The first time he stood before me on two feet, I was so shocked that it left me speechless. In that posture he didn’t look so much like a dog, but rather like a person. On the inside, or what until that moment had been underneath, he was almost as hairless as a human being. I was used to my golden retriever, who was so hairy, inside and out, or on top and underneath, according to the angle from which you looked at him. Well, the thing is, the cynocephalus was not; he had no hair on his chest, or on his groin, or anywhere else … So he looked too naked. You can’t go through life like that, showing everything, I said to him. This time I realized he hadn’t understood me. Then I pointed out his parts to him. I must say, it had been many years since I saw such a large, youthful member. I explained that he had to get dressed, to wear clothes. Then, suddenly, it was clear that he had understood something, because he returned to his position on all fours. That way, with his hair (sparse as it was) covering his back and part of his limbs, he didn’t seem quite so bare. I walked over to the closet and took out a bathrobe. I pointed it out to him, showed him how to put it on, left it on the sofa. As soon as I turned my back on him to return to bed, he leaped over to the sofa and put it on; I don’t know if I’ve mentioned how tremendously agile he was. When I finished tucking myself in, he was standing upright again, but with the bathrobe on. And I must admit that it left quite an impression on me, because he looked very, very much like the figure on the Tarot card that I’d seen the girl in the garden holding that afternoon. I was also astonished by how beautiful he was.
Today I asked my granddaughter to bring me a set of boy’s clothes. A shirt like Gastón’s, I explained, with a checkered pattern … and preferably blue. I didn’t tell her that blue would look good on the cynocephalus, but I thought it would. And underwear. And a pair of jeans, the worn-out kind they wear nowadays. She gave me a strange look, so I invented the story that I had seen the gardener so poorly dressed that I felt sorry for him. She offered to bring me some of the clothing her boyfriend no longer used. I said yes, so that she wouldn’t suspect me, but asked her to please add that new set of clothing I had requested. I don’t like to give away only discards; that’s not real charity, I suddenly blurted out. You’re so sweet, Gran, she replied with a smile.
Early this morning, before he left and while I was sleeping, he devoured a chunk of wall opposite my bed, leaving a dark spot there that frightens me a little. As I don’t want to be paralyzed with fear like that, I decide to take a closer look. First I extend my cane, lest I fall forward into that hole. But the darkness produces no sound, even though I tap it a little with the tip of the cane. Then I approach, bend forward and downward, preparing to feel something unpleasant, and I rest my hand. But I don’t feel anything—pleasant or unpleasant, hot or cold, rough or smooth. And I imagine that the blackness before me must be the nothingness that he exposes with each bite. Today I’m going to tell him to help me move the sofa, so no one will see that threatening thing.
The other night he showed up with the clothes I had given him, a little stained, and when he came close to my bed I smelled beer. However, he behaved the same as always: he sat down beside me, put his hand on top of mine, and listened to the news of the day. I talk to him more than to anyone else. He listens to me, gestures, and, depending on what I tell him, he changes the expression in his eyes, which gives me the idea that, in his way, he understands me. Finally, he fell asleep while I was talking to him, and I didn’t have the nerve to throw him out of bed, so I covered him with the quilt, and that’s where I left him.
Not long ago he ate the shelf where my family portraits were: the photo of my wedding to Abelardo; the one of Arielito’s First Communion; his military service portrait; the one of Graciela as standard-bearer in high school; the last one of Ariel, which a comrade took of him in Río Gallegos before he left for the Malvinas; the one of Graciela receiving her diploma in Architecture; the one of Abelardo as godfather at Graciela’s wedding, in her white gown, and holding him by the arm; the one of Abelardo at my side with the newborn Larisa in my arms; Larisa’s graduation from high school … A black hole remains where the shelf used to be. That’s why some days I try hard to remember what their faces were like, their poses, their clothing, but the memories are fading, and I can’t retain the traces of all of them, not even in my head.
I suggest that he eat part of the wall remaining behind my bed, instead; that way I don’t always have to stare at what isn’t there anymore. Because it’s boring to lie there like that, especially before I fall asleep and after I turn off the TV, with my eyes always facing that hole, which grows bigger night after night. He doesn’t say anything, because he never says anything, but then he looks at me through half-closed lids, and then I understand that, once again, he’ll ignore me completely.
Since yesterday I’ve been putting the pillow at the foot of the bed, and I fall asleep looking at the wall behind the headboard, the one where the portrait of the Virgin hangs. I don’t believe in the Virgin or saints or angels, but over time I’ve learned that whenever I say I’m an atheist, people grow uncomfortable, as if I were stabbing them in the ribs with a knife, so not only do I not mention it, but with some people, like Amanda, I let them think I’m a believer, because I know that way they’ll feel most at ease. And now, well, I’m waiting for the cynocephalus to show up. I know that the change is going to surprise him and maybe even amuse him. And I’m anxious to see what the devil he’ll do—if he’s going to keep eating from the same wall, or if he’ll change perspective, too. I also wonder what he’ll think about a painting with that Virgin, draped in heavy, flowing robes, and that chubby little Botticelli Baby Jesus, and that angel with gray bird-feather wings.
The last time he was here, he ate up the sofa, so now he hunkers down on what little remains of the floor, at the edge of the blackness. When I get up at night to go to the bathroom, I have to be careful to put on my glasses and place my feet exactly where there’s still a little bit of floor left in the room. Sometimes I imagine I’m about to take a misstep, or come to the very edge and fall into that void, the void that now practically surrounds me.
There’s no more mirror or shower left in the bathroom. So today I asked Dora if she’d let me shower in her room. I told her I was having problems with the hot water and didn’t want to catch pneumonia. She said yes. Dora’s a very good person. And so I showered and changed, and now I’m back. With a lipstick in my hand, I walk over to the windowpane, where I see myself reflected, and I paint my lips pale pink.
Last night, while I was sleeping, I looked at what’s left of the painting, which is part of the angel, an angel with the body and skin of a young man, with a face that now strikes me as very similar to Botticelli’s own face, as lovely as a girl with those blonde corkscrew curls and those nearly-transparent eyes, and then those little wings with the gray feathers of a big, ugly bird emerging from his back. And I can’t help wondering why most people don’t find angels monstrous, though they would think of a cynocephalus as a monster. When I awoke, the angel and the section of wall where the remainder of the painting rested were no longer there. Then I took a sheet of paper and a pen from the nightstand and wrote the sign that I later stuck to the door with cellophane tape. I don’t want anyone to carelessly come into the room and fall into the darkness.
Now I see him, standing by the bed, how he carefully takes off his jeans, then his shirt, his underwear, the clothes I gave him some time ago. I don’t say anything to him; I just let him be. He folds them methodically, placing one garment on top of another, on the quilt at the foot of the bed. He approaches on all fours, along the edge of the gorge that surrounds me, next to the darkness. He does this completely naked, the same as the first time, as I first met him. He sits on his haunches, puts one paw on the bed. I caress it. He moves his head forward, places his snout next to my hand. And, for some reason I can’t quite comprehend, I know that he is saying goodbye. Everything around me is empty and dark now; the TV is silent. The bed looks phosphorescent,
dressed in these white sheets and quilt in the midst of the blackness. The cynocephalus closes his eyes and prepares to fall asleep. I stick my hand under the pillow, take out the lipstick I’ve hidden there, and, before closing my eyes, I paint my lips so that when they find me, I will look beautiful.
SUBMERGED
Only those who have died are ours,
Ours is only what we have lost.
Jorge Luis Borges
AND THEN THAT noise wakes me with a start, a rough grinding that scrapes furiously against the hull of the boat. I must have fallen asleep on top of some tarps in the engine room, and the noise, which comes from outside but invades everything here on the inside, has awakened me. The noise multiplies, and now something at starboard scrapes, scratches, drags. I’m alone, there’s no one in sight, it seems like everyone is where the noise is, or maybe everyone is the noise, as if the noise has swallowed them, the others, but not me, because now I stand up and I’m fine, and I smooth my overalls with the palms of my slightly greasy hands, squat, grab the tarps, roll them up, and drag them out of the way. I’ve got to say that since that bout I had a few days ago, I’m feeling better, much better. The noise continues, but my ears are getting used to it and have started to distinguish other sounds, another reality beyond the noise: someone’s coming in, someone who is still nothing more than the tapping of boots climbing down the metal ladder and touching the floor. I move toward the engine room door and determine that the someone is now a body that turns and comes toward the stern, a face that becomes more defined and takes on Soria’s features: a nice guy, Soria, very good-natured. Then other boots: as the noise scrapes, scrapes, scrapes, now they’re going down the ladder; then Soria stops, turns toward the guy behind him. When did they start? I think he’s asking. A while ago, the other man replies with a voice that sounds like Albaredo’s, as they complete their descent. And how do you get them off? Soria persists, with an intensity that struggles to be heard over the roaring, writhing, breaking din. With metal sheets, the other man explains as both of them advance toward the engine room. Argentine style, he adds, skin divers with snorkels, a metal sheet and lots of elbow grease, all by hand. The noise scrapes, scratches, grazes. Those barnacles are tough fuckers; they dig in real deep and they don’t come off so easy, Albaredo explains. They haven’t spotted me yet, I think, because Soria keeps asking: So what’s the big hurry if they’ve been there for years? I dunno, the other one snaps back; there was an order and we gotta follow it. Now you can hear the clack of other boots, and still others, and other voices, and I go back to the engine room and stay there thinking about the barnacles clinging to the metal sheets as if they were the sheets themselves, adding excess weight to the boat and slowing it down, so slow, damaging the hull and making it unable to resist all the pressure it has to resist when it needs to dive deep, all because somebody had the bright idea of building that breakwater and didn’t foresee that when the current changed, the submarine’s hull would fill with those creatures. Neither did they plan ahead to bring it into dry dock for a proper cleaning, and who knows why it occurred to them just now to … The noise scrapes maddeningly, scrapes and scrapes and is deafening. The barnacles dig in like rabid dogs’ teeth into living flesh, like the noise in my ears; they bite, they bite, they crunch. And bite.
The others have started to bring things aboard: provisions, boxes and cases with supplies, medicine, water, gasoline, tools, rocks, more rocks; they unload the practice torpedoes and load the ones for combat; the entire crew goes in and out, checks, arranges, puts things in order, cleans, and here I am, examining the engines again and again. This one’s not working and isn’t going to, suddenly announces Albaredo, who’s working by my side, and those surrounding him grow nervous because they suspect something’s going on, something beside the engines, the barnacles and the noise. Someone standing next to me remarks that today’s paper mentioned some enormous whales near Punta Mogotes; it’s a lie, someone else immediately adds, for sure it’s a lie to distract people. From what? asks the one who spoke first; I dunno, the other guy responds, from something, how should I know, from this. I step outside the engine room, walk a few paces toward the control room, and from the bow I can see Estévez moving toward me, followed by two others, along the passageway that opens up between the bunks at port and starboard, toting a new broom, a bucket, some floor rags. The others carry a case of apples and a bag that looks like it holds potatoes or onions. Here, Gómez, this goes in your bunk, he must be saying to him as he hands Gómez the cleaning supplies with a smile that turns into an explosion of laughter. Gómez lays the things he’s been given on the lower bunk while he finishes setting up his bed. Estévez and the two others with him continue down the passageway, bearing the case and the bag. Gómez stands there looking at them for a moment, checks his watch. Now Polski is approaching along the passageway between the bunks, his right hand clutching the handle of a zippered case that contains a small typewriter, and under his other arm a ream of paper. He’s heading for the control room. I follow behind, and when he stops to readjust the typewriter and the paper, I pass him and continue toward the engine room. I decide to concentrate on the engines and on the work we’re doing with Albaredo. Someone at the other end of the boat asks in a very loud voice if they’ve loaded on the jars of capers; I can’t see him, but he’s an officer, I say to myself, judging from the question and the tone of voice, and the noise picks up again with its racket: rrra, rrra, rrra, which doesn’t let me hear the answer; though, really, what does the answer matter, what do we need capers for if the engine’s screwed up? Rrra, rrra, rra, that noise … What for, if that’s going to make us spend more time snorkeling in order to charge the batteries? Rrra, rrra, rrra, rrrrra … if that makes us more vulnerable, why the fuck do we need capers, rrra, rrra, rrrrra … Something’s going on, I know it, we all know it, even though no one says a thing, and for days now—I think, because I’m starting to lose count—for days I haven’t moved from here. It’s nighttime when they load on; I know it’s nighttime because down here they turn on the night lights and the red ones in the control room to avoid reflections and to keep us from being seen from outside. Someone mentioned spies today; I heard him during a pause when the noise had stopped, Chilean spies, and someone else said no, they were North Americans who were staying in an apartment in one of the buildings on the other side of the avenue, opposite the base; Russians, someone else interrupted, they have to be Russians because the North Americans are on our side. Whatever, spies are spies, snoops holed up in an apartment from where they can watch all our movements; you can see movements on the base from anywhere; what a shitty location that base has. Now a different voice, from the periscope area, says: In the end everybody heard it on TV; nobody said anything before; but how is it possible that we have to find out about it on TV like everybody else. No one replies; everyone remains silent, me too, all the time thinking that anger is what’s keeping us silent, so silent you can hear our breathing and even the momentary absence of the noise. Then someone who’s climbing down the ladder at the bow, carrying boxes of crackers, points out that there’s no moon tonight, that everything is black outside, completely black, perfect for hiding, for hiding what we’re doing, what we’re carrying, like well-trained little ants. The sea must also be black, I imagine, rhythmically black, and I start to feel sleepy again, the heavy sleepiness that suddenly takes hold of me, ever since my illness, dutifully forcing my eyes shut, till everything else goes black, too.
I don’t know how much time has gone by since somebody said they learned what was going on from TV. The creaking noise has stopped, as if the sea has finally swallowed it up, and there’s a dense, strained silence here that makes you think something is about to happen, something besides what already is silently happening. I’m alone again, so I make my way to the forward ladder. The hatch is open; I climb a couple of rungs to see what’s going on outside, but a sticky fog hits me right in the face, in the eyes, like thick, cold mucus, and what I see is precious little
: the others are standing in formation at the dock, a barely visible, dark blue stripe. What I don’t understand is why the hell no one told me anything and I’m here in my work overalls; but anyway I make do with the little I can see and hear through the opening and the fog. That one over there is a priest, seems like: I bless you in the name of God, I bless you and pray for your safe return. Then it’s true, we’re weighing anchor and going on a mission, but not just any mission, the kind that rates a priest and a blessing. Now the Hyena’s voice takes over; the Hyena is giving a speech, and even though I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, I’m sure he’s talking to them with that permanent grimace of his that’s not quite a smile or a tic or anything, just a frozen, nervous scowl. The Hyena was my commanding officer on our fifty-day campaign last year; every morning when he got out of bed, he put on a red bathrobe with a white silk handkerchief around his neck while he gave the raise periscope order to see what the day looked like and called for a cup of tea. Good hunting, the Hyena tells them, and suddenly the expression brings me back here from the past. After that, the others’ boots click along the dock, the blue stripe stretches out into the fog, separates, melts into the darkness of falling night; they must be breaking rank and should be coming back on board. I go down the ladder; now I’m completely inside once more, not even time to say goodbye, what a shame, I would have liked to give María a hug, and my mother, too, but that’s how things are these days; plenty of guys probably have gone through the same thing. I scramble all the way down to the bottom of the ladder and head for the engine room again. The fact is, I’m okay and I’m going to be part of this, whatever it may be. Now they’re all coming down, the whole crew, each one is taking his place, Soria and Albaredo are also coming toward the engine room, Soria’s very young, who knows what other guy’s spot they’ve assigned him, some other machinist like me, of course, maybe it was urgent, because he’s very young. Holding a broom in his hand, Soria laughs as he approaches, followed by Torres, who’s laughing too. What’s this, another broom? asks someone crossing in front of him; Oh, Soria replies, this is to attach to the sail when we get back, as a sign that the area’s been swept. I’m worried about Diego, he’s still got a fever—I think I recognize Almaraz’s voice as he pokes his head out from the galley—I hope it’s not anything out of the ordinary … but then I lose track of his voice as it’s swallowed up by the passageway, while Soria and Torres meet up with him on the way to the engine room, and now they’re passing the Commanding Officer, who has a severe, concentrated look on his face, as if he’d aged ten years in the time it took for the blessing and the speech. They’re negotiating, says a voice coming from the control compartment; they’re negotiating and it’s not going to come down to actual combat. Let’s hope that’s true, replies someone from the same location, because if not … and suddenly the words get stuck in the intense rumbling of the engines that have just switched on: we’re weighing anchor, we’re on our way. My legs have hurt ever since the illness; if I stay still for very long my legs start to ache, so I take advantage of the fact that there’s enough personnel in the engine room and decide to walk to the bow so I can move around a little, to see if the discomfort will go away. I cross the sonar area. Fuck me, Medrano is saying, why a priest if I’m not dead? I went for a walk around there till I saw that the priest was finished, says Medrano. Me, I just keep on moving forward through the periscope area; the CO isn’t there anymore; I walk past the galley and in front of the CO’S cabin, whose door is closed. I reach the rest area and then unintentionally hear Grunwald muttering in a lazy voice as he climbs up to his bunk: I was at a barbecue, goddamn it, right on Easter Sunday we had to set sail! At a barbecue, and I’m half-wasted, so now I’m going to bed and don’t call me till I wake up, he says to me, I think, or maybe he says it to someone else, but anyway, another guy who’s coming up behind me replies: They say he was granted leave to marry Old Lady Menéndez, that’s why you’re here. That son of a bitch could’ve gotten married later, Grunwald complains, covering himself with the sheet and yanking the little black corduroy curtain closed. I start walking again, continuing my route in order to stretch my legs, and I think about the fog on this Easter Sunday. Someone near the torpedoes confirms: They sent us to do drills, just drills, because we’ll have to wait and see if the boat goes, if it responds or not; after all, the crew is new, lots of us don’t even know each other; the CO doesn’t know everyone, or the boat, either, and neither one of them, him or the Executive Officer, comes from a 209, and everything is different here. And on top of that, someone else adds, one of the four engines isn’t working, it hasn’t worked for years, the motor block is cracked. They’ll work this thing out, someone else insists, they’re gonna work it out diplomatically, that’s why they started the whole thing, to yank the Brits’ balls, but it’ll all get worked out. Polski slips a cassette into the tape recorder in the control room, pushes a button, and over the loudspeaker—which is in the galley but can be heard throughout the boat—a military march blasts. I keep going forward, wrapped in the music, and immediately retrace my steps to the beat of the march, while I think about the fog that enfolds all of us, a dense fog I imagine as being solid gray, capable of hiding the outline of the submarine. Silver-white-gray hovering above the water, the sheltering fog that erases us as we head southward.
Proceed With Caution Page 7