A Zero-Sum Game

by Eduardo Rabasa

  Inside, Sao was diligently going about her work. To Max it seemed that the different stages of her task were reduced to one. Even when she was focused on her work, her almond-shaped eyes held an indelible smile. Max stood unseen, quietly observing her from a distance. Everything necessary was there within her. Both the questions and the answers. Who? Why? They were more a method than a destination. When she opened herself to the outside world, Sao provided a channel for a profound impulse, and Max understood how lucky he was to be one of the recipients into which that generous impulse flowed. The least he could do in return was not cause her any more harm. He would stop being an ulcer in perpetual need of her care. He stopped short when it occurred to him that saying how sorry he was would put an end to his plans. He thought it over for a few seconds. When Sao lifted the handset to answer a phone call, Max took advantage of her distraction to flee.

  4

  Max’s hand, fed up with the vacillation of the person who normally controlled it, rapped on the door of Pascual Bramsos’ studio. The artist appeared, covered from head to toe in plaster: he was putting the finishing touches to the mold for a bronze sculpture to commemorate the campaign experience. He was thinking of calling it “The Torments of Elias.”

  The plaster mold consisted of a line of three life-size figures of varying heights, and in a variety of postures. The first was a man, standing looking down another who was kneeling before him with a bowed head. Together they formed the traditional image of the conferral of a knighthood. What distinguished this scene was that, rather than lightly tapping the man’s shoulders with his sword, the standing man was digging dozens of barbs into his subject’s curved back. To one side, a third, smaller figure was observing the scene from above, his head raised. He was on his knees, one hand resting on the surface of the enormous box to which he was attached by a chain around his neck that allowed him a little room for movement. This man’s free hand was occupied in sticking similar barbs into his own back, which was even more densely pierced than the other’s. And he was digging them in deeper as he was instinctively aware of where they would cause most pain.

  Max contemplated the scene, freed from his former envy. That was what he had come to say. Despite competitive complexes, the thing that had united them since childhood still existed. At some point, Max had unconsciously strayed off track, and had begun to believe his own calumnies against his friend. He didn’t want to miss the opportunity to explain this.

  “Pascual, I’ve been behaving like a jerk.”

  “Why do you say that, Max?” asked Bramsos in surprise, smearing more plaster onto his brow as he wiped off the sweat.

  “Because I let myself be carried away by real chickenshit feelings. And I didn’t know how, or didn’t want to block them.”

  “Max, I can guarantee that’s no worse than my own judgment of myself. Or the way I’ve felt about you.”

  “You forgive me, then?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. One secondary effect of our times is that our images of ourselves are so fragile. We idolize ourselves through the approbation of others. I’m more conscious than anyone of my baser instincts, but I can’t eradicate them. All I can do is to keep them in check. There’s no more egotistic love than the one that demands perfection in the other in return. Go ahead, tell me your gut feelings about me. It doesn’t change a single thing.” Bramsos had noted Max’s sweating palm moving to the pocket of his raincoat. “What are you thinking of doing with that?” he asked, as if inquiring about any other fun plan.

  “Something. I’m not sure what yet.”

  “I’m not smart enough to make you change your mind about anything. Just think carefully about whether it’s worth obeying those calls. You’ll always be Max for me.”

  A contented silence fell over them. Whatever happened, the three paper boats were united at the cusp of their powers. If their respective falls were horizontal, vertical, bumpy, brilliant, light, cushioned, or bloody, it didn’t change anything. As if wanting to convert himself too into a plaster statue through human contact, Max hugged Bramsos tightly before heading off on his way.

  5

  Max was handed a free copy of The Daily Miserias and, from habit, immediately looked for Nelly. He leafed through the paper from front to back several times, but she wasn’t there either.

  What he found was a colorful celebration of the moment everyone had been waiting for. At last! The day had come when the community would be free. The assemblies were concrete expressions of the permanent mandate of those kings for a day. They were at the peak of the ongoing festivity that was living in democracy.

  As a demonstration of its authentic impartiality, The Daily Miserias had designed an impeccable front page. The two faces of the candidates had been evenly divided into four parts, and democratically recomposed into a single image. Max had the areas around the left temple and the right jaw, while Modesto González had the opposite corners. Under the photo of this collaged political monster appeared the command issued by its creators.

  RISE UP AND WALK!

  A disinterested revision of the issue allowed Max to learn that 34% of men with dandruff who were fans of field hockey, and had a caged salamander as a pet, still hadn’t decided how to vote. An elderly man with a generic name looked back bitterly on the old days, delighted his grandchildren would have opportunities he’d never even dreamed of: “In the past everything was the same, but nothing was equal!” To reiterate its commitment to its readers, The Daily Miserias offered information about the deployment of an army of reporters in each assembly. It clarified that while all the buildings would receive the same attention, they would double their personnel in those with a greater weighting. The express aim was to reflect the overall opinion while, at the same time, concentrating on the most decisive ones. Orquídea López declared she was confident of achieving that precarious balance.

  Max realized he hadn’t eaten anything during the whole day. He put the newspaper under his arm and considered his options. He had no money with him, and didn’t want to return to the apartment for fear of having to shut himself in there. He opted for the workers’ canteen. It would be good for him get a firsthand impression of it after having heard hundreds of stories about its ill repute.

  He was lucky enough to arrive a few moments before the official mealtime. In spite of the fact that the canteen was busy, he didn’t find it as packed as usual. He considered asking permission to eat there, but didn’t know from whom. None of the diners acknowledged his presence. He therefore went straight to serve himself from the ample buffet of leftovers set out at the back of the room.

  The remains of some slightly stale enchiladas with black huitlacoche corn fungus caught his fancy. He added a portion of rice sprinkled with tiny slices of octopus, and lined up to reheat his meal in the communal microwave. He then squeezed himself into a space on a long table at which a silent group of beige uniforms was already seated. He wondered whether his raincoat was camouflaging him, or if the workers actually preferred to enjoy their food in silence. Even a more immaterial specter than him would have aroused some kind of reaction.

  He took a couple of distracted mouthfuls of rice: the octopus had the consistency of chewing gum. Robotically, he put a piece of enchilada in his mouth. He wanted to get through this alimentary chore as quickly as possible. Something repulsive, synthetically sweet and sour landed on his tongue. When he tried the huitlacoche, they smelled of expensive perfume. At the first sign of retching, he put his face closer to the plate, and discovered the remains of dark red lipstick on a bitten edge of his enchiladas. A second gastric contraction bathed the delicacy in vomit that then splashed onto his neighbors’ sleeves, leaving a lumpy smear, tinged with the black of the mushrooms and Max Michel’s bile on the tabletop.

  He expected a chain reaction since not even he could bear the stink of his vomit. But his table companions continued eating as calmly as ever. The last thing that registered in his brain was a woman in beige hurrying up with a pail of wate
r. She was apparently intent on wiping away all trace of his semiliquid shame.

  6

  The repairman examined Max’s revolver carefully, removing the bullets to inspect them one by one. He looked down the barrel to see if there was anything obstructing it. The minutes ticked by. Max longed to hear there was nothing to worry about, that everything would go the way it should. The repairman, however, was punctilious about maintaining his professional standards: it was impossible for him to cede to his customers’ emotional needs. After stretching Max’s nerves to breaking point, he finally gave his verdict:

  “It appears to work, but it’s no use. Are you sure you need it?” he asked Max, trying not to sound paternal.

  “I’ve tried everything I know to plug the holes,” Max apologized, anxious to make a good impression.

  “In that case, allow me to adjust it for your specific needs.” Without waiting for a reply, he went to his laboratory for a few moments, the revolver in his hand. On his return, he handed the gun to Max intact. The repairman then looked at his watch until the second hand reached a pre-established point.

  “Done. Now, my fee please.”

  7

  Max was in the mood for a walk under the shelter of the typical Villa Miserian dusky pink evening sky. Around him, the residents were returning home, exhausted but satisfied. The assemblies had finished: it was now a matter of waiting for the computation to discover who had won.

  It was time. The question with no answer began to thrash and kick in Max’s inner dark cavern, demanding to be immediately released. He put his hand to his forehead in an attempt to calm the reverberations, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Dust. Dust. Dust. Max allowed it to enter through every pore. The particles were unhurriedly coming together to form a figure: after his sinuous meanderings, he finally had a solid outline before him whose shadow had no beginning or end. There was only one way to deal with it. He opened his eyes to check that the dusky pink sky had disappeared, put his hand in his pocket and set off at a brisk pace.

  8

  Selon Perdumes opened the door as if Max was the last guest to arrive at an exclusive dinner party dressed up as an informal gathering. The obvious people were already there: G.B.W. Ponce and Orquídea López, plus—unfortunately or otherwise—Nelly. Perdumes poured the tea he had prepared for his guests. There was exactly enough to fill the five cups on the living room table.

  The host calmly bore the newcomer’s scrutiny. After so many mishaps, Max could now put a face to the name. Or was he just a concept? Today he’s in a grayish, slightly moth-eaten skin, thought Max as he compared what he saw with the idea of Perdumes he had fantasized. But he did have the unmistakable alabaster smile. Max could sense its glimmer even when Perdumes had his mouth closed. In contrast, his by now probable ex-boss was quietly watching him from behind his dark shades. Orquídea was balancing a saber: despite having positioned her finger at the juncture of the hilt and the blade, the sword seemed to be weighted down on the side of the latter. It was only by tilting her body in the opposite direction that she succeeded in producing the illusion of horizontal equilibrium. Max fixed his eyes on Nelly, attempting to work out how she managed to look more beautiful every single time he saw her. In protection, he blurred his eyes until she lost definition and became a blob obstructing the tranquility of the empty space. Without clear features, she was equivalent to any of the other bodies. Max stroked the gun hidden in his right pocket. He had to be sure that it hadn’t decided to change sides at that precise moment.

  “Oh, Max. Like, I don’t know how to explain, but this isn’t what you think,” said Nelly, recovering her shape. “We were asked here to get the results of the election.”

  “I don’t think anything any more, Nelly. I’m tired of so much thinking.”

  Well said, enough talking, let’s have some action, exclaimed the Many in unison. Max was relieved to find he wasn’t alone at such a decisive moment. At last, they were united against a common enemy.

  “There’s no need to be like that,” said G.B.W. Ponce, easing the tension. “We’re proud of you Max. You’ve excelled in carrying out the task you were assigned. Impossible to imagine a better candidate. Would you like to know if you’re going to be the new president of the residents’ association?”

  “I couldn’t care less. The truth I’m facing isn’t in the order of the social structure of lies. You all used me. You’ve known everything right from the start. At least for a short time, I’ll be master of my present. I couldn’t give a fuck about what happens afterwards.” The steel felt increasingly less cold in his hand. It was slowly reaching melting point.

  “Now then, Max. Calm down a little. Can’t you see that you livened up a really dull process? The Daily Miserias achieved record advertising revenue. The residents had the time of their lives. From now on they’ll be demanding campaigns at least as entertaining as this one has been.” It was Orquídea’s turn to try to defuse the ticking time bomb.

  “Exactly. You made me into a preprogrammed clown. There’s only one way to remedy the situation.” The Many’s patience was running out. At any moment they might turn on Max and precipitate a different ending. If he didn’t act soon, he’d have to face the consequences.

  With the bull raging from the wounds that also weakened it, Selon Perdumes sensed it was time for him to enter the ring.

  “Wonderful! Welcome, Max. We’ve been waiting for you. Do you like the tea? It’s a mixture of herbs from remote, secret places. Only I know the correct proportions to produce a chaotic harmony between their various properties.”

  “It tastes the same as it always has. The trick is in presenting it in a new way each time. I’m not going to put up with being manipulated any longer.”

  “Stupendous!” replied Perdumes from the most expansive version of his alabaster smile. Max had the impression that as he spoke, his color was improving. That wasn’t possible. Or was it? “Just tell me one thing. You feel you’ve been used. Manipulated. A puppet horrified to discover the strings that move it. Can you explain who forced you to do things against your will?”

  Max turned as if by reflex to Nelly’s pair of burning black caverns. He wanted to tell her they could forget everything, make a new beginning, the two of them and no one else. He could spend the rest of his life in the dark.

  “No one. The power of seduction lies in the fact that it is voluntary. I’m not so blind as to be incapable of recognizing that. But it doesn’t change the fact that you are masters of pressing the buttons of inadequacy. Knowing we can shake them off doesn’t change the reality of the shackles that negate any form of movement.”

  Without a word from a single one of the Many, Max was able to guess what they were thinking: there was no use trying again with Nelly. The umpteenth new beginning would only lead to the same ending.

  “Marvelous! I see you include the residents in your fury. Since I’ve been a visible presence in Villa Miserias, can you give me any example of aggressive coercion? The Black Paunches only enforce the laws agreed by us all. Is it my fault they’re happy to apply what you call shackles? Do you know of any time when men wandered the world without cares? Even the people who made up that story did so only to immediately legitimize the need to submit to a determined order.”

  “OK. But according to you, your laws and the order that underlies them are neutral and make no distinction between unequals. True, the chains of servitude are as old as the human race. The difference is that in the past the links in those chains had names. It never occurred to anyone that the people at the top were called the same as the ones below.” The sweat in his palm challenged Max to act. Each additional drop made the revolver more slippery.

  “Genius. Absolute genius!” Perdumes turned to Ponce, his teeth now almost transparent. “The perfect choice!” He turned back to Max to continue the chess game. “Young man, you are well aware that what’s important is the mold, not the material its made from. To be exact, we wanted you to help us verify if they were ready t
o dispense with their idols. What difference does it make whether the gods are lightning, rain, the dead, emperors, monarchs, soldiers, footballers, actresses, freedom, democracy, or any other of their future incarnations? Every dogma is tyrannical. They all demand unconditional submission. All except one. Only money, as the supreme entity, offers us the chance to be the person we want to be. Or rather, are capable of being. Up to now, it has had to remain hidden behind a few noble ideals. Ah, justice, equality. The words only have to be set down on paper for people to assume they exist in reality. Look around you. Do you know of any society where they even come close to being real? Try convincing someone who can afford an expensive lawyer to be represented by a public defender. Explain to a middle-class left-winger that his luxuries aren’t morally superior to those of his snooty neighbor. Suggest he swaps houses or wives with his much-vaunted proletariat. I can guarantee he’ll tell you where to go. Reason is useful for detecting other people’s abominations. By definition, one locates oneself on the right side of the frontier between the just and the evil.”

  Max could have sworn the teeth were beginning to vanish. He couldn’t allow their gleam to defeat him now.

  “Positing the absence of ideology is the most infallible ideology in history. It’s an attempt to install it as the definitive one. It’s a closed system containing within it all possible objections, just like the religions it replaced. Money isn’t value-free. Your own henchman, here present, has demonstrated the enormous similarity of patterns between the different strata. The unrestricted freedom to accumulate is just as enslaving. And as you rightly pointed out, the Black Paunches exist to rein in those who don’t want to be part of the flock, a flock that is allowed to choose between different incarnations of the same shepherd.”