by Puig, Manuel
—the skull is glass, the body is glass too, easy to break a toy made out of glass, slivers of sharp cold glass in the cold night, the humid night, gangrene spreading through the hand shredded by the punch Do you mind if I say something?
—at night the patient gets up and walks barefoot, he catches cold, his condition deteriorates What? Go ahead.
—the glass skull full of mass cards of saints and whores, old yellowed mass cards, dead faces outlined in cracked paper, inside my chest the dead mass cards, glass mass cards, sharp, shredding, spreading the gangrene into the lungs, the chest, the heart I’m very depressed. I can hardly follow what you say. I think it’d be much better to save the rest for tomorrow, don’t you? And this way we can talk a little.
—Fine, what do you want to talk about?
—I feel so awful . . . you have no idea. And so confused . . . Anyhow, I . . . I see it a little more clearly now, it’s the business I was talking about that had to do with my girl, how afraid I am for her, because she’s in danger . . . but that the one I long to hear from, the one I’m longing to see, isn’t my girl. And longing to touch, it’s not her I’m dying for, to hold in my arms, because I’m just aching for Marta, my whole body aches for her . . . to feel her close to me, because I think Marta is really the only one who could save me at all, because I feel like I’m dead, I swear I do. And I have this notion that nothing except her could ever revive me again.
—Keep talking, I’m listening.
—You’re going to laugh at what I want to ask of you.
—No I won’t, why should I?
—If it’s not a bother, would you mind lighting the candle? . . . What I’d like is to dictate a letter to you for her, I mean for the one I always talk about, for Marta. Because I get dizzy if I use my eyes for anything.
—But, what could be wrong with you? Couldn’t it be something else? Besides the stomach problem, I mean.
—No, I’m just terribly weak, that’s all, and I want to unburden myself a little somehow, Molina, my friend, because I can’t stand it anymore. This afternoon I tried myself to write a letter, but the page kept swimming.
—Sure then, wait till I find the matches.
—You’ve been really good to me.
—There we are. Shall we do a rough draft on scratch paper first, or what would you like to do?
—Yeah, on scratch paper, because I’ve no idea of what to say. Use my ball-point.
—Wait, I’ll just sharpen this pencil.
—No, take my ball-point, I’m telling you.
—Fine, but don’t start foaming at the mouth again.
—I’m sorry, I just see everything black right now.
—Okay, start dictating.
—Dear . . . Marta: It must be strange for you . . . to get this letter. I feel . . . lonely, I need you so, I want to talk with you, I want . . . to be close, I want you to . . . give me . . . some word of comfort. I’m here in my cell, who knows where you are right now? . . . and how you’re feeling, or what you’re thinking, or what you might be needing right this minute? . . . But I just have to write you a letter, even if I don’t send it, who knows what’ll happen actually? . . . But let me talk to you anyway . . . because I’m afraid . . . afraid that something is about to break inside of me . . . if I don’t open up to you a little. If only we could actually talk together, you’d understand what I mean . . .
—“. . . you’d understand what I mean . . .”
—I’m sorry, Molina, how did I tell her that I’m not going to send her the letter? Read it to me, would you?
—“But I just have to write you a letter, even if I don’t send it.”
—Would you add, “But I will send it.”
—“But I will send it.” Go ahead. We were at “If only we could actually talk together, you’d understand what I mean . . .”
— . . . because at this moment I could never present myself to my comrades and talk with them, I’d be ashamed to be this weak . . . Marta, I feel as if I have a right to live a little longer, and that someone should pour a little . . . honey . . . on my wounds . . .
—Yes . . . Go on.
— . . . Inside, I’m all raw, and only someone like you could really understand . . . because you were raised in a clean and comfortable house like me and taught to enjoy life, and I’m the same way. I can’t adjust to being a martyr, it infuriates me, I don’t want to be a martyr, and right now I wonder if the whole thing hasn’t been one terrible mistake on my part . . . They tortured me, but still I didn’t confess anything . . . I didn’t even know the real names of my comrades, so I only confessed combat names, and the police can’t get anywhere with that, but inside myself there seems to be another kind of torturer . . . and for days he hasn’t let up . . . And it’s because I seem to be asking for some kind of justice. Look how absurd what I’m about to say is: I’m asking for some kind of justice, for some providence to intervene . . . because I don’t deserve to just rot forever in this cell or, I get it . . . I get it . . . Now I see it clearly, Marta . . . It’s that I’m afraid because I’ve just been sick . . . and I have this fear in me . . . this terrible fear of dying . . . and of it all ending like this, with a life reduced to just this rotten bit of time, but I don’t think I deserve that. I’ve always acted with generosity, I’ve never exploited anyone . . . and I fought, from the moment I possessed a little understanding of things . . . fought against the exploitation of my fellow man . . . And I’ve always cursed all religions, because they simply confuse people and prevent them from fighting for any kind of equality . . . but now I find myself thirsting for some kind of justice . . . divine justice. I’m asking that there be a God . . . Write it with a capital G, Molina, please . . .
—Yes, go on.
—What did I say?
—“I’m asking that there be a God . . .”
— . . . a God who sees me, and helps me, because I want to be able, someday, to walk down streets again, and I want that day to come soon, and I don’t want to die. But at times it runs through my mind that I’m never, never going to touch a woman again, and I can’t stand it . . . And whenever I think about women . . . I see no one but you in my mind, and it would be such a comfort to somehow believe that at this moment, from here on, until I finish this letter to you, you’re really thinking about me, too . . . while you run your hand over your body which I remember so well . . .
—Wait, don’t go so fast.
— . . . your body which I remember so well, and that you’re pretending it’s my hand . . . and what a deep consolation that could be for me . . . my love, if that were happening . . . because it would be just like my touching you, because a part of me is still with you, right? Just the way the scent of your body is still inside my nostrils . . . and beneath the tips of my fingers I too have the sensation of feeling your skin . . . as if I’d somehow memorized it, do you understand me? Even though it has nothing to do with understanding . . . because it’s a question of believing, and at times I’m convinced that I’ve kept something of yours with me, too . . . and that I’ve never lost it . . . But then sometimes, no, I feel like there’s nothing here in this cell except me . . . all alone . . .
—Yes . . . “me . . . all alone . . .” Go ahead.
— . . . and that nothing leaves a trace of itself, and that the luck of having been so happy together, of having spent those nights with you, and afternoons, and mornings of pure enjoyment, is absolutely worthless to me now, and actually works against me . . . because I miss you like crazy, and the only thing I feel is the torture of loneliness, and in my nostrils there’s nothing but the disgusting smell of this cell, and of myself . . . but I can’t wash myself because I’m so sick, so totally debilitated, and the cold water would probably give me pneumonia, and beneath the tips of my fingers what I really feel is the chill fear of dying, and in my very marrow I feel it . . . that same chill . . . It’s so terrible to lose hope, and that’s what’s happening with me . . . The torturer that I have inside of me tells me eve
rything is finished, and that this agony is my last experience on earth . . . and I say this like a true Christian, as if afterward another life were waiting . . . but there’s nothing waiting, is there?
—Can I interrupt? . . .
—What’s wrong?
—When you finish, remind me to tell you something.
—What?
—Well, that there is something we could do, actually . . .
—What? Say it.
—Because if you wash yourself in that freezing shower it certainly will kill you, as sick as you are right now.
—But what is to be done? For the last time, tell me, goddamn it!
—Well, I could help you clean yourself. Look, we can heat some water up in the pot, we already have two towels, so one we soap up and you wash the front of yourself, I can do the back for you, and with the other towel slightly wet we sponge off the soap.
—And then my body wouldn’t itch so much?
—That’s right, we can do it bit by bit, so you don’t catch any chill, first your neck and ears, then your underarms, then your arms, your chest, your back, and so on.
—And you’d really help me?
—Obviously.
—But when?
—Right now if you like, I’ll heat up some water.
—And then I can sleep, without the itching? . . .
—Peaceful as can be, without any itching. The water will be warm enough in just a few minutes.
—But that kerosene is yours, you’ll waste it.
—It doesn’t matter, in the meantime we’ll finish your letter.
—Give it to me.
—What for?
—Just give it to me, Molina.
—Here . . .
— . . .
—What are you going to do?
—This.
—But why are you tearing up your letter?
—Let’s not discuss it any further.
—Whatever you say.
—It’s just no good getting carried away like that, out of desperation . . .
—But it’s good to get something off your chest sometimes, you said so yourself.
—Well, it doesn’t work for me. I have to just put up with it . . .
— . . .
—Listen, you’ve been very kind to me, honestly, I mean that with all my heart. And someday I expect to be able to show my appreciation, I swear I will . . . that much water?
—Mmm-hmm, we’ll need at least that much . . . And don’t be silly, there’s nothing to thank me for.
—So much water . . .
— . . .
—Molina . . .
—Mmm?
—Look at the shadows that the stove’s casting on the wall.
—Mmm, I always watch them. You never saw them before?
—No, I never noticed.
—Mmm, it helps me pass the time, watching the shadows when the stove’s lit.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
—Morning . . .
—Good morning!
—What time is it?
—Ten after ten. You know, with my mom, poor dear, I call her ten-ten, because she walks so duckfooted.
—I can’t believe it’s that late already.
—Mmm, when they opened up for our coffee you rolled over and stayed asleep.