He had a passion for plants and trees that I’ve never seen in anyone else, not even a gardener. He would grab handfuls of earth and smell them like they were a bottle of perfume. He would climb trees so quickly and gracefully that he didn’t seem to weigh an ounce. But he wasn’t scrawny; in fact he was pretty muscular, and I liked to feel all his weight on me, his chest, his arms, run my hands over his hairy back. In bed he was like an animal.
Señora Andrea’s dogs loved him, the poodle and the Afghan; sometimes they fought over who would play with him. He got them to do whatever he wanted: fetch things for him, play dead, bury bones, or fight with one another. I told him: they’re going to wear themselves out; if Señora Andrea sees you, she’ll be angry. They’re dogs, Ennio would reply, sometimes they’ve got to act like dogs. And besides, Señora Andrea never gets angry with me.
He could also do anything with plants: he shaped them, he made them burst with flowers, he could take one that at first glance looked dry and dead and make it bloom again in no time at all. The same with people. He stripped away my willpower; all I wanted was to please him and for him to keep doing everything he did to me in bed, even though he never took off his sneakers, and sometimes, for that very reason, he left me with bruises or scraped legs.
After a while he started to change a little. And he would disappear in the middle of the night. I walked over to his room and opened the door carefully to see if he was asleep. Since he was never there, I would look out the window that faces the garden and sometimes I’d see him, up in the walnut tree, staring at Señora Andrea’s room, or at the moon. Other times he wasn’t in his room or in the garden, and I didn’t see him anywhere. I started to suspect that he had left the house. Sometimes I heard him whispering on his cell phone. He seemed a little more distant, and certain things I did began to annoy him.
On one of those nights when I looked out to see where he was, I thought I saw a shadow climbing up to the balcony outside Señora Andrea’s room. But how could I be sure when we’d had some liquor, a yellow liquor, like gold, that Ennio had brought, according to him, to celebrate. To celebrate what? I asked, thinking he was going to propose something. To celebrate life, he said. And after a glass, he pulled down my panties and fucked me against the wall just like that, half-dressed. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I looked out the window, and that was when I thought I saw the shadow. I waited for Señora Andrea to scream, turn on the light, or make some sign or call for help, but I heard nothing and saw nothing, so I went back to bed.
One day we had an ugly fight. That afternoon a guy with a face I didn’t like at all showed up at the door. I told the guy that Ennio wasn’t there, that he’d gone out; to Ennio I didn’t say a word. We had been drinking a little again, and I asked him why the fuck he never took off his sneakers. Yeah, that’s exactly how I said it, why the fuck, very rudely, because the fact is I felt slightly jealous. And that’s when he told me the secret, he told me it was something he kept hidden and that nobody needed to know, because when people found out about it they stopped loving him, or else they wanted to take control of him, of his life, and he couldn’t belong to anyone. He had a problem with his feet, he said; he’d been born that way, and it wasn’t really a problem for him, but for everyone else it was. And that he’d gotten used to nobody seeing his feet. Whenever his secret came out in the open, sooner or later he had to leave wherever he was. That’s how his life had been, he told me. He went over to the little dresser, stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, took something out, and then he came closer and showed me a picture of a lovely fountain in Italy, in Florence. I didn’t catch the name of the place, something that sounded like plaza and like señora or señoría. He said that he had come from there, traveling from town to town, from one country to another, looking for a place to stay, to settle down. That he was like the one in the fountain, and he pointed to a statue that looked a lot like him, a whole lot; then he went on talking in another language that I guessed was Italian because I couldn’t understand a word anymore. I was going to ask him so very many things … but he grew pale and he looked so awful that I decided to keep quiet.
Then he started to cry. And right then and there I felt rotten for doing that to him; I apologized, I kissed him, I undressed him carefully, leaving his sneakers on; I put him to bed and stayed there watching him till he fell asleep.
Another night I woke up suddenly, startled. Ennio was sleeping like a log, maybe still a little bit drunk. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore; I wanted to know the secret, and I couldn’t control myself any longer, so I tiptoed over to him slowly and began to untie one of his shoelaces. But it was a disaster, because he took notice, sat up quickly in bed, looked at me with a fury that came from who-knows-where, and shook his legs; I had to jump backwards so he wouldn’t kick me; then he leaped out of bed, came right up to me, I was petrified, he started shoving me around and said he didn’t expect that of me, me of all people. I felt awful, guilty, like a piece of garbage: he was right. He must’ve understood how I felt because his anger faded, he tried to calm me down, and in the end he took my hands gently, led me to the bed, asked me to sit down. He sat down too, kissed me, and said: All right, do you want to know my secret? I’ll tell you, but then I’ll have to go. Unfortunately, things always turn out this way.
No, I replied, forget about everything, don’t tell me. I’d been a fool. It didn’t matter anymore that he had a secret, or deformed feet, or whatever it was; I didn’t want him to go. But he insisted that I was the one who had made it end up like this and there was no other way out. And then he confessed it to me, he confessed he was a faun. A faun? I asked, practically shouting. He covered my mouth with one hand, saying shhh. Then he explained that he had a man’s body, but with hooves. Hooves? I repeated, now in a quiet voice and not really understanding him, while I couldn’t help directing my eyes toward his sneakers. Like a goat’s, he explained. A goat? It seemed nothing else would come out of my mouth except a repetition of what he said to me, but in the form of a question. Yes, I’m a faun; that’s why I need to be in contact with nature, keep my feet—well, hooves—on the earth; that’s why at night I escape to the garden, and when no one is watching I take off my sneakers and climb the tree or stand among the plants. That nourishes my life, gives me all the strength I have and need after so many years. What do you mean, so many years? I blurted, astonished. You’re even younger than I am. What we see is one thing, he explained, what is, is another. To be honest, it all seemed incredible to me, but, I don’t know why, I also believed him and was sure it was true. Now I could explain so many things … Then I remembered the little goats my sisters and I used to raise in the mountains of my province. Suddenly I felt very sad; I asked him for forgiveness and begged him not to go away; I swore not to tell anyone. He didn’t reply, we went to bed, we embraced, and he talked to me about fauns till we both fell asleep.
It must have been around daybreak when I thought I heard some noises I couldn’t quite identify, footsteps, running, maybe, something like a door squeaking, but my sleep and my body felt so heavy that I couldn’t wake up.
When I finally awoke it was late and Ennio was gone. I changed quickly, and while I was making breakfast, Señora Andrea came by to ask for him. I said I hadn’t seen him. She stiffened. What do you mean, you didn’t see him? You’ve got to know where he is! she screamed furiously, You’ve got to know! I didn’t understand a thing, señor, not one thing, till you arrived and then I started to understand a little.
The only thing I can tell you is that Ennio is innocent. When the thieves showed up, they must’ve seen him sitting up in the tree, with his hooves resting on the bark of the tree, looking at the moon like he did so many times, with the dogs asleep at his feet. And then he had no choice but to run away and escape without thinking of anything or anyone, to look for a new place to live. Why didn’t the dogs bark? How should I know! They aren’t guard dogs. Besides, look, how can you not believe me when his sneakers are here? They were at the foot of th
e walnut tree. C’mon, man, use your head. Why do you think Señora Andrea wants to find him? Go on, tell me why she hired you instead of calling the police. Not because of the things the thieves took. No, that’s not why, believe me. Do you want to know why? It’s because Ennio went away, and if you don’t find him, he’ll never crawl into her bed again and pleasure her as if, at that very moment, the world was about to end.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION
THE FIRST TIME I saw him was last summer. It was very hot, and I had left the window open; a gentle breeze barely stirred the curtains. I had turned off the lights to keep out the mosquitos; the TV was on, filling the room with a flickering blue glow. Then I had the sensation that something had slipped from the window into my room. At first I imagined a cat, but the bulk I perceived was too big. For a while, I waited expectantly. Then I thought I had imagined it and continued to watch an old, black-and-white film they were showing on the government channel, and I ended up falling asleep. In the middle of the night, as often happens, I had to get up to go to the bathroom. The TV was still on. As I placed my feet on the floor in search of my slippers, I saw him: it was an enormous dog with a dark head and short, dense fur. I put on my glasses, which I kept on the nightstand, and leaned over a little to see him better. He was asleep, curled up in a ball. I kept still, waiting for him to wake up or move, but there was absolutely no reaction. I’ve always liked dogs, but I also know that when you aren’t familiar with an animal, it’s best to be cautious. So I dismissed the idea of putting on my slippers, stealthily got up from the other side of the bed, and walked barefoot to the bathroom. When I returned, the dog was sitting on his hind legs, looking at me. What’s this lovely boy doing here in my room? I said, as I turned off the TV set. He smiled at me the way dogs smile, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. I moved closer to him, briefly stroked his head, which came up to my waist, and went back to bed. I heard him lie down on the floor again, and I went back to sleep. In the morning he was no longer there. I had the impression I had dreamed it.
He has a dog’s face, but he looks nothing like Rocky. My daughter gave Rocky to me when Ernesto died. So many years married to Ernesto … and it’s not that I was still in love with him, but we were very good companions, and living with him was peaceful. When he passed away, I felt like an orphan, like an amputee, and then Graciela showed up with Rocky in a little basket. It’s a stuffed animal, I said. No, Mom, it’s a golden retriever, she replied. And yes, he was a golden retriever; that’s why he liked to chase things, so I would toss him a sock, a slipper, a ball, anything, and he would take off running and bring it back to me right away. What a fine dog; I had him with me for fourteen years.
Were you out partying last night? Amanda asked as soon as she saw me. Or have you started putting on lipstick before you go to bed? My lips were chapped, I replied, and I have no cocoa butter. But she knows I’m lying to her, and I, in turn, know what she’s thinking and doesn’t dare say: I’m such a flirt that if death comes for me at night, I’d want to be found the next day with my lipstick on. I laugh to myself. No, what she’s thinking doesn’t even come close to the truth, absolutely not. You did the right thing, she clarifies. Chapped lips are very annoying. You always understand me, Amanda, I respond.
Last night we ate the candies that I asked Amanda to buy for me. They came in an exquisite little box and contained an assortment of chocolates filled with different nuts and liqueurs. We also watched Tabú, a Portuguese film, in which, practically from the very first scene, an explorer on an expedition—depressed by the death of his young wife, whom he adored—disappears into a swamp and allows himself to be devoured by a crocodile. He was fascinated by this scene and didn’t take his eyes off the screen, except to gulp down another candy. I ate two or three, and he polished off the rest. No doubt about it: he’s ravenous.
One afternoon there was a meeting on the patio of the residence. It was a lovely day, and they had given permission to invite that girl who reads cards and entertains the women so much. I’m not a fan of that sort of thing: I don’t believe in anything, and in fact it bores me. But that day I was sad, because no one from my family had come to visit me during the week. I understand that there are so few of us: I’m a widow and I have no sisters; my cousin Agustina lives very far away and is worse off than me; my daughter and granddaughter work a lot and are always busy. But their visits, talking with them, does me good. And the truth is that they come very seldom and are always in a hurry. But I understand them anyway: when you’re young, there’s never enough time; when you’re old, time goes by slowly, it stretches out like an infinite jest. Well, the thing is, that day I went out to the garden and walked over to the table. The girl was reading Dora’s cards. I stood there watching, and then, suddenly, I discovered it—one of the cards had his picture on it. I adjusted my eyeglasses and moved my chair a little closer to the table. He wasn’t naked, of course; he was wearing something like a little skirt, and on top another garment that covered his chest, and a kind of necklace, but not with beads like the ones we women wear, but rather metal all over, with a design of kings or Egyptian gods or something, and some embossed bracelets. But what impressed me the most was that his body was just the same: skinny, kind of a broad back, but not too broad, and the head of a black dog. When the girl had finished, I asked her if I could take a closer look at the card. She explained what it meant and also what it was called: a name I forgot right away, and another one that’s like what I call him now, because—since he doesn’t talk—he never told me his name, and I’ve got to call him something.
I explain that he’s got to be careful with the security cameras at the residence. He just stares at me without even blinking. Then I go to the shelf and pick up the map I requested from the guard and left there, folded up. I told the guard that it made me feel safer to know where the cameras were located. I walk over to the table and pull out a chair. And I also told the guard that my daughter wanted to see a map or something with that information. The guard replied that he had to consult the administration, but early the next day, there he was, knocking on my door with a copy of the map in his hand. I sit down. My daughter’s the one who pays, so they couldn’t refuse her alleged request. I summon him over and he stops beside me, lays his dark snout on the table, observes the map attentively. Then, suddenly, he opens that big maw of his and, before I can react or stick out my hand to retrieve the piece of paper, he’s already grabbed it between his teeth, chewed it savagely, and swallowed it. I think I’m going to have to teach you good manners, I say. He lowers his ears and gazes at me with the most bewitching eyes in the world.
At this age, getting up and walking is no easy task. My body hurts. And it’s that pain, added to all the abilities that you start losing—becoming slower and clumsier—that gives the body an inescapable, sometimes unbearable, presence. When I was young, I used my body, though it was barely a body: I felt so healthy and light that I hardly ever thought about it. Now, on the other hand, in my old age, I am always a body, a body that hurts, a body that doesn’t respond, a body that my head always has to carry around on its back. A body that weighs tons, even though I’m as skinny as a wire.
One day—out of pure habit that remained from my time with Rocky—I had the idea to throw him a slipper, to see what he would do. First he followed its trajectory with his eyes without moving from his spot. But no sooner had the slipper hit the ground than he leaped toward it, picked it up between his teeth, shook it a couple of times, and suddenly gulped it down. I stood there, dumbstruck. I must confess I didn’t know whether to laugh or to start fearing him. It was then that I understood that he could eat anything. And that each time he came he was going to eat something, something that wasn’t dog food, but rather sustenance for a monster or a capricious god.
No, not the TV, I tell him, because then I’ll be bored. It’s not that I watch so often or pay too much attention to it, but I leave it on in the background for company. With the voices, of course, but also with that flickering b
lue glow that’s projected against the walls. He looks at me, not saying a word, but I know he understands me. He’s going to eat something else instead, that’s for sure. But I’m not complaining—what can I say? Life is a transaction, and we all know it.
I read less and less all the time. It gives me a headache; it’s hard for me to concentrate. Maybe I need to change my eyeglass prescription, but I’m exhausted by the mere prospect of having to go to the ophthalmologist, being examined, then getting the prescription, visiting the optician a couple of times, all of it depending on the availability of someone to go along with me both ways, considering how terribly slow and wobbly I am. I’ve always been a reader: reading was a refuge for me, but now I don’t know—I open a book, I start out eagerly, and soon I get bored, as if I can’t find anything interesting anymore. Maybe I’ll tell the cynocephalus to eat some books; if he leaves me just a couple, that should be more than enough.
Every time he leaves, I have to shake out the quilt a little. He’s developed the habit of curling up in a ball on the bed when I fall asleep, and I know for a fact that he sleeps there. I can’t catch him in the act, because he’s very clever and makes me believe, among other things, that he likes to lounge on the sofa. And yet sometimes, even though I’m half asleep, I turn around and feel his warmth nearby. On other occasions, I’ve stretched my legs and touched his loin or his back—I never know how to refer to him and his parts, like a person or like a dog. The thing is, when I wake up, he’s almost always gone. And there’s a hollow left in the bed. He’s really not all that clever after all. I smile as I shake the quilt to get rid of the hairs he’s left on top of it, before Amanda shows up to clean.
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