Kiss of the Spider Woman

by Puig, Manuel

  —No. How do you feel?

  —I think I’m becoming horribly depressed.

  —Come, come, old buddy, no getting soft now.

  —Don’t you get tired of reading in this miserable light?

  —No, I’m used to it by now. But what about your stomach, how is it feeling?

  —A little better. Tell me something about what you’re reading.

  —What can I tell you? It’s philosophy, a book concerning political power.

  —But it must say something, doesn’t it?

  —It says that honest men cannot deal with political power, because their concept of responsibility prevents them.

  —And that’s true, because politicians are all a bunch of crooks.

  —To me it’s just the opposite. Only a flawed conception of responsibility makes one stay away from political involvement. Rather, my responsibility is precisely to stop people from dying of hunger, and that’s why I go on with the struggle.

  —Cannon fodder, that’s what you are.

  —If you can’t understand, then shut your mouth . . .

  —You don’t like my saying the truth . . .

  —What an ignoramus! When you know nothing, then say nothing.

  —It’s no accident you’re so angry . . .

  —Enough! I’m reading!

  —You’ll see. One of these days you’ll be the sick one and I’ll get even.

  —Molina, once and for all, shut up!

  —You wait and see. Sometime I’ll tell you a thing or two.

  —Fine. Ciao.

  —Ciao.

  —explanation on the part of the spinster, permission granted to the maid to stay on at the house since she has no other place to go, spinster’s sadness and the maid’s too, sum of two sadnesses, better each one alone than one mirrored by the other, no matter if sometimes it’s better together, at least to share one can of soup that makes two servings. Bitter winter, nothing but snow, total silence, white blanket deadening the noise of a running motor in front of the house, windowpanes all misted on the insides and frosted over outside, maid’s hand rubbing in a circle to clean the glass, young man outside with his back turned, closing the car door, joy of the maid, why? hurried footsteps to the front door, I’ll fly to open the door to the young man so spirited and handsome coming here finally with his nasty fiancée! . . . “Ahhh!!! forgive me!” shame of the maid, unable to contain her own gesture of disgust, black look of the poor young man, his once fearless pilot’s face crossed now with a horrible scar. Young man’s conversation with the spinster, relating the battle, his injury and eventual nervous collapse, impossibility of returning to the front, proposal to rent the house for himself, spinster’s actual sorrow at seeing him thus, young man’s bitterness, his sharp words to the maid, sharp commands, “Bring me what I tell you and leave me alone, and don’t make any noise, because I’m very tense,” memory of the young man’s happy lovely face still in the mind’s eye of the little maid and I ask myself: what is it that makes a face so lovely? why such an urge to caress a lovely face? why do I feel the urge to always have a lovely face close to mine, to touch, and to kiss? a lovely face should have a petite nose, but sometimes big noses can be appealing, and big eyes, or even little eyes if they smile a lot, little eyes sparkling with goodness . . . A scar from the tip of the forehead cutting down across one of the eyebrows, down across the same eyelid, furrowing into the nose until it sinks into the opposite cheek, a face exed out, a black look, an evil look, reading a work of philosophy and just because I ask a question he gives me that black look, it feels so bad when somebody gives you a black look, what’s worse? when they give you a black look or when they refuse to look at you altogether? mom never gave me that black look, they condemned me to eight years for fooling around with a minor but mom never gave me that black look, but because of me my mom could die, tired heart of a woman suffering so much, tired heart, from forgiving too much? so many hardships her whole life beside a husband that never understood her, and later on the hardship of having a son steeped in vice, and the judge wouldn’t pardon me a single day, and there in front of my mom said that of all things I was the worst, a revolting fag, and in order to keep me away from any other kids, he wouldn’t allow me one single day less than the full weight of what the law permitted, and after him saying all that, my mom still kept her eyes fixed on him, eyes full of tears as if someone had just died, but when she turned from the judge to look at me she gave me a smile, “The years go by quickly and, God willing, I’ll still be alive to see it,” and everything will be like nothing ever happened, and each passing minute her heart beats on, weaker and weaker? so terribly easy for her heart to get tired and not be able to beat anymore, but I never said a word to this son of a bitch, not a word about my mother ever, because if he dared to say one stupid word about her I’d kill the son of a bitch, what does he know about feelings? what does he know about dying of grief? how does he know what you feel when you’re to blame for a sickly mother getting worse and worse? is mom worse? is mom dying? can she wait those seven years until I get out? will the warden keep his promise? is it true what he promised? a pardon? a reduction in my sentence? one day a visit by the parents of the wounded flyer, the flyer locked in his room way up on the top floor, “Tell my parents I don’t want to see them,” insistence on the part of the parents, a couple of rich stuffed shirts cold as ice, parents departing, arrival of his fiancée, “Tell my fiancée I don’t want to see her,” his fiancée begging at the bottom of the steps, “Let me come up and see you, my love, because I swear to you nothing matters about your accident,” fiancée’s hypocritical voice, insincerity of every word she speaks, fiancée’s brusque departure, the days passing, the drawings done by the young man while locked up in his study, view of the snow-covered forest from up in the window, first notes of spring, buds so tender and green, some drawings of trees and clouds done out in the open air, arrival of the maid carrying hot coffee and a couple of doughnuts into the forest, maid’s observation with respect to the drawing set upon a cute little easel, surprise on the part of the wounded flier, what did the girl say exactly about that drawing? why did the young man realize at just that moment that the maid actually possessed a refined soul? how does it happen that sometimes someone says something and wins someone else over forever? what was it the poor maid said about that drawing? how did she get him to see she was something more than just an ugly little maid? How I’d like to remember those words, what would she have said? nothing at all can I remember about that scene, and the other important scene, his encounter with the blind man, the blind man’s own story of how little by little he resigned himself to the loss of his eyesight, and one night the flyer’s proposition to the girl, “The two of us are all alone and expecting nothing more out of life, neither love nor joy, and so perhaps it’s possible to help one another, for I have some money that could be your security, and you too might take care of me a little, since my health’s no longer improving, and I don’t want to be near anyone who feels sorry for me but you can’t feel sorry for me, because you’re as sad and lonely as I am, and so perhaps we could join together, but with nothing more to it than a contract, an arrangement between just friends.” Could it be the blind man’s idea? what would he have said to him which I can’t remember now? at times a single word can work miracles. A wooden church, the blind man and the spinster as witnesses, a couple of candles burning on the altar, no flowers, empty benches, somber faces, organist’s bench empty and the choir loft empty too, words of the priest, his blessing, footsteps resounding through the empty nave as the couple leaves, afternoon coming to its end, return to the silent house, windows open to catch the pleasant summer air, young man’s bed shifted to his study, maid’s bedroom shifted to his bedroom, to his ex-bedroom, wedding supper already prepared by the spinster, table set for two in the living room close to the window, candelabra between both plates, spinster’s goodnight, her own skepticism before their simulacrum of love, embittered grimace on her lips, the c
ouple in absolute silence, a bottle of vintage wine, a toast without so much as a word, impossibility of looking at one another, crick-crick of crickets out there in the garden, slight murmur—not heard until then—of forest foliage swayed by the breeze, strange radiance—not noticed until then—of candelabras, stranger and stranger radiance, hazier contours of everything in sight, of her face so ugly, of his face so disfigured, sound of music almost imperceptible and so very sweet you don’t know where it comes from, her face and all her features enveloped in a misty white light, only the glow of the eyes at all perceptible, mistiness fading little by little, agreeable face of a woman, same as the little maid’s face but beautified, the coarse eyebrows transformed into light penciled lines, eyes illuminated from within, eyelashes elongated with curling, skin like porcelain, mouth widened in a smile of perfect white teeth, hair waved in silky ringlets, and her simple percale dress? an elegant lace evening gown, and what of him? impossible to determine his features, only an image distorted by the glare from candelabras or even like through eyes filled with tears, his face seen through eyes filled with tears, tears drying up, face seen with absolute clarity, face of as spirited and handsome a young man as ever could be, but with trembling hands, no, hers are the trembling hands, one hand of his moving closer to one hand of hers, whistling wind in the forest’s foliage or violins and harps? gazing into one another’s eyes, conviction they are both hearing violins and harps carried by the breeze perfumed with evergreens, coupling of hands, lips approaching lips, first and moist kiss, beating of two hearts . . . in perfect time, night crowded with stars, both no longer at the table . . . empty tables at the restaurant, waiters waiting for customers, slow calm after-midnight hours, cigarette barely lit hanging from one side of his mouth, left or right corner of his lips, his saliva the taste of tobacco, black tobacco, sad eyes lost in the distance, looking through the windowpanes, cars passing all wet from the rain, one car after another, does he remember me? why is it he’s never come to see me? couldn’t he change shifts with one of his buddies? did he ever go to the doctor’s office for that earache? putting it off from one day to the next, terrible pains at night sometimes, he said, swearing next day he’d go have it looked at, then next day the pain gone and he forgets about the doctor, and after midnight while he’s waiting in the restaurant for his last customers he must remember and think about me and say tomorrow he’ll certainly come and see me, looking through the windowpane at all the passing automobiles, and the saddest thing of all is when the windowpanes in front of the restaurant get wet from the rain, as if the restaurant had been crying, because he never weakens, he holds up because he’s a man and never cries, and when I think very hard about someone I can see their face pictured in my memory, on a clear glass pane wet with the rain, a hazy face I see in my memory, my mom’s face and his face, he must remember, and I wish he’d come, I wish so much he’d come, first on a Sunday, for everything in life is just a question of habit, and he comes another day, and another, and when my pardon comes through he’s waiting there on the corner for me outside the penitentiary, we take a taxi, coupling of hands, the first kiss timid and dry, closed lips are dry, half-parted lips are a bit moist, his saliva the taste of tobacco? and if I die before getting out of this prison I’ll never find out how his saliva tastes, what happened that night? waking up and fearing it all a dream, infinitely afraid to glance at one another in the light of day, in that house where lives as lovely a girl and as handsome a young man as could ever be. And they hide themselves from the spinster, so she never sees them, both afraid of her saying something and spoiling it all, and they go out into the forest just before dawn, when no one is around, watching the sunrise as it lights upon their faces so lovely and always so close to each other, close enough to give all those kisses each to each, but let nobody see them! because strange things can happen, and suddenly footsteps this morning in the forest! impossible to hide since the tree trunks aren’t big enough, slow footsteps of a man who’s trampling over the dewy grass, and behind him a dog . . . oh, it’s only the blind man, thank heavens! since he can’t see them, but still he gives them a greeting because of the sound of their breathing, so cordial and sincere a greeting, the blind man’s intuition of a change, the three of them back now to the house of enchantment, appetite of an early morning, breakfast like in American films, girl taking charge of preparing things, blind man and young flyer alone together for a moment, blind man asking what has happened, the whole story, blind man’s joy, suddenly a black bolt of fear across the blind man’s white retina when hearing the simple statement: “Know what I think I’ll do? I’ll contact my parents so that they come visit me and my darling wife,” effort on the part of the blind man to hide his great apprehension, announcement of the arrival of the parents who have accepted his invitation, young man and his girl hiding in their bedroom awaiting the parents without courage to go downstairs, spinster waiting by the window, car pulling up, parents’ chitchat with the spinster, happiness of the parents since he wrote them how he’s all but better, appearance of the young man and his girl way up at the top of the stairs, parents’ bitter disappointment, ferocious scar slashed across the young man’s face, his bride a lowly servant with an ugly face and such clumsy manners, impossibility of pretending to be pleased, after a few short embarrassing minutes suspicion of the young man, has it all been nothing but a cruel deception? is it possible that we haven’t changed? a look at the spinster hoping she’ll regard him as handsome as ever, embittered grimace upon the spinster’s lips, girl’s flight to find a mirror, the cruel reality, young man standing beside her there in the mirror, the infamous scar, refuge in total darkness, horror of seeing one another, noise of the parents’ car, noise of the motor already far off and bound for the city, girl taking refuge in her old room, from when as a maid, and his despair, destruction of his own self-portrait embraced with the girl, demented slashes reducing the canvas to tattered shreds, spinster’s phone call to the blind man, visit by the blind man upon an autumn twilight, conversation with the sickly young man and the ugly girl, lights turned off to avoid the sight of each other, three blind beings thrown together at the saddest hour of day, spinster listening behind the door, “Don’t you two realize what has happened? Please, after I finish this talk, go back to looking at one another like before, as I know you have not done in all these many days, hiding from one another, and it’s so simple to explain the very enchantment of this lovely summer now gone by. To put it simply . . . you are beautiful to one another, because you love each other so and thus see nothing but your souls, is that perhaps so difficult to understand? I do not ask you to look at each other now, but once I have left you . . . please do, without the slightest tremor of doubt, because the love that beats within the stones of this old house has caused a miracle: that of permitting yourselves, as if blind, to see not the body but only the soul.” Departure of the blind man with the last reddening rays of sunset, young man’s ascent to his room to ready himself for suppertime, table set by the girl herself, her fear of facing the mirror in order to fix herself and comb her hair, spinster’s firm footsteps as she enters the little maid’s quarters, spinster’s eyes lost in the distance, her words of encouragement, impossibility of the girl’s combing her own hair given the trembling of hands, words of the spinster as she starts to comb the girl’s hair for her, “I heard all that the blind man said to you and I tell you he’s so very right, this house has been waiting to shelter two such beings in love, ever since my fiancé couldn’t come back from the cruel trenches of France, and the two of you have been chosen; and love is that, rendering beautiful whoever manages to love without hoping for return. And I am certain if my fiancé were to come back from the far beyond that even today he would find me just as beautiful and just as young as I was back then, yes, I’m absolutely sure, because he died loving me,” table set close to the window, young man standing looking out the window at the forest sunk in darkness, her footsteps, his fear of turning around and looking at her, his hand ta
king her hand, removing her ring and inscribing their names in the glass, and then caressing her silky hair, caressing her porcelain skin, his smile as handsome as can be, her smile of perfect white teeth, their wet kiss of happiness, the end of the blind man’s story, first chords of the sweet sonata, arrival on tiptoe of two additional guests, who are the young man and the girl? seen from behind, looking elegant, but from behind of course no way to tell if the faces are beautiful or not, and no one realizing that these two are the protagonists of the story that’s just been told, and mom was crazy about it, and me too, and luckily I didn’t tell this son of a bitch, and I’m certainly not going to tell him another word about anything I like, so he can’t laugh anymore about how soft I am, we’ll see if ever he weakens or not, but I won’t tell him any more of the films I like the most, they’re just for me, in my mind’s eye, so no filthy words can touch them, this son of a bitch and his pissass of a revolution

  —The meal is about to arrive, Molina.

  —So, you do have a tongue.

  —Yes, I do have a tongue.

  —I thought maybe the rats ate it.

  —No, the rats didn’t eat it.

  —Then bend over and see if you can reach there to shove it up your ass.

  —Listen, I don’t like your tone or the liberties you’re taking.

  —Well, we just won’t say another word then, get me? Not another word.

  — . . .

  —No thanks.

  —Take the bigger plate.

  —Take it yourself.

  —Thanks.