I looked at her, hoping she might grasp the logic in my plea.
It drew a blank. Her sour look of disdain told me my call to reason was just another waste of spit. I may as well have been singing “Happy Birthday” to a prune.
48. SHOWDOWN
“TO KNOCK A THING DOWN, ESPECIALLY IF IT IS COCKED AT AN ARROGANT ANGLE, IS A DEEP DELIGHT TO THE BLOOD.”
—George Santayana
Guilt was mounting me like a jailhouse rapist as Narcisa put shovel to dirt and began digging my grave.
She stood before me, bellowing, bawling, hands on her hips, anguished tears running down her face. “I am e’sick of you, Cigano!”
I felt a deep sense of shame and regret. I was a monster. I’d lost my temper and made poor Narcisa cry. And all she wanted was to please me in her own fucked-up way.
Shit! I could see where it was all going. Narcisa was boarding the Self-Pity Express. Next stop, Righteous Indignation . . . All aboard! As the Hell Train picked up speed, I knew that soon there’d be no stopping it. I just stood there, watching it all unfold, like an old horror movie I already knew the ending to.
“Whatever I do, you always wanna criticize! No-thing ever right! I am de insane girl, de Crack Monster, de crazy whoore, hein? No hope for me, hein?”
“But . . .”
“No! You deserve some better girl, Cigano! I try to make you happy, but ever’thing I do is only wrong! I am no good! Defect machine! Delete, hein!? Next?”
“No, princesa! It’s not like that at all. I was just . . .”
“Okey! I got it!” She powered on, waves of dramatic, teary-eyed shrieks washing over my weak protests like a vomit-flavored tsunami. “I understand all now! Now you tire of play with de defect toy, hein? Okey! So now I gonna go away an’ die an’ save you de problema that I am! Delete! Next!”
“But—”
“No! I warning you in de beginning, don’ get youself involve with these defect Crack Monster girl, Cigano! But no-oo, you don’ wanna lissen, não-oo! No, you gotta come back an’ look for me every night! An’ now you sorry, hein?”
“No, baby, please . . .”
“Hah! Well, is gonna be ever’thing all better for you now!” She was rummaging through her stinking pile of moldy, tattered rags. “Don’ worry no more, cuz now you never gonna see de insane girl again, never again, got it?”
My heart sank like a stone as she began stuffing her clothes into a bag.
“Please!” I pled, falling into her trap. “I love you, princesa! I’m sorry! Don’t go . . .” I reached over and took her things from her hands. “Por favor, Narcisa! Everything’s gonna be okay, baby. I’m sorry I yelled. I was just groggy. Please . . .”
Now I was crying too. Narcisa had me, and she knew it.
She glared at me like a bug. “I got it, okey! I understand ever’thing perfect, Cigano!” She snatched her clothes back, her icy, reptilian eyes flaring at my weakness. She was a deadly, coldhearted predator, moving in for the kill.
I am nothing! Worthless! I cry like a sissy! I am weak!
Then it hit me . . . Wait a minute! Now I’m the fucking bad guy here?
She stood there, sneering, growling. “You wan’ just de rubber doll with de poo’sy an’ no de real authentic geer-ool, Cigano! You e’say you love me, but this is no love! You only wan’ control me! But you can’ never control me! Nunca! Know why? Hah! Because I am insane! Complete insane, Cigano, got it?”
I got it. Narcisa was trying out for the fucking bug-farm.
She screeched on, her puke-laced spittle flying into my face. Her crazed, bulging, bughouse eyes were popping out of her skull like a vein-twitching horror show psycho. My stomach ached as I stood there, feeling sick, pumping my fists, struggling to keep from clobbering her. She kept taunting me, peppering me with abuse, like one of those Mexican picadors throwing darts at the bull, tormenting and teasing the big animal, poisoning it with its own fear and rage and frustration; weakening it, just before they come in for the final deathblow. An ugly, depressing spectacle.
My grave was dug. Now I just needed to hop inside.
I pulled my coffin shut as Narcisa drove the nails in. One word at a time.
“You never gonna see me again! Hah! You don’ love me, Cigano! You don’ love nobody! Ninguém! Nada! You don’ even know what is it de love! I hate you an’ I never wanna see you no more, never again, got it? Nunca!!”
Driving the last nail home like a spike through my heart, she poked my chest with her big, sooty finger.
That did it. I snapped out of her spell, feeling screwed, betrayed, raped.
My heart went cold as a lizard’s dick. “That’s fine with me, ya fuggin’ bitch! G’wan! Beat it! Get th’ fuck outa here and go find a new sucker to put up with this shit!”
I turned away, ignoring her as I went back to mopping up the mess.
I just wanted her gone.
No dice.
She advanced like a hissing cobra, pointing her finger in my eye, taunting, tormenting, pushing, prodding, poking as she jabbed that filthy black crack-claw right in my nose. A stench of death invaded my nostrils. The battle was on!
All of a sudden, some invisible little fuse blew, somewhere way back in my brain. Pop! I felt my hand shoot up, slapping her face with a resounding smack.
The stinging blow was so forceful, it knocked Narcisa sideways. Her head shot back and ricochetted off the wall with a sickening thunk. She jumped up and stood glaring at me in mute indignation.
“Get out, ya little shit!” I heard my voice thundering, as if from very far away. “G’wan! Rala peito, sua merdinha! Beat it, before I break every bone in yer fuckin’ body!”
Narcisa tore out the door, her shrill, fiendish curses echoing away down the hallway again, for all my neighbors to enjoy.
49. THE LOVE TRAP
“LOVE MAKES USE OF THE WORST TRAPS. THE LEAST NOBLE. THE RAREST.”
—Jean Genet
We were caught in a trap; like two wild animals locked together in mortal combat, when the trap catches one, it catches both.
The trap was Love, and I knew it would be a hard one to get out of.
Love was my worst crime against Narcisa. Because I loved her so completely and unconditionally that, no matter how hard the Crack Monster ever tried to drive me away or turn me against her, I’d always forgive her. I would take her right back in again; every time, the minute she came slithering home.
I had become like one of those inflatable life-size Punch-Me dolls that spring back up after being knocked over. And now, my whole life was a raging battlefield of Love. Living with Narcisa was like being in the army—always being rudely awakened at odd, unexpected hours, dragged out of a sound sleep and forced to march for agonizing miles over desolate, rugged terrain, struggling along with burning blisters, a furious tyrant barking orders into trembling eardrums. Random orders, cruel, senseless, angry insults; capricious whims and demands.
“Cigano, go get me de Coca Cola with lot of ice, go go!”
“Cigano, where’s my focking hairbrush, hein?”
“Cigano, get the fock outa my way, porra! I wanna watch de tel’vision! Mooove, e’stupid! Go go goo-oo!”
“Cigano, you gotta gimme more money! You so focking Jewish, you cheap old gyp-say e’sheet! I gonna go back to Copacabana an’ find a rich gringo who more younger than you, an’ he gonna take good care of me all de time, an’ you never gonna see me again! Hah! Last chance, e’stupid, got it?”
At times, the endless barrage of senseless harassment and verbal abuse got to be too much for me. Feeling all of my instincts under attack at once, at a loss for words, reduced to a primal animal level, I’d just glare at her and growl like a pissed-off Doberman.
But I’d never smacked her hard like that before!
Shit! What’s happening to me? Now I’d even crossed that line . . . Another line crossed . . . Dear God! Where will it end? And once again, Narcisa was out the door and running the streets in another deadly, self-destructi
ve rampage.
As I paced the floor, I began to ponder my dilemma. I realized I had two basic options. I made frantic mental calculations. One choice would be to just beat her to death with my bare fists and finally be done with her shit, once and for all.
But that would entail having to dispose of a body. Her body. Shit!
I knew I could never bring myself to actually murder poor Narcisa—even knowing I’d probably be doing her a huge favor by putting her out of her misery.
Could I? I’d just be helping her. A charitable act, like putting down a rabid dog.
I began to fantasize about how the grim task might be accomplished.
I could hit her on the head with a hammer, then chop her up in the bathtub . . . Flush the meat and entrails down the toilet, till there’s nothing left but bones.
Yes, butchering Narcisa like a pig would be the most efficient method, I decided—thinking about it at all, of course, only in anticipation of an eventual overdose; a likely scenario, I told myself, if things kept up the way they were going.
But what about her bones? How to get rid of a whole human skeleton? I hadn’t figured that part out yet . . . Maybe I could break them up with a hammer or something, then grind ’em into sawdust and scatter the powder around town . . . Yeah!
That’s it! Sure! The ho-stroll. The favelas. The cop spots. Lapa. Copacabana!
Wait! Maybe I could drop all the bone dust into my gas tank and blow her ashes out the exhaust. Ye-aah! Narcisa, up in smoke in one last joy ride! Perfect! She’d love that!
But wait a minute . . . What about her cunt? I could never bring myself to flush that thing down the toilet! Uh-uh! No way!
Wait! Maybe I could make it into a wallet or something . . . Ye-ah! That’s it! A nice little sentimental Narcisa wallet! Sure! I could stitch a zipper in there and use it to hold all the cash I’d be saving not having that fucking Crack Monster to support anymore!
As the morbid images danced around in my head, finally, I came to the conclusion that it was all just too much work.
Murdering Narcisa was out.
My other option was plenty of work too.
Yeah, but it’s good work . . . Wholesome, honest work! A man’s job! Something he can be proud of at the end of a long, hard day’s labor!
So far, I’d always chosen that option . . . Just yank her panties off before she can speak, climb on top of her like a shark attack, overwhelming her, don’t give her a second to bitch or complain or argue or fight, sticking it right up into that quivering raw pussy, covering her protesting motor-mouth with mine, pulling her hair, clutching that hard, peachy ass, working it in deep, deeper, in and out in and out, her stifled protests melting into wild savage cries of pain and pleasure as I sweat, toiling like a day laborer, a beast of burden, slamming, banging, fucking, hitting it, till a warm pool of piss surrounds the plundering dick and we just keep going, fucking, go go go, harder, harder, till we’re climaxing, screaming, collapsing in a puddle of sperm and sweat, piss, blood, exhaustion, panting like dying dogs, rolling away from each other across the floor like a pair of injured prize fighters, rolling over clothes and cigarette butts, empty bottles and pizza crusts, rolling, rolling our flayed, beaten, broken carcasses collapsing in a humid slaughterhouse of sex and love and passion and desire and pain, living and dying under the eternal, miserable, ecstatic death sentence of Love.
50. SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
“YOU CAN FORGIVE A YOUNG CUNT ANYTHING.”
—Henry Miller
Like the bell in a prize fight, the phone rang, interrupting my delirious, sleep-deprived sex fantasies. With a weary sigh, I picked up, wondering if Narcisa had listened to my shameful, guilt-ridden snuff-thoughts via telepathy, and was calling to damn me to hell, once and for all.
“Pronto?”
“Oi, Cigano . . .”
“Oi, Narcisa . . .”
Silence.
I waited for the shrieking recriminations to commence.
They didn’t. She spoke again in a meek little tone. “You wanna see me?”
Silence. I was too surprised to respond.
“Lissen to me, please, Cigano. I am very e’sleepy. I wan’ come back you place now, only for e’sleep. No problema no more. Juro! I promise! Por favor! Come an’ get me. Casa Verde, okey? Come now, amor, go go . . .”
Truce. The battle was over. Just like that.
Of course, I’d never forget it. And I knew Narcisa would now have a whole new folder in her bulging filing cabinet of emotional blackmail ammunition.
I hung up the phone, picked up my keys and bolted out the door.
Pulling up to the Casa Verde, I cut the motor and waited on the bike. When she appeared on the sidewalk, Narcisa looked like she was ready to keel over and die . . . Worn-out, torn up. Beat. Beaten . . . By me this time! Shit! Poor thing!
She staggered over like a broken doll. I gave her a hug and kissed her on the forehead. In silence, she climbed on. As we rode away, she held on to me like she would never let go. Without a word, I took her straight home.
Back in my apartment, she climbed up into the loft and collapsed onto the mattress. Within minutes, she was snoring. Too tired to even think about sex, I lay down beside her for another long, blessed crash.
Neither of us stirred for the next twelve hours.
The minute Narcisa’s eyes popped the next morning, though, it was the same old song, blasting into my sleeping ears. “Puta que o pariu! Porra, que merda, que saco! Son of a focking bitch bastard who-ore motherfock! Sheet, fock, sheet focking e’sheet! Focking fock! Porr-rraaa!” She roared on and on.
Narcisa had never been what you’d call a “morning person.” But, times like that, she was like a monstrous demon from the depths of hell, transformed by daylight into a hateful, screeching, spitting monstrosity; a toxic, spiky, spindly devil-thing, consumed in raging flames; a furious, hateful harpy.
I turned in the bed and put a gentle hand on her arm, trying to soothe her unnamable existential anguish, whispering. “What’s the matter, my angel?”
“Pffffffff! Sheet sheet sheet!” She jerked away, blowing pissed-off air through pursed lips, like a haggard, cynical old Frenchman at war with the world.
“Que foi, meu amor?” I asked again.
“E’shee-eet! Fock fock fock fock fock!! Porra! Pffffffff!”
But I already knew what was wrong . . . Everything, that’s what’s wrong . . . Fuck! I was only half awake, still hoping it might just be another one of her passing nightmares. I lay back in the bed, praying she would roll over and sink back into her jerky, troubled slumber. But no. Narcisa groaned and began kicking the blanket off herself with that familiar frantic urgency . . . That’s it . . . Shit! She’s awake . . . Here we go again! The trauma was about to begin.
“What’s the matter, princesa?”
“Pffffffff! Fock! I don’ know . . .”
But I knew. Narcisa was awake, conscious again, after another twelve hours in a comatose stupor. Awake to the goddamned life she hated. And now, everything was wrong. Existence. The world and everybody in it was her problem.
Life. Smell. Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. Unbearable!
Such was the terrible nature of her plight. Narcisa was up, and life sucked.
Groggy, I climbed down from the loft as she scurried behind me. She plunked down on the sofa and sat glaring at me with poison darts in her eyes.
I listened in dread as she started in with her habitual litany of complaints. Huffing and puffing, bitching and moaning, sulking, pouting and groaning, Narcisa sat in a simmering, fuming rage, insulting me without mercy or respite.
The torture would go on and on like that for the rest of the day.
It was murder. As she bombarded my tired, beleaguered ears with foul curses, Narcisa seemed the most unfortunate, miserable, unhappy soul I’d ever known; totally unsatisfied and utterly, completely discontent with the whole of existence.
I knew that blaming me for all her problems was madness. Still, I said not
hing. I knew there was no way to win with Narcisa—not when she was in the throes of the Curse. The best I could do was pray to weather the storm and get through another one of her seething, psychotic tirades with both of us intact.
It wasn’t easy. As the cowardly barbs flew from her toxic trap, the only thing that kept me from slaughtering the poor thing was that persistent mix of curiosity, compassion and identification with her unbearable psychic plight.
All along, I’d sensed there was more to our bizarre relationship than met the eye.
Lately, I’d begun to consider that Narcisa might even be a blessing in disguise. A trial—a series of blazing, white-hot, brutal, ego-puncturing purifications for my own shattered soul’s crooked spiritual evolution; some kind of terrible karmic debt that must be paid now, once and for all, no matter what the cost.
51. SHATTERED VESSELS
“YOU ARE SEEKING TO RESOLVE SOMETHING AND MAKE SOMETHING WHOLE WITHIN YOURSELF. TO SHOW YOURSELF HOW UNWHOLE YOU ARE, YOU HAVE CREATED A SITUATION OF TREMENDOUS SEPARATION THAT APPEARS TO BE OUTSIDE OF YOURSELF. IT LOOKS AS IF YOUR DRAMA HAS TO DO WITH A POWERFUL MAN AGAINST A POWERFUL WOMAN. WHICH ONE IS GOING TO BE THE VICTIM? WHO IS RIGHT AND WHO IS WRONG? WHAT IS THIS INTERNAL DRAMA ACTUALLY SAYING? WHAT IS THIS OUTSIDE MIRROR THAT IMAGES WHAT IS GOING ON INSIDE OF YOU.”
—Barbara Marciniak
Narcisa’s violent mood swings were the price I paid for living with her unearthly beauty, spectacular charisma and bottomless suffering.
Perhaps because of my willingness to hang in and grow from the experience, something like empathy was creeping into my own cold, numb heart. Identification, unconditional love and concern; sympathy for another’s pain.
That was all new for me.
As she raged on that day, I remembered listening to a guy at an AA meeting in Mexico City. It had been years ago, back when I’d first stumbled onto the rocky road of recovery. As I crept into the cramped little church basement and took a seat, another ex-con had been talking about how radically he’d changed.
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