by Puig, Manuel
—Ah . . .
—Which is why this letter was such a shock to me. I had no idea.
—I’m very sorry.
—Well, what can you do . . .
— . . .
— . . .
—Tell me the rest of the letter.
—Let’s see . . . “. . . growing old. Still, at least you’ve got lots of strength. I wish I was that way. So you’re probably taking it okay. For me, the worst of it’s how much I miss Uncle Pedro. Because he kind of left the family in my hands, and that’s some responsibility. Listen, baldy, I heard they really gave you a good shaving. What a shame I can’t get a load of you that way for a change. Too bad about those goldilocks of yours. But I always keep in mind the stuff we used to talk about. Above all about not letting ourselves get down in the dumps over personal stuff. So I try sticking to your advice by making the best of things, whatever way they fall.” When she says that he left the family in her hands, that means that she’s in charge of our group now.
—Ah . . .
—So . . . “I kept missing you more and more and that’s why, especially after the death of Uncle Pedro, I finally had to take the responsibility on myself. Of letting my niece Mari start in having relations with a nice boy you never met. Who comes over to the house and seems decent enough about his plans to hold down a steady job. But I warned my niece not to get too serious. Because that just makes for more headaches. And not to try for anything more than a little nice companionship. Which, after all, everybody needs, to have the strength to get by with life and its trials.” The niece named Mari is herself, and by saying some fellow is decent about holding down a steady job she means he’s devoted to the cause, you get it? To the struggle.
—Mmm-hmm, but I don’t understand the business about having relations.
—That means she’s been missing me too much, and we, well, we commit ourselves, as comrades, to avoiding intense relationships of that kind because they can only be a hindrance when it comes time to act.
—Act how?
—Act decisively. Risk one’s life.
—Ah . . .
—We can’t get caught up in subjective feelings for one another, because naturally either person would want the other to stay alive. Then you both tend to be afraid of death. Well, not exactly afraid, but . . . it’s painful if anyone suffers because you choose to risk your life. So to avoid that she’s begun to have relations with another comrade . . . I’ll go on. “I kept wondering whether I had better tell you or not. But I know you enough to realize you’d rather have me tell you all of it. Fortunately things are going well now. And we all feel optimistic that someday soon our house will turn out to prosper after all. It’s night and I’m thinking maybe you’re thinking about me too. Here’s a big hug for you, Ines.” When she says house, it means country.
—But I don’t understand what you said last night then, about how your girlfriend isn’t really like you described her.
—Damn! I’m dizzy again, just from reading a letter . . .
—You must be really weak . . .
—I feel slightly nauseous.
—Lie back and close your eyes.
—Damn! I swear, I was feeling so much better.
—Rest quietly, it’s just from focusing your eyes too much. Keep them closed awhile.
—Mmm, it feels as if it’s subsiding now . . .
—You shouldn’t have eaten, Valentin. I told you not to.
—I was hungry, that’s all.
—You were doing so well yesterday until you ate, and that screwed up your whole system. Now today you do it again, and this time the whole plate! Promise me you won’t touch a bite tomorrow.
—Don’t even talk about food, it makes me . . .
—I’m sorry.
—Know something? There I was laughing at your bolero, but the letter I got today says just what the bolero says.
—You think so?
—Mmm, I do . . . It seems to me I don’t have any right to be laughing at your bolero.
—You were probably just laughing because it struck too close to the bone, and you laughed . . . so as not to cry. Like in another bolero I know. Or tango.
—How does it go? That one you were singing before?
—Which part of it?
—The whole thing.
—“Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair. My dear . . . although life may never let us meet again, and we—because of fate—must always live apart . . . I swear, this heart of mine will be always yours . . . my thoughts, my whole life, forever yours . . . just as this pain . . . belongs . . . to you . . .” “Pain” or “hurt,” I don’t remember which. It’s one or the other.
—It’s not the worst I’ve heard.
—To me it’s divine.
*
—What’s the name of it?
—“My Letter,” by Mario Clavel. He’s from Argentina.
—Really? I would have thought he was Mexican, or Cuban.
—I also know lots by Agustin Lara, almost all of them.
—I don’t feel quite as dizzy now, but the cramps are starting up again.
—Try to relax.
—It’s not my fault for having eaten.
—Don’t think about the pain if you can help it, and try to relax. It’s when you get all tense . . . Just talk to me a little. About anything . . .
—What I was trying to explain last night was that the girl I talked about, the very liberated one, from the bourgeois family. She’s really not my girl, not the one who wrote to me.
—So who’s the one who wrote to you?
—No, see, the one I always talk about entered the movement at the same time that I did. But then later on she decided to quit, and she insisted I do the same.
—Why?
—She became too attached to life, too happy with me. Our relationship alone sufficed for her. And that’s when all the trouble began. You see, she would get upset whenever I disappeared for a few days, and each time I came back there she was crying again. And that was nothing. She stopped telling me about phone calls from my comrades, and toward the end even intercepted letters. Well, that was the last straw.
—Has it been a long time since you’ve seen her?
—Almost two years. But I still think about her. If only she hadn’t started acting that way . . . like some castrating mother . . . Anyway, I don’t know . . . it seems like we were destined to be separated.
—Because you loved each other too much?
—That sounds like another bolero, Molina.
—Listen, big man, don’t you know by now, boleros contain tremendous truths, which is why I like them.
—The healthy thing about her, though, was the way she stood up to me. We had a genuine relationship going for us. She never just . . . how can I explain it? She never let herself be manipulated, like the typical female . . .
—What do you mean?
—Aghhh, Molina, my friend . . . it feels like I’m getting sick all over again.
—Where does it hurt?
—Down in my gut . . .
—Don’t tense up, Valentin, that’ll make it worse; try to stay calm.
—Yes.
—Lie back.
—I just feel so sad, I can’t tell you.
—What’s the matter?
—That poor kid, if you only knew. What a wonderful person he was, poor guy . . .
—Who?
—The one they killed.
—Well, he won his place in heaven, that’s for sure . . .
—If only I could believe in that; it would be such a consolation sometimes, to believe that decent people ultimately find their reward. But I just can’t buy it. Ugh . . . Molina, I’m going to have to pester you again—quick, call the guard to open up.
—Hold it just a second . . . I’m just . . .
—Aghhh . . . ag
hhh . . . no, don’t call . . .
—Don’t be upset, I’ll get you something to wipe yourself right away.
—Aghh . . . aghh . . . the pains are so strong, as if my guts were about to burst . . .
—Loosen up your body, just let it come out and afterward I’ll wash your sheet.
—Please, bundle up the sheet under me. Because it’s coming out all liquid.
—Yes . . . sure, like this, there, you keep yourself calm now. Let it come out. Later on I’ll just take the sheet in to the showers with me. It’s Tuesday, remember?
—But that’s your sheet . . .
—It doesn’t matter, I’ll be washing yours anyway, and luckily we still have plenty of soap.
—Thanks, Molina . . . I think I’m starting to feel a little better now . . .
—You just relax, and don’t worry. You’re usually such a pisser anyway. Tell me when you’re finished and I’ll help you clean yourself up.
— . . .
—All finished?
—I think so, but now I’m freezing.
—Let me give you my blanket. That way you’ll stay warm.
—Thank you.
—But first roll over so I can clean you up. If you think you’re all done.
—Better wait a little longer . . . Molina, I’m sorry for laughing that way before, at what you were saying about boleros.
—What a time you pick to talk about boleros.
—Listen, I think I’m finished now, but I’m the one to clean myself . . . if I don’t start to faint again when I lift my head.
—Try slowly . . .
—No use, I’m still too weak, there’s no other way . . .
—I can clean you up, don’t worry about it. You just relax.
—Thank you . . .
—Okay . . . that’s it, and a little over here . . . turn slowly . . . that’s right. Nothing went through to the mattress, so it’s not so bad. And fortunately there’s plenty of water. I can just wet a clean tip of the sheet to wipe you off, that’s easy enough.
—I don’t know what to say.
—Don’t be silly. Let’s see now . . . lift up a little over here. That’s right . . . very good.
—Honestly, I can’t thank you enough, because I don’t have the strength to make it to the showers.
—Of course not, and that’s all you need is some icy water on your body.
—Uh . . . uh . . . the wet sheet’s cold too.
—Spread your legs a little more . . . That’s it.
—But it doesn’t disgust you?
—Be quiet. Now I’ll wet some more of the sheet . . . like this . . .
— . . .
—Well, you’re getting to look all tidied up now . . . just a little drying with the other end . . . What a shame I’ve got no talcum left.
—Doesn’t matter. It’s so great just being dry.
—Good, and there’s one more corner of the sheet to pat you off . . . Like that. Now you’re good and dry.
—I feel so much better, really. Thank you, my friend.
—Wait now . . . here we go . . . let me wrap you up tight in the blankets, just like a papoose. There we go . . . lift up a little on this side.
—Okay?
—That’s right . . . Wait . . . and now the other side, so you won’t catch a chill. Are you comfortable now?
—Mmm-hmm, fine . . . Thank you so much.
—And don’t you dare move, not until the dizziness goes away completely.
—We’ll see, it’ll probably go away soon.
—But whatever you want, I’m the one who gets it for you. You don’t budge.
—And I promise not to laugh at your boleros anymore. I like the lyrics from that one you were singing before . . . they’re okay.
—I especially love the part that goes, “. . . and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair . . .” Divine, isn’t it?
—You know what? . . . I actually changed diapers on that poor comrade’s baby boy, the guy they killed, I mean. We were all hiding out together in the same apartment, he and his wife, and their little son . . . Who knows what’s to become of him now? He can’t be more than three years old. What a cute little tyke . . . And the worst of it is I can’t write to anyone about it, because the slightest move on my part would compromise them . . . or even worse, identify them.
—Can’t you just write to your girl?
—That would be the worst choice of all. She’s the head of the group now. No, not to her, not to anyone. And it’s just as it says in your bolero, “because this life will never bring you back,” because I’ll never be able to write to that poor fellow either, or talk to him or anything.
—Actually what it says is, “Although life may never let us meet again . . .”
—“Never”! What an awful word. Until now I had no idea . . . how awful . . . that word . . . could . . . I’m sorry . . .
—It’s okay, Valentin, get it off your chest, cry as much as you want, let yourself go until you’re all cried out.
—It’s just that it all feels so rotten . . . And not being able to do anything, locked up here, unable to even . . . take care of his wife, his li- . . . little . . . kid . . . Oh, my friend, it’s . . . so sad . . .
—But what can we do?
—Molina, help me to . . . to lift my arm out . . . from under the blanket . . .
—What for?
—Give me . . . give me your hand, tight.
—Sure, grip it as hard as you can.
—I just want to stop shaking so damn much, that’s all.
—But who cares whether or not you’re shaking, if it gives you some relief.
—But there’s something else, and it bothers me so much. Something really terrible, something despicable . . .
—Tell me, get it off your chest.
—It’s that the one I’d . . . I’d really like to write me . . . the one I’d like to be with most of all, and to hold . . . isn’t my girl . . . isn’t my real woman. It’s the other one . . . it’s the one I talk to you about that I want to see.
—But that’s simply how you feel . . .
—Yeah . . . because I talk a lot but . . . but deep down inside, what I . . . what I really like is . . . is the other kind of woman. Inside I’m just the same as all the other reactionary bastards who helped to murder that poor guy . . . I’m just like them, exactly.
—That’s not true.
—Oh yes it is, let’s not kid ourselves.
—If you were like them you wouldn’t be in here.
—“. . . sad dreams of this strange love affair . . .” And you know why I became so annoyed when you started in with your bolero? Because it reminded me of Marta, not my girlfriend. That’s why. And I even think that, with Marta, I don’t feel attracted to her for any good reasons, but because . . . because she has class . . . that’s right, class, just like all the class-conscious pigs would say . . . in their son-of-a-bitching world.
—Don’t torture yourself . . . Close your eyes and try to rest.
—But whenever I do, I start to feel dizzy again.
—I’ll heat up some water for some camomile tea. Yes, it turns out that we still have some. We just forgot about it.
—I don’t believe you . . . Really?
—I swear. It was under all my magazines, so we lost track of it.
—But it’s yours, and you like having tea in the morning.
—Listen, it’ll help you relax. Just stay quiet for a while. You’ll see what a difference a good rest makes . . .
—a fellow with a plan on his mind, a fellow who accepts his mother’s invitation to visit her in the city, a fellow who lies to his mother assuring her of his opposition to the guerrilla movement, a fellow who dines by candlelight alone with his mother, a fellow who promises his mother to accompany her on a trip to all the fashionable winter resorts like when he was a child just after the war, a mother who goes on about all the eligible young beauties of the Eur
opean aristocracy, a mother who goes on about all the wealth that he will eventually inherit, a mother who proposes to already place a substantial fortune in her son’s name, a mother who hides the real reason why she can’t accompany him to Europe just yet, a fellow who inquires into the whereabouts of the ex-manager, a fellow who finds out that the same man is actually the brains behind the Ministry of Internal Security, a fellow who finds out that the ex-manager is actually the head of secret service in the office of counterinsurgency operations, a fellow who wants to convince his mother to go off with him to Europe, a fellow who wants to take title to his fortune and repeat his childhood European voyage in order to ski with his lovely mother, a fellow who decides to leave everything behind and fly off with his mother, a fellow whose mother rejects his proposal, a mother who confesses to already having other plans, a mother who has plans to rebuild her own emotional life, a mother who goes to see him off at the airport and confides to him the news of her imminent marriage to the ex-manager, a fellow who pretends to be enthusiastic over the projected marriage, a fellow who gets off the plane at the first stopover and takes a return flight home, a fellow who joins up with the guerrillas in the mountains, a fellow determined to rehabilitate the good name of his father, a fellow who meets up with that same peasant girl who once led him through the sierra when he first met the guerrillas, a fellow who can see that she’s pregnant, a fellow who doesn’t want to have an Indian for a child, a fellow who doesn’t want to mix his blood with the blood of an Indian, a fellow who feels ashamed about all his feelings, a fellow who feels revolted to caress the future mother of his own child, a fellow who doesn’t know how to make up for his faults, a fellow who leads a guerrilla assault against the plantation where his mother and the ex-manager happen to be, a fellow who surrounds the mansion, a fellow who opens fire on his own home, a fellow who opens fire on his own flesh and blood, a fellow who orders the occupants of the house to surrender, a fellow who watches the ex-manager come out of the house hiding like a coward behind the mother as his hostage, a fellow who orders his men to fire, a fellow who listens to the heartrending screams of his mother as she begs for mercy, a fellow who delays the execution, a fellow who demands a full confession relating to the complete facts of his father’s death, a mother who breaks loose from the arms imprisoning her and confesses to the whole truth, a mother who explains how her lover dreamed up a plan designed to make the father seem a murderer of his own faithful overseer, a mother who confesses how her husband was actually innocent, a fellow who orders his men to execute his own mother after giving the order to execute the ex-manager, a fellow who completely loses his mind and seeing his mother agonizing on the ground picks up a submachine gun to execute the very soldiers who’ve just riddled her with bullets, a fellow who in turn is immediately executed, a fellow who feels guerrilla bullets burn into his stomach, a fellow who manages to glimpse the accusing eyes of the peasant girl among the faces of the firing squad, a fellow who before dying wants to beg for forgiveness but can no longer utter a word, a fellow who sees in the eyes of the peasant girl an eternal condemnation