Kiss of the Spider Woman (4 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
—I go for that chick. It’s the strangest thing, you haven’t said anything about her but she strikes me as okay. Funny thing, imagination.
—She stays late with him, but it’s not that she’s on the make or anything, she’s already given him up for lost after the marriage, but she wants to help him as a friend now. And there they are working away after hours. It’s a big studio, with different tables to work at, to draw on, each architect has his own, but now they’ve all gone home and everything is swallowed up in darkness, except his table, which has a glass top, with light coming from underneath the glass, so their faces catch the light from below, and their bodies cast a rather sinister shadow on the walls, gigantic-looking, and the drawing rule looks more like a sword whenever he or the assistant picks it up for a minute to draw a line. But they work silently. She peeks at him now and then, and even though she’s dying to know, she never asks what’s bothering him.
—She’s okay. Considerate, discreet. Maybe that’s why I like her.
—Meanwhile, Irena is waiting and waiting and finally she decides to call his office. The assistant answers and hands the phone to him. Irena is jealous, she tries to hide it. He tells her he called earlier to let her know but she wasn’t in then. Obviously, she’d been to the zoo again. So since he catches her in the wrong she has to keep quiet, she can’t object about him. And from then on he begins to come home late, because something makes him put off going home.
—It’s all so logical, it’s fantastic.
—Then you’re contradicting yourself . . . You can see he’s normal, he just wants to sleep with her, that’s all.
—No, listen. Before, he went home willingly because he knew she wasn’t about to sleep with him, but now with analysis there’s a chance, and that upsets him. As long as she was just a baby, like at first, they didn’t do anything more than play around a little, like kids. And maybe by playing around that way they began to get somewhere sexually.
—Playing around like kids, God, how insipid!
—Doesn’t sound wrong to me, see, as far as your architect goes. Sorry if it sounds like I’m contradicting myself.
—What doesn’t sound wrong to you?
—That they began by playing around, without all the usual fireworks.
—Okay, so back to the film. But one thing—why’s he so willing to stay out with the assistant?
—Well, because he figures being married, nothing can happen. The assistant’s no sexual possibility anymore, because the wife’s apparently got him all served up already.
—That’s all in your head.
—If you embroider, why can’t I too?
—Just let me go on. One night Irena has dinner all prepared, and he doesn’t come home. Table’s all set, with the candles lit. She doesn’t know one thing though, that since it’s their wedding anniversary he’d left early that afternoon to pick her up outside her psychiatrist’s, and obviously, he doesn’t meet her because she never goes anymore. And he finds out how long it’s been since she’s been there and telephones Irena, who’s not at home, of course, she’s gone out like every other afternoon, drawn irresistibly toward the zoo. So then he goes back to his office in desperation, he needs to tell the whole thing to the assistant. And they go off to a nearby bar for a drink together, but it’s not so much a drink they want, but a chance to talk privately, away from the studio. When she sees it’s getting so late, Irena begins to pace back and forth in the room like a caged animal, and she calls up the office. No one answers. She tries to do something to pass the time, she’s terribly nervous, she goes over to the canary’s cage and notices how the canary flutters desperately, sensing her nearness, and blindly flits from one side of its little cage to the other, smashing its little wings. She doesn’t resist the impulse to open the cage and stick her hand in. The bird drops dead, as if struck down, sensing the closeness of her hand. Now Irena is desperate. All her hallucinations come back to her, she runs out, going off in search of her husband, he’s the only one she can ask to help her, the only person who’s going to understand her. But heading toward the office she unavoidably passes the bar and spots them. She stands still, she can’t take another step, she’s trembling with rage, with jealousy. The couple get up to leave, Irena hides behind a tree. She watches them say goodbye and separate.
—How do they say goodbye?
—He gives her a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing an elegant hat with the brim pulled down. Irena isn’t wearing any hat, her curly hair shines under the street lights along the deserted street, because she’s following the other one. The other one takes the direct route home, which means cutting through the park, Central Park, which is across from the office building, and by a street that sometimes is like a tunnel, because the park’s got like little hills, and the road’s straight, and at times it’s cut right through the hills, it’s like a regular street, with traffic but not much, like a shortcut, and a bus that cuts across there. And sometimes the assistant takes the bus so as not to walk so far, and other times she walks, because the bus only runs once in a while. And this time she decides to walk it, to air her thoughts a little, because her head is pounding after her talk with the guy. He’s told her everything, about how Irena doesn’t sleep with him, about the nightmares she keeps having of panther women. And the poor thing, who’s so in love with the guy, she really feels all confused, because she’s already resigned herself to losing him, and now, well, she’s hopeful again. And on the one hand she feels glad, now that all’s not lost, and on the other she’s afraid of deluding herself all over again and having to suffer for it later, coming out empty-handed every time. And she goes on thinking about all this, walking a little faster because it’s getting so cold. No one’s around, the park’s lost in shadows off to the side of the road, no wind, not a leaf stirring, so the only thing you hear is footsteps behind the assistant, a woman’s high heels clicking. The assistant turns around and sees a silhouette, but at some distance, and with so little light she can’t make out who’s there. But by now the clicking can be heard getting faster. So she begins to get alarmed, because you know how it is when you’ve been talking about something scary, like about corpses or a crime, you’re more impressionable, and you jump at every little thing, and this woman’s got her mind on panther women and all that and begins to panic and starts to hurry, but she’s just halfway through, with like about four blocks to go, where some buildings begin because the park comes to an end. So she almost begins to run, which is worse.
—Can I interrupt, Molina?
—Mmm-hmm, but there’s not much more to go now, for tonight I mean.
—Only one question, which intrigues me a little.
—What?
—You won’t get annoyed?
—Depends.
—It’d be interesting to know. And afterwards you ask me if you want.
—Let’s have it then.
—Who do you identify with? Irena or the other one?
—With Irena, what do you think? She’s the heroine, dummy. Always with the heroine.
—Okay, go on.
—And you, Valentin, with who? You’re in trouble because the architect seems like a moron to you.
—Go ahead and laugh. With the psychiatrist. But no making jokes now, I respected your choice, with no remarks. Go on.
—We can discuss it later if you want, or tomorrow.
—Okay, but go on a little more.
—A little bit, no more, I like to leave you hanging, that way you enjoy the film more. You have to do it that way with the public, otherwise they’re not satisfied. On the radio they always used to do that to you. And now on the TV soaps.
—Come on.
—Okay, we were just where this poor girl doesn’t know whether to break into a run or not, when at this point the footsteps almost can’t be heard anymore, the high heels on the other one I mean, because the steps sound different, almost inaudible. The ones the assistant hears now sound like the tread of a cat, or something worse. And she spins around and doesn’t see the woman—how could she disappear so suddenly? But she thinks she sees some other shadow, it slips by and immediately disappears too. And what she hears now is the sound of feet trampling the bushes in the park, the sound of an animal, approaching.
—And?
—Tomorrow we’ll go on. Ciao, sleep tight.
—You’ll pay for this.
—See you in the morning.
—Ciao.
CHAPTER
2
2
—You’re a good cook.
—Thank you, Valentin.
—But you’re getting me into bad habits. That could hurt me.
—You’re crazy, live for the moment! Enjoy life a little! Are you going to spoil our dinner thinking about what’s going to happen tomorrow?
—I don’t believe in that business of living for the moment, Molina, nobody lives for the moment. That’s Garden of Eden stuff.
—You believe in Heaven and Hell?
—Wait a minute, Molina, if we’re going to discuss things let’s have some ground rules, because if we don’t stick to the point it’s just kid stuff, strictly sophomoric.
—I’m sticking to the point.
—Great, then let me state my position first, so you’ll have some idea of it.
—I’m listening.
—There’s no way I can live for the moment, because my life is dedicated to political struggle, or, you know, political action, let’s call it. Follow me? I can put up with everything in here, which is quite a lot . . . but it’s nothing if you think about torture . . . because you have
no
idea what that’s like . . .
no
idea what that’s like . . .
—But I can imagine.
—No, you can’t imagine . . . Anyway, I put up with all of it . . . because there’s a purpose behind it. Social revolution, that’s what’s important, and gratifying the senses is only secondary. While the struggle goes on, and it’ll probably go on for the rest of my life, it’s not right for me to cultivate any kind of sensual gratification, do you get my point? because, really, that takes second place for me. The great pleasure’s something else, it’s knowing I’ve put myself in the service of what’s truly noble, I mean . . . well . . . a certain ideology . . .
—What do you mean, a certain ideology?
—My ideals . . . Marxism, if you want me to spell it out in only one word. And I can get that pleasure anywhere, right here in this cell, and even in torture. And that’s my real strength.
—And your girl?
—That’s also secondary. I’m secondary to her, too, because she also knows what’s most important.
—You taught her that?
—No, I think the two of us actually discovered it together. Make any sense, what I just explained to you?
—Mmm-hmm . . .
—You don’t sound too convinced, Molina.
—No, don’t pay any attention to me. And now I think I’ll just get some sleep.
—You’ve got to be kidding! And the panther woman? You left me hanging in suspense last night.
—Tomorrow, okay?
—Come on, what’s up?
—Nothing . . .
—Say something . . .
—No, I’m being silly, that’s all.
—Give me some idea, at least.
—Look, it’s just the way I am, I’m easily hurt by some things. And I cooked you this dinner, with my own provisions, and worst of all, mad as I am about avocados I gave you half, when I could just as easily have had the other half for myself tomorrow. And for what? . . . For you to throw it right back in my face about how I’m teaching you bad habits.
—But don’t act like that, you’re oversensitive . . .
—So what am I supposed to do about it? That’s how I am, very sentimental.
—I’ll say. It sounds just like a . . .
—What are you stopping for?
—Nothing.
—Say it, I know what you were going to say, Valentin.
—Don’t be silly.
—Say it, like a woman, that’s what you were going to say.
—Yes.
—And what’s so bad about being soft like a woman? Why is it men or whoever, some poor bastard, some queen, can’t be sensitive, too, if he’s got a mind to?
—I don’t know, but sometimes that kind of behavior can get in a man’s way.
—When? When it comes to torturing?
—No, when it comes to being finished with the torturers.
—But if men acted like women there wouldn’t be any more torturers.
—And you, what would you do without men?
—You’re right. They’re mostly brutes, but I like them.
—Molina . . . But you did say if they all acted like women then there wouldn’t be any torturers. You’ve got a point there, a flimsy one, but still, it’s a point.
—Nice of you to say so.
—What do you mean nice?
—Nice and uppity: “Still, it’s a point.”
—Okay, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.
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