A gaunt forty-year-old, in black suit and hat, sat down in front of me, taught forehead, eyes sunk in their sockets, sunken cheeks, lip-less mouth, told me in a low voice, barely a whisper, it was hard to hear it, It shall fall, worry not, Babylon the Great shall fall, the angel told me, no one wants to believe me, I saw the angel one night, last night, today, this very night, I saw it speaking, words of fire, words you could see coming out like flames from his lips, Babylon the Great shall fall, the buildings shall shatter, the sea shall rise, the sky shall fall at once to the sea, sea and sky shall unite, the union of the two is fire, fire, all hopes shall turn to ashes, all illusions to ashes, the land devastated, and that means more than devastated, understand, and the worst part: no one wants to believe me, I saw the angel who announced the destruction of Babylon the Great, I saw him just like I see you now, better than I see you know, because you are condemned to the horror, that’s what I heard from a gaunt forty-year-old in black suit and hat who sat down in front of me that night in the Nautilus Bar.
Very late, when the rum was burning in his stomach, Lucio went to the Cafeteria America and asked for a ham sandwich and a mango juice. At a table nearby he discovered the adolescent of the knives, the Sebastian of the Prado, with the little girl and the father. Aside from his pallor the boy showed no sign of the spectacle of two hours earlier. The father took some fritters from a bag and distributed them among their plates. The waiter served them three glasses of water. The girl whispered something in the boy’s ear (about the waiter, apparently) and the boy laughed, laughed so hard he nearly choked. Drank water and kept on laughing. To Lucio he seemed whiter, more childish. The father picked up the suitcase from the floor, opened it, took out a knife and used it to cut them each a slice of bread.
When he got to Miri’s house it was maybe past three in the morning already. Lucio looked through the window and saw Manilla, black and fat, who had fallen asleep, bearlike, in one of the big living room easy chairs. He was shirtless, with his immense belly, his breasts sopping with sweat, and his santería necklaces more visible than ever. His mouth was open and a trickle of saliva dripped down his chin to mix in with the sweat of his chest. Since he came enshrouded in the vehemence of cheap rum, Lucio had no qualms about knocking insistently at the door. The big fellow halfway woke, and raised his hands in surprise (and nothing ever surprised him). He stood up with great effort. Stumbled forward, making furniture and walls tremble, to the door, and when he opened it his bloodshot frog eyes shone in a particular way. What the fuck do you want? To see Miri. Lucio smiled. You know what goddamn time it is? In answer Lucio just held out a twenty-peso bill. With astounding agility, Manilla caught the bill in the air. His huge hands were laden with rings. There’ll be another twenty when I go, Lucio said. Manilla opened the door, let Lucio pass, and closed it with two turns of the lock. He also took the precaution of half closing the window. He returned to the easy chair, obviously his easy chair, because it looked about ready to collapse. Lucio took off his jacket and arranged it on the back of his chair. More awake now, Manilla looked at the boy with his eyes redder and redder, full of mocking veins. Hey, this is a decent house and every once in a while we’d rather be left alone to sleep. I had to see Miri. You don’t need to take an oath on it, pretty-boy. Manilla’s cavernous voice sprang from a throat thirsty for rum. Manilla picked up a cigar, sniffed it, held it back from his eyes to get a nice look at it, licked his tongue over several spots, cut the tip with scissors, and lit it ceremoniously. He laughed with the cigar in his mouth. It’s hot, isn’t it? and to back up the phrase with a physical action he began to wipe his neck, chest, and belly with a yellow handkerchief that smelled strongly of Agua de Portugal. Havana’s on fire, he insisted, I don’t know how you can walk around by yourself at this hour, pretty-boy. Lucio didn’t answer. The only light (and the only luxury) in the living room came from a neon lamp wrapped around the gigantic conch shell that contained the altar for Oshún. This image had little in common with the Virgin of La Caridad del Cobre in the Island, perhaps only her yellow dress; her face, more mulatta than the other’s, was smiling, with a picaresque expression that seemed fairly inappropriate for a saint. The altar was full of offerings: pieces of fruit, sunflowers, bowls of farina, jugs of beer, golden clothing, and, of course, candles. Manilla took several drags on the cigar, looking at the ceiling, looking at the smoke, forgetting about Lucio. He laboriously stood up his enormous humanity, lit a candle, wet a finger in the goblet of water placed before the Virgin, marked his forehead with the sign of the cross, rang a little bell, crossed himself. He turned toward Lucio caressing his concisely black belly. These are bad times, prettyboy, people are going around disbelieving, where disbelievers are you’ll find Beelzebub. He collapsed in the easy chair again (the lumber shrieked) and picked up a cane with which he knocked on the floor. Miri, he called, Miri. Silence. Manilla sucked on the cigar and shook his head. These kids… he complained. Miri, he called louder. There was some kind of movement in the bedroom next door; you could hear a sigh or a complaint, a metal bedframe creaking. The black man again hit the floor with the cane — Miri! Lucio felt her sit up in bed, thought he knew when she put on her little wooden slippers. Her footsteps came up close to the door, covered by a curtain strung together from seashells. The child appeared, rubbing her eyes. Her body was thin and, dressed in a threadbare cotton robe, she gave the impression of being even skinnier, smaller, more of a child; as if they had disguised her as a woman. A fairly light mulatta girl, fairly pretty, she had good hair and Oriental eyes, and if it weren’t for the lips you could never have told that she was Manilla’s daughter. She looked at her father incredulously and yawned. Manilla turned the cigar several times in his mouth and then pointed to Lucio with it. The prettyboy wants to see you, wants to sprinkle Holy Water on you. Miri made a half turn and disappeared again into her room. From it now came, muffled, a Pedro Junco bolero (no way to guess who was singing, in any case a woman), We, who are so much in love. When she reappeared, more wide-awake, she had her hair pulled back in a bun and wore the silk kimono with the lotus flowers that Lucio already knew. She stood in the middle of the little living room as if awaiting orders. Manilla served himself a magnanimous glass of rum (the rum and the glass were close at hand, on the little table that also held an ashtray and a plaster crucifix). Sit down in front of him, Manilla ordered. We, who have made of our love a wonderful new world, a romance so divine. Not thinking twice about it, almost mechanically, Miri sat down on an easy chair in front of Lucio. Unable to focus on anything else, Lucio ‘s and Miri s eyes met. She’s still not a woman, she could be playing with dolls, and dreaming of a fairy-tale life, and hoping for a Prince Charming. We, who are so much in love, we ought to separate now, please do not ask me more. Manilla swallowed a sip of rum, knocked the ashes from his cigar and told Miri in paternal tones, Open up your robe. Miri obeyed instantly She’s a child, so she doesn’t have breasts and barely even peach fuzz, she shouldn’t have any idea what opening up her kimono in front of me is for, what a man’s body is for. Hitting the floor with his cane, Manilla this time ordered Lucio, Look at her, prettyboy, she’s practically a child, where, tell me, where are you going to find a girl who’ll open up her robe to let you look? Manilla’s words roused two opposing sentiments in Lucio: on the one hand, a wave of indignation; on the other, a rush of blood (roused by that very indignation) that made his member harder. He wanted to get up and hit Manilla; instead of that, he massaged his crotch. The record was stuck: We ought to separate now, we ought to separate now, we ought to separate now. After another drink of rum and another blow of his cane, Manilla asked her, On your feet, Miri, take off that kimono, let him get a good look at you, let the prettyboy see the fresh meat he has in front of him. The girl obeyed. She let the kimono fall off and turned around several times so Lucio could see her body from every angle. Lucio wanted to unbutton his fly; raising his cane, Manilla stopped him, You don’t need to rush things, Miri’s here to do that, prettyboy. When sh
e fell to her knees in front of Lucio, the stretched-out candlelight projected the image of Oshún on the wall. Interested, Manilla left the cigar in the ashtray, took a long sip of rum and half closed his eyes; his voice sounded warm, Unbutton the trousers smoothly, Miri, as smoothly as you know how, at first it should be smooth, real smooth, so he can’t feel your hands, so he can’t tell what’s going on, so what you promise will be bigger than what you do, never forget, the pleasure they enjoy the most is the one that never quite gets there, waiting for pleasure is more seductive. The girl unbuttoned Lucio’s shirt, his fly, his underwear. Her little hands wavered in the air as if awaiting fresh orders, her eyes stared at some place that wasn’t in Manilla’s living room. The black man caressed his belly Good, Miri, let’s get that prick into the fresh air, it’s dying to come out, look how it’s stirring in his pants, look at it and never forget: delicately, leave roughness for the end, like that, little by little, take that sausage out like it’s made of glass, that’s it, my girl, very good, you’re doing it real good, now look at it, take a good long look at it, the prettyboy bastard has a nice big prick, and every time you’re in front of a big prick, stop to look at it, that really makes them happy, because big fat pricks are like movie stars, there’s nothing they like more than always having people look at them, and if you’re in front of a little prick, look at it for a long time too, that way it’ll think it’s big and it’ll get excited, besides, the prettyboy’s crazy for you to do something with it, and you’ll be smart and take all the time you want so he’ll go crazier and crazier, take out the balls, my daughter, they’re also a part of what you’re doing, remember, those tense balls hold the cum, and the cum is what you’re aspiring to, the Holy Water. Manilla wiped off his sweat with his huge yellow handkerchief, which again filled the living room with the smell of Agua de Portugal. Afterward he began to caress the end of his cane. It if weren’t for the singer who repeated endlessly, We ought to separate now, we ought to separate now, it seemed that nothing would break the quiet of the room, as if for a few seconds nothing would ever happen. Come on, Miri, Manilla asked persuasively, run your tongue around the prettyboy’s balls, give the balls some pleasure, forget about the rod, don’t pay any attention to the rod, don’t even look at it, concentrate on those balls, that’s your objective now, the more desperate the prick gets for your mouth the better, trace figures with your tongue on the balls, put them in your mouth, without hurting them, pleasur-ably, no rush, you’re not in any hurry, you have all night to give yourself pleasure and give the prettyboy pleasure, look, take a look at the little mole it has there, suck that a little, just a little, lightly, don’t insist too much, now start moving up, Miri, my girl, start moving up, stop right there, at the base, stay there, take your mouth away, touch it, touch it like you’re putting your hands on the Virgin’s robes, softly, my love, so he can barely feel the pressure of your little hands, touch it and let your mouth fill with saliva, because you’re going to wrap your mouth around the big head of the prettyboy’s prick, because that’s what the son of a bitch is waiting for, come on, little by little, so the prettyboy’s rod, his cock, his prick will finally enter your mouth. Manilla struck the floor with his cane. Not like that, Miri, that prick didn’t go in right, not like that, hold it from underneath and let it penetrate your mouth like God meant it to. Another blow of his cane. Fuck it, Miri, I told you not like that, try it again, remember, when the prick enters your mouth that’s a magical moment, come on, don’t give up, my daughter, the key to a good suck is getting the hang of it, the only rule for giving a good suck is liking to suck, come on, now your tongue, let your tongue come alive, let it move, let it move a lot, Miri, all over the head, concentrate to orders from above. There’s nobody, of course, there had to be nobody, I mean n-o-b-o-d-y, God, Nobody! Though for all that, she doesn’t stop feeling like she is being watched, as we know: a gaze is and will always be a mysterious thing, it doesn’t have to come from anyone’s eyes at all; for Miss Berta (or for any one of us) to feel watched, she doesn’t need to have anybody watch her.
Almost without saying hello, Miss Berta walks into Irene’s house. Irene starts explaining, I’ve thought a lot about that question you asked me, I’ve thought a lot about God and I’ve come to the conclusion … But Miss Berta interrupts her: They’re watching me, she complains. They’re watching me. And without waiting for Irene to invite her, she goes into the Wounded Boy’s room.
There lies the Wounded Boy. Like one of the prints of Christ that she buys in that store on Reina Street. His Nazarene face, the sharpened profile of a dying man. His long, bony hands on which she thinks she sees the marks of the nails. Miss Berta comes close, takes one of the hands and kisses it, there where she thinks the wound is, where the coagulated blood has a slight taste of iron. The Wounded Boy’s eyes, however, remain closed. She steps away, desperate, yells, Who’s watching me, fuck it, who’s watching me? Irene runs in, What’s wrong, woman?
The path that opens up between the Hermes of Praxiteles (in truth, the Hermes of Chavito) and the bust of Greta Garbo is sown with lemon and orange trees, always full of flowers and fruits, I pick an orange blossom, arrange it in my hair, keep walking up to the fountain of the Boy with the Goose, I stand there angry as if the clumsy statue of the Boy were implicated somehow in my misfortune, as if he were the one dedicating himself to watching me and watching me with an insistence that’s going to drive me crazy, afterward I keep walking toward the courtyard and Merengue’s pastry cart, snow white and covered with decorations, prints and colored ribbons, it looks more like a small carnival carousel than a peddler’s cart, Lord, don’t look at me, by Your Sacred Mercy I beg of You, don’t look at me, forget about me, leave me forgotten, off in some corner of this poorly created world of Yours, I’m, Lord, and You know it, given that You know everything, I’m not responsible for your mistakes.
On the streets it hasn’t grown dark as it has on the Island. On the streets there’s still a trace of sun sweeping weakly up toward the higher reaches of the walls, toward the rooftops. A few nearly naked children, mounted on stick horses, are playing war between Indians and cowboys, firing stick pistols, bam-bam, I killed you. Miss Berta passes by Eleusis, where Rolo receives her affably and informs her he is about to close. She gives no reply. She searches among the books with a nervous gaze. She doesn’t even say good-bye when she leaves the bookstore and again faces the street, which the light is turning blue. A sailor approaches. A young man, about twenty … (the same one Rolo met a few pages back, the same one Sebastián thought he saw the night they found the Wounded Boy, the same one who’ll play a decisive role in this book; no need to describe him; the reader has met him; and even when it doesn’t occur to the narrator to describe him, the reader will always find him young and handsome; a sailor will always be, above all, young and handsome; the reader will also be inevitably reminded of Cernuda and Genet; and that is fine: those great writers, each in his own way, gave the sailor divine rank, and they deserve that every time good luck puts us in front of a sailor, in front of The Sailor, we should pause for a minute of silence, of remembrance, of fervor). Since she is not very sensitive to human beauty, male or female, Berta doesn’t even glance at him. She knows he’s a sailor because of his white outfit, his wide collar circled with blue stripes.
Thine is the Kingdom Page 19