That night, impeccably groomed and dressed to the nines, Miranda arrives at the house and waits patiently until the door opens and Fernando leaves. Duchess says goodbye to him from the doorway, where she continues to stand as she watches him disappear around the corner. That’s when Mole crosses the street and rings the doorbell.
I thought you’d never come. Well, here I am. You sure took your time. I had things to arrange. You’ve been spying on me? A little. Are you going to invite me in or are you going to bring the chairs out here for us to sit on in the street? Come in. Fernandito is old. Yeah, so are we. Time waits for no man. What are your plans? I have some business to take care of…
They’re both thinking that some things, no matter how you look at them or twist and turn them around, simply can’t be fixed.
… Look, I don’t want to know anything, but this can’t go on. But I haven’t said anything yet. When you say you have some business, I know I’ll soon see your picture in the papers. I’m tired of this, Duke, of living with a lump in my throat and a prayer on my lips. This time it’ll be different. Don’t give me that crap, it’s always different and it’s always the same. No, Duchess, I swear, this time’ll be different. I’m going to start a business, we’re going to live well, without all the hullabaloo, on this side of the law. A business… what kind of business? You’ve never been in business. I’m going in with a guy… don’t look at me like that, he’s got nothing to do with that world, he’s a Jew who imports kitchen appliances. We’re going to open a first-class shop downtown. You’ve got to believe me. Are you staying? I don’t know, are you inviting me? You hungry? A little. Come to the table.
While Duchess is in the kitchen preparing him a bite to eat, Miranda notices she’s wearing her high heels. She was waiting for him. She knew. Duchess always knows. This is the woman he wants, hers the body he desires, she his partner, his perfect fit, with whom two becomes one. His memory brings back everything now hidden under that tight dress, which is a bit bold, provocative and modest all at once. Miranda knows that when that dress comes off, the other Duchess appears. Wise, receptive, generous, a duchess who’s not disgusted by anything and can do it for what seems like an eternity, capable of carrying him to the highest peaks of arousal only to lower him gently, again and again, as many times as she wants, leading him from the valleys to the mountains with sure hands through the steep curves, boldly bordering the cliffs until finally she releases him and lets him come inside her — open, satisfied, languid, happy, adored. He can imagine nothing better than coming in her arms. Miranda has been with many women in his life, but not one gives of herself so fully in bed. She offers up her entire being because she is one of those rare women who derives her own pleasure from the other’s pleasure, her happiness from that of her companion.
What are you looking at? I’m looking at you. Don’t get your hopes up, it’s not going to be easy. I’m hooked on you. We’ll have to correct that. You’re right, when do we start? Get your hand out of there. Remember when you used to say, “You’ve got half an hour to get your hand out?” Now you’ve got half a second. A minute? Get it out. Just a little, sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much. No, really, we have to talk. I don’t want to live this way any more. Me, neither, I swear. I found out about Noelia’s illness. How? The last time Screw came to bring me money he was almost collapsing, and all I had to do was say one word and it all came gushing out like a broken water main, the whole story in one big burst. Poor guy is a mess. He also told me you were about to get out and that I probably wouldn’t see him for a while. He seemed afraid. Of course, how could he not be afraid? I mean, not about his daughter, but about you. Me? Why would he be afraid of me? I think he spent all your money. I saw Screw, I know everything, and everything’s been worked out. Yeah, but you don’t have any money. What are you going to use to start your precious business? Someone’s going to loan it to me. Listen, Duke, I don’t want to know anything about it. I love you, you know that, but I can’t take it any more. I can’t stand knowing your life is in danger or that you’re going to spend the next few years in jail. We’re not twenty any more. Eduardo, promise me, swear to me that you aren’t going to arrive home with the police following you. I live with my heart in my mouth. Every time the doorbell rings I think they’re coming to tell me you’ve been killed. You know I’ve forgiven you foreverything, but I would never forgive you if they killed you in front of Fernando. I know I can’t ask you to go buy the newspaper and look for a job. Duchess, you’ve got to trust me. I love you and Fernando more than anything else in the world. Give me a chance to sort things out, then I’ll stop forever, all I want is a peaceful life. Oh, Duke, I’m so worn down I don’t even have it in me to think things through…
Silence settles over the kitchen, one of those marital silences that hovers in the air like the poisonous vapours from a swamp. It’s an uncomfortable, painful silence that conjures up all past frustrations, allowing all the disappointments and sorrows to appear one by one, while amnesia makes all the once-shared joy vanish. Duchess is looking at him as if from behind a glass wall or from a thousand miles away, and all she feels is fear. Fear of her own feelings, fear of having regrets, fear of what she’s going to say and, more than anything, fear of continuing to feel fear. She feels as if she still doesn’t have the words she wants to say to this man she loves so much. She feels all dried up, dry and tired. Her voice is pleading.
Right now I want you to go. Don’t do this to me, Duchess. What do you think, that I don’t want it too? For four years I haven’t had any either. Sort things out, as you say, then come back and we’ll see. Okay, you’re right. Just remember one thing: this is the last time, Duke, the very last time.
Her words evoke the possibility that he’ll be gunned down one day by the police, an echo of his own conviction about his fate, the one he usually manages to shunt away. He also understands what Duchess didn’t say, but the message, a stern warning, was right there, behind her words. If what she said were to happen, she would let the city bury him, she’d never mention him to their son and, when his flesh rotted away, his bones would be thrown into a common grave, without a flower or a tear, without anything. That, for Mole, would be worse than death itself. The life he has led has kept him away from his son for long stretches at a time, and that’s what has always troubled him most about his profession as a bank robber. If, in addition to this, he were forever erased from Fernandito’s memory, even he would never forgive himself.
13
Maisabe is rushing around; she wants to leave before Leonardo arrives. The ringing of the telephone makes her nervous, she picks it up, says hello several times, but nobody’s on the other end. There are more and more of these dead calls every day. Her husband says it’s the communists, who have come back. She walks across the living room and looks out the window to see how people are dressed, if it’s hot or cold outside. She looks in at the door to Anibal’s bedroom: he’s sitting at his desk looking at a picture book. He’s so little and always so serious, so absorbed in whatever he’s doing, so quiet, so indifferent. The child seems not to even notice her presence, but when she walks away down the hallway, he noiselessly gets up and watches her as she enters her bedroom. He takes four steps and stops in the precise spot where the mirror of the coat rack reflects off the one on the closet door, in which Maisabe is looking at herself. She takes out a red paper bag and empties it on the bed. Out falls a pink lace bra and panties. She stops and stares at them, a strange smile on her face. She drops the shower towel she has wrapped around her, puts on the underwear and looks at herself in the mirror, making a pout that wants very much to be sensual. The boy returns to his room. Maisabe finishes getting dressed. From the back of a drawer she pulls out a small blue perfume bottle and a blood-red lipstick and puts them both in her purse. She puts on a jacket and calls to Anibal. They leave the building. Sitting at a table at the bar on the corner, Leonardo Giribaldi watches them cross the street and turn the corner toward the stop where they’ll catch t
he bus to the parish church. He doesn’t want to see them or for them to see him. He pays for his coffee, walks out, crosses the street and enters the building.
Ten minutes later Maisabe and Anibal enter the patio of the parish church. Father Roberto, who prefers to be called just plain Roberto, is conversing with some other mothers. As usual when she sees him, Maisabe feels a shiver up and down her spine and a hot blush on her cheeks. He notices it and gives her a scintillating look. Anibal lets go of her hand and walks toward the catechism classroom, as if he were on his way to the gallows. Graciela is hogging Roberto’s attention, jabbering on and on like a blonde parrot. Maisabe walks toward them but Leonor stops her on the way. She wants to invite Anibal to her son’s birthday party. She hands her an invitation decorated with little teddy bears and colourful balloons. Roberto is wearing jeans and a white shirt. The jeans are bell-bottoms, already out of fashion, but they look fantastic on him. Maisabe imagines him naked and herself in her new underwear, in front of him, under him, on top of him. As if he’d heard her summons, he starts to walk toward her. Her knees are shaking. Roberto touches her arm gently, Maisabe’s skin absorbs the warmth from his hand as desert sands do from the sun. She blinks slowly — in fact, she wants to close her eyes so as to better hear the music of his words. When she opens them, she sees only his mouth. A thin line of saliva, which she longs to lick, gleams between his lips. Roberto is looking deeply into her eyes. Graciela approaches. She brazenly takes his hand and tells him that there’s something she must show him. What an idiot I was! When Roberto asked who would help him organize the bazaar, Maisabe was daydreaming, just like now, and that fake blonde beat her to it. Now that bitch has the perfect excuse to see him five times a week. In addition, with all that rushing around, she forgot to put on her perfume and lipstick. Now it’s too late, now there’s no point.
She sits down alone on one of the benches on the patio and keeps her eyes glued on the closed door of the sacristy. She’s daydreaming. A short while later the door opens and the two of them emerge. Her hair is mussed, just a little, almost nothing. The buckle on Roberto’s belt has slid a little to the right. She wonders if they were making out in there, and immediately the scene plays itself out in her imagination. The two of them on the oak desk, surrounded by sorrowful images of saints, passionately groping each other, kissing with serpentine tongues, hands burrowing under clothing, moaning and, suddenly, surprise surprise, she sees herself in the same scene, approaching them, squeezing in between those two bodies that press against hers… She opens her eyes and realizes that her new panties are moist. From the other side of the patio, Roberto is looking at her. She feels her face flushing, she looks down and pretends to be looking for something in her bag, but the only thing she finds in there is her lipstick.
The children come out of the classroom and run around the patio, chirping like little birds. Anibal is the only one who doesn’t join in. He walks up to her and stares, as if he knew. The other mothers stand around and listen attentively to the priest, who talks to them with a big smile and calm, deliberate gestures. Maisabe gives a sad wave and moves toward the door. Roberto excuses himself and intercepts her. He looks at Anibal, tenderly caressing his head. Maisabe stares at those voluptuous fingers lingering on the child’s hair. With one quick move, Anibal repels his touch.
Anibal, wait for your mama by the door, I’d like to talk to her for a moment.
The child looks at them with total indifference and walks away.
Maisabe, we have to talk.
Roberto’s eyes are shining as if he’d been reading her thoughts this whole time. Or could she be imagining it?
Talk? Tuesday is the best day. Tuesday? I’ll meet you here at twelve.
Roberto touches her hand and smiles. She quickly nods and walks to the door. She feels like she’s levitating, just as she did the first time she met him.
Anibal looks out the window of the bus. He watches the people walking down the street. He counts, he looks around, he plays.
Green. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… a woman with a green coat. Yellow. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven… a man with a yellow raincoat…
Sitting next to him, Maisabe stares dreamily at the floor, happy and guilt-ridden for what she is feeling. The bus starts filling up. She watches the dance of the passengers’ feet as they squeeze more and more tightly into the aisle, their bodies pressing and rubbing against each other to the rhythm of the swaying, the braking, the potholes. She feels exhausted. She puts her hand in the pocket where she carries her rosary and turns it around with her fingers as she does when she prays, but she isn’t praying, she just uses it to quiet the trembling in her hand or, at least, to simulate prayer. What she wants to do is think about Roberto.
Maria, we’re home.
She snaps to. Anibal has never called her Mama, or Maisabe, as everyone else calls her, not even Maria Isabel, as she was baptized. He calls her plain Maria. He’s got something with names; he doesn’t call Giri “Papa” or “Leo”, either. He calls him Giri, like his fellow officers do, or Sir, like the soldiers under his command, when he had some. If adults ask him his name, he doesn’t answer, he pretends he’s deaf or he looks at her, so she’ll answer for him. She has, however, been told that when children at school or church ask him his name, he says Juan. Once she asked him why, and he refused to answer. He always does what he’s asked, he never talks back, or complains, he obeys as if his life depended on it. At two, when he was asked for a kiss, he’d say, “All done”; at four he began to dress himself; at six he was already deciding what he would wear every day. He wants to do everything by himself and seems vexed when someone offers to help. He does well in school, not the best student but not the worst, staying right in the middle of the curve where he is protected on both ends from the mediocrity of his teachers. He gets along well with his classmates, and he’s fairly popular, which strikes the teachers as odd, because he never smiles or laughs with adults, whom he keeps under strict surveillance. Many of them feel intimidated by his eyes that seem to burrow into them and rummage through all their secrets.
In the meantime, Giribaldi opens the drawer, unfolds an orange flannel cloth, takes out a wooden box, places it on the desk and opens it. Inside lies a black Glock 17 with its Storm Lake barrel and its magazine with seventeen rounds. Next to it he places the cleaning kit with its bronze brushes, cleaning rag and the little bottle of lubricant, which is almost empty. He places the pistol on the flannel cloth. He presses the button that releases the magazine, removes all the bullets and lines them up one by one as if they were toy soldiers. He draws back the slide and makes sure no bullet is left in the chamber. He removes the barrel and the slide exposing the recoil spring assembly. With a watchmaker’s screwdriver he pushes down the plastic spacer. He puts on his reading glasses. The next step requires enormous care because the spring is being held at maximum tension. When he disengages the safety catch it might shoot toward his face. It could easily take out an eye. This is not a toy, it is a killing machine and this condition is present in every one of its mechanisms. Giri manipulates the spring clip with great precision. He removes the hammer, then the trigger housing with the ejector, then presses down and holds the small silver safety button. He turns the extractor until he can remove it from the slide, then disengages the safety catch. He lines up all the pieces and looks at this orderly array. One drop of sweat falls off his forehead and draws a big yellow sun on the orange cloth. At this moment it is an innocent mechanism, incapable of causing harm. If someone attacked him right now, he would be unable to defend himself, for the individual parts pose no danger at all. Freed from its internal tensions, it is nothing more than a collection of greased metal parts designed to fit together perfectly. With great care he dips the tiny brushes in the cleaning solvent and goes over each piece thoroughly. He lubricates the moving parts then removes all the excess oil with the rag. Now comes the part he likes best. He pauses for a moment to memorize the e
xact location of each and every cleaned and oiled piece on the flannel cloth, starts the stopwatch on his wrist, closes his eyes and reassembles the pistol at top speed. He opens his eyes, looks at his watch — eighteen seconds — and smiles. He picks up the magazine and places it on the table. He polishes the bullets one by one before loading them. When he’s done, he inserts the magazine into the receiver in one energetic movement. Even though a pistol never loses its power to intimidate, it’s only when it is assembled and loaded that it takes on its full destructive capability. He grips it, then points it at the heads of the people in the pictures one by one: General Saint Jean handing him his diploma; his father; himself as a cadet; Maisabe dressed for her first communion; Anibal at the beach with his sour face. The weapon feels light and strong, powerful. He cocks it, it’s ready to shoot; this is the decisive moment, the tiniest movement of his middle finger resting on the sensitive trigger is all that separates whoever dares defy or disobey him from eternity. The only real power is that of life or death over other people.
He hears the elevator arrive, the doors open, the key being inserted into the lock. Anibal walks by his door and says hello without looking at him. Three seconds later, Maisabe is standing in the doorway. The Glock is resting on Giri’s lap, where his wife cannot see it.
How are things? Good. How did it go? To tell you the truth, this business of taking Anibal to catechism school precisely at rush hour is enough to earn me my place in heaven. I thought you’d already earned it. Are you hungry? A little. There’s steak. Good. Salad or mashed potatoes? Whatever you like. Okay.
As she enters the kitchen, she has an attack of silent rage against her husband. The remains of a ham sandwich on the kitchen counter has turned into a restless mass of ravenous ants. Maisabe hates these industrious and tiny insects that, in all the years they’ve lived in this apartment, they’ve never managed to exterminate. She picks up a small pot, turns on the hot water tap and places the pot under it. With a familiar groan, the flames of the instant hot-water heater spread a blue hue over her movements, and as the pipes heat up the water they emit a painful cry. While the pot fills with water she observes the ants carrying their crumbs, rushing to and from the food, crossing paths, stopping briefly, as if to chat. They are ruled by an orderly frenzy. She places the pot next to the edge of the counter and, using a kitchen towel, pushes the sandwich and the ants into the pot. The insects stop moving the second they touch the hot water. She, on the other hand, can touch it without getting burnt very much at all. She throws the water and the dead ants down the sink, picks up the remains of the wet bread and ham and throws it in the trash can. The hot water streaming out of the tap washes the cadavers down the drain, and the yellow rag finishes up those who are dispersed and disoriented, dazed. One last ant crawls around the counter in circles. Maisabe looks at it and, once it finally decides on a direction, smashes it with her thumb, the exoskeleton making a cracking sound as it breaks. She looks at the remains, the internal organs squished on her fingertip, and she is tempted to put it in her mouth. Instead, she rinses it off under the water. She takes out the cutting board and places a slab of meat on it. She picks up the wood meat pounder and brings it down on the meat, watching as the small veins break apart and the meat fibres bleed.
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