I feel a pinch in my stomach and my head turns without me even realizing it. I look at this one, him, as opposed to someone else. He stops, his silhouette becomes clearer. I understand, but can’t explain, which detail struck me most.
The boy who holds me here, wide awake, screwed tight into all the layers of the present.
Pigeons are fighting over the breadcrumbs that an old lady’s throwing at them. They circle the bench she’s sitting on. They charge without mercy. Their little bulging black eyes, their feathers swollen beneath their shivering skin.
In all the chaos of pecking, some are aiming for their brothers instead of the bread. Their fat, smothered cries sound like human wails.
Whatever happened to bird songs? Another lie.
An inexplicable cold spell: four days, an eternity. The thermometer flirts with the freezing point. Humidity gets into your joints, gets through the windows, through clothing. The whole city is sick and erratic. It’s all people are talking about, even Pablo.
The Public Health Minister gave the flu epidemic a name, the W. Stay home, don’t go out, don’t go to work, don’t go around kissing anyone. The calls for calm on TV are followed by hysterical stories with titles like “A Biblical Plague” or “Cryogenic Attack.” Everyone running around like chickens with their heads cut off.
Some walking around with surgical masks on, some barricading their businesses, others boarding up their homes.
The problem isn’t the cold, it’s the world’s escape through little cracks it shouldn’t fit through. Forcing them to admit that ultimately, they’re not in control. And it’s total chaos, everyone hide!
After 4 p.m., I allow myself to eat ice cream straight from the tub, even if it’s not mine. I make random rules like that, impulsively, when I feel like justifying my urges. I declare new ones that contradict the old ones. I wish I weren’t ashamed of all these goofy laws I pass.
What I like here is that I can order ice cream over the phone. It shows up five minutes later by scooter. If I want, they can even make me half-half tubs. It’s the same price for two flavours.
As usual, Gloria doesn’t even look at me when she comes into the theatre. I greet her enthusiastically. ¡Hola! She pretends not to recognize me. I double down. Coucou! Hellooo! She turns away and sticks her nose into a magazine. Gloria! This is getting ridiculous. She has no choice but to say hi. Do you want me to go tell him you’re here? If I go on any more she’ll spit on me, beautiful Gloria. I pretend to dive back into my book. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. It’s true, there is something about her.
With the little chubby kid from the class clinging onto his legs, Emilio comes downstairs, without acknowledging the additional weight. Bueno, Paco, nos vemos la semana que viene. The kid won’t let go. He’s such an odd one. He still needs a push to get him through the door. I wonder what Emilio thinks of all this. He looks happy to see me, happy to see her. I can’t tell how he sees the two of us.
Gloria’s attitude leaves little room for interpretation. But he doesn’t hurry, and keeps her waiting. The sound of the squeaky stairs resonates in this silence that weighs heavily on at least two of us. He comes back, it doesn’t even seem like he went to get anything. He wishes me a good evening as he leaves. I mutter an inaudible suerte through my smile. In her closet, next to her 36 pairs of leggings, she’s got a skin-tight Sailor Moon outfit, heeled combat boots, a club, and false eyelashes. A sophisticated futurist tigress. Stay off my turf. Got it?
What are you doing Saturday? The boss has never shown interest in my life outside the theatre before. Have you ever been outside the city? Emilio and I were saying we’ve got to take you to the Delta. And the Galpón will survive without you? I’ll come get you at nine. Nine on the dot, don’t forget.
The doorbell wakes me from a dream. Saturday, already? Pablo! He really is excited about this cottage of his. My mind in a daze, I almost fall to my death down the stairs. As it watches me tumble, the dog disappears under the armoire, but can’t fit all the way underneath. Its ugly mug looking even more beat up than usual. Stupid dog. Stupid fucking dog. Emilio runs all over the place with his shirt half-on. No more ready than I am, he grabs a banana. Want something to eat? Gloria’s here.
She savours the element of surprise. I can tell by the look she gives me. I’m too asleep to react appropriately. Pablo is ringing the bell like a madman. The dog barks. From the open window, we hear him yelling. Okay! Calm down.
We all cram into the double-parked car. Emilio abandons me, so I’m stuck with her in the backseat. He’s too kind, really. The engine running. If Pablo turns it off, I’m not sure it’ll start again. About time you showed up! Gonna wait till the tank was empty before you came down?
There’s no way out. In front of us, the road’s blocked by a bunch of protesters. Behind us, total gridlock, more cars stuck in the same trap. We haven’t even made it eight blocks, we’re off to a great start. Pablo hits the gas every once in a while, in neutral. He coughs a little to try to hide it. But apart from that, nothing. I actually imagined he’d be more impatient. He doesn’t even start drawing up plans to have the car teleported, or make the slightest sadistic joke. Gloria uses the stop to adjust the rearview mirror and fix her hair, an elbow on each seat.
She leaves me behind, naturally.
If it isn’t the farmers, it’s the workers, the ice cream shop owners. Against the mines, against the government, or because Pedro didn’t feel like going in to work today. Every day there’s a protest. Here, all problems get solved by people shouting in the streets.
Listen to us. ¡Escúchanos! You can’t pretend we don’t exist. A hundred times, a thousand times, a million times the same face affirming their faith in democracy. They march past us, their white knuckles clenched around signs that echo the things they’re tired of yelling.
Meanwhile, up above, the rest of them sip their scotch and play cards. This law, do you think it’ll pass? We should keep them busy with something. A flu epidemic, there you go. Call Marina at TV7. Create a commotion around a strain that’s mutated, another inexplicable, dangerous outbreak. Really play up the hysteria. Tell her to focus her story on a kid who died from it. They don’t even have to try to be original.
Go get another bottle, Giuseppe’s coming over. If they keep it up, we’ll make a statement. We’ll say the situation’s under control, that we’re working hard on it and yes, as promised, we’ll enforce that federal prison law. Hurry up, Giuseppe gets cranky when there’s nothing to drink. And when he gets upset, I don’t have to tell you what happens.
Pablo, Gloria says to tease him, I didn’t know you had such a shitty car. Had I known, I would have stayed home.
If you want, there’s still time to drop you off. I don’t know, maybe you could go on a shopping spree. You must have friends you can see. Why did Emilio bring you?
He could have at least given me a heads-up.
So, I’ve heard you know Ezequiel? I didn’t see that one coming. Gloria thinks she’s already won. We’ve known each other for years. We tell each other everything. The whole car is quiet, everyone listens attentively. The men want to know. What does she know? I’m not sure I’m any good at this girl stuff. I told him, you know, that he should give you a chance. You seem really great. He can’t always be with supermodels. You probably just don’t know how to play it. I tried to convince him that a normal, nice, simple girl would do him good.
My cheeks catch fire. The bitch. What am I supposed to say? All eyes on me. Ezequiel… They’re waiting for the rest. Funny thing, what happened between us.
Or what didn’t happen, I should say. When I told myself I wanted to see him again, I went to ask Emilio for his number. He didn’t want to give it to me. I had to insist.
You remember, Emilio?
It was really embarrassing. Can you picture it? Me, begging him to give me his friend’s number, and he keeps sayi
ng no.
Did you give me the wrong one on purpose?
I whisper to her, can you believe it? All the same, these chicos. They want a harem of girls fawning all over them. They want to feel like we all worship them. The more of us, the better. Ridiculous, right? How are we supposed to feel special that way? And I say it again, louder, every time I’d call Ezequiel, I’d get someone else’s voicemail, and I didn’t even realize. I thought he really didn’t want to talk to me. But I had the wrong number all along. When he finally got in touch, the whole phone tag thing had been so complicated that I’d lost interest.
I think I’d prefer it if wars between women played out the way other wars do. We could fight it out, slap each other, and pull on each other’s ears. Instead of this endless scheming, these invisible battles, layer upon layer of dirty tricks. Whispers behind each other’s backs, echoed and escalated, spit into faces. But no blood, so no pain, right?
Outside, cows and fields and a few trees. Yellow hay.
I’ve always loved watching the autumn leaves fall. There’s something about October skies. I have this reflex where as soon as I have a leaf in my hand, I rip all its skin off. Until there’s just a skeleton left, stripped clean, a nervous system gently collapsing in on itself.
The sun’s yellow reflection on the hay is gonna end up burning my retinas.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Emilio worked up like this. You okay with the knives being over here? Or would you rather place them yourself? Is this good enough for madame? Do you want me to fold the napkins up into little triangles, too? I didn’t do anything to calm the situation. I subtly encouraged him to mock her, went as far as touching him without making it look like it was on purpose, kept going until she lost her shit. If they were playing water polo, they’d be scratching at each other underwater, nails sharp as knives. Red blood in the turquoise water. I’d swim in it.
Your sauce is inedible, you trying to make us choke? Would it have killed you to listen to me? For once. You had to put twice as much in just to make me look stupid. Great job. If they’re trying to play an old married couple, their performance is flawless.
I bask in the soothing sun. My feet hanging over the end of the dock, just like in the Beau Dommage song. The song starts playing in my head. It’s been so long since I’ve heard a tune from Quebec. They all left me on my way to this place. I tap along to the beat of this song that no one can hear but me. I can’t even hear the birds sing. Nothing but this song fills my head.
As soon as I dip my toes in, they disappear. My toenail goes in and little particles cover it. The whole front of my foot, erased by the brown water. I smell algae, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know if it’s brown from pollution or sediment. Maybe that doesn’t matter either. The little ripples that take off from my feet slowly die out, sink all the way to the bottom.
The gates of Hell are supposed to be underwater. The gates of Hell, what a joke. Caught up in these stupid details.
Pablo makes the wood crack with his giant feet and construction boots. The dock isn’t wide enough for us both so he sits on the side. Throws a rock into the water.
His waves conquer mine. A little shake-up for a few seconds, waves crashing against each other. The brown water regains its composure, becomes smooth again, heavy.
Ever since Anke fell in love, it’s like she no longer exists. She met him and melted into him. They’ll stay that way, glued together, until they explode. Like all the others. They float along, convinced that they’re whole now, that they’re above the rest of us. Is this Hollywood’s fault? Fairy tales? I’m stuck in a world that won’t stop pushing this idea that one is bad, and two is better. Two, the only goal. Two, the golden number. Who’s ever said anything else?
I know Anke showed up on time. I know she’s patiently waiting for me. That she brought a book, and hasn’t ordered yet. A serious book about something important. A book you can proudly show off in the metro to tell everyone else look, this is what I’m reading. Under their breath, some might add that it’s way better than those dumb bestsellers of yours, the rest of you, who probably don’t know the difference between Orson Welles and H.G. Wells. But Anke is classy. I haven’t even left yet, and she’s already there.
I have nothing to wear. Everything’s dirty. Ugly. I can’t decide. Go out, or call her. She’s waiting for me. I pace in circles without even pretending to get ready.
I’m sick of the Goldbergs. Enough already!
He asks to use the washroom. It’s too late for classes, too early for a show. The theatre’s closed. The man insists. I want him to leave. End of the hall, on your left. He comes back. There’s no paper. What does he want me to do about it?
Can you call the janitor? I don’t know where the paper is kept, or where the janitor is. Has the entire universe turned against me? Please leave. His expression changes. Self-importance takes over his greasy face. Excuse me, miss, do you know who you’re talking to? What, are you a member of the all-powerful incontinence club? Pablo shows up, out of breath. Señor Gutierrez, I didn’t know you were coming today. He stands between us and adopts a fawning tone that doesn’t suit him. Pablo, I don’t wish to pry into the theatre’s internal affairs, but you may want to review your hiring process. The man speaks with all this floury language even in casual conversation. Pablo starts waving his hands around, blushes. Apologizes for me. I can tell he’s furious that I’ve made him lose face like this. I’m a stupid gringa again, a little insignificant thing, hanging around, not understanding a thing. I don’t run to go get toilet paper, I don’t lick señor’s posterior, and I don’t apologize. It’s Pablo who ends up going, practically dragging himself across the floor. She’s new. Go fuck yourselves.
I should have known, maybe, that it’s risky to offend old white men who strut around so confidently in fancy suits.
In the living room, Emilio, with Gloria. I quickly grab some cookies and a bit of cheese.
From behind my closed door, I can still hear them too clearly. They’re making plans for the evening. Their discussion gets buried by kisses and dog whines. Then their sounds quiet and come to me in whispers, punctuated by bursts of laughter.
In the hole, my paper airplanes have been reduced to a sort of pulp. With remnants of red flowers adorning their tomb. Melted together, no wings or noses. Maybe a tree will end up growing out of them.
A tree, Betty. With big white birds flying all around it. Do you think there’s ever been such a thing? They could carry me out to the fake outdoors. I’d go, you know. Caught in the talons of giant birds. It wouldn’t even bother me that it isn’t real.
I rip out a sheet of paper and make another airplane. And again, it falls without even making an effort to fly.
Is it actually possible to slip on a banana peel? That’s the kind of thing people say without really believing it. Who’s actually seen someone slip on a banana peel? I demand proof. Just saying it’s a thing doesn’t make it one.
I throw one onto the floor and jump on it. Medium slippage, smashed peel. I try again, making less of an impact. Slight skid, peel destroyed. A third time. With a lot of effort, I manage to fall. It doesn’t even hurt. No bananas left to sacrifice. Don’t really feel like going to buy more. The dog digs into the puree, excited. Gets it all over itself, spreads it all over the kitchen. I’m so disappointed. The risks actually posed by banana peels are hopelessly overblown. At least now I know. I have to look elsewhere.
Betty, I’m so fucking sick of this. How can you be satisfied with so little? Why? Can you please tell me why?
I dressed up slutty on purpose. Short black dress, fitted but not tight, the neckline just loose enough for the straps to slide off my shoulders a bit, pointed heels, red lipstick, black eyeliner. I sit at the bar, alone. I look at them but don’t smile. I down four shots of tequila. By the fifth, a hand places itself on top of mine. Let me at least buy you the next one. He�
�s not cute. I imagine he’s from Russia or Moldova. Moldova, that’s exotic. I don’t even know if that’s a real place. I decide his name is Evans. He places two glasses of whisky in front of me. And the same in front of him. The second one is for good luck.
He likes sailing. He’d make his sailing outfit burst at the seams with those big arms. All the little stitches, snap snap snap snap. Is he hairy? “Sailing,” maybe that’s a sex position he’s talking about. I’m sure he makes children cry when he tries to smile and he squishes spiders with his fingers. More shots. Vodka this time. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I’m laughing.
Getting up feels like a bomb got dropped on my balance. With both my hands, I grab his arm, which he might have been holding out for me to take anyway. The dance floor. He pulls me close. Are we dancing? A song plays, then another. I’m losing myself, my head in his chest, my eyes closed. Little spots, like fireflies, wandering around. Softly, gently. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve always been here and I’ll never go anywhere else.
On the floor, shapes start to blur. I bounce around, let myself be carried by the tide. He holds me up, pulls me, I barely realize the songs are changing. My back brushing against strangers’ stomachs, my chest against their backs. I join the crowd, dive into the sweat and drool. Evans, with his brutish arms, elbowing people. I think this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all my life. If I jump, maybe they’ll catch me and have me crowd surf, take me to the end of the rainbow. I’d pick up Lucky Charms with my fingers and sprinkle them over them, over us. Dissolved into fine snow, golden dust. Inside, outside, everywhere.
In the End They Told Them All to Get Lost Page 9