Tomás used to think that he’d learn by teaching. That’s what all the old teachers who would rather be dead tell you when you start. If he were being honest with himself, he’d go so far as to admit that he thought he’d be able to steal game ideas from his students while teaching. But it never happened. The only question they go bananas for is ‘Re-write the ending of a Super Mario Brothers game’, where they discuss it for forty minutes before concluding: ‘Bowser kills Princess Peach. And then Super Mario. And then himself.’
Tomás pulls himself out from under his desk, watching for his head. He uses his phone light to look for his sofa and lies on it. He wishes he had pillows but she took them too, even though one of them had a T and the other an E embroidered on them in red. Yes, they were the sort of couple who do those shitty things, shitty things that become more valuable as time passes and you still don’t have other shitty things to replace them with. It also means that Eva has been literally sleeping on his initial, on his name made secret, on things only they could understand, on their inside jokes. And so when he gets to the Antarctic and he tells her he’s been sleeping on their decisions and on their mistakes, she will say she has done the same.
Tomás falls asleep, and it might be because of the stories he’s been trying to come up with or the fact that the mixture of coffee and the cold dampness of his flat from the leaking cracks on the ceiling have by now become comfortable, but Tomás snores and smiles and he dreams.
He dreams he’s piloting a small aeroplane and his dad and a walrus are playing cards behind him. Tomás is happy because the walrus is smoking and his dad isn’t telling him that smoking will kill him. But then his dad tells Tomás not to light up because it only kills people.
‘Where are we going?’ Tomás asks them. The walrus laughs and Tomás laughs too because the animal sounds just like Yiyo.
‘Son, for once I have a good hand, could you talk to us later? Your flying is great by the way,’ his dad says.
‘Dude, you’re so dead,’ walrus-Yiyo tells his dad.
‘I am dead.’
‘I meant I have a better hand.’
‘You have no hands.’
‘Well, at least I’m not dead, dude.’
Tomás looks below him and everything’s frozen white. Shouldn’t he be able to see what’s frozen underneath? Why must water lose its transparency and why must everything inside lose its colour, its particular shade, and instead become a consistent sheet of white whose only distinctive features are the cracks? But even they lead to nothing. And he feels real bad about it, but maybe, just this once, Tomás thinks Eva is the one who’s boring as hell for wanting all of this. But then again, if she left him for such epic miles of white frozen boredom, then what does that say about him? Clearly he should have never been content with less than four gas hobs. She’s right. She’s always right.
And it is at that moment, when Tomás feels the urge to take his hands away from the Xbox controller with which he’s manoeuvring the plane, that he feels a pat on the shoulder.
‘Hey, don’t be such a pussy.’
He looks to his right and sees a life-sized troll doll smiling at him.
‘I hate this. I hate this,’ Tomás tells him, looking out the window.
‘Come on, keep flying, don’t be such a pussy.’
‘Stop saying that. It’s my dream. Why can’t I see her? What’s the point of all this if I can’t see her?’
‘I’m not trying to troll you. Just stop being such a whiney little bitch,’ the troll doll says, lighting up a cigarette.
‘Can I have one?’ Tomás asks him.
‘Nah, smoking will kill you.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding…’
‘Look at the stars,’ the troll doll says with a puff of smoke.
Tomás is flying in the dark and the stars made of chewing gum are moving around and forming shapes. Coffee cups, squares and triangles and the frozen feathered chicken and light bulbs that flicker shapes and colours, tiny pieces of gum like a pink firework display.
‘I knew it. I knew it was you,’ Tomás tells the troll doll.
‘You know a lot of things,’ he answers, ‘but I’m not one of them.’
‘Can you make her appear then?’
‘My mum used to say there are plenty of fish in the sea and even more sea in the fish.’
‘But it’s all frozen.’
‘Sure it is. And so are the fish. Now I’m just trolling with you.’
‘So what do I do?’
But the troll doll turns to Tomás’s dad and the walrus and they start singing, vamos llegando, chuvai chuvai, we’re arriving and the chewing gum disappears and Tomás sees a stone clock tower on a hill made of ice and the bell rings to the rhythm of the song and Tomás drops the Xbox controller between his feet and he feels the aeroplane dropping.
‘What do I do?’ he asks, looking at a map in front of him that looks like his students’ story arcs.
Chuvai, chuvai, they sing to the ringing of the bell.
‘What do I do?’
And before Tomás flies into the clock tower everything goes dark and everyone stops singing and he can hear himself breathe and he’s cold and Eva appears in front of him and they look at each other and…
‘You get out of here, and you get yourself a new hob.’
And at that moment Tomás wakes up and falls off the couch. He doesn’t remember what he dreamt about or even that he dreamt at all, and all he can think about is that the pain on his neck could have been avoided if she’d let him keep the pillows. At least the E. But he can’t stay lying down on the floor because the doorbell’s ringing and he hopes he hasn’t overslept for work, although he knows all too well that he forgot to set an alarm to start with.
‘Coming!’ he shouts, his voice quieter than he thought it would be.
He gets up and bends his neck to both sides and he tidies his hair and opens the front door.
‘Hey,’ Matilde says, holding out a cardboard box. Her hair’s tied into a bun with a pencil that has a rubber at the end. Tomás hasn’t seen one of those in years.
‘Hi,’ she repeats. ‘Are you OK?’
He wipes his eyes with his hands.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just turned one.’
‘Fuck, fuck…’
Tomás goes back inside without shutting the door and heads straight into his room to put a shirt on and look for his shoes. Matilde comes in and leaves the box on the desk on top of the piece of ceiling and drops her backpack against the couch.
‘You really are preparing to go into the wild,’ she says, looking around his flat.
‘I can’t find my fucking shoes,’ he says from his room.
‘They’re here,’ she says, picking them up from one of the gaps in his sofa (those gaps with infinite capacity, portals to fucking Narnia) which he knows is where most of the things he loses end up.
‘Why are there so many straws in between the gaps of your couch?’ she asks.
‘Thanks,’ he says, taking his shoes from her and bending down to put them on. ‘Um… Not sure, probably left from the previous tenant or something.’
‘Oh, OK,’ she says, looking at the piece of broken ceiling on his desk.
‘It’s being refurbished,’ he says.
‘It better be,’ she says with a smile.
‘Yeah.’
‘Going to work then?’
‘Yeah. Why are you here?’ he asks her, and this time he notices his voice came out much louder than he’d hoped. She stops smiling and looks at the box.
‘Lucas is working late at the shop and he’d been collecting some stuff for you and I told him I’d bring it over.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s fine, I’m going now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s fine, it looks like you have a lot to deal with right now,’ she says, looking at the trash pile on his kitchen floor.
‘Sorry
, I have to go.’
‘Well, I also wanted to tell you, I got a short story published in the Paula magazine. It was good timing because it meant I just got accepted into NYU. I’m leaving in a few weeks.’
‘Why would I want to know?’ Again, his voice is too loud. He wants to apologise but he doesn’t since he’s always thought that the apologies of the ugly are annoying and pathetic because they make it seem as if their misfortunes were not their fault.
‘Well, I’ll see you around then,’ she says, turning to leave.
‘What’s in the box?’ he asks.
‘Why would I want to know?’ she says, imitating him.
‘Thanks.’
She turns to leave again but faces Tomás at the door.
‘You know, it doesn’t always mean you have to forget it, even if it doesn’t really lead anywhere. You never know,’ she says, and then she closes the door behind her and Tomás can hear the rain outside.
What does she know about forgetting and leading anywhere and all that bollocks? What does she know about anything? A story in Paula and New York! He wishes he didn’t look so fucking ugly when he wakes up just so he could tell her he’s sorry for her for achieving something so early, because all she will ever do for the rest of her life is try to keep up with her previous achievements. And what did she mean by ‘always’? Does it mean she believes herself to have the ability to pick out what she remembers and forgets? And while Tomás would like to know more about how selective memory works, if it works at all, he is certain that only the young could pull it off, that the ‘always’ is just some word to her because she’s never had to face a ‘never again’ like he has. It is not a game, he mumbles, it is not just some game, and sometimes you can’t just start over.
Outside, he wonders whether he should go and get his coat but he doesn’t because he’s late and in the movies people who have real problems are always drenched when it rains.
Taking the stairs down, he thinks that when he asked her what was in the box she should have answered that inside is everything he needs, just so he could have then asked her how she knew what to get and have her say that just by looking at him, at his flat, it was clear from the start. But then again, Tomás knows that no one ever says what they should at the time when it is most needed.
14
Star Signs
He passes by a small kiosk on his way to the office.
‘Hey Matías,’ he says, rubbing his face– which ends up spreading the raindrops even more.
‘Hey huevón, pack of twenty Camels?’ Matías turns to fetch the packet without waiting for an answer.
‘No, no. Can I just have ten?’
‘You OK huevón? I know the weather’s been bad but come on.’
‘Yeah, yeah… Just been a bit stressed out lately. I forgot my coat.’
‘No, I meant, you OK? How come you don’t want to smoke your usual twenty? Everyone’s quitting, right? I heard they’re passing a new law to stop people smoking inside. No one asked me anything though, right? Fucking typical. Let’s see if they pass a law to give me back my money. Why don’t you smoke twenty? You’re the only huevón who buys twenty. Come on…’ He says all this with his back to Tomás and a hand ready to pick out the Camels from the plastic dispenser that goes up to the tin ceiling. The column of twenties is full and Tomás sighs because things have changed in Santiago. The once-empty cigarette cases are full. Everyone will outlive him and no one asked him either. Matías and his wooden stand, the empty avenues surrounding it, the pigeons fighting for scraps in the riverbank, the ancient skyline dwarfed by the flashing lights of skyscrapers veiled in the morning fog, all of this, all of it without asking him. The river of shit passes without a sound, or maybe Tomás just can’t hear it anymore, having always sounded the same, always ageing, the city with its many silences. Now Matías offers him things no one else wants from the full plastic columns just so at the end of the day it can look more like the empty ones. Tomás looks at the river and doesn’t understand why he can’t hear it.
‘I’m just trying to stop smoking,’ Tomás says.
‘Don’t stop. It’s all bullshit. I wish it weren’t huevón, I really do. It’d be a miracle. But it’s really just bullshit. My mother in law, been smoking all her life and is still the same healthy annoying old bitch she’s always been. My God take her, I say, please just take her, but no, she—’
‘I’m late.’
‘So, will it be twenty?’
‘Alright, a pack of twenties please.’
‘Ah, and that’s why I’m still here. You see any more kiosks? They’re all fucked. But not me. It’s because I know what you want even when you have no idea.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And get a coat huevón,’ Matías tells him, taking the money and giving him the cigarettes. ‘You look like you just jumped into the Mapocho.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
He walks into the alley and it’s full of Blue Peace people with banners about the excess of rain and flood warnings with pictures of poor kids in school uniforms navigating a canoe made of truck tires on their way to school. One of the hippies is selling vegan empanadas (what the hell is in a vegan empanada?) for two thousand pesos each and yes, Santiago is changing, but not for him. The banners all say ‘Global Warming: RIP Civilisation’ and Tomás sighs, not because he disagrees with them but because they, as nature lovers, should really appreciate the beauty of the mountains after it rains and the smog clears out of the city. Still, he feels like a jerk for thinking like that when the streets are rivers and there are people getting to work by punting on flat tires. And he should really be getting to work himself, rain or no rain.
He runs up the stairs to his office and Anna sees him when he comes into the lobby.
‘Hey, you! Come on, I need those marks, like right now,’ she says, getting up and holding her belly with one hand and her back with the other.
‘But I’m really late,’ he says to her.
‘I know you are, you are so late! So please, please just give them to me now,’ she says standing between him and the door to his corridor.
‘I’ll get into trouble.’
She’s too big for him to simply pass beside her, and Tomás’s mum had once said that she knew of a pregnant woman who had been able to summon freak strength out of nowhere to save one of her kids. She lifted a whole truck to prevent him from getting run over. So Tomás just stands there and looks at Anna.
‘I meant I’m late for class.’
She doesn’t answer anything but she takes in a deep breath and crosses her arms above her belly and Tomás thinks she’s going to slap him so he shuts his eyes but nothing happens. When he opens them he sees Anna starting to cry.
‘Come on,’ Tomás says, but he doesn’t have a follow-up.
‘Please, just do it, I’m so fucking pregnant, and I still do my work, I still have to work, and you and your marks, your marks are the only missing ones and I can’t finish and I’m so fucking pregnant and I hate it, I fucking hate it, I can’t, I just—’
‘I’ll try my best,’ he says, looking at his watch, but she lets out a loud cry just as one of the cleaners comes out of the staff toilets and Tomás smiles at him but the cleaner just stares at them and puts his bucket down on the floor.
‘I’ll mark them,’ he whispers to Anna. ‘I’ll mark them, OK?’ he says, touching her on the shoulder. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ she repeats, rubbing her eyes and taking in deep breaths. ‘Thank you.’
‘OK,’ Tomás says loud and looking at the cleaner guy who takes up his bucket again.
He runs into his office and it’s already past two in the afternoon and who is he kidding? He’s an hour late and most students must have gone home by now. He’ll just write an email to them later, telling them the streets were all flooded. What he has to do is wait for Jaime to get back from his class and tell him all about his ideas.
And so he lies under the desk and looks up but the chewing gum constella
tions have all disappeared and so has the troll doll on the shelf and, hearing the protesters outside crying out that they miss simpler and cleaner times, Tomás is comforted by the fact that he too is capable of missing simple things: a doll on a shelf and the ever-changing pieces of gum that, thanks to their new absence, Tomás can finally be certain never actually moved.
He gets his IDEAS book out and checks what he wrote last night. Tomás is in trouble.
• • •
IDEAS BOOK P. 60:
Idle Games are all the fucking rage right now. An Idle Game is a type of videogame that has you do the simplest possible task to gain the right to do the next simplest task and so no. Click on a cookie. Check. Now get two pies. Click on them too. By tomorrow you’ll be clicking on a bento box, only to feel rewarded with newer and sexier scenery.
In a way these aren’t games at all. They’re brackets of time, kind of like smoking, but not even as fun Jaime proposed we make one where you need to click on your character for him or her to get up every morning, and then again to fall asleep at night. During the day they’ll be as bored as you are, eating always the same breakfasts, and then bored at the office as they try hard to read a spreadsheet that is beginning to look like a bullet through their younger self’s head, and then bored on the journey home, where they always hit every single fucking red traffic light in the world, and then bored when they get home and watch a French fantasy TV show that is all talk and no sex and fucking boring, and bored then when they have to fuck their husband or wife who moves so little they may as well be fucking one of their boring china ornaments they keep on their coffee table, maybe the boring elephant, and then they’ll have boring dreams with boring characters who have the same boring days as they do.
Two clicks.
Click. Click.
But what if there were more? And what if there were none?
• • •
Tomás is in deep shit. He never quite got to writing a story and he begins to breathe hard trying to look in his IDEAS book for what he knows isn’t there and he feels his back still wet with rain and he wishes all those assholes outside would just be quiet for once and understand that there are people here who actually have to work and… He will have to improvise. He will have to fucking improvise and God knows how much he hates improvising (most of Bimbo: The Elephant had been pure improvisation and the damn thing wouldn’t drop back down after jumping) and all he can think about is his wet back, Bimbo, and the fact that he made a pregnant woman cry and none of it would make a decent story.
We Are the End Page 21