Kiss of the Spider Woman (16 page)
Read Kiss of the Spider Woman Online
Authors: Manuel Puig
Tags: #Regional.Latin America, #Fiction.Magical Realism, #Fiction.Literature.Modern, #Acclaimed.Horror 100 Best.Index
—You were crying out in your sleep.
—Really?
—Yes, you woke me up.
—Sorry.
—How do you feel?
—I’m all sweated up. Can you find the towel for me? without lighting the candle.
—Hold on, I’ll give it a try . . .
—I don’t remember where I left it . . . If you can’t find it, Molina, it doesn’t matter.
—I’m frozen.
—I’ll fix you some tea right now, it’s the only thing left.
—No, that’s yours, forget it, I’m already feeling better.
—You’re crazy.
—But you’re using up all of your provisions, you’re the one who’s crazy.
—No, they’ll be bringing me more.
—Remember that your mother’s sick and can’t come.
—Oh, I remember okay, but it doesn’t matter.
—Thanks, really.
—Please.
—Yes, you don’t know how much I appreciate what you’ve done. And I ask you to forgive me, because at times I tend to be rather brusque . . . and I hurt people for no real reason.
—Oh, stop it.
—Like when you weren’t feeling well yourself. I didn’t pay any attention, not a bit.
—Shut up for a while, will you.
—Seriously, and not just with you, I’ve hurt a lot of people plenty. I haven’t told you, but instead of my telling you a film I’m going to let you in on something real. I was putting you on about my girlfriend. The one I told you about is someone else, whom I loved very much. As for my woman, I didn’t tell you the truth, and what’s more you’d really like her, because she’s a very simple girl and very sweet and very brave.
—No, listen. Don’t tell me about it, please. That’s all just a lot of crazy business, and I don’t want to know anything about your political goings-on, all those secrets and who knows what else. Please.
—Don’t be idiotic, who would ask you something about me, about my goings-on?
—You never know with those things, they could interrogate me.
—I trust you. You trust me, right?
—Mmm-hmm . . .
—So everything should be fifty-fifty here, don’t belittle yourself with me . . .
—It’s not that . . .
—At times it’s good to unburden oneself, because I really feel down now, I’m not kidding. There’s nothing worse than feeling down about having done wrong by somebody. And that’s just what I did with that nice kid . . .
—But not now, tell me some other time. Right now it’s bad for you to go stirring things up out of the past, intimate things like that. Better you just take this tea I’m making, it’ll do you good. Do as I tell you . . .
CHAPTER
7
7
“Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair . . .”
—What is that, Molina?
—A bolero called “My Letter.”
—Only you’d come up with something like that.
—Like what? What’s wrong with it?
—You’re crazy. It’s a lot of romantic nonsense.
—I happen to like boleros, and that one’s really very pretty. I’m sorry if it wasn’t very tactful, though.
—What do you mean?
—Well, today you got a letter and now you’re really down.
—And what’s that got to do with it?
—Well, next thing you know I start humming songs about sad letters. But I didn’t do it on purpose . . . really I didn’t, okay?
—No, I know.
—Why so sad?
—It was some bad news. You could tell?
—How should I know? . . . Well, yes, you look pretty depressed.
—It was some really bad news. You can read the letter if you want.
—No, better not . . .
—Don’t start all over again like last night. You’ve got nothing to do with my problems, nobody’s going to ask you anything. Anyway they already opened it and read it before they let me have it. You’re really on the ball . . .
—Hey, that’s right.
—If you want to read it you can read it. Here.
—The writing looks like chicken scratching to me. Why don’t you read it to me if you feel like it?
—It’s from a girl without much education, poor kid.
—I can’t believe what a stupid girl I am, it never dawned on me that they open letters here if they want to. So, sure, it doesn’t matter if you read it to me.
—“Dearest: I haven’t written to you for a real long time because I didn’t have the courage to tell you everything about what happened and you can understand why, can’t you? Because you’re the intelligent one, not me, that’s for sure. I also didn’t write to tell you the news about poor Uncle Pedro. Because they told me his wife already sent you a letter. I know how much you don’t like to dwell on this type of thing. Because life has to go on somehow, and, well, we all need strength to continue the struggle to make our way through life and its trials. But as far as I’m concerned that’s the worst part about growing old.” It’s all in code. Could you tell?
—Well, it’s not very clear, that much I could tell.
—When she says “growing old,” that means becoming part of the movement. And when she says “life and its trials,” that’s fighting for the cause. And Uncle Pedro, unfortunately . . . he’s a fellow who was only twenty-five years old, one of our comrades in the movement. I didn’t know anything about his getting killed. The other letter never reached me. They must have torn it or something when they opened it up here.
—Ah . . .
—Which is why this letter was such a shock to me. I had no idea.
—I’m very sorry.
—Well, what can you do . . .
— . . .
— . . .
—Tell me the rest of the letter.
—Let’s see . . . “. . . growing old. Still, at least you’ve got lots of strength. I wish I was that way. So you’re probably taking it okay. For me, the worst of it’s how much I miss Uncle Pedro. Because he kind of left the family in my hands, and that’s some responsibility. Listen, baldy, I heard they really gave you a good shaving. What a shame I can’t get a load of you that way for a change. Too bad about those goldilocks of yours. But I always keep in mind the stuff we used to talk about. Above all about not letting ourselves get down in the dumps over personal stuff. So I try sticking to your advice by making the best of things, whatever way they fall.” When she says that he left the family in her hands, that means that she’s in charge of our group now.
—Ah . . .
—So . . . “I kept missing you more and more and that’s why, especially after the death of Uncle Pedro, I finally had to take the responsibility on myself. Of letting my niece Mari start in having relations with a nice boy you never met. Who comes over to the house and seems decent enough about his plans to hold down a steady job. But I warned my niece not to get too serious. Because that just makes for more headaches. And not to try for anything more than a little nice companionship. Which, after all, everybody needs, to have the strength to get by with life and its trials.” The niece named Mari is herself, and by saying some fellow is decent about holding down a steady job she means he’s devoted to the cause, you get it? To the struggle.
—Mmm-hmm, but I don’t understand the business about having relations.
—That means she’s been missing me too much, and we, well, we commit ourselves, as comrades, to avoiding intense relationships of that kind because they can only be a hindrance when it comes time to act.
—Act how?
—Act decisively. Risk one’s life.
—Ah . . .
—We can’t get caught up in subjective feelings for one another, because naturally either person would want the other to stay alive. Then you both tend to be afraid of death. Well, not exactly afraid, but . . . it’s painful if anyone suffers because you choose to risk your life. So to avoid that she’s begun to have relations with another comrade . . . I’ll go on. “I kept wondering whether I had better tell you or not. But I know you enough to realize you’d rather have me tell you all of it. Fortunately things are going well now. And we all feel optimistic that someday soon our house will turn out to prosper after all. It’s night and I’m thinking maybe you’re thinking about me too. Here’s a big hug for you, Ines.” When she says house, it means country.
—But I don’t understand what you said last night then, about how your girlfriend isn’t really like you described her.
—Damn! I’m dizzy again, just from reading a letter . . .
—You must be really weak . . .
—I feel slightly nauseous.
—Lie back and close your eyes.
—Damn! I swear, I was feeling so much better.
—Rest quietly, it’s just from focusing your eyes too much. Keep them closed awhile.
—Mmm, it feels as if it’s subsiding now . . .
—You shouldn’t have eaten, Valentin. I told you not to.
—I was hungry, that’s all.
—You were doing so well yesterday until you ate, and that screwed up your whole system. Now today you do it again, and this time the whole plate! Promise me you won’t touch a bite tomorrow.
—Don’t even talk about food, it makes me . . .
—I’m sorry.
—Know something? There I was laughing at your bolero, but the letter I got today says just what the bolero says.
—You think so?
—Mmm, I do . . . It seems to me I don’t have any right to be laughing at your bolero.
—You were probably just laughing because it struck too close to the bone, and you laughed . . . so as not to cry. Like in another bolero I know. Or tango.
—How does it go? That one you were singing before?
—Which part of it?
—The whole thing.
—“Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair. My dear . . . although life may never let us meet again, and we—because of fate—must always live apart . . . I swear, this heart of mine will be always yours . . . my thoughts, my whole life, forever yours . . . just as this pain . . . belongs . . . to you . . .” “Pain” or “hurt,” I don’t remember which. It’s one or the other.
—It’s not the worst I’ve heard.
—What’s the name of it?
—“My Letter,” by Mario Clavel. He’s from Argentina.
—Really? I would have thought he was Mexican, or Cuban.
—I also know lots by Agustin Lara, almost all of them.
—I don’t feel quite as dizzy now, but the cramps are starting up again.
—Try to relax.
—It’s not my fault for having eaten.
—Don’t think about the pain if you can help it, and try to relax. It’s when you get all tense . . . Just talk to me a little. About anything . . .
—What I was trying to explain last night was that the girl I talked about, the very liberated one, from the bourgeois family. She’s really not my girl, not the one who wrote to me.
—So who’s the one who wrote to you?
—No, see, the one I always talk about entered the movement at the same time that I did. But then later on she decided to quit, and she insisted I do the same.
—Why?
—She became too attached to life, too happy with me. Our relationship alone sufficed for her. And that’s when all the trouble began. You see, she would get upset whenever I disappeared for a few days, and each time I came back there she was crying again. And that was nothing. She stopped telling me about phone calls from my comrades, and toward the end even intercepted letters. Well, that was the last straw.
—Has it been a long time since you’ve seen her?
—Almost two years. But I still think about her. If only she hadn’t started acting that way . . . like some castrating mother . . . Anyway, I don’t know . . . it seems like we were destined to be separated.
—Because you loved each other too much?
—That sounds like another bolero, Molina.
—Listen, big man, don’t you know by now, boleros contain tremendous truths, which is why I like them.
—The healthy thing about her, though, was the way she stood up to me. We had a genuine relationship going for us. She never just . . . how can I explain it? She never let herself be manipulated, like the typical female . . .
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