Kiss of the Spider Woman (6 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
—How about if I finish the film?
—Yes, please.
—Where were we?
—Where the girl saves herself in the swimming pool.
—Right, so how did it go? . . . Now comes the confrontation between the psychiatrist and the panther woman.
—Can I interrupt? . . . You won’t get annoyed?
—What’s the matter?
—Better if we go on tomorrow, Molina.
—Not much left to finish.
—I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying. Sorry.
—Bored?
—No, not that. My head’s a mess. I want to just keep quiet and see if the hysterics will pass. Because that’s what my laughing’s all about, a fit of hysterics, nothing else.
—Whatever you want.
—I want to think about my woman, there’s something I’m not understanding, and I want to think about it. I don’t know if that’s happened to you, you feel like you’re about to understand something, you’re on the point of untangling the knot and if you don’t begin pulling the right thread . . . you’ll lose it.
—Fine, tomorrow then.
—Okay, tomorrow.
—Tomorrow we’ll be all finished with the film.
—You don’t know how sorry that makes me.
—You too?
—Yes, I’d like it to last a little longer. And the worst thing’s that it’s going to end sadly, Molina.
—But did you really like it?
—Well, it made our time go by faster, right?
—But you didn’t really really like it then.
—Yes I did, and it’s a shame to see it ending.
—But don’t be silly, I can tell you another one.
—Honestly?
—Sure, I remember lots of lovely, lovely films.
—Then great, you start thinking about one you liked a lot, and meanwhile I’ll think about what I have to think about, it’s a deal?
—Don’t lose that thread.
—Right.
—But if you drop the ball of yarn, I’ll give you zero in housekeeping, Miss Valentina.
—You just don’t worry yourself about me.
—All right, I won’t meddle anymore.
—And don’t call me Valentina, I’m no woman.
—How can I tell?
—Sorry, Molina, but I don’t give demonstrations.
—Don’t worry, I’m not asking for any.
—Good night, have a good sleep.
—Night, you too.
—I’m listening.
—Well, as I was telling you yesterday, I don’t remember this last part so well. That very night the husband calls her psychiatrist to get him to come to the house. They’re there waiting for her, for Irena, who hasn’t arrived yet.
—At whose house?
—The architect’s. But then the assistant calls up the architect to get him to go to the women’s hotel and from there to the police station, because the incident in the pool just happened, so the architect leaves the psychiatrist by himself for just a little while, no more, and, zap! Irena comes home, and finds herself face to face with the psychiatrist. It’s nighttime, obviously; the room’s lit with only a table lamp. The psychiatrist, who’s been reading, takes off his glasses, looks at her. Irena feels that same mixture of repulsion and desire for him, because he’s good-looking, like I told you, a sexy guy. And here something strange happens. She throws herself into his arms, because she feels so abandoned, nobody wants her, her husband’s forsaken her. And the psychiatrist interprets this as a sign that she’s interested in him sexually, and to top it off he thinks if he kisses her and even manages to go all the way, he’ll be able to rid her of those strange ideas about being a panther woman. And he kisses her, and they press up against each other, embracing and kissing, until all of a sudden she . . . she kind of slips out of his arms, looking at him through half-closed eyes, green eyes glittering with something like desire and hatred at the same time. And she breaks away from him and goes to the other end of that room filled with lovely turn-of-the-century furniture, all beautiful velvet armchairs and tables with crochet doilies on them. But she goes into that corner because the light from the table lamp doesn’t reach there. And she drops down to the floor, and the psychiatrist tries to defend himself, but it’s too late, because now over in that dark corner everything turns blurry for an instant, and before you know it she’s transformed into a panther, and he just manages to grab the poker from the fireplace to defend himself, but the panther’s already pounced on him, and he tries to strike with the poker, but she’s already ripped his throat open with her claws and the man’s already fallen to the floor with his blood gushing out. The panther snarls and bares a set of perfect white fangs and sinks her claws in again, this time into his face, to tear it to pieces, those cheeks and mouth she’d kissed a few moments ago. By then the assistant’s already with Irena’s husband who’d gone to meet her at the hotel and there at the front desk they try to call the psychiatrist to warn him he’s in danger, because now there’s no way around it, it’s not just Irena’s imagination, she really is a panther woman.
—No, she’s a psychopathic killer.
—Okay, but the telephone rings and rings and no one answers; the psychiatrist is lying dead, all his blood drained. Then the husband, the assistant and the police who’d already been called to the house, climb the stairs slowly, find the door open and inside the guy’s dead. Irena, she’s not there.
—And then?
—The husband knows where to find her, it’s the only place she’d go, and even though it’s midnight already, they go over to the park . . . more specifically, to the zoo. Oh, but I forgot to tell you something!
—What?
—That afternoon Irena went to the zoo the same as every afternoon to see the panther that had her hypnotized. And she was right there when the keeper came along with his keys to give the meat to the beasts. The keeper’s that absent-minded old guy I told you about. Irena kept at a distance but watched everything. The keeper came up with the keys, opened the lock on the cage, slid back the bolt, opened the door and tossed in a couple of gigantic chunks of meat, and afterwards shot the bolt back through the latch on the door again, but forgot the key in the lock. When he wasn’t looking, Irena approached the cage and took the key. Anyway, all that was in the afternoon but now it’s night already and the psychiatrist’s dead already, when the husband with the other one and the police rush toward the zoo, just a few blocks away. But Irena’s just getting there, at the very cage the panther’s in. Walking like a sleepwalker. Holding the keys in her hand. The panther’s asleep, but Irena’s odor wakes him up. Irena looks at him through the bars. Slowly she goes up to the door, puts the key in the lock, opens it. Meantime, the others are arriving; you hear police cars approaching with sirens going to clear a way through the traffic, even though at that hour the place is almost deserted. Irena slides back the bolt and opens the door, setting the panther free. Irena’s almost transported into another world; her expression’s strange, tragic and yet excited sort of, her eyes misty. The panther escapes from the cage in a single leap; for a split second he looks suspended in midair, with nothing in front of him but Irena. Only the force of his leap and Irena’s knocked down. Cars are pulling up. The panther runs through the park and across the road, just as a police car races by at full speed. The car hits him. They get out and find the dead panther. The architect goes toward the cages and finds Irena stretched out on the cobblestone, right where they met for the first time. Irena’s face is disfigured from the swipe of the claw. She’s dead. The young assistant comes over to where he’s standing and they walk off together arm in arm, trying to forget the terrible spectacle they’ve just seen, and, The End.
— . . .
—Did you like it?
—Yes . . .
—A lot or a little?
—I’m sorry it’s over.
—We had a good time, didn’t we?
—Yeah, for sure.
—I’m glad.
—I must be crazy.
—What’s wrong with you?
—I’m sorry it’s over.
—So what, I’ll tell you another one.
—No, it’s not that. You’re going to laugh at what I’m going to tell you.
—Let’s have it.
—I’m sorry because I’ve become attached to the characters. And now it’s all over, and it’s just like they died.
—So, Valentin, you too have a little bit of a heart.
—It has to come out some place . . . weakness, I mean.
—It’s not weakness, listen.
—Funny how you can’t get along without becoming attached to something . . . It’s . . . as if the mind had to secrete affection without stopping . . .
—You think so?
— . . . same way your stomach secretes juices for digestion.
—You really think so?
—Sure, like a leaky faucet. And those drops continue dripping on anything, they can’t be turned off.
—Why?
—Who knows . . . because they’re spilling over the top of their container.
—And you don’t want to think about your girl.
—But it’s like I can’t avoid it . . . because I get attached to anything that reminds me of her.
—Tell me a little what she’s like.
—I’d give . . . absolutely anything to be able to hold her, even for just a second.
—That day’ll come.
—Sometimes I think it’s never going to come.
—But you’re not a lifer.
—Something could happen to her.
—Write her, tell her not to take any chances, that you need her.
—Never. If you’re going to think like that, you’ll never change anything in this world.
—And you think you’re going to change the world?
—Yes, and I don’t care if you laugh . . . It makes people laugh to say it, but what’s got to be done more than anything . . . is change the world.
—But you can’t change it just like that, and you can’t do it all alone.
—But that’s just it, I’m not alone! . . . you get me? . . . There’s the truth, that’s what’s important! . . . That’s just it, right at this minute I’m not alone! I’m with her and with everybody who thinks like her and me . . . and I can’t let myself forget it. That’s the piece of thread that sometimes slips out of my fingers. But luckily I’ve got a good grip on it now. And I’m not about to let go . . . I’m not far from any of my comrades, I’m with them! Now, at this very moment! . . . It doesn’t matter if I can’t see them.
—If you can swallow something like that, great.
—What an idiot you are!
—Such names . . .
—Don’t be so annoying then . . . Don’t say things like that, as if I were some dreamer who kids himself about everything, because that’s not how it is! I’m not some loudmouth playing at cafe politics, understand? The proof’s that I’m here in this place, not in a cafe!
—Sorry.
—It’s all right.
—You started to tell me something about your girl and you never told me anything.
—No, better we forget the whole thing.
—Whatever you want.
—Even though there’s no reason not to talk. It shouldn’t upset me to talk about her.
—If it upsets you, don’t . . .
—It doesn’t upset me . . . Only it’s better for me not to tell you her name.
—I just remembered the name of the actress who played the assistant.
—What is it?
—Jane Randolph.
—Never heard of her.
—She goes back a ways, to the forties, around then. For your girl’s name we can simply say Jane Randolph.
—Jane Randolph.
—Jane Randolph in . . .
The Mystery of Cellblock Seven
.
The Mystery of Cellblock Seven
.
—One of the initials actually fits . . .
—Which?
—What do you want me to tell you about her?
—Whatever you want to say, what kind of girl she is.
—She’s twenty-four, Molina. Two years younger than me.
—Thirteen less than me.
—She always was a revolutionary. At first in terms of . . . well, I won’t hesitate with you . . . in terms of the sexual revolution.
—Please, tell me about it.
—She comes from a bourgeois family, people who aren’t very rich, but, you know, comfortable enough, two-story house in Caballito. But she spent her whole childhood and adolescence tormented by watching her parents destroying one another. With a father who deceived the mother, but you know what I mean . . .
—No, what?
—Deceived her by not telling her how he needed outside relationships. And the mother devoted herself to criticizing him in front of the daughter, devoted herself to being the martyr. I don’t believe in marriage—or in monogamy, to be more precise.
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