I ran off before it was too late. They were already fucking with my head. What if she isn’t there when you get back? And what if she is? Let’s see how you get out of this one, you moron. Why bother? She’s already mad at you. At that moment Juana Mecha appeared to sweep us out of the way:
“Even if the arrow’s pointing skyward, if the box is upside down, that’s where Hell is.”
When I arrived it was already dark and Nelly was watching television. We weren’t due to be cordial enemies again until the next day. I waited for a commercial break to see if she would say something: I was anxious to hear her opinion of my speech. In her television program, a tangled affair involving the brother of the friend of the ex-girlfriend of one of the juvenile characters who were now older—or something like that—was on the point of unraveling. Nelly knew how it turned out: she’d already watched it several times. The break arrived but she was still silent. I thought that maybe she meant to talk over my speech at length, not just limit herself to a brief interlude. I asked if she was hungry, but she simply shook her head, so I went to the kitchen to get something to eat.
I shouted an offer of a whisky: it was answered by canned laughter. I had to be up early the following day, so best make the most of the time I had left. As I couldn’t decide whether or not I was hungry, I just sat down to wait for the program to end. I didn’t remember those episodes being so long.
I returned to the bedroom as the theme tune was playing in the background. Nelly was looking for something else to watch. That was when I exploded. What the hell’s wrong with you? I screamed. Why did we always have to watch the programs she liked? She’d never once asked what I’d prefer. When I chose something, she always, by coincidence, fell asleep.
At some point in my rant she switched off the set. After that she lay face down on top of the sheets and buried her face in the pillow. Once again I was moved by the crease formed by the juncture of her ass and her back. I stamped out of the room.
It soon became obvious that Nelly wasn’t going to come and make up. I was afraid my shouts might have woken the Many, but apparently they had placated them. Attempting to distract myself by thinking about the campaign, I took down Pascual’s painting to face the family axiom. If there’s no truth but the most convenient lie, what use was Ponce & Co.’s planned experiment? Supposing that anyone really cared, or even that such a thing as an awakening actually existed, then what? The charm of those sets of concentric dolls is that each is more or less exactly the same as the one before, if a little smaller. Who’d want a series where the next one was toothless, with sagging breasts and a clubfoot? It’s not the same for a prisoner to receive a sentence of 1322 years as to get life. Doctors who have carried out emergency operations at the front advise that if there is no real anesthetic available, a placebo should be administered. Anything that comes to hand. Why do they now want to install the complete lack of illusions as an illusion?
Had Nelly fallen asleep? The light was still on. Without insulting me, one of the Many made my situation clear. What did you expect? An “Oh Max, that was the most intelligent speech ever. I admire you so much”. Come off it. Be a man and apologize the only way you can.
The asshole was right. If only they always addressed me in those terms, I’d be more receptive to their fucking slaps in the face. I went back into the bedroom with the pig mask on. You can get used to anything. Nelly lay still, giving to understand she was sleeping. I slid down the bottom half of her pajamas in an attempt to sort out the misunderstanding. She must still be mad at me. Or maybe she really was asleep. I set about my task until she removed my hand. Then she turned and grimaced in disgust at the sight of my pig-face. “Ugh, Max. Take that off. I don’t feel like it tonight.” I obeyed, resigned to not sleeping. Then she stretched out a hand and took something from her dressing table. It was a sleep mask. “Guess what? This time it’s me who doesn’t want to see you.” She donned it and began to fulfill her campaign promise. We were all so happy that we didn’t care when things went dark again. Nelly, and everything else. Thanks to the mask, there was no way she could tell. Maybe I should get angry more often.
DAY 3
THE DUEL OF THE PROPHETS
Nelly López
Candidate Max Michels continues to offer a pretty strange campaign. Of course, voters like a bit of fun, but perhaps enough is enough. If he goes on this way, the residents might very soon get tired of him and his theatrics. Maybe it would do him good to remember everyone is replaceable, and a lot of people would like to be in his shoes. He has nine days left to show he’s capable of taking advantage of the enormous opportunity that’s been offered him.
His campaign team put up posters all around Villa Miserias, inviting people to a duel of prophets. It must have caused a lot of morbid curiosity because, at the given time, Plaza del Orden was really crowded.
The first thing to be seen on arrival was a clever stage design. At the back of the pavilion was a sheet painted by Pascual Bramsos showing a mountain split in two. The sky on the right had black thunderclouds with vultures circling round below, and the mountain was surrounded by barbed wire. On the other side of the scene the weather was more pleasant. The sun was resting on clouds like cotton wool balls. On the mountain, there were loungers with lettuces scattered around on them. Some of the lettuces were drinking a sort of reddish cocktail. In the center was a metal staircase separating the two halves. I have to say that the stage design made us all curious about what was going to happen next.
Suddenly, the daughter of the laundryman appeared disguised as a priestess of ancient times, holding two large tablets. She went up the staircase as if going to the summit of the mountain and stood there motionless for quite a while.
Next, Michels and Bramsos came on stage. The candidate was wearing a white tunic, a curly wig, and had a false beard. Bramsos’ hair was uncombed, he was wearing round spectacles and a long-sleeved, checked shirt. They walked around the set for a while like they were lost. Then they tried to go up the stairway, but kept pretending to slip back. The audience began to tire of this and there was a murmur of what sounded like desperation.
When some people had already left in search of something better, the two of them fixed their eyes on the laundryman’s daughter. As if obeying an order, they each went up his own side of the stairway. The girl gave each of them his own tablet. Max Michels’ said “Ten Recipes for Dominating the World,” while Bramsos’ said “The Decalogue of the Good Progressive.” So finally we knew what the duel of the prophets was about. They went back down the staircase to address the crowd. One began to read out a proclamation, and then the other followed, like they each wanted to attract the listeners to their own side. Here are the proclamations they exchanged:
PB: If everyone was like me and mine, the world would be a marvelous place.
MM: Prices must be kept as low as possible. There is no more implacable tyrant than the consumer.
PB: We must support every noble cause. Reality is complex enough already without expecting something to happen.
MM: Advertisements must always address members of the target audience in an intimate tone.
PB: There’s no point in arguing with people who think differently. They will never admit they are wrong.
MM: There is nothing more lucrative than fully exploiting a sense of lack.
PB: People like us are characterized by the number of permanent furrows on our brows.
MM: Even those who don’t have enough to dream of it have to be put on the property ladder.
PB: Everything must happen in the most organic way. All intense experiences will be described as either awesome or demonic.
MM: It is permissible for companies owned by thousands of anonymous shareholders to be ruthless in their search for profit because the blame can’t be put on any single person.
PB: Brute force is for brutes. With my cigar and my coffee, I have all I need to bring in the police.
MM: The most efficient mechanisms of normalization are shareholders an
d the stock market. They can sink millions into poverty at just the press of a button.
PB: The masses are not at fault for being the masses, but for how they are the masses.
MM: Crime adapts to the level of sophistication it has to confront. It will never disappear, only be transformed.
PB: Rich white women are not more attractive per se, it’s just a coincidence that they are the ones I like most.
MM: The more a politician presents himself as one of you, the greater the community’s toleration of the pain he inflicts.
PB: The fact that they are better looking and smarter than the next person has nothing to do with them being my children.
MM: It only needs a very few examples of social mobility for anyone to think it’s just as possible for him.
PB: Come what may, our hopes lie in our kids. They represent the eternal tomorrow.
MM: The slogan including all other slogans: “The voter is always right.”
While they were sparring over proclamations, the members of the crowd were uncertain which prophet to listen to, until they finally plumped for one or the other. When they had finished, Michels had twice as many supporters as Bramsos. Then something really strange took place that only those of us present can believe actually happened.
At some point in the duel, the daughter of the laundryman came down the staircase and started handing out balloons filled with what looked like water. The people on Michels’ side got orange ones, and on Bramsos’ side they were gray. Then she went back to her place on the mountain and shouted at the top of her voice, “Balloon war!”
The audience obeyed without a second thought. When the first balloons burst, we realized they were actually full of the orange or gray paint. As Bramsos’ band was smaller, they were soon soaked in orange paint. Michels’ followers were covered in gray, but less completely. Some lunatics tried to steal balloons from the enemy camp. But I couldn’t believe it when I saw the reason was to burst them over their own heads. Those of us who were neutral ended up splattered with paint of both colors. We went home with our clothes soiled by the war between the two bands.
To put an end to the madness, the prophets called a halt to the war by giving each other a long hug. They helped the daughter of the laundryman down the staircase, and the three went happily away. The members of the audience had already got into the groove, so some stayed bursting balloons until there were none left.
The campaign is just beginning, and there’s a lot of time left still, but I think at this rate Michels won’t even make it to the end.
This time, running off to my dark enclosure wasn’t an option. Not that I was anxious to go there. Just in case, I’d made sure the paint wasn’t the sort that doesn’t wash out. As I knew Nelly wouldn’t see the funny side of being splattered, I’d thought about warning her the night before. But wasn’t it she who’d declared the cordial enmity during the campaign? The layers in my head are so muddled I no longer know which are mine. The Many aren’t as stupid as they seem: I’ve caught them mimicking my ideas. They know how my mind works. They’re capable of adding just that extra grain of salt so I won’t claim them as my own. They delight in using my confusion as their principal weapon for ensuring their continued existence. When they go too far, I can catch them out: Who thought that? And the automatic reply: Not me, me neither, not a chance, I might have. Aren’t I you? No, no, no, you’re not me, no way, okay, it’s our fault, it’s better for us all this way, but at heart you know…It’s exhausting. It reminds me of those fairground games where you have to hammer down moles that pop out of holes. My personal fairground is so perverse that the one who wields the mallet is also the mole and vice versa. Luckily, we’ve got the chocolate brownies tomorrow. That stupefies the Many for a while, though then they come back even more furiously, emboldened to the point of breaking all connection with me. It could be a good day for trying out the pepper gas trick. There’s a long way to go yet. If I at least knew for sure there would be an end to it somewhere. Could this be the end? Nelly says relationships are very complicated. But that wasn’t scripted in my black fairy tales. How long can eight days last?
Sao and Pascual were ecstatic. I gave the impression I was too, but Sao was surely aware that, at heart, I couldn’t care less. Everything went to plan. The fact that Ponce didn’t say anything must be an indication that we have their blessing. Otherwise the chief would have acted. I thought I saw him in the crowd, but in the end it was just an illusion. It’s strange, just now I went over things with my two friends: I know they’ll help me anyway they can, but they also have their own motives for taking part of the campaign. Sao’s interested in patterns, she wants to find out how two particles, thousands of miles apart, are linked. The problem is clearing away the chaff. She thinks, once that’s done, models of behavior as immutable as the laws of physics will appear. That’s why the environment we act in is so fundamental.
Pascual, on the other hand, is convinced that any form of politics is an aesthetic. The monotone, the flat, the consensual untruths, the exaltation of the banal, are all, however abominable it might seem, still aesthetics. For him, what’s crucial is capturing the intention behind the appearance. The chosen wrapping must not be considered as a decisive piece of data, you have to take a step back. In that sense—or so it seems to me now—even obesity is a political act. I guess they’re right. I guess I should be more passionate. I guess I should be concerned, like them. They are terrified by the Ponce Questionnaire. Terrified by the possibility that the script consists of nothing more than us going as far as possible off-script. Who? Why? Sao asked. I don’t know, I don’t know, I replied. Sorry, I’m very tired. My other active frontline awaits me. Or that’s what I believed.
What I found was in some way a relief. The Many had been insinuating worse: including a terse farewell note. It wasn’t that bad. Her dirty clothes were dumped on the apricot sofa. It’s no big deal, we’ve already talked about having it reupholstered. It makes Nelly feel insecure. She wants to be the only one to have shared it with me. I put the bundle of colors in a plastic bag. If I bring it back clean tomorrow, maybe she won’t be so mad at me. I hope the other laundry is as good. Sao will understand if she finds out.
What those fucking Many were right about was that she’d locked the bedroom door. I’ve got a duplicate key here somewhere, but that’s not what matters. I put them to sleep with whisky, and when there was only me left standing, I slumped onto the sofa. Now no one is listening, I can say you sleep better here.
DAY 4
HELPING IS SO NICE!
Nelly López
Yesterday, the group of women who run the Leonardo RU arts center held their charity dinner. The guest speaker was Max Michels and, it goes without saying, he turned up with his campaign team. At this stage, it’s hard to say whether the pandemonium that breaks out whenever they appear is accidental or planned. The annual dinner is usually very quiet, even boring, but, coincidentally, this time it ended in a riot. The authorities are attempting to identify the culprits.
The act began just as normal. The chairwoman of the arts center’s board went to the podium to offer words of welcome. There was a buffet including shark fin soup, snails, anteater pâté, frog legs, roast quail, iguana filet, and other odd dishes. On the desert table were some chocolate brownies that looked inoffensive. None of us knew they were possessed by devils.
The chairwoman explained the rules of the event. In the center of the room was a tombola drum containing the money raised by ticket sales. If they got the urge, the diners could donate more during the evening. Each time that happened, the electronic board would announce the name and the amount donated. The chairwoman asked us all to applaud when someone added another donation. She explained that everyone there asked themselves the same question every day: What can I do to help correct what’s wrong with the world? Finally, she explained that when the event was almost over, there would be a vote to decide which cause to give the money to. She had to pause several times in her
speech because people had started calling out, pretty loudly, Helping is so nice! Helping is so nice!
One important thing the chairwoman explained was that charity was not the same as it had been in the past. Happily, now it has nothing to do with guilt. It’s much better that it’s fun, even sexy, and that those who donate receive public recognition. She added that it’s really good for society to have its best members acting as guides, because that way ordinary people will want to be like them and copy their behavior. The important people in Villa Miserias were always telling her that they wanted to return to the community all the things they had received.
In addition to Max Michels, she said there was another A-list guest, a very intelligent gentleman, who had come a long way to be there: Dr. Seeman. He would be sitting on a wooden chair so anyone could go up and talk to him. Before the chairwoman left the podium, people had already begun to shout, and with increasing fervor. Helping is so nice! Helping is so nice!
In the meanwhile, without anyone knowing it, people were falling into the trap that had been laid for them. They were eating the chocolate brownies, unaware that they had been spiked. The authorities still don’t know what was in them, but it was something that caused attacks of uncontrollable laughter. There were women in evening dress talking to snail shells, as if asking forgiveness for having eaten their former inhabitants. An elderly couple let their hair down, kissing each other like they were twenty, and they had to be ushered out. And if only that had been all. But it wasn’t. The worst was yet to come.
Dr. Seeman was sitting on his wooden chair. He looked very calm, as if it was only his body in the room with us all. Suddenly, there was a line of people wanting to talk to him to see if he’d share some of his wisdom. At the head of the line was a young girl. When the doctor simply asked her, “How are you?” the kid started doing a really strange dance, her whole body contorting backward and forward. She was wiggling her hips as she danced in a trance toward the tombola drum. The board began to celebrate her donation.
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