“I couldn’t hear what you said, my son.”
“I said we’re not all equal, they are different!” shouted Max in a rush of relief.
“But…?” The doctor was unwilling to trust his own joy.
“But they can be happy in their own way.”
“Maximiliano, at last. Let us seal this happy moment with a fatherly embrace. You can throw away that bottle; it will no longer be necessary.”
Max fantasized of kicking his father in the balls before running to beg his nanny to forgive him. He saw his mustache suspended in the air, like the smile of the ubiquitous cat he so hated, and gave him a stiff embrace, which his father interpreted as effusive. The sacrifice had been worth the effort. Max had become a man.
After Max had finished getting dressed, he moved quickly through the living room, without the courage to say goodbye to his nanny. Before shutting the front door, on his way to Bramsos’ apartment, he turned to look at his mother, listening to music, encapsulated in her usual chair. Max waved and turned away quickly, with no desire to find that, once again, she hadn’t returned his greeting.
7
Max was as used to his mother’s unchanging character as he was to any other piece of furniture in the apartment. Since leaving her job as a cataloger at the natural history museum, she spent her days in a space closed off by the books on insects in which she would bury herself for hours, only ever moving to make a cup of tea to accompany her cheese and biscuits. Max’s mother felt the same affection for him as for the rarest bug in her collection: entomology had taught her not to get attached to the handful of those insects whose transitory lives crossed with those of equally insignificant species. Even the most spectacular examples, with demented forms, sensual colors, and fascinating behavior patterns were just bugs. Perishable, forgettable. While some of her colleagues anthropomorphized insect behavior, she believed otherwise: it’s not that bees organize themselves like workers, or that grasshoppers display similar courtship rituals to those of humans; rather that man shares all that is most voracious, abject, and primitive with other species. If mankind were considered utilizing the same parameters used for insects, it all made sense. She called it anthropoentomology; for years she’d been starting to write a scientific treatise explaining her theory.
When Dr. Michels had crossed the threshold into his sixties, he began to worry about the matter of descendants. Before that age, he’d had no time to let his attention stray from his career: a couple of marriages—for the look of things—but nothing more. At this stage, what he wanted was not a wife, but a young uterus. He was an honorary member of a committee that awarded grants in the arts and sciences, so when a timid entomologist came before him in obvious need of support for her nonsensical project, he didn’t let the opportunity pass. To the discomfort of the other members of the panel, he attacked her virulently.
“Young lady, with all respect for a distinguished member of the weaker sex, how can you suggest that we behave like insects, that we are motivated by the same basic impulses? Have you not visited the great ruins, museums, and monuments? Have you not read the most sublime poetry, listened spellbound to the immortal operas, cried with pity for your fellow man? Insects do nothing but sting, eat each other, suck blood, and reproduce. How do you dare waste the time of these busy, distinguished people?”
“What Dr. Michels is trying to say is that your project is somewhat unorthodox. But don’t worry, leave your documentation with us and we’ll review it in accordance with our canons of equality and transparency. Thank you for your interest,” cut in a colleague to put an end to the interview on both sides.
A few days later the girl received a phone call from Dr. Michels’ secretary, inviting her to have breakfast with him. He dressed carefully for the date and arrived twenty minutes early; she, in contrast, appeared wearing denim dungarees, her hair combed with her fingers, and sat down without saying a word. The doctor went through the usual courtesies, asking if she had had any difficulty in getting there, commenting on the weather, recommending the blueberry and nopal cactus juice, and expressing his envy of her casual clothing. The young woman answered in monosyllables. Dr. Michels got straight to the point:
“Young lady, you must surely have noted how brusquely I behaved during the committee session. I ask you most sincerely not to be alarmed. To tell the truth, I’m intrigued by your project. I too have dedicated my life to the investigation of the truths that define us as human beings. Gifted, as I am, with an agile and consequently, curious mind, I am always open to filling it with novel ideas. Your concept of anthropoentomology fascinates me.” He paused to give his words greater weight. The girl looked at him impassively through her conscientious-student spectacles. “The fact is that the committee is composed of honorable people who take their mission seriously. However, our funds are limited and we are obliged to support projects that offer the greatest benefit to society. Those of us who have the privilege of donating want to obtain the greatest yield from every penny we invest. For this reason, it is necessary to ensure that the projects, in turn, generate funds, a patent that can be exploited, or a piece of new information that can be capitalized upon. Without wishing to question in any way the validity of your undertaking, I have to confess that it is an unfruitful project, of limited accessibility. In addition, given the potential unpopularity of your conclusions, I find it extremely unlikely that the committee will decide to offer you financial support.”
The young woman started to rise, her eggs scrambled with broccoli untouched. Ignoring her movement, the doctor continued, “My dear young lady, I earnestly beg you not to be hasty. It is my principal desire to help you. Much against my most gentlemanly instincts, I felt myself obliged to attack your project, since that was the only way of ensuring the committee gave it due attention. I am not only one of the founding members, but am also among the most active. Be so kind as to place your invaluable confidence in me. I know the best route to advance our project.”
The doctor arranged a number of other appointments with the girl to notify her of further developments. He described acrid discussions during which he reduced her project to ashes. On each successive occasion, the other members of the committee were more enthusiastic; they were close to the point where they would decide to approve it. In fact, the committee hadn’t mentioned the project again. Dr. Michels had the power to authorize the funding with a simple signature, but first he wanted to be certain of obtaining the desired trade-off. Time was running out. During one of their meetings in the usual place, he decided to take the next step.
“My dear young lady, you know that I feel a great affection for you. My admiration for you goes beyond the physical, since it finds more attraction in the intellectual sphere. Throughout my life I have been a man of strong convictions. Based on this certainty, I would like to ask you to do me the honor of agreeing to marry me.”
The engagement was sealed with a firm handclasp. The doctor had learned that it was ineffective to launch a battle too soon; everything could be won at its given moment. What was essential was to secure the uterus; then he would find a way to fertilize it.
As a wedding gift, he announced that—to the applause of the rest of the committee—she had been awarded a sum that would comfortably cover the costs of her research. His fiancée was unperturbed by the announcement. She coldly observed every detail of the social rite designed to celebrate her change in status within the hierarchy of her species.
Uncertain of what to expect of her companion’s sexual habits, she decided to protect herself by using condoms during the wedding trip. When she had further information, she would decide what form of contraception was appropriate.
On their return, the doctor claimed to have a rash caused by the latex. After persuading her to have an intrauterine device fitted, he arranged an appointment for his wife with an old family’s regular gynecologist. At the same time, he also asked the secretary to schedule an advance meeting between himself and the physician.
&nbs
p; Once they were alone, Dr. Michels explained his problem with dramatic sincerity:
“Dr. Jerski, if I can talk to you man to man, allow me to point out that, as males of the species, we know every woman’s fulfillment lies in motherhood. However, I have, by chance, fallen in love with a deeply confused female. My wife suffers from the delusion that she does not want children. I’m sure that if we give her the opportunity, she will change her mind.”
“I see,” said Dr. Jerski thoughtfully, struggling between his loyalty to professional ethics, his firm conviction in the right to life and this unexpected contribution toward a comfortable retirement. “There is one possibility. We can put the decision in the hands of God.”
Dr. Jerski was careful to explain to Señora Michels that although the device had a very good track record, it was not infallible. He then placed it with surgical precision at an angle that did not completely close off all possibilities. Eleven weeks later, she was back in his office and he confirmed her suspicions. Despite the human effort to impede it, God had blessed her with the gift of life.
“I warned you right from the start. This child will be your responsibility,” she told her husband.
Dr. Michels was bursting with restrained joy. He had not the least doubt about the gender of the child. Maximiliano was on his way.
The future mother approached her pregnancy with scientific devotion: she registered every event and compared it with manuals stipulating optimum times. The doctor was obliged to wear gloves if he wanted to feel the embryo’s tiny legs. Her curiosity came to an end when she gave birth to a boy like any other. After that, she shut herself up in her nest to observe her insects. The anthropoentomological treatise never got any further than a little disorganized research. She vegetated for some years in her cataloging work at the museum until, one day, she simply didn’t turn up.
The doctor handed over the basic care of his son to the nanny. She was in charge of bathing, dressing, feeding, and playing with him. His father, for his part, instilled the principles that would form his character. Instead of the usual, phonetically simple phrases, Max learned to read by the inscription on the living-room wall:
“Now then Maximiliano, be so good as to repeat with me, ‘The measure.’”
“The measure.”
“…of each man…”
“…of each man…”
“…lies in…”
“…lie sin…”
“…the dose…”
“…the dows…”
“…of truth…”
“…of tru…”
“…he can withstand.”
“…pecan with stan.”
The mother treated her son with cordiality. When Max came running, proud to show her his drawings of flying whales that had drunk all the water in the sea, she would comment:
“Interesting. The ability to represent cetaceans with fantastic characteristics suggests above-average creative-cognitive development for your age.”
On the day Max’s first tooth fell out, his nanny followed the custom of placing it under his pillow and then exchanging it for a coin. Full of his achievement, Max was going to school to spend his riches on candy when his mother intercepted him:
“Max, it’s absurd to believe that a mythical being trades dead teeth for pieces of metal with an exchange value for humans. The sooner you rid yourself of these silly expressions of the collective consciousness, the better it will be for your evolution as an outstanding member of the species.”
8
Not long after the end of Max’s purple torment, the elementary-school graduation ceremony took place. His contribution consisted of dancing with his classmates, dressed as a skeleton. Before the festivities, his nanny spent several evenings sewing white bones onto the black suit. When Max went to his mother so she could see him in his costume before he left—Dr. Michels had a meeting that couldn’t be put off, but would end it as soon as possible to see his son—she stood inspecting the physiognomy of the bones. Closing her eyes, she pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose to maintain control until something snapped:
“I’m fed up with so much stupidity! Is that a femur? Don’t they even know how many frigging ribs there are? Do you really want to know the truth, Max? Why all those filthy stories with veiled messages? And that damned phrase, castigating us every day! Did your dad believe he was making you a man when he indoctrinated you with all his idiocy? Come on, I want you to see something!”
Although it was some time since she’d been in it, she darted off to his father’s room, pulled a chair across to the closet, put two telephone directories on it, and climbed up to reach the leather-bound volume containing the hundreds of stories that Max religiously listened to each night. His father had promised that he would show him the book some day; Max was burning with the desire to see what the lettering was like, if there were illustrations. He longed to finally understand what sort of structure could combine so many different beginnings and endings. The characters moved freely through the various stories: sometimes they were good, sometimes bad. If a story began on the last pages of the book, his father would suddenly open it again at random to finish the tale. The nanny stood between Max and his mother, trying to prevent her inopportune revelation of the contents of the book. His mother slapped her face and advanced toward her son.
“See for yourself the lie behind your father’s truths.” She handed Max the book and went to her own room to pack her things.
Max rested the book on his bony knees and contemplated it for an instant, laying inner bets about its precise contents before opening the cover. He began leafing feverishly through the pages. The book was shattering his most improbable suppositions. Just as his father did, he jumped from one page to another and was stunned by what he saw. He examined every inch of the fantastic worlds that had been his bedtime stories each night and was finally able to see what the mountains, princesses, animals, and other creatures that had guided him so many times to the land of sleep were like. Devastated, he closed the tome. The hundreds of pages of the book were blank; there was not a single letter written there. It had all, all, all been a lie told by his father.
Max lost any desire to attend the graduation party. Between sobs, his nanny attempted to comfort him by the means she had at hand: she offered him cake, said she would prepare chilaquiles. Max added four books to the tower of telephone directories and returned the leather-bound book to its place. He made his nanny swear that she would say nothing to his father.
Dr. Michels arrived at the graduation ceremony very late and sat at the back of the auditorium. When it came to the sixth grade class, his eyes played a trick on him He easily recognized Max’s friends among the dancing skeletons and convinced himself that Max was the boy behind Sao and Pascual. He proudly followed his movements and applauded loudly after a series of reverse steps that seemed to defy gravity. When the piece had finished, he went to give his son a pat on the back and discovered his mistake. Max was not to be found anywhere. He hadn’t taken part in the dance. Furious, Dr. Michels went home to demand an explanation.
The first thing he saw on entering the apartment was a note stuck over the inscription on the wall:
THERE IS NO SUPERIOR BEING CAPABLE OF DICTATING QUANTUM LEAPS IN THE EVOLUTION OF ANY SPECIES. THE MALE HORSEFLY CANNOT FEED ON BLOOD; THAT IS NOT IN ITS NATURE. EVEN IF THEY ARE REPEATED AN INFINITE NUMBER OF TIMES, LIES ARE LIES. I’M LEAVING HIM THE ONLY THING THAT HAS MATTERED TO HIM DURING ALL THIS TIME. THE APPARATUS IS HIS AND HIS ALONE. DON’T ATROPHY IT IN THE ATTEMPT TO MAKE IT YOUR OWN. GOODBYE.
E.
“She said she’d only take what she needed to live,” finished the nanny.
“Where is Maximiliano now?”
“Sleeping in his skeleton costume. He wouldn’t take it off.”
“This unforeseen event will necessarily bring tranquility to our home. With the passage of time, it will become clear that we now have one less ghost to fight,” said Dr. Michels aloud—but to himself—as
he served himself a whisky with mineral water.
9
Dr. Michels’ only allusion to his wife’s departure was to order the nanny to throw the few remaining traces of Max’s mother into the trash. He didn’t even need her presence to dissolve the marriage. From that moment on, she simply stopped existing.
Max, for his part, dealt with his abandonment by taking refuge in Head World, where the three children took turns to reign in their world. Their scepter was a hammer Pascual had borrowed from his father’s metal workshop. Whoever carried it had the prerogative to decide such things as the rules for that day, the scope of the games, the flavor of the ice cream they ate. At the end of each session, when they had to go home for dinner, the monarch would grant the other two a wish with a touch of the scepter. In this way, they would all make it safely through to the following day’s meeting. Although they could ask to be changed into any creature or character, they almost always requested the power to fly or to create an invisible force field to protect them and their world forever.
On the last day of the summer vacation they played with melancholic intensity. As the sky reddened in the late afternoon, Sao began the closing ceremony.
“Sir Max, due to your position as an honored member of Head World, I grant you a wish. What would you like today?”
A Zero-Sum Game Page 12