I’m inserting the key in the lock of the front door, back home after bringing Father Renato the washed and ironed altar cloths, when I hear voices coming from behind me. I sneak a glance over my shoulder and see Aldo approaching along the sidewalk in front, after greeting Don Mario, who passed by on his bike. Now Aldo stops and bangs on the hippie’s door, with a new package, it seems. He turns and greets me, what a nuisance. Oh, Aldo, I haven’t seen her, I tell him, pretending to look for something in my purse. Suddenly the door opens and the girl peers out. You can tell she’s taken the package because she stretches out her hand and grabs it, I hear her thank him, and Aldo doesn’t let go of it, and she pulls it a little towards herself, and he crawls his hand over the package like a spider so he can touch her hand, which she withdraws suddenly. Aldo is so startled that he lets go, too. Then, plop! the package falls noisily to the sidewalk, the paper rips open, and the bones and steaks scatter. He bends to pick them up and tries to touch her leg, but she pulls back and slams the door. I quickly turn toward my door, twist the key and open up, as I hear, first: Dirty whore! And then Aldo’s angry footsteps retreating.
I light a candle to the statue of Jesus on the dresser in my room and I refill the little vase that always stands beside it with some chrysanthemums from Esther’s garden. We’re having mate today because she’s a big mate fan, even though afterward it gives me heartburn, but all right, mate loosens the tongue, stimulates conversation, and so I’ve got to put up with it if I want to find out anything. The thing is, whenever I mention it, Esther doesn’t seem to know that there’s a guy living at the hippie’s place. So I tell her what went on when he arrived. The part about them naked in bed I don’t tell her, but I do say that he has a beard, long hair, and that he showed up with nothing but a little bag. And Esther says to me that if a guy had been there she would’ve seen him. I saw, I reply, or isn’t that enough for you? Are you sure? the damn fool goes, as if I made it up, as if I didn’t know what I saw with my own eyes. Of course it was nighttime, of course he might have left a few hours earlier and not been there anymore, but I’m sure the guy’s still there, though when the light is on I don’t see him; he must be hiding. Are you saying they’re …? Esther interrupts. I shrug and can’t come up with an answer. Because if that’s the case, she hints, stretching out her arm with another overflowing mate, which I don’t know how she’s going to be able to swallow, we’ll have to tell someone. Father Renato? I ask. Or the chief of police, she whispers, as though she was afraid we’d be overheard. I stand there in front of the statue of Jesus, with my hands still wrapped around the chrysanthemums I’ve just arranged, and suddenly it occurs to me that He has the same burning eyes as the dog.
I’ve been watching for a few nights now but I don’t see the guy. He must be staying downstairs, in the empty part of the house. Since the hippie never opens the front windows, you can’t see anything. At night I imagine he goes upstairs to the room when she turns out the light. They must eat in the kitchen, with a candle. That kitchen has to be filthy by now because without water … and besides, I don’t think the hippie is crazy about cleaning. I don’t even want to think about what condition everything must be in. If Gina saw the house, the poor thing would die all over again. Today, while I’m busy watching, I’ve brought along my late mother’s rosary, the one that was blessed by Pope Paul VI; I’ve got it rolled up in my hands so it will protect me from that dog.
It seems I fell asleep and got a cramp in my leg. I rub it a little with my hand, and then I lift my head: the lights are on in the room across the way. That filthy pig—naked again—is touching herself down there; the dog stares at her with his tongue hanging out. She bends her legs and keeps on touching herself. The dog has placed his two front paws on the bed and watches her from closer up. The guy sees it all; I know because his profile is projected in shadows above the hippie’s body; no doubt they’re going to roll around in the bed. But now, suddenly, she stands, as if something startled her, and covers herself with the sheet. I quickly duck my head and hide behind the curtain. Oops, I forgot to snuff the candle that I lit to the Virgin earlier today. I crawl along the floor, stand up next to the furniture, wet my fingers with saliva, put out the flame, and return to my post by the window. The hippie is on all fours, like a bitch, and the black dog goes over to her and runs his tongue along her ass crack. She arches her back, stretches, doubles over; you can tell they like it—both her and the guy who’s watching. And the dog, too, though suddenly he pounces on the windowsill and barks furiously. The shock knocks me against the frozen wall, until I slip down onto the floor and there I stay, looking at the crystal beads of Mama’s rosary digging into the flesh of my hands.
The hippie comes back, from Olga’s place most likely, because she’s carrying a basket with some leeks, celery, and green onions sticking out. You can see the surprise on her face when she finds the package hanging from the doorknob. She looks one way, then the other, and just as she begins to untie it, the black beast, who had been peeing against the neighbor’s tree, hurls himself at the package, which ends up falling, in a flash rips open the newspaper wrapping with his paws, gulps down a dense lump of chopped meat in two bites and runs off toward the corner with some marrow in his maw. Angrily she yells something at him, but then she gestures with her head, smiles, opens the door, and goes inside. At that very moment a wind comes up, sweeping away the shreds of paper now scattered along the sidewalk. And I decide to head for the patio to collect the clothes I have hanging on the line, so that they won’t get all covered with dirt.
I’m startled awake by banging on my door. I glance at the clock: it’s nearly 3 AM. The desperate banging resumes, now accompanied by repeated shouts: Please! Please, open up! I slip on a robe and run to the front door. Through the peephole I see the hippie, half-dressed and with her hair all disheveled. I open the little window above the door. There’s something wrong with my dog; he’s very sick, she says, nervously, sniffling. He’s acting like he’s been poisoned or something. Where can I take him? Is there a veterinarian in the neighborhood? Jiménez, I reply, and sticking my hand through the window a little, I point to the right. Two blocks away, I add, but at this time of night … She doesn’t say a thing, but turns rapidly and runs across the street. I close the little window, but not all the way, and stand there watching through a crack. She opens the door, goes inside and comes back out right away. She’s put on a coat and a woolen cap. She struggles along with the dog in her arms; it’s obvious that the animal is as heavy as a corpse. No sign of the guy. I remain there watching till she disappears. I go to the kitchen for a glass of water and realize that I’ve left that huge mess I made earlier and never cleaned up. What was I thinking! I grumble, as I put away the hammer, shake out the old rag and very carefully begin to clean. On the countertop there’s still lots of fine dust, the mouth of the bottle, and some shards of rosary crystal. I remove the little chain from the remains of the broken beads and hang it around my neck; the cross hasn’t been damaged and is still beautiful. I wrap the debris in newspaper, moisten it with the holy water I brought home from church in a jar, and leave them in a corner. Tomorrow I’ll give it all a proper burial.
I hear the squeal of brakes, the noise of an engine, but this time I’m sure it’s not the Jeep. I also hear some shouts. I tiptoe over to the window. For several nights now I haven’t closed the shutters all the way; I always leave one panel open. There’s a gray car at the door of Gina’s house, and now the van from the police station arrives and parks. A couple of guys get out of the gray car and kick down the front door of the house; one of them pulls the hippie, handcuffed, from the car and drags her along with him. She turns over and shouts toward the streets with all her strength: Aldo, you son of a bitch! Esther, I think. The guy who’s dragging the girl slaps her in the face and pushes her inside. The lights of the house next door flash on and rapidly flash off again. Father Renato told me it’s better not to see anything, or else you’re the one who’ll end up with problems. The
cops stay outside with their weapons drawn; not a soul on the street, and you can tell that it’s nearly daybreak because I can hear Vilma’s rooster crowing. Her chicken coop is next to my patio.
I can’t sleep with this fire I have in my gut, and no matter how much bicarbonate I take, I can’t get any relief. And as if that wasn’t enough, that dog’s eyes haunt me, also his barking, sometimes during the day, other times at night. Even though Esther said that Jiménez told her he couldn’t have done anything to save him, I can still hear him barking at me from the room across the way. I see him, too. And besides, there are those voices, although the house is empty, though everyone reassures me again and again that it’s all over. Even though Father Renato has comforted me, telling me that the Virgin I have in the living room is very old, and that these pieces have their secrets, especially when they’re so old, and that wood is alive, of course; that’s why it’s not unusual that it’s developed a crack. But I know that Her face split open there, right where the white light from the street hit Her that night. And I also know that it’s there Her cries come from, Her icy moans.
THE GUEST
I’M OUT HERE on the balcony now, but I can see her anyway, through the sliding glass door. She comes and goes, from the tiny kitchen of the apartment to the living-dining room. She has spread out and painstakingly adjusted the floral tablecloth that she uses for special occasions, and now she passes by carrying four glasses that she deposits on the table, although from what she said earlier, there will be only two of them, the guest and her. It’s just that she likes everything to be completely separate: wine on one side, water on the other; meat over here, vegetables over there; a little plate for bread, another for toast. Well, everyone’s got their obsessions, and hers are pretty harmless. As for me, I’m a simpler creature, I’m not usually so particular.
I look outside and entertain myself watching the neighbor, who steps out onto the balcony of the building across the way. She leans forward, making a sign to someone who is obviously down on the sidewalk but who I can’t see from here, drops something that looks like a bundle of keys tied to a blue ribbon, and when the ribbon is extended, she lets go of the other end. She adjusts her hair, goes inside, closes the sliding door, and suddenly I can see myself—I’ve always had very good vision—reflected beside the flowerpots on our balcony; she, on the other hand, has been swallowed up by the darkness indoors. Now a floor lamp lights up, no doubt she turned it on as she walked to the door, where she’s probably greeting the person she’s been waiting for, someone she likes, I imagine, and has been anxiously awaiting.
I turn my attention to the inside of our apartment: she goes by with two bread baskets, just as I expected—one with bread, the other with toast. She deposits them in the middle of the table and disappears from view when she returns to the kitchen. I stay here looking at the slightly sad leaves on the ficus plant that stands in the corner of the balcony; I imagine they need water. I turn toward the sky, it’s dark already, the street lights have switched on, hardly any stars and no moon at all; maybe a storm is brewing. Inside, she comes back into view, carrying two small, overfull bowls—that’s why I can see what’s peeking out—one holding a yellow dip, and the other a white dip with green specks. It’s for spreading on the bread while they talk and wait for the warm main meal to be ready. Juancu, the boyfriend she broke up with not long ago (I don’t know why, because he was really cool and I liked him a lot), loved the white dip with green specks, which he ate with breadsticks; he always asked her to make it. When the mixture was ready, he would take it to the sofa where sometimes all three of us, together, would watch those National Geographic shows that I find so fascinating, and we’d eat there happily and have so much fun.
What I regret most about tonight’s date is that I won’t be able to watch the jungle program they’re showing later. But of course it’s understandable; in cases like this, when the guest is coming over for the first time, it’s better for them to be alone. She glances at her cell phone, puts her hand on her head, and goes running toward the bedroom, the only one in the apartment. For the time being I remain staring out; I enjoy being on the balcony.
You can tell the traffic must be heavy because you can hear horns honking and even a motherfucker now rising in a hoarse, deep voice. I’ve always wanted to have a deep voice because it sounds more macho, but, well, over time you learn to accept whatever fate deals you. A pigeon goes by, flying very close, maybe, I think, with the intention of sticking around, but at last he passes out of view. I don’t like pigeons; they’re so gray, and besides, they disgust me a little because they make everything dirty. Just as well it kept going.
She returns in a long red dress that looks very nice on her. Hmmm, red—you can see that she’s chosen her very finest for this meeting. She stands in front of the mirror on the other side of the sofa, near the table, paints her lips (also red), combs her hair, goes back to the bedroom. I like that mirror; sometimes I stand there for a long time looking at myself in it. She brought it home from an auction one day because her mother had told her that mirrors make spaces look bigger. She’s back, taller now, in a pair of black sandals she wears very often, but which still look like new because they’re so uncomfortable that she ends up taking them off and walking around the house barefoot. She’s very natural: when she’s home alone, that’s when I think she’s prettiest. In fact, I tell her so whenever I can.
She heads for the kitchen, no doubt to see how everything is coming along. You can hear the sound the oven door makes; it’s a terrible squawk, like a crow’s. The noise of that door gives me goosebumps; sometimes I try to make her understand, but she shrugs and wrinkles her brow as though she can’t hear me, or maybe she just doesn’t take it too seriously. Then I tell her again that she looks very pretty like that, natural and at home, and she gives me another smile.
The doorbell rings, she crosses the room quickly but stops short and turns around, stops in front of the mirror, checks her appearance, fixes her hair once more and takes off again. She reaches the door. I can hear her open it: a hi, another hi, the soft pop of a kiss, a few steps, more steps, and now I can see him, he’s got two liter-size bottles of beer in his hand, so I imagine he probably doesn’t like wine. What a shame, because she appreciates good wine, especially if it’s a Cabernet Sauvignon, I’ve heard her say so many times, and Juancu always brought her some. That Juancu was a great guy.
He’s sitting now, he’s taken a cell phone out of his pocket, and while he touches the screen and places it on the table, he starts looking all around the place curiously, stretching his body so he can see better, taking advantage of the fact that she had to go back to the kitchen, probably to stick one of the beers in the fridge so it won’t get warm, because warm beer is like cat piss; that’s what Aunt Lucrecia always used to say, and you can tell it’s become engraved in my memory. The other bottle was left behind, between the bread baskets, and it’s sweating cold drops. A little bell dings, no doubt an alert from WhatsApp or Twitter or Facebook. She lives on her phone, too; that’s why I’m so up on all of that. He grabs his cell phone again, touches the screen, smiles.
She walks in carrying a mug for the beer, just one. You can tell she’s decided just to drink wine. He puts the cell phone aside, she picks up the two glasses she had brought for the wine and her guest’s water and disappears behind the kitchen door. Another little ding and he types something, presses his finger against the screen again, and stares intently. Anything new? she asks him as she prepares to leave the room again. No, nothing, just Facu’s stupid jokes because Boca lost, and another dumb gag from that pain in the ass, Albertina. She comes back with an opener for the beer, pries off the top, he types something again, she sits, they look at one another, he smears a slice of bread with the yellow dip, she, a piece of toast with the green-and-white stuff. Nice apartment, he remarks. Yes, it belonged to my aunt; it’s small, but it’s fine for me, and besides, the neighborhood … And just then, wouldn’t you know it, the garbage truck
rolls by, making an infernal noise; that’s what the next-door neighbor always says, she goes out on the balcony, complains, leans over toward the street and curses, though with that noise nobody will hear her except me, because I’ve got very keen hearing and I’m usually on the balcony at this time of day, just for a little while before that National Geographic jungle program comes on, which I’m sure to miss tonight. But the neighbor doesn’t come out on the balcony to curse, how strange, maybe she isn’t home. I return to the scene of the date and see that she, too, is fiddling with her cell phone, that huge, flat one of hers, which looks like a cutting board for dicing onions, she types away at full speed and with all her fingers; you’ve got to admit she’s got a talent for these things … They eat: another slice of bread for him, another piece of toast for her. They take a few sips: beer for him, wine for her. Suddenly she pops up, goes to the kitchen and comes back right away, holding a plate with two juicy melon wedges with ham. He says he’ll have the ham, but he doesn’t like melon; she helps herself to the melon he’s put aside. May I? he asks, serving himself the other slice of ham. Yes, she replies, of course. The other melon wedge is still there, abandoned on the plate. With me it’s just the opposite: I like melon, in fact I love it, but not ham. It’s not that I don’t like it, but it’s very salty and makes me sick; that’s why she doesn’t let me eat it. Aunt Lucrecia always used to say: Raw ham is awful, it leaves your mouth as dry as a parrot’s tongue. And she repeated it so often that it’s impossible for me to forget.
The two of them carry on like before, typing away on their cell phones, and every so often a mouthful, a sip, a smile. Now she gets up, takes his plate—he’s eaten all the slices of ham—places it on top of hers, then the one with the melon slice on top of the other two, collects the used utensils and goes to the kitchen. He’s still nailed to the chair, forget about helping her, Juancu, now that guy did help, he even cooked sometimes. She comes in with a lovely little white porcelain dish, with a cover, all decorated with green leaves, like vines, raised and intertwined, which she carries in a wooden holder. She sets the whole thing on the table, lifts the lid, and dense steam rises in the air. Ham and cheese cannelloni for you, and vegetable cannelloni for me, she says, standing there and staring at it. Ham and cheese cannelloni! he repeats with a certain amount of enthusiasm, How did you know? Facu told me on WhatsApp yesterday when he found out you were coming over. She leans over to start serving it, but he stops her: Stop, stop, everybody needs to see this. He stands, extends one arm, takes a snapshot of the cannelloni on the dish. I barely manage to see a white flash explode, that light always makes me nervous, it’s even worse when it hits me in the face, but that’s not this time because I’m not too close, and the beam of light vanishes before it can affect me. He goes on typing; sometimes it seems like he’s inside the cell phone. She looks at hers. They look very good in the picture, she says to him; thanks for what you put in your tweet, also. He keeps typing, she stands, serves him two cannelloni, then takes another two for herself. The casserole dish is still steaming; there must be more left. She replaces the cover. I like the vegetable ones; hers come out really delicious. He scoops up a big serving of cannelloni with his fork and suspends it for a moment over his open mouth as he stares intently at the cell phone. The cheese drips onto the plate. Then she quickly sticks out her hand with the device and clicks. He opens his mouth, swallows, smiles, she eats a small portion while she touches the screen and types. She continues staring, takes another bite. He does the same. I look like an idiot, he says, seeing himself in the photo that just now appears on his screen, and he laughs.
Proceed With Caution Page 2