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
Kiss of the Spider Woman (24 page)
—Whatever you prefer.
—I put water on the stove in case you want something. Have what you like, tea or coffee.
—Thanks.
— . . .
—Delicious-looking food, Molina.
—And we also have some glazed fruit. Only thing I want you to leave me is that piece of glazed pumpkin because it’s my favorite. We also got glazed pineapple, and a large glazed fig, and this reddish piece, I wonder what it is?
—Probably watermelon, or maybe not, I really don’t know . . .
—Well, we’ll get to find out when we bite into it.
—Molina . . . I’m still ashamed . . .
—Of what?
—About this morning . . . about my temper.
—Nonsense . . .
—Whoever doesn’t know how to receive . . . he’s the mean one. It’s because he doesn’t want to give anything either.
—Think so? . . .
—Yes, I’ve been thinking, and that’s what it is. If I got all uptight because you were being . . . generous with me . . . it’s because I didn’t want to see myself as obligated to treat you the same way.
—You think? . . .
—Yes, I do.
—Well, look . . . I’ve been thinking, too, and I remembered about some of the stuff you said, Valentin, and I understood from that why you acted the way you did. I mean it.
—What was it that I told you?
—That all of you, when you’re involved in a struggle the way you are, you’re not supposed to . . . well, become attached . . . to anyone. Oh, maybe attached is saying too much, but why not, yes, to become attached . . . like a friend.
—That’s a very generous interpretation on your part.
—See, sometimes I really do understand the things you tell me . . .
—Yes, but in this case, the two of us are locked up here, so there is no struggle, no fight to win, you follow me?
—Mmm, go ahead.
—Then are we so pressured . . . by the outside world, that we can’t act civilized? Is it possible . . . that the enemy, out there, has so much power?
—I don’t follow you . . .
—Well, that everything that’s wrong with the world . . . and everything that I want to change . . . is it possible all that won’t allow me to . . . behave . . . even for a single minute, like a decent human being?
—What do you want to have? The water’s boiling.
—Put tea on for both of us, okay?
—Fine.
—I don’t know if you understand me . . . but here we are, all alone, and when it comes to our relationship, how should I put it? We could make any damn thing out of it we want; our relationship isn’t pressured by anyone.
—Yes, I’m listening.
—In a sense we’re perfectly free to behave however we choose with respect to one another, am I making myself clear? It’s as if we were on some desert island. An island on which we may have to remain alone together for years. Because, well, outside of this cell we may have our oppressors, yes, but not inside. Here no one oppresses the other. The only thing that seems to disturb me . . . because I’m exhausted, or conditioned or perverted . . . is that someone wants to be nice to me, without asking anything back for it.
—Well, about that I don’t know . . .
—What do you mean you don’t know?
—I can’t explain it.
—Come on, Molina, don’t try to pull that on me. Concentrate, and you’ll know what it is you’re thinking, soon enough.
—Well, don’t get the idea anything’s strange, but if I’m nice to you . . . it’s because I want to win your friendship, and, why not say it? . . . your affection. Same as I want to be good to my mom because she’s a nice person, who never did anybody any harm, because I love her, because she’s nice, and I want her to love me . . . And you too are a very nice person, very selfless, and you’ve risked your life for a very noble ideal . . . And don’t be looking the other way, am I embarrassing you?
—Yes, a little . . . But I’m looking at you, see? . . .
—And because you’re that way . . . I respect you, and I’m fond of you, and I want you to feel the same about me, too . . . Because, just look, my mom’s affection for me is, well, it’s the only good thing that’s happened to me in my whole life, because she takes me for what I am, and loves me just that way, plain and simply. And that’s like a gift from heaven, and the only thing that keeps me going, the only thing.
—Can I take some bread?
—Of course . . .
—But haven’t you . . . haven’t you any close friends . . . who also mean a lot to you?
—Yes, but look, my friends have always been . . . well, faggots, like I am, and among ourselves, well, how can I put it? We don’t put too much faith in one another, because of the way we are . . . so easy to scare, so wishy-washy. And what we’re always waiting for . . . is like a friendship or something, with a more serious person . . . with a man, of course. And that can’t happen, because a man . . . what he wants is a woman.
—And all homosexuals are that way?
—No, there’s the other kind who fall in love with one another. But as for my friends and myself, we’re a hundred percent female. We don’t go in for those little games—that’s strictly for homos. We’re normal women; we sleep with men.
—Sugar?
—Please.
—Delicious this fresh bread, isn’t it? . . . Best thing there is.
—Mmm, it is delicious . . . But I have to tell you something . . .
—You bet you do, the end of the zombie movie.
—Mmm, that too. But there’s something else, too . . .
—What’s the matter?
—Well, my lawyer told me things are moving along.
—What a jughead I am, I didn’t even ask. What else did he tell you?
—Well, that it seems like everything’s going to work out for me, but that when they put you up for a pardon, I mean when you’re being considered for a pardon, not when you already have one . . . anyway, you get switched to some other section of the penitentiary. So, before the week is out they’re going to move me into a new cell.
—Really? . . .
—It seems so.
—And the lawyer, how did he know?
—They told him in the parole office, when he brought the papers in to be processed.
—That’s great news . . . Wow, you must feel so happy . . .
—I don’t want to think about it yet. Or build up any hopes . . . You should try the egg salad.
—Should I?
—Honestly, it’s delicious.
—I don’t know if I should; my stomach clenched after what you said.
—Look, act like I never said a word, because nothing is certain at all. As far as I’m concerned they haven’t told me a thing.
—No, it’s all looking up for you; we should be celebrating.
—No, I don’t buy any of it . . .
—But I’m very happy for you, Molina, even though you’ll be leaving and . . . Anyway, that’s the way it goes . . .
—Have a baked apple . . . easier to digest.
—No, maybe we’ll leave it for later, or I’ll just leave mine. You go ahead and eat, as long as you’re in the mood.
—No, I’m not very hungry either. Know something? . . . probably if I finish the zombies, we’ll be hungrier then, so let’s eat later.
—Fine . . .
—It’s fun, the film, isn’t it?
—Mmm, it’s really been entertaining.
—In the beginning I didn’t remember a lot of it, but now it’s all coming back to me.
—Mmm . . . but wait awhile. Actually I . . . I don’t know what’s come over me, Molina, suddenly I’m . . . I’m all messed up.
—How come? Something hurting you? Your stomach?
—No, it’s my head that’s messed up.
—From what?
—I don’t know, maybe because you’re leaving, I don’t know exactly.
—Ah . . .
—Maybe I’ll just lie down and rest a little bit.
—Okay.
—Talk to you later.
—Molina . . . what time is it?
—It’s after seven. I already heard them making the dinner rounds.
—I can’t get a thing done . . . And I should be taking advantage of this last hour or so, before lights-out.
—Mmm . . .
—But my head’s not screwed on right or something.
—So rest then.
—You still haven’t told me the end of the film.
—You didn’t want me to.
—I hated to waste it, when I couldn’t get totally into it.
—You didn’t feel like shooting the breeze either.
—If I don’t know what I’m saying, I don’t like to talk. I don’t want to come out with just any old bullshit, you know . . .
—So rest.
—And what about finishing the film?
—Now?
—Why not?
—Okay, if you like.
—I studied awhile but I don’t even know what it was I studied.
—I can’t remember where we left off, what were we up to?
—With what, Molina?
—The film.
—That the girl’s all by herself in the jungle, and she hears the drums.
—Ah, right . . . The jungle is blazing with the noonday sun, the girl decides to risk going in the direction of where they seem to be playing those spooky drums. And she keeps plunging ahead, and loses one shoe, and then stumbles and rips her blouse, and then her face gets smudged with dirt, and she pushes her way past all these thorny plants tearing her skirt to shreds. And as she gets closer to where all the initiates in voodoo are singing, the jungle gets darker and darker, and the only light comes from all the candles they’ve got burning. And there’s an altar loaded with candles, nothing but candles from top to bottom, and a rag doll at the foot of the altar, with a pin stuck through its heart. The doll looks exactly like her husband. And all the native men and women are kneeling there, praying, and every now and then letting out these weird cries because of the great sorrow each one of them feels inside themself. But the girl looks around trying to spot the witch doctor; she’s incredibly scared of actually seeing him but at the same time her curiosity’s killing her from wanting to know what he looks like. And the drums are beating more furiously, and the natives are breaking into louder and louder howling, and the girl’s a complete mess—her hair’s all straggly, not to mention the condition of her clothes, and she keeps standing there right outside the circle of everybody who’s so busy praying. Suddenly the drums stop, the natives quit their wailing, a chill wind rises out of the tropical jungle and the witch doctor appears, with a kind of white tunic on down to his feet, but open at the chest, the chest of a young man matted with curly hair, but the face is of an old man—the majordomo. With a completely vicious expression, hypocritical as can be, he gives his blessing to all the natives, and with the other hand gives a signal to the drummers. Then a different rhythm begins, this one openly diabolical, and he looks toward the girl, but this time without bothering to conceal his lust, and he does some kind of abracadabra with his hand, and fixes his eyes on the girl, hypnotizing her. She looks away so as not to fall into his power, but she can’t resist his magnetism and little by little starts letting her head turn back, until finally she’s looking right at the witch doctor face to face. And she falls into a trance and while the drums are wildly beating out a rhythm that seems more sexy than anything else, she begins walking slowly toward where the witch doctor is, and the natives all start falling into a strange trance, they’re down on their knees and throwing their heads way back, until they almost touch the ground. And when the girl is within arm’s length of the witch doctor, like a hurricane wind gusts through the palms, blowing out all the candles, and the darkness is total, right at noon. The witch doctor grabs the girl by the waist and then his hands begin to slide up toward her breasts, and then he caresses her cheek-bones, and lifts her up in his arms to carry her into his hut. And then . . . Oh . . . wait, how did it go? Oh . . . what was it then? Oh, right, the kindly housekeeper, seeing the girl go off in the carriage, goes herself to find the girl’s husband and drags him off with her, pretending that the witch doctor had asked him to come immediately. Because, what was it now? she, the housekeeper, was actually the wife of the witch doctor, you know? of the majordomo. And when the girl sees her husband arrive, it breaks the spell, because the housekeeper yells to her, over and over. And that was just as the girl was about to go into the hut.
—Go on.
the poor one gives money to the rich one, the rich one asks the poor one for a handout and laughs at him, scoffs at the poor one and insults him for having nothing more to give, one phony coin
the poor one gives money to the rich one, the rich one asks the poor one for a handout and laughs at him, scoffs at the poor one and insults him for having nothing more to give, one phony coin
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