In the hammock, a relative silence envelops me. The city lights, prisoners of the smog, keep the night from fully setting in. Like flashlights behind a frosted dome that covers us, coddles us.
All of us, trapped in the dome of madness. Little bits of conversation go on around me. Have you ever felt like you’re always half somewhere else? I read somewhere that the constellations are different in the southern hemisphere. Sometimes, I tell myself that two people looking at the same star at the same time are linked together. A cosmic connection, or something like that. Even if they’re far from each other and don’t know it. It’s silly, I know. I feel that way too when I dip my toes in the ocean. Other feet, on the other side of the world, in the same water.
Come, says Kike. He brought a Bukowski book. I was doing fine on my own, staring into the void. He reads some of it out loud. I like Bukowski, as long as he isn’t talking about horses. Kike doesn’t speak English. I can’t follow his mangled accent. But the mood this evening makes me want this to last.
We’re just missing a few candles. Sitting on a roof in a city that stretches out to eternity makes up for it.
When he puts the book down, I grab it and read on in silence. Too shy to recite it, the words get stuck in my throat. The world disappears as I dive between the lines.
So, what are you going to read to us? Me? Nothing. Here, you’re better at this than me.
Matías comes back from Brazil with three bottles of cachaça and a sunburn. He takes out all the glasses in the apartment and pours huge shots into each of them. Themed evening, he walks around in a floral bathing suit. Blasts the music. The apartment gradually fills with tanned dudes. Where did these guys come from? Cloiiiiiita, Adriaaaaana, come here, my loves, I’ve missed you!
He shows us all the new dance moves he’s learned. He tries a few steps of the lundu—that’s what he says it is. Adriana pretends she’s the Carnaval queen. Someone rips three leaves off the tropical plant in the living room and puts them on her head, sticks them in her ponytail. She doesn’t mind. She and Matías take turns stealing the show. The others won’t be outdone. A little train starts shaking to a beat that goes like boom-a-tch-a-ay-boom-boom-tch. It’s definitely not Brazilian. Hands travelling across everyone’s asses. Chloé, you’re bored! Drink this. And this. Show us your samba moves!
I’m tipsy? More guests keep showing up at this impromptu party. The mood is hot hot hot. ¡Caliente! They’ve turned the living room into a dance floor. Someone pulls out a broom and decides to start a limbo contest. I didn’t know that was still legal. Yep! Yep! Yippie! Ay ay ay. Liiiiiiiimbo time. Some of these guys are gonna have headaches tomorrow.
They line up. The bar starts off high. The first one approaches and bends over, leaning forward. Shows his ass off, tries to sway the judges who are holding the broom. A few whistles. Different hemisphere, different limbo rules? He isn’t disqualified. A girl goes next. She goes at it more traditionally, but as soon as she’s under the bar she starts shaking her tits like she’s in a music video. Someone pours her a caipirinha from overhead, she opens her mouth but most of it falls onto her chest. The next guy doesn’t even go under the broom. He goes around it and tries to give the judges a kind of lap dance.
I’m having a blast watching them.
A hand appears, puts my drink down on the table and pulls me onto the dance floor. Matías. The music changes, I’m in a Flashdance remake. He acts like a ladies’ man, doesn’t even give me a second to think about it, spins me around. It’s way over the top. I play along. The couples around us do the same. People exchange partners. Skin against skin, hips against hips. Change partners again. The whirlwind goes on, effortless. Never a misstep; they’ve been dancing all their lives.
I fall into Emilio’s arms. I don’t know where he came from. A little awkward. Dancing isn’t really his thing. He plays the game but I don’t buy it. Holds me back a little as I pull away, laughing.
Good party last night? I told them, the chicos, to be gentle with you. I’m gonna give them a talking-to.
Luz can try all she wants, they’re not here. Unless Matías is still sleeping. Which one did he pull into his bed? Which ones?
She’s gotten her hair dyed. It’s not that it bothers me, but it makes me curious. There are red highlights that weren’t there last time I saw her. Luz, looking cute at the hair salon. It makes her look younger. More elegant, more alive.
I have a hard time imagining her there, gossiping with all the ladies with curlers in her hair.
Wanna grab a drink? I had forgotten about The Prophet. Does Matías have something to do with this? Emilio?
Of course he wants to see me again. He’s sorry, he never got my messages. Who told him? He goes around the front desk, slides an arm around my shoulders, kisses me. I let him. I was chasing him, after all. In my memories, he was more gentle. More handsome.
One of the actors will be hospitalized for an illness of some kind. Ezequiel’s been asked to replace him. A European tour, a shot at the big leagues. Isn’t that amazing? It’s with one of the hottest directors out there, his dream. I can’t seem to muster any excitement for him. What did he do to see me again?
He talks to me and I see him now, full of shit, pretending to be someone else. He’s just a phony, taking his place on stage now that the first guy stepped down. His performance is so over the top, so fake. He hasn’t even bothered to camouflage his schtick. The spectators leave one by one, they’ve had enough. They paid for a moment of truth. He doesn’t understand. He just stands there like a puppet, an actor unmasked. I had dreamed of something different than this.
Better off just focusing on his pretty eyes. That’s what I’m here for, anyway. My hero Ezequiel, don’t tell me it’s not true. Don’t tell me you’re no prophet, no knight in shining armour. That you have no supernatural abilities. You have the name, but where’s the rest?
At the bar, Ezequiel places his hand on mine, kisses me and bites my bottom lip. I’m scared my mind might be playing tricks on me. I don’t want to find myself limp at his side, viscous and shapeless, and have to suffer the shame of a body that stops responding to its head. He isn’t responsible. He isn’t dangerous.
How’s Emilio doing? Why is he talking to me about him? What did you think of his play? Seriously, you can tell me. Even Emilio didn’t dare ask. It was good. I didn’t understand much. Spanish, you know… He smiles. No, it was really great, that’s not what I meant. I like your accent, it turns me on.
I could kick his teeth in.
He ruined everything, my prophet. I free up my hand. Don’t go anywhere, I’m going to get some beer. I should leave, admit defeat, admit that I’m hollow and useless. Go let my heart bleed out somewhere else.
He comes back, a glass in each hand, a glint in his eyes that takes me back to that first night, when he talked to me about Canadian bears. He leans in toward me. The drinks. The drinks, again.
I throw myself at him. All around us, people are happily chatting amongst themselves. They’ve probably all just come from the theatre next door. Sometimes, from my balcony, you can see Orion’s belt. He places his finger on my cheek as he tells me this. In the middle of the city? One of his eyes is blue, the other more greenish brown. A tiny mole just above his upper lip. He downs his beer, tastes good. So?
Now that the initial shock has passed, I surprise myself by laughing as though I still know how. My laugh cascades in the night we’ve left behind us—I can’t seem to stop him to say wait, listen. It’s been so long.
He lifts me off the ground, keeps kissing me. Ends up slamming me up against a wall. I hear the stitches of my shirt rip. I feel his bones grind up against mine and I squeeze him harder. He licks my neck, my ears. I bite him. He slips his hand up my skirt. I’m wet. Finally.
Come on, I live nearby.
I land on the pavement like I’m landing on a broken dream. He doesn’t understand at all
. My feet, heavy. My head too. Too bad, Don Juan. Even forgetting has its limits.
He forgets all about Orion, gets me a glass of water, confident that this is a done deal. Could we maybe do some shots? In the reflection in the window, I see him take his shirt off.
I really want to want to be here. I need to want to be here. I want to be here. Come on, grab onto that bit of laughter before it slips away. Up close.
He touches me. I shut down.
Are you okay? What can I answer? What I should say is hit me. Hit me, you’ll see. I won’t feel a thing. Come on, hit me. It’ll be funny. What, are you scared? I’m gonna laugh. I said hit me. Till I bleed. You want to know if I’m still alive? Really let me have it. You’ll find it funny, I know it.
I don’t say any of that. I don’t say anything.
I’m not sure how much instability it’s appropriate to dump on people.
It’s shameful, not wanting someone. It’s an insult to Eros and the other modern gods; desire is the first commandment. I’m unable to obey.
Waiting, with an open mouth, to be dissolved. Flogging myself till I bleed. Hit me. Really hit me. What would he have thought? I spent the night at his place anyway.
I doodle people being hanged and beheaded, and little kamikaze bunnies in action on my paper placemat. Dynamite fastened around their waists. A torn ear. Un conejo asesino. He’ll take us all down with him. There isn’t enough room to make everything blow up properly. Anke doesn’t laugh. Why not? It’s funny, no?
The bombs, the bunny, ka-boom?
I ended up making a little crack in my bedroom wall. Betty feels abandoned. I try to reassure her. Make no mistake, Betty, a crack and a stain aren’t too much of a support network. Anyway, it’s barely a crack. More like a fissure. Just don’t think about it.
I burn my fingers on the steaming cup of tea. Luz took pity on my pale complexion. Drink up, it’ll do you good.
I look at her, and I look at her life. What I understand of it from the early aging of her hands.
Woe is me. The rate of depression in amoebas has to be pretty low, right?
I count the flies that circle the stove, and my cup. I try to kill them without moving anything but my arm. Fate really has it in for me. It’s vindictive. It’s probably a good idea to light some candles as a reminder that I’m thinking of it. That I fear it. Shrines aren’t for nothing. There’s a fine line between fear and respect. Fate inflates itself with fear, thinking it’s love. It’s no better than the rest of us.
I partially renounce my immobility and throw together a makeshift fly swatter. I strike at random. They’re everywhere. I line up their corpses on the table. I try to make a straight line. Perfectly straight. I take out a twenty and roll it up tight. Then, I blow.
It’s my birthday. I don’t tell anyone.
Some people are just really good at being happy. And I should be happy for them. You’ve got a knack for happiness. Congratulations, well done, lucky you. How do you do it? That’s some accomplishment. Gotta cheer them on, tell them to keep at it. But it’s so much more tempting, from where I’m standing, to throw it back in their faces.
Afterward, sometimes, I’ll regret it. I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have thrown out those words to tear him down. He’ll be left with burned hands, stinging eyes, he won’t know how to protect himself. But it’ll be too late, the damage done. There’s no use apologizing.
Tonight, I don’t feel like going out with Anke on a tour of appetizers. I spend all my time going to vernissages and meeting guys who bore me. She said 10 p.m. at the centro cultural. I show up late, people are happy and perfect, carefully distributed around the space as deliberately as the objects in the paintings. But something’s missing.
I don’t feel like pretending.
I don’t even try to look at all the pieces. I get more and more tense. Fixated on this idea that nothing is okay. And that it needs to be said. I go up to different groups of people without talking to them. They don’t react until I finally shout at one of them, ¡falta algo!
What what what? they all quack back. What do you want? Nothing. Everything. To push the limits. To live. I can’t accept that life is nothing more than the sum of these long, dragged-out days. Even worse, because all of you, you other people, seem fine with it. They smile at me politely, like they’re saying my rage will pass, eventually. Like them, I’ll calm down and understand the virtues of a quiet mind. It’s inevitable. You’ll see. In a few years, you’ll be the first to run for comfort. We were the same at your age. Stop looking at me like this is a teenage phase. Stop reassuring yourselves that you made the right choices, stop telling yourselves there was no other option but the mold. You just don’t want to go down with the sinking ship alone. You’re wise, and you’re dead. All of you, dead.
One of them finally says, you want to kiss a girl? Is that what you want?
I make my way over to the plaza with the obelisk, the city’s central meeting point. People endlessly repeat the same waltz. Meet up, kiss, leave. A nice, happy ritual.
Two old ladies holding each other in a long embrace. Sisters who haven’t seen each other in forever. An exile. A cancer remission. This other guy came to buy coke. He paces around his scooter, looking agitated, until another dude, looking just as nervous, comes by. They part ways right away. Two other people are getting their pictures taken in front of the obelisk. One of those stupid photos no one will look at. A girl sits down to knit. She barely finishes four rows before a man comes to join her with a banjo. He puts a foot on the bench and starts singing. The ritual comes to a halt for a moment so that people can listen.
The boy who’s been sitting across from me for a while finally comes up to me. Can I walk with you? That’s nice of you, but not tonight. He offers me a lollipop and then disappears. It tastes like cough syrup and stains my tongue, like sweet red lipstick.
I watch the waltzers. I come undone, little by little, as I watch them spin around and around.
I surprise myself by dancing alone in my room. Without music. I can’t really move without hitting something, but that’s okay.
Sometimes, I need to keep my hands busy with inanimate objects. I write a letter with a thousand beginnings and no end. Never an end, never a middle. I can never get past the first few lines. I sit there, staring at the damn page, without finding any answers or questions, getting swept up in a tornado of images I thought were long forgotten. What is it that keeps me stuck here, stuck nowhere?
The popcorn is disappointing. Too wet on top, it doesn’t even look like butter. They should say oil, would you like some oil on your popcorn? Stop lying. Why do I keep buying it? I can’t stay focused on the movie. The couple in front of me are making out really loud. You know there are houses for that? Hotels. Cars, even. I’m not in a state to put up with other people’s love. Morality, modesty, manners, we came up with these things because happy people piss everyone off.
Do you really need to let everyone on the planet know that you’ve found someone to swap spit with?
Behind the dressing rooms, almost hidden, is what looks like a garden. I have the day off, but I still end up at the theatre. The tomatoes rotting on the vine keep me company. They say that crying cleanses. Water filling up, then emptying. Backwash, basically.
The door opens, I don’t react. I’m sleeping, my head between my arms. It can only be the boss. Why can’t I find a place to myself? He sits down beside me, I’m scared the table will fall over. Everything can’t go wrong on the same day, right? Would you rather I leave you alone? At least if he’s at my side, we won’t have to look at each other. Why didn’t I realize that this was already his hideout before I discovered it? He looks as lost as I am. Do two wounded souls make a whole? Like two wrongs making a right?
That’s what I’m wondering. If so, what happens to the other soul? What does it become? Does it just dissolve?
Does it gather up the combined woes of the two? Pick which one of you will pay for your happiness. Does tragedy just pass itself back and forth? Nothing created, everything lost.
The boss doesn’t say anything, neither do I. The soul is one of those absurd things that get heavier and heavier as they break.
Hey, what’s your name? You must have one. You can’t just be “the boss” all the time.
Pablo. My name is Pablo. He lights a cigarette and I don’t tell him the smell makes me nauseous.
Matías pushes the door open. With bags under his bloodshot eyes, his clothes all crumpled. It must be a week now since he was home last. A bruise on his arm, a fat lip, and I don’t want to know what else. I hesitate. Adriana told me this has happened before. He looks thin.
Finally, I walk up to him, and he still doesn’t react. ¿Matías? I take him into my arms, but he doesn’t even seem to notice I’m there. We fall slowly to the ground. I’m not brave enough to ask any questions. His blond angel, I imagine.
In the End They Told Them All to Get Lost Page 7