Loop

  I go from the office to the apartment, the study to the kitchen, the kitchen to the table, the chair to the armchair. These are more or less my routes, my routine. But it doesn’t feel like I’m here in the study, with the cat asleep in the armchair; it feels like I’m somewhere else.

  From the right for a moment,

  and from the left for a change.

  Here on this page. But also here, without knowing what’s next, without it mattering what’s next.

  Sometimes I remember who I used to be. I feel like I was a different person before the accident, like I might be two people shaking hands when they’re introduced. I did so many things and said so many things in the name of fear. Fear of something changing. As if I didn’t want anything to change, as if I wanted the horoscope to be valid for another month, another year, another lifetime. For Monday to be the same as Tuesday, for Thursday to be the same as next Thursday and for the phrases, like the days, to come round again.

  Oh, the need to retain. Being anal. The anus dominates empires. Like fear. Fear of loss. Fear of loving and being loved. Fear of listening and being heard. Come here, Ovid: ‘For love is ever filled with fear’.

  It feels so good to let go and be here. Here and now. In the moment.

  Change. Unlearning yourself is more important than knowing yourself.

  My dad rings the bell. Time to go for dinner. I’ll give him the chocolate bunny rabbit I bought.

  I dreamed I was asleep. In the bedroom, alone, on my side of the bed, which is the side where I’ve slept since Jonás went to Spain. The moonlight was streaming in through the big window, just like before I dozed off. A presence, a gaze that awoke me. Part of the dream, of course. A dwarf at the foot of the bed, looking at me. It wasn’t the dwarf on my block. It was a stranger who didn’t seem to mean me any harm, but nevertheless I was afraid. I made a face that asked him what he was doing there. ‘Come,’ he said, in a kind voice. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here to show you the future.’ I got out of bed and he told me to open the curtain on the small window, which I remember having closed before going to sleep. I drew back the curtain and saw a child crawling along with his back to me, in the direction of a tree. Before seeing his face, before the child turned around, just before he called me mummy, I woke up.

  ‘It hadn’t occurred to me before, but what if I’m afraid of the future?’ I asked Julia over the phone. Now I don’t think I am. In the dream I wasn’t scared to pull back the curtain. And, like in the dream, I’m not interested in seeing the face of what’s to come. Here I am, Jonás. The bell for the rubbish truck is ringing and we really need to take out the bags.

  25

  Tepepunk and Nina are back from Japan. We stayed up chatting until late. It turns out that Catalina, the art collector Tania told me about a while ago, has bought one of Tepepunk’s pieces. On Friday she’s hosting a dinner party at her house so she can meet them. They’ve invited me along.

  Tepepunk pulled the bell cord. A man in jeans and a white shirt opened the door and led us through the garden to a small room. Catalina was sitting in an armchair between two tall, handsome teenagers with curly hair, who looked around fifteen or sixteen years old. ‘My friend Vico’s children,’ said Catalina. Without moving from the armchair, she introduced herself as Catalina, looking at Tepepunk, seemingly unaware that Nina and I were there.

  Catalina, in her seventies, had short, wavy, completely white hair swept to one side with a tortoiseshell comb. Pearl earrings and a little tight-fitting black dress with long sleeves. She rose to pick up a bell. On her feet, she was level with my shoulders, a woman small in stature. Tiny, in fact. A well-proportioned body, a beautiful face. I thought she was attractive, elegant. She invited us to sit down. Switching between Italian and Spanish, she mainly addressed her friend’s children and Tepepunk. She asked him some questions about his return to Mexico, about the residency in Tokyo, and asked him to say more when her friend Vico arrived, since he’d once been a cultural attaché in Japan.

  ‘And are you Mexican?’ Catalina asked me. She’d taken a piece of crystallised orange peel from a dainty plate and was pointing it in my direction. It didn’t seem to matter whether I answered the question or not; waving the orange peel at me was her way of acknowledging my presence in the room. She asked Nina the same thing, pointing at her with the peel from which she’d just taken a bite.

  The room, unlike her behaviour, was very welcoming. There were recognisable artworks: a Dr. Atl, a Baldessari, a Ruelas, a sketch by Frida Kahlo. Some old hand-coloured photos. White armchairs, a heavy wooden table in the centre. An upright piano, and some antiques on a little table between Nina and me. A wooden radio, a pendulum clock, a metronome, a pair of binoculars and a bronze rhinoceros. The background music made our exclusion less awkward.

  Each object seemed to be there to tell the story of some journey, event or family achievement. An Italian relative who survived a fire, perhaps, and that bronze rhinoceros was one of the few things found in the rubble. An uncle playing that piano, to the rhythm of that metronome, in the first silent screenings in a cinema in Rome. A cousin in Tuscany humming the love songs she heard on the radio that no longer works. Everything there seemed to have the sole purpose of allowing Catalina to talk about her past.

  ‘The bathroom, like almost all bathrooms, is at the back and to the left,’ she answered, without looking at me. She offered some orange peel to the young men, who were lounging like lazy cats, as if they’d grown up among panthers. On the way to the bathroom I saw, in the darkness, two rooms decorated in different styles. One Persian and one French. The bathroom was quite big, with antique furniture. A hand-painted screen surrounded the toilet. Even the soap I used to wash my hands seemed to have a story, a history. It had the scent of another era, as if a family had made the soap for Catalina just like they made them in her childhood in Italy.

  Nina made a face at me, as if to say, ‘What are we doing here?’ Catalina was holding forth to her friend’s children and Tepepunk, and still avoiding the two of us. A woman who can’t stand the presence of other women, her behaviour seemed to suggest. But at the same time, she was talking to them as if she wanted the two of us to look at her and take her in, as if she were displaying her plumage: ‘Such a shame, boys, that you never saw New York in our day. Now that was nightlife, nothing like now. We’ve still got the apartment, you can go with your father whenever you like, but there’s no real nightlife any more. When I was there, you wouldn’t catch anyone getting up before noon. Anything interesting began at two in the morning.’

  I looked at her tiny, well-manicured hands, her slender fingers, her discreet gold ring, as she began to weave names and stories together, addressing Tepepunk all the while. Federico Fellini, Coco Chanel, Picasso: ‘Like that magnificent paella Buñuel made at his house in Del Valle, not to mention the pasta my dear Federico taught me to make in Roma. Not many people know this, but Federico was an excellent cook, he could put any chef in this city to shame. And just think, his forte was still making films.’

  Vico, the young men’s father, came in with a brown paper bag. ‘You won’t believe the wine I found, my dear,’ and then he said something in Italian as he wiped his shoes on the mat by the door. The rest of us moved into the dining room. The three of us exchanged glances, and made a whispered plan to go for a drink when we left.

  Catalina came in with a glass of red wine. Vico poured some for us, and Catalina went to the far end of the dining room to put on some music. I’d given up hope of interacting with her; I was looking at a drawing when she walked past and murmured: ‘Picasso was good in bed, but that drawing he dashed off in five minutes is better than any story I could tell you.’ She carried on by, sat at the head of the table and summoned the cook with a little bell.

  26

  Tania on the phone: ‘No, forget Picasso, you want some real gossip? At the party last night, the Most Important Artist in Mexico seriously overdid it. Marcelito was so drunk he broke the sink in the bathroom, imagine
. And Natalia slept with Manuel. She said it was a bad idea. Unbelievable, right? She told me herself, I ran into her just now buying a coffee. She’s not embarrassed – if you see her having breakfast, pull up a chair and she’ll tell you everything that happened last night. I have the feeling that if she’d seen a film, she would have quoted some of the dialogue for me. I think the way she is matches her work, I like that about her.’

  I called in to see Carolina and Lila this afternoon. I wanted to tell her about the visit to Catalina’s house, especially the conversation we had after dinner. ‘I’d love to meet her,’ Carolina said, putting a bonnet on her daughter. ‘The number of stories that woman has must make her one of the best gossip anthologies of the twentieth century,’ she added, trying to breastfeed, while the baby was falling asleep. ‘I think there’s another woman, an Englishwoman who was also friends with Duchamp, living in Mexico City as well. I know he and Catalina were friends towards the end. Last year I published a book and learnt a bit about it. Apparently one of Catalina’s projects is restoring a rented room in Buenos Aires where Duchamp lived for nine months. There was a time in Duchamp’s life when he shaved his head completely, and I found out that the year Duchamp shaved his head was down to his stay in that room. He caught lice and got an infection that didn’t go away for ages. And it gets juicier: did you know he wore wigs? His passion for wearing wigs and the invention of his female pseudonym Rrose Selavy – which in French, phonetically, means something incredible, life is pink , and which also involved a fictitious gender-bending – emerged from that time in Buenos Aires. His heartthrob hairstyle, slicked back like Carlos Gardel’s, was always iconic, so his bald phase is a pretty big deal. I also know that during his time in Argentina, Duchamp joined a chess club. He spent his evenings reading books about chess, studying techniques. You wouldn’t believe how seriously he took it. It was almost like another of his artworks: he saw the game as an extremely serious business, and meanwhile his art seemed more like a game. And one of those games began in Buenos Aires. Catalina must know a lot more about it. She’s the one who wants to do something with that space, but I never found out if she bought it or not. I’d love to meet her, but she has a reputation for being a total bitch. And is it true she brings up her aristocratic heritage at every opportunity?’

  There’s something I forgot to mention. The same man who let us in showed us out via the back door, which opened onto a different street. Before leaving, I saw one of Catalina’s cars. A cream-coloured Beetle. When I was little I used to like sleeping on the back seat, because the engine was at the back of the car and it made the seat nice and warm, plus riding in the car was a good opportunity to chat to my dad until I dozed off. My parents didn’t keep that car. Catalina has the same one, in the same colour. I haven’t seen that model since I was a girl, with those interiors, that same mixture of smells. How strange to see something in real life that looks just like a childhood memory. I felt as if that car could have belonged to my parents, or as if the car from the blue pencil sharpener days and Catalina’s car were two dots along a line that was illegible to me, or as if that Beetle were an incoherent sign or a piece of this goddamn jigsaw puzzle that gets harder and harder to solve.

  27

  After dinner, Catalina had us move through into another room. A baroque altarpiece, some pre-Hispanic masks on a wooden table and a selection of works by young artists. The younger of the teenagers sat on a quartz chair shaped like a hand. Catalina told him it would do him good at his age: ‘It will align your chakras, my dearest, so make yourself comfortable.’ The cook came in with a china tea set, a little plate of orange peel, a sugar bowl and some tiny pincers which Catalina used to distribute sugar cubes. I said I didn’t want any, but she offered again, as if she were interested less in sugar than in conversation. With me?

  ‘Come on, we’ll put some music on.’ She strode ahead, leading me towards a wooden cabinet at the far end of the room. She asked me to open the doors carefully, because the cabinet had sentimental value. Knowing her, I thought, the wood could have come from one of the first guillotines. ‘What kind of music do you listen to?’ she asked. She wasn’t impressed by my vague response, but I was interested less in finding shared tastes than in testing the surface of that frozen lake which seemed about to crack with every step. ‘I was expecting a more convincing answer from you,’ she said, removing a record from its sleeve. Catalina chose a bolero . At that point she was turned away from me, looking at the altarpiece, moving one shoulder in time to the music, singing under her breath, then moving the other shoulder, in circles. Singing, moving her left shoulder, then her right. She was humming, moving one hand, as if following the music, then moving the other, in time, when she asked:

  ‘Do you know this song?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you listened to it carefully?’

  ‘It’s a love song.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I’m a widow, and love’s not the same for me as it is for someone young. This song is about someone for whom love itself has died. A loss for you young people is different, young people will end a relationship over any stupid thing. You don’t understand, you’re young. If this song were sung by a teenager, it would sound hollow. I bet you yourself believe there’s no one else like him, as the song says. Do you have a boyfriend, are you married?’

  ‘I have a boyfriend, we live together.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring him?’

  ‘He’s away travelling, in Spain, but he’s coming back this Sunday, the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘What did he go to Spain for?’

  ‘His mother died. He went with his family and decided to stay longer.’

  ‘Searching for his mother. I see. And it’s possible he’s coming back to look for her in you. Well, as long as you don’t take it into the bedroom you can be together.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Precisely that. When he comes back, make sure you don’t end up with a role that’s not yours. If you want to have children, you will, in time, but don’t let them be – what’s his name?’

  ‘Jonás.’

  ‘My Ricardo lost his mother when we were dating. He was always very charismatic, an extrovert, the life and soul, but something deep inside him hardened after that. The event marked his work, it changed it radically. Around that time we had Antonella, another extrovert, outgoing like her father. Ricardo was very close to la mamma . He was born on Calle Alfonso Reyes, and he wanted us to buy a house near where he was born. See what I mean? The problem is when you take that into the bedroom. Tell me, what does he do?’

  ‘He’s a mathematician, he’s working on a research project. And he likes playing the piano.’

  ‘Sensitive, intelligent, all that must really turn you on. But watch out: you’re not going to save him.’

  ‘I’m not trying to save him.’

  ‘Are you sure? Personally, the only thing I’m sure of is that time brings more questions than answers. Sometimes it takes years to formulate a basic, fundamental question. This boy lost his mother. I lost mine at the age of eight, it was different for me than for Ricardo, but people are always trying to get close to la mamma , no matter how old they are. That doesn’t change, he’ll still be looking for her when he gets back. It’s essential to understand that. You’ll need to see, above all, what isn’t on show. I’m going to lend you a book, it’ll come in useful at this point, trust me. I prefer having my back to the street, as you’ve probably noticed. I’d rather look at any one of these works of art than the street, but then, unless it can show us reality in a different light, what’s art for? You know where I live, bring it back after that Jonás of yours returns.’

  28

  My mum sent me this email: ‘My darling daughter, you don’t know how much I love you, how much I think about you. Yesterday I went to the clinic for a check-up, I was chatting to the doctor and I thanked him for looking after you. But silently, dear, I also said thank you because you’re ok, and not only that but I ca
n see you more clearly now. It’s Friday night, I’m feeling calm and happy, and I wanted to tell you that I love you like I never believed possible, that what a son or daughter awakens in you is very powerful, and all the more so when they mean everything to you, the way you both do to me. Oh, and the doctor says you should go in and see them because he’s got a new repertoire of jokes. He also said Jonás must be a very lucky man. Why don’t you two come over when he’s back? We’d like to know how he got on in Spain.’

  29

  Marina called when I was at Catalina’s. Since her brother gets back tomorrow, she said, her dad wants to give me some things he picked up in the supermarket with us in mind. She’s also bought some plants for their house, and has one for our apartment. I was in the car on the way home, listening to the radio, flicking between stations, when I heard this: ‘I’m Rosa María Hernández, I’m thirty-five years old and I come from Chihuahua. I’m here to represent the other families who couldn’t be here and the ones who are here behind me now. At this meeting, I want to ask you some questions, Mr President, because I want to know how you’re going to restore peace to this country. My fifteen-year-old daughter Renata was murdered in the early hours of March 29th last year and I want to ask you, sir, what would you do if one of your children was tortured and killed? Tell me, what are you going to do to reduce impunity in the judicial system? How would you feel, sir, if you arrived at the Public Ministry seeking justice for your baby girl, and the authorities took no notice because they were busy with other things? I got a phone call that said come and identify your daughter. And how would you feel if the authorities said shush, madam, stop shouting, stop crying, go home quietly because sobbing here won’t change anything? They tried to say my Renata was mixed up in bad things, but my husband, her brothers and sisters, and God and I know she wasn’t, we know my Renata didn’t do anything wrong. My Renata was fifteen years old, she was at secondary school, my daughter was a good girl. Ever since they killed her my life’s been hell, like the hell so many mothers here are going through. I’ve begged, I’ve cried everywhere, I’ve asked for help and never, ever been given any. I went to ask the governor for help, but he didn’t even deign to open the door, and he’s not answering my calls, either. Who’s going to give us an explanation? Will my daughter Renata’s killer go unpunished? Will the more than ninety thousand recorded deaths in recent years go unpunished? Will you deign to answer us or are you going to shut the door like all the other politicians? Any action you intend to take, don’t forget that first you have to resolve the cases from the past and don’t forget it’s not just me asking for this, we’re all asking for it, all of us who’ve lost our children, we’re asking from the bottom of our hearts and with all the pain in our souls, because losing a child is the most painful thing there is, more painful even than our own death because we wish we’d been taken in their place.’