Gilded, shining, sketched with scrolls that spiral and unspiral, wearing a little white plate like a crown, black numbers, keys worn out from use, sitting on a tall table covered in a dark cloth with poinsettias. Sebastián approaches, attracted perhaps by the reflections in the bronze of the light from the ceiling. And the light from the ceiling, which is scant, comes from a naked bulb hanging from a long wire coated with flies, and it is multiplied, intensified, in the polished surface of the cash register, so that it seems it is coming from there and is merely being reflected in the lightbulb. Sebastián now runs his hand over the bronze, not understanding what relation there could be between the books and this machine, because he has seen cash registers in groceries and variety stores, pharmacies and cleaners, but he had never thought there could be any relation between them and books. And Sebastián is about to touch the lever that juts out next to the black keys when the sound of voices stops him.
It’s impossible to determine exactly where the voices come from. Most likely from Uncle’s room, because the door that communicates between the room and the bookstore is right there, two steps away, at the end of the long shelf of large, robust, and showy books. And Sebastián doesn’t have to think twice before he hides beneath the cash register table, aided by the dark cloth with poinsettias. The sound of voices suddenly stops and he hears the creak of a door opening. Now footsteps. Sebastián sees, first, a pair of well-polished two-tone shoes; then Uncle’s clumsy orthopedics. The two-tone shoes stop and stand apart, very firm and rather bold. One of them, the one farthest from Sebastián, lifts up for a moment and reappears with a click of the heel. Uncle’s orthopedics stand together, their toes turned ridiculously upward. Don’t go, says Uncle, and the orthopedics move toward the others, which step back. The same two-tone shoe clicks its heel again. I’m begging you, don’t go yet. The two-tone shoes turn around and come back. Uncle’s orthopedics step back a pace. Wait a second, and Uncle’s voice is so imploring it is nearly unrecognizable. Sebastian hears a laugh and it almost seems the two-tone shoes are laughing while they sketch a dance step. The four shoes remain motionless and the silence is the night wind. Then Uncle’s orthopedics, with their ridiculously upturned toes, turn to face him. The sound of the cash register mechanism, and again the laugh and the dance step of the two-tone shoes, which dance nearer. The four shoes are, at this moment, very close together. Before they separate, there is the sound of a kiss, and the young, lovely voice of Sandokán: Ciao, old man, I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that, one of these days, don’t wait up for me, so long.
The bookstore is empty again. The orthopedic shoes said goodbye to the two-tone shoes and returned slowly, as if they didn’t want to return, stood for a moment in front of the cash register, walked around among the books, stood here, there, indecisive or tired or sad, and then disappeared through the door that communicates between the bookstore and the house. He remains silently under the cash register and lets the time pass, a long calming pause, and when it’s just the swirling wind outside again, he comes back out, holds his ear to Uncle’s door and hears a distant cough. He thinks he should return, that his mother is waiting for him with her customary severity: Why did you take so long? it’d better not happen again, and he can hear his mother’s voice as if she were standing there, he sees her white face approaching him, armed with that gaze no one could withstand. No, Sebastian doesn’t leave. It’s hard to resist the temptation to finish looking at the bookstore. The path, from here, becomes more intricate and promising. He has to walk around to continue the sinuous passageway that the books now find harder to leave open. He has to pass several wicker chests overflowing with volumes, face a sign that says GOD EXISTS: HE is THE DEVIL, find another bust, of someone named Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, before he gets to a small enclosure, a neat little living room where he discovers the most beautiful, the most orderly, the most elegant books. Here, the walls are whitewashed, the bookcases are polished, and there is, besides, incense and the portrait of a woman sitting languidly in a rocking chair, on a terrace, with the sea in the distance. The small living room smells of church. The floor is a blue carpet.
Strange joy. Inexplicable joy, stirring his breast and taking away his breath and forcing him to close his eyes. Joy without a cause. Perhaps an embarrassing suspicion. Perhaps as if a secret were about to be revealed from one moment to the next. Perhaps the contentment of discovering a new continent. Perhaps the awareness that a dream doesn’t have to be a dream. Perhaps as if a lot of things had fallen into place though he can’t say what. Perhaps a premonition of something big and surprising. Perhaps a light. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps. Or it may be much simpler: the best kind of happiness. Yes, the best, since it appears to have no object, form, reason, or end.
Eyes closed, he runs his hands over the rims of the books. Their bindings are leather and they allow themselves to be caressed. His hands stop at one volume, any one: there is nothing, to the feel, particular about it; his hands take it out gently and hide it in his pants, at the waist, behind his cowboy shirt. His hands are like two independent beings. He opens his eyes. He takes a few steps forward with the protection extended to him by the complicitous aid of the carpet.
The blue carpet cannot hide an unevenness in the floor. Sebastian kneels down, lifts the thick fabric. Underneath, a wooden door. In the floor: with no lock: a wooden door. He hesitates and dares: he lifts it. It barely weighs a thing. From the rectangle he just opened in the floor, stairs descend into a well of darkness. Sebastian begins to go down. It seems to him he should go down quickly: he’s afraid of the fire that is sweeping the Island. He’s under the impression that he can hear voices, he supposes he’s really hearing them, except that at some point he realizes that his own thoughts have acquired real voice independent of his will. So, then … Stop! What fire is sweeping the Island?
Close, dangerously close, Uncle’s baritone and affected voice. Vague pains in the muscles and deep sorrows in the soul, he says.
Since Rolo has given Sandokán a new pair of shoes, an expensive pair of two-tone shoes, Sandokán has left his cowboy boots at Rolo s house. Rolo is smelling the boots. No one with the slightest sensitivity should doubt that the sweat of a beautiful man’s feet is finer than the most expensive perfume in Paris. Rolo smells the boots and runs his tongue along the (yellow-stained) insides of the boots. If anyone were to discover him in this act, Rolo would explain, Don’t be alarmed, I’m just like Emile Zola. Then he goes to the glass case with the Christ and the image of the Mater Dolorosa, and alongside them he deposits the boots, and he also places a vase full of flowers.
A deafening crash. Then another, louder. It was hard to say if it was just thunder. With the third crash the windowpanes jumped. With the fourth, a piece of the ceiling fell down, and the vase, in the center of the table, moved rapidly and smashed to bits on the floor.
Helena serves them each a glass of lemonade and sits down facing Rolo. Brother, have you ever been afraid? Rolo tries the lemonade, It’s sweet, cool, exquisite, he fans himself with a palm frond, rocks on the little rocker. What do you think, sister? Helena smiles, embarrassed.
Then came gunshots, police sirens, gunshots. The paintings on the wall crashed to the floor. Helena thought first of Sebastián, though luckily he wasn’t in his room. It seemed to her the ground was trembling and she herself was in danger of falling. The door to the living room began to burn from the bottom and at once was engulfed in flames.
I don’t know, she says, sometimes I think … this fear … She falls silent. Helena is frightened. Rolo tries to break the silence with some witty phrase, something to make his sister laugh, except that nothing occurs to him other than to drink lemonade, fan himself, keep silent and get frightened in turn.
She ran through the flaming door as rapidly as possible and went out into the Island. She didn’t go out into the Island. There was no Island. The trees, the ferns, the flowers had disappeared. The statues flew to pieces. She seemed to see Chavito
crying in a corner with his arms around Buva and Pecu, only when she came closer she could see nothing but debris. The Island looked like a desert. Irene passed by shouting. Helena wanted to stop her and she vanished. Where is Sebastián, where is my son? She wanted to cry out and could not.
Do you think there should be a little more sugar in the lemonade? It’s fine the way it is, I like it sour so you can taste the lemon, that’s the only way to get your throat to cool off on this Island. These lemons have a special flavor. Observe: the smaller and yellower the lemons are, the better. That’s because the big lemons are grafts, the small ones are natural. Do you mean to say that natural things are better than artificial? Don’t start tripping me up in words, Rolo, I just mean that the small yellow lemons are better than the big green ones, that’s all.
The fountain with the Boy and the Goose sank, turned into a well, above which Melissa floated, smiling, and shouted, This is the new world. Helena wanted to go out to Linea Street. She couldn’t find the Apollo Belvedere, nor the courtyard, nor the iron gate, much less the street. In one direction and the other an immense wasteland stretched. She felt someone taking her by the arm. Not knowing how, she found herself in a long room full of cadavers shot through with arrows.
Can you imagine what would become of us, the scorched sons and daughters of this Island, without lemonade or palm fronds? And without hammocks and tamarind juice? And without porches and rocking chairs? And without sandals and cotton cloth? And without windows and beer? And without water, lots of water, water in abundance? And without deodorants and rainstorms? And without January and February? Can you imagine, Rolo, what will become of us if some day we lose these few sad gifts God has given to try and compensate us?
The cadavers still had the arrows in their bodies. She searched for her son. Her only obsession was to find her son. Sebastián, however, never appeared. Anyway, you couldn’t see the faces of the cadavers. An old woman wearing a mask handed another mask to her and said, Take it, dear, this is the indispensable implement for living in the times that are coming.
A mask? Yes, a mask. Helena drinks down the remaining lemonade in her glass. Want some more? No, dear sister, what I want is for you to calm down, dreams are only dreams. You know, Rolo, sometimes I wonder, just what the fuck good are nightmares?
* * *
The mirror stands there, large, rectangular, in a blackened mahogany frame, with beveled glass, occupying the bare brick wall, facing the door. Until recently, when Casta Diva entered her bedroom she could believe that it covered a greater space, that she could keep on walking through the mirror into a vaster region beyond. Now she can’t hold on to that impression. A few days ago she hung up a piece of black cloth and made a room that only measures ten feet by thirteen feet once again. It’s better this way, she thinks. But anyhow she sometimes feels a desire to lift that cloth. She can repress herself and remain in bed, next to Chacho, listening to Tatina’s breathing, waiting for she doesn’t know what, or simply observing the confusion that reaches her from the Island. She entered the room some nights ago, tired out from a pointless stroll along the stone paths, among poorly carved statues, saying to herself, There’s nothing more tiring than a pointless stroll, and she went straight to the mirror. She hated the mirror, hated seeing herself in it; perhaps for that very reason it filled her with fascination. The repulsion she experienced bewitched her. She abhorred the presages of old age that were starting to appear, the wrinkles that had, with a kind of subtlety up to now, begun to threaten her eyes and mouth. To ward off a paralyzing gravity she resorted, on nights like this, to makeup. She enjoyed smearing white foundation on her skin, outlining her eyes and eyebrows in black, painting her lips a scandalous red, accentuating, eliminating defects, creating other faces that inevitably referred to the one underneath. Then she’d sing. Sing, looking at herself She actually didn’t enjoy this, and after all, what does it mean to enjoy something? The night of the pointless stroll, Casta Diva looked at herself for one moment in the mirror before picking up the white cream, and she felt her image had taken its time in appearing. Later, when she began to daub herself with it, she again had the impression that the image delayed doing so, that it was resisting, and even when the reflection of herself that was projected on the other side of the mirror reproduced each of her movements exactly, she seemed to note a reluctance, or perhaps a distaste, and when she had finished and was made up to the point of exaggeration, and laughed with feigned cheer, the other face, the one in the mirror, stayed serious, you could even say seriously that it bordered all too closely on seeming intolerant. photograph. She saw how she squeezed it, crushed it, only to look at it again, at Casta Diva, singing, crying, the image crying, shaking her head, singing, crying, inconsolable, and Casta Diva heard her crying and above all her prodigious voice singing Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti., and she saw how she stood up straight without ceasing to cry, to sing, and took the letter opener, and brandished it menacingly
There stands the mirror, the hated mirror, large, rectangular, in a blackened mahogany frame, with beveled glass, occupying the bare brick wall that faces the door. Now it isn’t a mirror: it is covered by a black cloth that keeps it from fulfilling its function. Sometimes Casta Diva gets out of bed (where Chacho plans to lie forever, it seems) intending to remove the cloth. Curiosity is stronger than fear, but fear is more tenacious. She returns to bed. She has thought of calling Mercedes, or Irene (they’ve both praised the mirror) to tell them, You can take it, I’m thinking of modernizing the room, any old excuse, in the end it doesn’t make any difference to them, all they want is to take the mirror home with them. Only one detail stops her, and it isn’t a small one or a simple one: they might notice that the image goes one way when she goes the other, that the image has lost it docility.
It’s fairly late on a hot, sluggish night. The room is dark; not dark enough to hide the furniture, the pictures, the closed window, Tatina and Chacho, the cloth-covered mirror. She’s not sleeping. She can’t sleep. She has tried various prayers, but sometimes praying is as pointless as strolling around the Island. The silence amplifies the ticking of the clock. The ticking of the clock turns each second into an important event. She hears a sweet soprano voice, Ah, con tal morbo ogni spe-tanza e morta … The black cloth on the mirror begins to rise. Casta Diva closes her eyes tight and hides her head under the pillow. If only it’s a dream, she pleads, if only it’s a dream.
Tall, elegant as a stylish singer. Mercedes. Beautiful, too. All the more beautiful if you compare her with Marta, her twin sister, terribly disfigured by the illness she has suffered from since childhood. Mercedes, on the other hand, is lovely and not ill. She wears costume jewelry necklaces, very high heels, pleated skirts puffed out with stiffly starched crinolines. Her long hair has a delicate, nearly blond color, while her eyes look dark, intense, alive (here again the comparison in inescapable: her sister’s eyes look like glass). Mercedes’s nose is more clearly defined than that on any of Chavito’s statues. It could be that her mouth is not so pretty, perhaps her lower lip is a little too thick, but her smile doesn’t hide her kindness. It’s good to see Mercedes strolling around the Island, after she gets back from City Hall. Anyone would say: she’s happy. She strolls among the trees, among Irene’s flowers, as if there were no other place in the world like the Island, as if this were the perfect place. She sighs, smiles, and even sings a song, which is almost always Those green eyes, that solemn gaze, in whose clear waters I saw myself one day, a song no one knows why she prefers. As I described some pages ago, from the fifth floor of City Hall where she has her office she can see the blackened rooftops of Marianao, the Obelisk, the Military Hospital, the buildings of Columbia. I already said it, the only agreeable thing about the office is that you can look out the windows. Since she suffers six hours enclosed inside, she is content with knowing where her house, the Island, is. From her typist’s chair she imagines life in the Island, Chavito’s statues, the fountain, her sister Marta ‘s rocking chair wit
h its golden cushion, the trees, Irene’s flowers, the river, The Beyond, This Side, Tatina’s screams, Rolos bookstore. I have to repeat it: that world, contemplated from afar through her eyes and from nearby through her imagination, lets her suffer less intensely the captivity of six hours of work, the torture of the typewriter. From the time she gets to work, she experiences a fatigue that consists of a premonition of the fatigue that will ensue later on. Besides, there’s her boss, the grandnephew of Martín Moma, implacably embittered, full of ambitions, whom she hates, or at least hate is what she likes to call the revulsion she feels when she sees, first, his long hands with more bones than are necessary, and second, his dirty teeth and his bad hair slicked over with green Vaseline, and when she smells the tobacco on his clothes and skin and his bad breath. That’s why, when afternoon arrives and Mercedes returns to the Island, she feels as if she were arriving in Paradise. She walks through the bookstore, buys some books from Rolo (she loves gothic novels and biographies of famous people); she enters Helena’s house for an instant, where Helena awaits her with a cup of coffee; she stops to converse with Merengue, who at this hour is already preparing the merchandise for tomorrow; she doesn’t continue along the galleries but heads into the labyrinth of flower beds that is the Island to see whether Chavito has put up some new statue; at a window she greets Miss Berta, who has finished her classes and has now retired to a corner to recite the rosary; she gets to her house and kisses Marta on the forehead. Marta never responds to the kiss. Mercedes does all this with her kind smile, singing softly, Those green eyes, that solemn gaze, in whose clear waters I saw myself one day. And she seems happy. Irene, who sees her walk by many afternoons, says, Yes, she’s happy, and Irene rejoices when she says, At least she is happy And Mercedes enters the room that she and Marta share, the dark, poorly placed, scarcely ventilated room; she enters the gloomy damp of the room, knowing that if anyone were to arrive at that precise instant, no matter who it was, she would embrace that someone and would break down in tears.
Thine is the Kingdom Page 10