle my feet up in the sheets, then think of something that I immediately forget, roll over onto the other side, free my feet, roll over again, pull the sheets back up, sit down. It’s still 4:07. I call my superhero again. He doesn’t pick up.

  Hey dog, did you know that forty million years ago your ancestors looked like weasels? What does a weasel look like? They’re ugly. I also learned from this encyclopedia that small dogs live longer than bigger ones, but that it’s the ones with wrinkled, scrunched-up faces that die the quickest. You look like you rammed face first into a wall the minute you came out of the womb.

  You see, it’s not all bad news.

&nbs
p; Betty. Beeettty. Betttyyyyyyyy. It’s hot, I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, tell me a story, yes, the same one as always, it doesn’t matter, what else do we do but tell the same stories anyway. You’re pouting. Fucking princess.

  The evening sun paints the room with golden light. From Anke’s window, you can see a park, children, balls. Everything is slow. Her roommates come home. Milly, Kike, hi! Kiss kiss. They’ll be back later, they have errands to run. Anke puts on Cat Power and switches the kettle on. She flips through a novel, I try to read their news. I still never understand any of it. The words, yes. But the rest. The majestic teapot is placed at the centre of the coffee table, with two different cups, the cookies carefully placed on a decorative plate. I could take a picture, but I don’t know what I’d do with it. Outside, the kids keep chasing after the balls.

  The evening is mild. The pasta’s good. The airy bread that Kike brought home is passed around the table, I finish my glass and it’s refilled immediately. Milly wears earrings that make her look like Audrey Hepburn. How was the trip home? The plants in the planters are dead, which doesn’t seem like Anke. I missed the mountains. The mountain air, you know. Anke seems like she should have a jungle on her roof. It’s the most beautiful country in the world. This city must kill plants. Anyone want beer? But you left, you don’t live there anymore. Give it here, I’ll open it. The bartender from the other night tried to impress Milly with flair moves. A few girls crowded around him and he missed his shot. Milly laughs, if only I could have said something utterly clever in Spanish!