17
G.B.W. Ponce had been making notes for hours without moving from the bar. For him, these occasions were like a vast laboratory; he couldn’t waste his time interacting with people. Even so, he wasn’t too interested. He’d understood the setup from the start and had made his arrangements. At the right moment, he’d leave, without thanking his host, accompanied by one of the Eskimo girls he’d haggled with until they had come to an agreement. It was almost time. He sought her out in the shadows deepened by his dark glasses. But instead of the girl, Max appeared on his radar:
“What’s up? Enjoying yourself? Good party, right? Have you read the document? What do you think?”
“I thought it was, in one sense, interesting.”
“That word is meaningless. Do you understand your task?”
“Yes. I’ve got to find a candidate.”
“Right. The chief said he was coming along tonight, which means he isn’t. He has to approve the proposal. We need to get moving. There are only a few days to go.”
Ponce located the Eskimo and went up to nudge her gently toward the door. Before he began to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, Max took refuge in Sao. The two friends left arm in arm. It wasn’t clear who was hanging on to whom.
18
In his apartment, Max contemplated the artwork covering the plaque. He fetched glasses in metal holders and wine, put on some lounge music, and sat on the armrest of the sofa, his bare feet on the apricot upholstery, straightening his back as if he were trying to achieve an angle of exactly ninety degrees.
“This is all so weird, Max,” said Sao. “You’ve never used glass holders before. And that music! And you don’t usually sit like that.”
Max was horrified to realize that she was right: he’d precisely recreated a scene from a few days before. In that same place, he’d patiently waited to see what Nelly’s next step would be. The smile in Sao’s almond-shaped eyes made him feel ashamed: she understood him, without making judgments.
He went to his desk for the worn piece of paper, and returned, waving it uncertainly. Sao wasn’t sure either. She felt that there was no going back to the past now. She had to make a choice between hurting her friend’s feelings and protecting herself. She lay back as usual, her jeans unbuttoned, calming her instinctive uncertainty by telling herself they were her ideas, that the scene had never turned out badly.
If walking, I walk alone
through deserted, abandoned countryside
if I speak with friends, of drunken
laughter, and of life,
She was thinking too much…had to let herself go…otherwise she couldn’t…why hadn’t she said no?…poor Max needed it now…touch yourself slowly…carefully…little by little…don’t rush it…it wasn’t a matter of getting there…again…start from the beginning…don’t do this to Max…not now…he could go under.
If I study, or dream, if I labor or laugh
or if a gust of art transports me
or if I gaze on nature fresh risen
with new life,
Would he realize if I faked it?…at least a bit more…so it won’t be so obvious…there’s no way out…more cruel to trick him…I think he already knows…concentrate…you like it too…nothing’s happened…or maybe, deep down, it has.
You alone rule my heart
of you alone I think, for you every fiber quivers
for you alone my thoughts thrill
for you, belov…
“Max. Please. I’m really sorry, but I can’t tonight. Forgive me. I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Don’t worry. I completely understand. I’m really frightened, Sao. I don’t want to stop now.”
“Me neither, Max. Me neither. Let’s just hold each other a little longer. Then I’ll go home.”
19
Max didn’t know where to start. How was he going to find a candidate? How could he spot the signals? He recalled the pact not to toe the expected line, come what may. The difficulty was in guessing where the pitfalls might be. His father had been a pretty obvious villain; it was simple to not follow his example in any way. Max had even thought of the rule of opposites: if at each alternative, he placed himself in his father’s shoes and made the contrary choice, he could ward off the danger of becoming him. It concerned him that this might be a trap, that fate’s strategy might be to use what Max didn’t want to be as a lure for eventually converting him into what Max didn’t want to be. Or maybe he did? Which of them all was Max? Were there differences between some of the scenarios?
Perhaps the two enigmas were just one. No one was being tricked. Nelly made no bones about it: all those who had preceded him had failed the test. How arrogant to suppose that he was any different. Sao and Pascual could see it all clearly, but they preferred not to watch the fall at close quarters. Sao sadly admitted to herself that her generous compassion had its limits: Max had made a conscious decision. But not even he had any idea of the tone of that consciousness. It only served to point out the direction things were taking. He had no idea why he was so anxious to put himself in a place that wasn’t his. Who was he revenging himself on? Why punish himself? Did revenge or punishment even exist?
Orquídea López’s document was brutal. The transformation of Villa Miserias was indisputable. They’d spent years subtracting part of the sum, always in the name of everyone’s right to be no more than a part, never again the sum: what belongs to everyone belongs to no one. The new creed demanded the move from being a community of nobodies to a plague of somebodies in motion. That somebodiness wasn’t for the weak. Max had a precise image of it: thousands of self-sufficient islands separated by the icy, black waters of egoistic calculation. The best thing would be to remain alienated on your own island, but it was only human nature to go to another, take what you needed, and return to your own to guard what you’d amassed. Once again: no one was being tricked. There were even a larger proportion of accomplices than victims. Exonerating those who didn’t have the threshold of basics covered, the remainder had the sentencing judge in their pocket.
Max’s internal judge allowed him to act any way he wanted—it wasn’t the castrating sort—but, in exchange, he was condemned to be conscious of it at every moment. He could silence his vanity attempting to satisfy Nelly’s. He could take an active role in the delivery of the hammer blow: eliminate the residue of some aim that wasn’t small sensual pleasures. He knew the new Villa Miserian Leviathan would no longer justify its authority with an appeal to a common higher good. Now its reason for existence would be to guarantee the right to tread and be trodden on. The law enforcement bodies would be used to protect the victors in a war waged under other different categorizations. Max had the right to be a chain linked to other chains—some above, others below—but he would carry the prison with him wherever he went. This was his non-election: he locked the barred door from outside, opened his mouth wide, and swallowed the only key that would allow him back into a world from which, even in this first moment, he felt almost completely excluded.
20
Early the next morning, he rang the doorbell of the López family’s apartment: he had decided to get as close as possible to the original source. As the regulations allowed for non-consecutive reelection, Orquídea might be the ideal candidate for implementing the plan. But Max had to be cautious; a theoretical instrument didn’t always function in practice.
“Oh, what a surprise! Good morning, Max. Please, come in. Hey, but the thing is, Nelly’s taking a shower. Will you have something while you’re waiting?”
Max didn’t remember ever having met her, so couldn’t imagine why she was addressing him in such a familiar tone. He shook his head and then immediately regretted refusing her offer. Orquídea had no trouble reading his vacillation; she brought him a cup of coffee, exactly the way he liked it, with plenty of milk and one sugar. She found him inspecting the bookshelves, looking at a number of leather-bound, dusty volumes, bearing the name of his hostess, and organized by t
he Roman numerals stamped on the spine: Works, I, II, III, to XVIII.
“Hey, that’s everything I’ve written since the paper was founded,” she said proudly. “I sometimes pick out a volume at random and read a couple of articles. You wouldn’t believe how much it impresses me to see that those people who were personalities in their day aren’t even remembered now. That’s why I like my job. Maybe I don’t make decisions that affect a lot of lives, and the powerful people of the moment look down on me for not being in the loop, but I’m still here and most of them aren’t.”
Max got straight to the point.
“I’ve read your latest unpublished pamphlet.”
“Oh, yes. I’m so pleased. G told me. What did you think?”
“It seems a little risky. You yourself say that the neck separating the winners from the losers is very delicate. I’m not sure they’ll want to hear that. But I’m not employed to have opinions.”
“Ugh, Max. Just one thing. You think that way because you’re a sentimentalist, I know from what Nelly says. I’m not the sort who imagines you’re doing anybody a favor by hiding their reality. A belief in victimhood is the main barrier standing in the way of the rabble. The system, the rich, the lack of shoes, always someone else’s fault. Me, I’m convinced the indispensable requirement for deserving something different is recognizing that you deserve what you’ve got now. Some people can, others can’t. It’s that simple.”
“Why don’t you want to be a candidate?”
“Oh, no. Not that again. I already told you. I get anything I want for free, I’m invited to the important parties; with just a phone call I can keep them awake at night. And the best is that none of that has a sell-by date. Just the opposite. Like, you can’t imagine. When we started the paper, I’d be kept hanging around hours until someone told me the interview had been canceled. But now it’s me who makes the conditions.
“Well, Max, I’m pleased to have met you. I have a feeling we’re going to see each other again very soon. I’ll see if Nelly’s out of the shower.”
Nelly appeared with her hair frizzy from the damp. Her white blouse followed the contours of her body with compact voluptuousness. At each meeting, Max had the sensation he was seeing a different woman, even more disturbing than the previous one. Nelly, however, greeted him with the same kiss as the night before. Without saying a word, or moving from where he was, Max suddenly found himself sitting at the table with her, both of them drinking coffee, laughing over the events of the extravagant party.
After she’d finished her coffee, Nelly adopted a more serious air.
“Crazy, eh, Max? Listen, my aunt told me about your job. And what do you think? She suggested doing a profile of possible candidates for the newspaper. Like, I can’t mention the characteristics they’re looking for, but I can insinuate. And then I thought we could do it together. How about it?”
“Brilliant. It’s ideal for me. I’ll just have to check it with my boss. I’m not sure he’ll like the idea.”
“Really? Heck, don’t say you’re already regretting going with me? That’s exactly why my aunt spoke to G. Well, and him so happy to have a written testimony of the process. You know how his charts are always telling him pretty strange things. Now he says you never know what might happen, so you have to be prepared. Anyhow, you do have to remember there’s only a week left before registration closes.”
“Yeah, I know. Your aunt was my first failed interviewee. Even if it’s just a matter of protocol, I was thinking of going to see Severo Candelario next.”
“Oh, yeah. Perfect! Like, just let me make a few notes first. I’ll meet you at his bench in a couple of hours. The prof’s sure to be there, all crushed as usual.” She stood at Max’s side, stroked the back of his neck, her nails running through his distinctive hair. After checking one more time how he was looking at her, she added, “See? You’re already more handsome than before. But I’m sure you’d look even better with short hair. Jeez Max, you really would be irresistible then.”
Max left, more confused than ever. On paper, things were going the way he wanted. He was spellbound. She was suggesting they spend their days together. She was even making his job easier: Nelly’s report was the perfect cover for his mission. Max had to probe how ruthless they could be without them being aware of it. This way he could pass himself off as the journalist’s escort.
His self-absorption shattered at the entrance to the barber’s shop. Well, he’d been meaning to get his hair cut for a while. It was so uncomfortable. He was too old. And if Nelly liked it, all the better. No. He was going too fast. He didn’t have long before the next appointment. She might think he’d do anything to please her. All the better. He went to the $uperstructure offices to kill time, and rooted about in the company’s newspaper archive to go over once again the Candelario debacle.
21
In a special supplement celebrating the tenth anniversary of the beginning of the reforms, Orquídea López had dedicated a long article to Severo Candelario’s fall from grace. She had even persuaded the schoolmaster, whose good manners prevented him from refusing, to contribute his collection of photos of the tree for the front cover.
Orquídea then commissioned one of those photo-collages in which hundreds of small images form a larger figure standing out from the background. Skillful manipulation produced the image of a bulldozer flattening a faithful representation of the tree in all its splendor, composed of an infinite number of tiny photos of itself. Superimposed at the bottom was a real photo of Candelario, witnessing the scene from his bench. In an arrogant typeface, the headline of the supplement read:
SENTIMENTALITY CAN’T STOP VILLA MISERIAS!
The article fixed for posterity a sensationalist version of the episode with the young girl and laid particular stress on Candelario’s spectacular defeat as the only candidate in history not to win in even his own building. In this way, it was a demonstration of the coming of age of the Villa Miserians: they were ready to watch out for themselves, to crush any pervert with a shady past in their quest for power.
Max felt as if he were reading a text on paleontology: Candelario had been punished for being a man of his time, at just the moment when his time passed into the hands a different type of person. And now Max had to choose the ideal candidate to tear off another layer of the skin enveloping reality: the age of the death of stories was approaching. People had no time for well-meant nonsense that inevitably turned out to have been a bad idea. The new era needed its first spokesperson to announce that it had arrived with no intention of departing.
“What are you doing here?” G.B.W. Ponce’s shaded voice wanted to know what his money was being spent on.
“Hi, boss. Just killing a bit of time. I’m going to interview Severo Candelario in a while, and I wanted to go back over his story.”
“Okay. Better make your own mind up than have someone do it for you.” Ponce left the room, only to return a few moments later. “Shame you’re going. The chief’s due here any minute.”
22
When he arrived at the green area where Candelario passed his days, Max found Nelly sitting beside him. She was laughing openly at one of the schoolmaster’s anecdotes, her knee brushing his thigh. Max hesitated as he noticed the schoolmaster’s reddened eyes fixed on the imaginary outline of the tree. He was able to overhear enough to understand that he was telling Nelly how he’d been slowly led to the slaughter.
“Now so many years have passed, I’m almost glad for my dear tree. It wouldn’t have liked the courtesy care of that soda company.” While pointing one finger toward the sign overlooking the green area, Candelario showed Max his old camera. “My friends look at the albums with their empty landscapes and think I’m senile. They don’t realize that my camera captures much more than what can be seen at first sight.”
“Oh, Don Severo, don’t be like that. Please, chill out. Look how prettily the flowers are growing. Daisies are fascinating,” interrupted Nelly. “Look, instead of getting all
nostalgic, why not answer me something? With all your experience, what would you like to say to the readers of The Daily Miserias? What can they expect from the next election for the presidency of the colony?”
“I’m sorry, young lady. I don’t have anything interesting to say. Those things are outside my jurisdiction now.”
Nelly settled herself more comfortably on the bench. As if accidentally, her leg was now brushing the nervous schoolmaster’s thigh a little more closely. Max decided to ignore it: don’t be a fool, leave her alone, don’t say anything, she’s more spontaneous than you.
“My only recommendation is this,” said Candelario with prophetic dejection. “Don’t imagine what went before was better. It was just different. The spirit renews itself in ways only it understands. The fact that I like the times less doesn’t make them worse. In the end, it’s a process of transformation.”
“And if the spirit was to finally announce its new form under your name, Don Severo?” countered Max.
“What do you mean, young man?”
“You could run as a candidate again. This time say things the way you’ve learned they really are.”
“Children, I have to go now. My wife is expecting me for dinner. I’ve already had my fill of all that. It’s someone else’s turn to grease the garbage grinder. At my age, I’m no longer under the illusion that it matters who’s in charge of it.”
23
They dined on Nelly’s favorite dish: prawns in sweet and sour sauce. Then they took a stroll around the mall and had an ice cream at a place not far from Max’s office. Max finished his off in three spoonfuls, afraid of running into G.B.W. Ponce, but anxious that Nelly didn’t notice his fear. The avalanche of adrenaline had left him feeling emptied out. He wanted to go home in the hope that the tornado tearing through his mind would lose strength there. The voices, headlines, bulldozers, guitars, drills, faceless bosses, and exclamation marks were all swirling around. In the central void was a blob-like shudder. Max lacked the words to name it, but he knew perfectly well what it was.
A Zero-Sum Game Page 23