The parish church is closed. She knocks on the door, desperate. No one opens. The sacristan, is he deaf? he must be deaf. The priest is off giving extreme unction, since this is a diabolical era, people are dying like flies and there isn’t enough holy oil to go around. She circles the church several times. No window, no bit of stained glass lets out any light. The priest’s house, too, is so dark it looks abandoned. She sits down on a granite bench, right beneath a street lamp (the only light at the parish church), near the image of Saint Augustine, feeling she’s being observed, minutely observed, judged (after all, the characteristic property of any gaze, even the most ingenuous, is that it evaluates, it judges). She doesn’t know what to do. Sitting at the top of the wall of the parish church, a little girl observes her. Berta leaves the bench, goes toward her. She approaches her slowly, as if she were afraid to scare her away. What’s your name? The little girl smiles and doesn’t answer. You’re pretty, where do you live? The girl’s eyes, half closed from smiling, shine ingenuously She lifts a little arm and points vaguely toward a place, any place. Have you been watching me for a long time? The girl neither nods nor shakes her head, just plays with the ribbon in her braid. Yes, Berta exclaims, I know, you’ve been looking at me for a long time, and she spreads her arms to take the girl into them, hug her tight, Come on, you could fall from here, she goes back to the bench holding the girl, who is not laughing now. I want to know why you were watching me. The girl hangs her head. Tell me, please, I beg you, it’s important, why were you watching me? She hugs her, grasps her, tightly to herself, tries to look her straight in the eyes. It’s impossible: the girl won’t stop playing with the ribbon in her braid. If I give you a piece of candy, will you tell me why you were staring at me so much? The girl starts crying, crying disconsolately. She pushes Berta, escapes her arms and runs away, still crying.
Although the market plaza is closed at this hour, it is still full of light. The vendors don’t place too much confidence in the night watch. So they leave the lights on in their stalls to scare away thieves (there are so many of them in this era, more every day, will the time come when we start stealing from each other?). Berta goes inside the illuminated, deserted market, where the only ones you can see are a few beggars stretched out on the floor. She walks slowly up the aisles that are impassable by day, they’re so crowded, there’s so much coming and going, so much merchandise, fabrics, flowers, vegetables, plaster saints, wickerwork, fake jewelry, leather goods, live animals, and butchered animals. Since nobody’s hawking their wares, since nobody’s promoting their merchandise with boorish insistence, since the beggars seem to be sleeping, a great silence prevails inside the market, so that Bertas footsteps sound even more grandiose. The eyes continue watching her, ironically, sarcastically, making her experience the sensation that she is nobody, that she is no more than a bit of dust among the dust. Then she hears a laugh, Lord, if that is You laughing, I beg You not to mock this, Your humble servant, do not distinguish me with Your gaze, if I really am nobody allow me to disappear among the crowd of nobodies that surround me. Much clearer, much more mocking, the laughter returns to wound the silence of the market plaza. Berta looks furtively in one direction and another. She discovers an old man asleep, dressed in a suit, dirty as all get-out, sitting on the floor and surrounded by bags full of God knows what, accompanied by a dog and by a pewter jar at the bottom of which you can see coins. Deeply unsettled, Berta comes closer; little by little she comes closer, hoping her footsteps won’t wake him. When she’s next to him, she kneels down with great difficulty. Dirty white, wagging its tail unenthusiastically, ears fallen, the dog lifts its head, which was resting on one of the old man’s thighs, and observes her with sad watery eyes. Berta brings her index finger to her mouth to beg it to be quiet. The bald, toothless old man has his mouth open. A trickle of saliva drips down his chin. Not one more wrinkle could fit on his face. He doesn’t sleep placidly, he chokes, coughs, brings his dirty hand to his brow as if trying to scare away the nightmares that must be tormenting him. Berta comes a bit closer. The stench of his body, covered with sweat and dirt, is remarkable. Also the other stench escaping from his toothless mouth, his empty stomach. For Berta, however, none of this matters. She takes one of the old man’s hands between her own and stands there for some time, until the old man wakes up. The old man’s hands pull free of hers and stretch up as if they were trying to touch the sky. His pupils are blurry, his eyes are two pebbles of white glass. Who are you? The anemic movement of his lips makes the trickle of saliva drip faster down his chin. She drops some coins into the pewter jar, unfastens the orange blossom bouquet she wears in her hair and places it carefully in the lapel of his threadbare coat.
Dark, empty, silent streets. You would be nobody, nobody at all, if it weren’t that you keep feeling yourself observed, and you think you discover at every footstep, behind the lace curtains on the windows, behind the trees, in people passing by, the eyes that pursue your footsteps, your movements, your thoughts, yes, your thoughts (you’re well aware that the eyes go beyond tangible reality, you’re aware of the power of the piercing eyes that meet all and know all). A strong wind has picked up, bringing, mixed with a smell of trees, a strong smell of the sea (in the islands the wind always carries a smell of the sea). You’re going down toward the Island and you don’t want to get to the Island. If you shut yourself up in your house, you wouldn’t be able to sleep with the maddening awareness that the eyes are on you, pursuing you into the most unimaginable corners. Do you remember, Berta, the picture that hung in your house when you were little? Do you remember that old man with the long white beard and the stern scowl (always long white beards, always stern scowls!) writing with a goose quill on parchment? do you? Gilded gothic letters, saying God hears all, God writes all, God sees all, God knows all. Profound rage compels you to turn around. There, near you, look, a shadow, a man’s shadow, yell at him, don’t be afraid, yell at him, Don’t You think it’s terrible to waste eternity hearing, writing, seeing, and knowing everything? with all the lovely things there are to do, why start it with poor mortals like us? besides, what are we that You should pay any attention to us, if after all You made us from a bit of clay, another bit of ash, and a breath? No, Berta, calm down, keep on walking. It isn’t a man’s shadow. Come over, see for yourself, it’s not a man, just a scarecrow in a garden.
In the Fair of the Century there are people, cheerfulness, a constant coming and going; balloon vendors; children eating cotton candy; drinkers; carnival barkers; hawkers; more children, on roller skates; couples; the couples walk slowly, calmly embracing; singles looking for someone to embrace; lovers kissing furiously in dark corners that aren’t so dark; music, a lot of music coming from every direction and forming this great hubbub: the carousel is playing something vaguely reminiscent of arias from the Cavalleria Rusticana, and the old woman in the shawl that no one notices is cranking her hand organ and singing in a poor soprano, Watch out, boy, ‘cause the Virgin sees everything and she knows how had you’ve been … In the Fair of the Century there are card readers, singers, sword swallowers, improvisationalists, fortune-tellers, magicians, clowns, rumba dancers, acrobats. Here is the famous Pailock the great, the famous, the great prestidigitator, celebrated for making his wife, the divine Asmania, disappear.
With her orthopedic shoes, her crocodile skin purse, and the fan she just took out because, although it isn’t hot, for her the heat tonight is becoming unbearable, Miss Berta stops next to a group of people surrounding a man. This is a man who is getting on in years, who wears gilded damask trousers that contrast with his red turban, and whose aging chest is bare, displaying his skin, reminiscent of the crocodile skin of Berta’s purse. Strange, indistinguishable music barely emerges from a horrible-sounding Victrola, it could as easily be Mozart’s Requiem as a danzón by Antonio Maria Romeu (the music mixes with all the other indistinguishable music at the fair, but through it all prevails the old, fluty voice, Watch out, boy ‘cause the Virgin sees everythin
g …). From a table covered with swords, the man ceremoniously selects one. Raises his head, brings his right hand to his chest and holds it there dramatically; the left, the one grasping the sword, lifts even more dramatically. Opens his mouth, closes his eyes. Begins to introduce the sword into his mouth. The sword slowly enters the man’s throat. The audience, in suspense, can’t believe what it’s seeing. When the sword grip, which isn’t very golden, or very pretty, is all that’s left visible, the public lets out a unanimous Ahh! Applause. The man quickly pulls the sword out of his mouth and looks at the audience without laughing, with a scowl on his face, as if great pain kept him from continuing the spectacle, as if all the organs in his body were run through, wounded, injured. His eyes, annoyed and defiant, wander across the people surrounding him, stopping at Berta for an instant, and she knows that the annoyance and defiance aren’t real. At the bottom of his eyes is a great desolation, similar to that which she observes in her own eyes when she looks into the mirror.
They’ve taken the fire-eater to the hospital. His act went bad and he was burned. Several people make comments about it. One gentleman in a suit, getting on in years and holding a little dog in his arms, tells the story, unable to hold back his raucous laughter, that’s right, the flame didn’t go into his mouth, I don’t know why the little guy closed his mouth, his cheeks were burning like they were made of paper, but the funniest part was when his hair caught fire, it made him look towheaded, it looked like henequén rope, I never knew it would be so funny to see a man’s scalp on fire, and his eyelashes, did you catch his eyelashes? those tiny little flames on his lashes… He keeps on laughing, laughing, doubling over with laughter. The little dog barks.
Like the sword swallower, the magician is surrounded by a crowd. He does not, however, resemble the former. The magician is a well-built forty-year-old with interesting grey hairs beneath his bowler hat, wearing an impeccable tuxedo, leaning on a cane. He isn’t a trick magician, no, not at all, isn’t one of those who make rabbits and handkerchiefs appear or disappear, one of those who hide women in boxes and run them through with swords or do sleight of hand. He is much more serious. He dedicates himself to observing those before him with terrible shining eyes. He divines their names, their ages, what they do and want and keep in their pockets. Berta is staring fascinated at the magician’s eyes. What if those were … ? Now the magician is fixedly observing an adolescent, a tender youth with blond hair and blue eyes, girlish face and the handsomely gawky body that all adolescents have. The boy stares into the magician’s eyes. The timid smile that had been on his lips disappears. The adolescent keeps his sight fixed on the magician’s shining eyes. Taking a few steps back, the magician raises his arms. The adolescent steps forward. Come on, Adrián, don’t be afraid, the magician tells him, also serious, also concentrating on Adrian’s magnificent eyes. You can still hear the hubbub of the fair, and above all the noise, the voice of the old organ grinder, Watch out, boy, y cause the Virgin sees everything … The adolescent then closes his eyes and cries. Falls to his knees. Joins his hands in front of his mouth. The magician comes closer and puts one of his hands on the boy’s head. The magician is frowning, you’d say he could also start crying. Who am I to you? For an answer Adrián, the adolescent, just exclaims out loud, Our Father who art in heaven … The audience raves with applause. Miss Berta pushes her way through the crowd around the magician. She stands in front of him right when the adolescent stands up, disconcerted, his eyes filled with tears, his forehead covered with sweat. The magician, for his part, has taken off his bowler and is daubing his hair with a large red handkerchief. The sweat makes his makeup run. The magician notices, with confusion, the woman’s untimely arrival. Berta begs him, Look at me, look at me! He obliges her with restless eyes, dismayed, indecisive, irritated eyes of indefinite color, the vulnerable eyes of a tired, sleepy man desperate to get back home, jump into bed, wait for tomorrow night when he’ll have to come back to the fair to earn a couple more pesos to keep living, that is, keep wearing a tux, bowler, cane, large red handkerchief. Blushing, Berta draws back among the crowd surrounding the magician, saying, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing.
I pay twenty-five cents to a hunchbacked old man sitting in a wheelchair, go into a black tent embroidered with yellow stars and half-moons, go into a dark place where fortunately I feel invisible, free from those gazes (if only for an instant!), they told me this card reader is the best in the fair, bald head and witch’s face, this woman must be more than ninety years old, gypsy costume, sitting at a table, she has the table covered with a dark blue velveteen tablecloth, everything’s dark here, the only light comes from the two candles on the table, the old woman raises one of her wrinkled hands, the nails are impressively long, and black, she doesn’t invite me, rather she orders me to sit, I do it, of course, on the edge of the seat, above the table, between the candles and a glass of water with a jasmine flower, there’s a pack of cards, one of the card reader’s ancient claws falls on the pack, she moves her lips, I think she’s praying, imploring someone’s favor: I can’t be sure of this: all I see is the movement of her lips, I don’t hear anything, the card reader watches me with tiny, watery eyes that are almost shut. Cut! she orders in a surprisingly vigorous voice. The card reader joins the two halves and places three cards on the blue tablecloth. These three cards are your life, she says, this one here’s for the past, this one’s for the present and this one’s for the future. She turns over the card that sits on the right: You see this figure with wings, you see this angel? it’s number fourteen of the Major Mysteries and it’s called Moderation, as you can see it has two amphoras that contain the essence of life and symbolize frugality. She pauses, lifts a hand to her forehead. Your name is Berta, right? mine is Mayra, I know you were a nun in another life, a servant of the Lord, in a certain way you have continued to be that during this transitory life you are leading now, a nun and a servant of the lord, and you have led a moderate, patient, harmonious, adaptable life, you have nothing to repent, Berta, the Lord looks on you with approval, I don’t know why His holy gaze bothers you. She wets a finger in the water that is in the glass, the jasmine water, and wets her forehead. She turns over the second card, the one in the center. The present is represented by card number sixteen of the Major Mysteries, the Tower! a tall tower crowned with four battlements, look at it, see? it’s being struck by lightning, House of God, Hospital, Celestial Fire, Tower of Babel… men fall to the ground, the past is past, it’s over, Berta, it’s over and we don’t even know it, from now on it will be destruction and change, I see you and I see myself, you and me and everyone else, everyone walking around out there and beyond, we’re all falling from the Tower, headfirst to the ground, old beliefs are crumbling, families and friendships are breaking up, destruction is upon us, this is bankruptcy, the end, loss. The card reader crosses herself. Berta does, too. The former holds out one of her ancient hands with the long black nails, and Berta understands that she should take it, squeeze it. The card reader turns over the final card. Number fifteen, the devil, the bat-winged Demon. The card reader lets go of Miss Berta’s hand, points to the ground, lowers her head. Fire! she shouts with an even stronger, more powerful voice, a young and even lovely voice, My daughter, you will, though unwillingly, contribute to the fire, I see trees burning, houses burning, I see the past burning and the present burning, a garden devastated. At once Berta jumps to her feet. What should I do? tell me, what can I do to keep this destruction from taking place? The card reader cleans her forehead and neck with water from the glass, picks up the cards, yawns, nods her head, closes her eyes.
The Sailor. Again. He emerges from the crowd at the fair. Approaches and says in his magnificent deep voice, in a shockingly self-assured tone, You are looking for me. She looks into his eyes for an instant, his large and beautiful eyes in which she cannot find the least sign of pity, and replies angrily, Get out of my way. She tries to keep walking. He blocks her path. I know that you want to mee
t me, and the Sailor’s voice becomes more sensual, more lovely, more sure of itself, Here I am, don’t lose your opportunity. Miss Berta is almost dumbstruck with indignation, but that doesn’t keep her from riposting, I could be your mother, and I think even your grandmother. The Sailor bursts out laughing, shrugs, and starts moving away, moving away (it would almost be proper to write: “fading away”) without turning his back on her. Suddenly he’s gone. Yes, he’s gone. How is that possible? He’s gone. As if she had never seen any sailor! Miss Berta breathes a sigh of relief That’s sailors for you, they appear one minute and disappear the next.
Thine is the Kingdom Page 20