The Complete Stories (46 page)

Miss Algrave

She was liable to be judged. That’s why she didn’t tell anyone anything. If she did, people wouldn’t believe her because they didn’t believe in reality. But she, who lived in London, where ghosts exist down dark alleys, knew the truth.

Her day, Friday, had been like all the rest. It didn’t happen until Saturday night. But on Friday she did everything as usual. Though an awful memory tormented her: when she was little, about seven, she’d play house with her cousin Jack, in Granny’s big bed. And they’d do everything to make babies, without success. She had never seen Jack again nor did she wish to. If she was guilty, so was he.

Single, of course, a virgin, of course. She lived alone in a top floor flat in Soho. That day she’d gone grocery shopping: vegetables and fruit. Because she thought eating meat was a sin.

As she was passing through Piccadilly Circus and saw the women waiting for men on street corners, she practically vomited. And for money! It was too much to bear. And that statue of Eros, over there, indecent.

After lunch she went to work: she was the perfect typist. Her boss never looked at her and treated her, fortunately, with respect, addressing her as Miss Algrave. Her first name was Ruth. And she was of Irish stock. She was a redhead, wore her hair twisted into a severe bun at her nape. She had loads of freckles and her skin was so fair and delicate that it resembled white silk. Her eyelashes were red too. She was a pretty woman.

She took great pride in her figure: buxom and tall. But never had anyone touched her breasts.

She usually dined at a cheap restaurant right in Soho. She’d have pasta with tomato sauce. And she had never set foot in a pub: the smell of alcohol nauseated her, whenever she passed one. She felt offended by humanity.

She grew red geraniums that were a glory in spring. Her father had been a Protestant vicar and her mother still lived in Dublin with her married son. Her brother was married to a real bitch named Tootzi.

Once in a while Miss Algrave would write a letter of protest to
Th
e Times
. And they’d publish it. She took great pleasure in seeing her name: sincerely Ruth Algrave.

She bathed just once a week, on Saturdays. In order not to see her naked body, she wouldn’t even take off her knickers or bra.

The day it happened was Saturday so she didn’t have work. She awoke very early and had some jasmine tea. Then she prayed. Then she went out for some fresh air.

Near the Savoy Hotel she was nearly run over. If that had happened and she had died, it would have been awful because nothing would have happened to her that night.

She went to choir practice. She had an expressive voice. Yes, she was a privileged individual.

Then she went to lunch and permitted herself to eat prawns: they were so good it even seemed like a sin.

Then she headed for Hyde Park and sat on the grass. She’d brought a Bible to read. But—God forgive her—the sun was so fierce, so good, so hot, that she didn’t read a thing, she just sat on the ground lacking the courage to lie down. She did her best not to look at the couples who were kissing and fondling one another without the least bit of shame.

Then she went home, watered the begonias and took a bath. Then she paid a visit to Mrs. Cabot who was ninety-seven. She brought her a slice of raisin cake and they had tea. Miss Algrave felt very happy, even though . . . Well, even though.

At seven she went home. There was nothing to do. So she knit a winter sweater. In a magnificent color: yellow as the sun.

Before going to sleep she had more jasmine tea with biscuits, brushed her teeth, changed her clothes and got into bed. She herself had made her gauzy curtains and hung them.

It was May. The curtains billowed in the breeze on that most singular of nights. Why singular? She didn’t know.

She read a bit of the morning paper and turned off the bedside lamp. Through the open window she could see the moonlight. There was a full moon.

She sighed deeply because living alone was hard. Loneliness was crushing her. It was terrible not having a single person to talk to. She was the loneliest creature she knew. Even Mrs. Cabot had a cat. Ruth Algrave didn’t have any pets: they were too bestial for her taste. She didn’t have a television either. For two reasons: she couldn’t afford it and she didn’t want to sit there watching all that immorality flashing across the screen. On Mrs. Cabot’s television she’d seen a man kissing a woman on the lips. And not to mention the danger of spreading germs. Ah, if she could she’d write a letter of protest to
Th
e Times
every day. But it was no use protesting, apparently. Shamelessness was in the air. She once even saw a dog with a bitch. It shocked her. But if that was how God wanted things, so be it. But no one would ever touch her, she thought. She went on coping with her loneliness.

Even children were immoral. She avoided them. And she deeply regretted having been born from her father and mother’s lack of self-restraint. She was ashamed of their shamelessness.

Since she left uncooked rice on the windowsill, pigeons came to visit her. Sometimes they came into her bedroom. They were sent by God. So innocent. Cooing. But their cooing was somewhat immoral, though less so than seeing a half-naked woman on television. Tomorrow without fail she’d write a letter protesting the wicked ways of that accursed city of London. She even once saw addicts queuing outside a pharmacy, waiting their turn for an injection. How could the Queen allow it? A mystery. She’d write another letter denouncing the Queen herself. She wrote well, without grammatical errors and typed the letters on the office typewriter whenever she had a moment’s pause. Mr. Clairson, her boss, showered her published letters with praise. He’d even said she might one day become a writer. She’d felt proud and thanked him profusely.

There she was lying in bed with her loneliness. The even though.

That’s when it happened.

She sensed something coming through the window that wasn’t a pigeon. She was frightened. She said loudly:

“Who’s there?”

And the answer came in the form of wind:

“I am an I.”

“Who are you?” she asked trembling.

“I came from Saturn to love you.”

“But I don’t see anyone!” she cried.

“What matters is that you can sense me.”

And indeed she sensed him. She felt an electric frisson.

“What’s your name?” she asked fearfully.

“It doesn’t really matter.”

“But I want to call your name!”

“Call me Ixtlan.”

They understood one another in Sanskrit. His touch felt cold like a lizard’s, he made her shiver. On his head Ixtlan had a crown of intertwining snakes, tame from the terror of possible death. The cloak that covered his body was the most agonizing shade of violet, it was bad gold and coagulated purple.

He said:

“Take off your clothes.”

She took off her nightgown. The moon was enormous inside the bedroom. Ixtlan was white and small. He lay down beside her on the wrought-iron bed. And ran his hands over her breasts. Black roses.

Never before had she felt what she felt. It was too good. She was afraid it might end. It was as if a cripple were tossing his cane in the air.

She began to sigh and said to Ixtlan:

“I love you, my love! my great love!”

And—yes, indeed. It happened. She never wanted it to end. How good it was, my God. She craved more, more and more.

She thought: take me! Or rather: “I offer myself to thee.” It was the realm of the “here and now.”

She asked him: “when are you coming back?”

Ixtlan replied:

“At the next full moon.”

“But I can’t wait that long!”

“That’s how it is,” he said, coldly even.

“Am I going to have a baby?”

“No.”

“But I’ll die of longing for you! how will I manage?”

“Use yourself.”

He rose, kissed her chastely on the forehead. And left through the window.

She began weeping softly. She seemed like a sad violin without a bow. The proof that it all really happened was the blood-stained sheet. She put it away without washing it and could show it to whoever didn’t believe her.

She watched dawn arrive in a burst of pink. In the fog the first little birds began to chirp sweetly, not yet frenzied.

God was illuminating her body.

Yet, like a Baroness Von Blich nostalgically reclining beneath the satin canopy above her bed, she pretended to ring the bell to summon the butler who would bring her coffee that was hot and strong, strong.

She loved him and would wait ardently for the next full moon. She didn’t want to bathe so as not to wash off the taste of Ixtlan. With him it hadn’t been a sin but a delight. She no longer wished to write letters of protest: she no longer protested.

And she didn’t go to church. She was a fulfilled woman. She had a husband.

Then, on Sunday, at lunchtime, she ate filet mignon with mashed potatoes. The bloody meat was great. And she had Italian red wine. She was privileged indeed. She had been chosen by a being from Saturn.

She’d asked him why he chose her. He’d said it was because she was a redhead and a virgin. She felt bestial. Animals no longer nauseated her. Let them love one another, it was the best thing in the world. And she’d wait for Ixtlan. He’d return: I know it, I know it, I know it, she thought. And she no longer felt revulsion at the couples in Hyde Park. She knew how they felt.

How good it was to live. How good it was to eat bloody meat. How good it was to drink a really astringent Italian wine, somewhat bitter on the tongue and making it shrink.

She was now unsuitable for those eighteen and under. And she delighted in it, she drooled with pleasure at it.

Since it was Sunday, she went to choir practice. She sang better than ever and wasn’t surprised when she was chosen to be a soloist. She sang her hallelujah. Thus: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Then she went to Hyde Park and lay down in the warm grass, parting her legs slightly to let the sun in. Being a woman was a fine thing. Only a woman could know. But she thought: what if there’s a high price to pay for my happiness? It didn’t bother her. She’d pay whatever she had to. She had always paid and always been unhappy. And now her unhappiness was over. Ixtlan! Come back soon! I can’t wait any longer! Come! Come! Come!

She thought: what if he liked me because I’m a bit cross-eyed? At the next full moon she’d ask. If that was the reason, there was no doubt: she’d take it even further and go completely cross-eyed. Ixtlan, anything you want me to do, I’ll do it. Only, she was dying of longing. Come back, my love.

Yes. But she did something that counted as cheating. Ixtlan would understand and forgive her. At the end of the day, you had to take care of it, right?

Here’s what happened: unable to bear it any longer, she headed for Piccadilly Circus and sidled up to a hairy man. She took him back to her bedroom. She told him he didn’t have to pay. But he insisted and before going left a whole one-pound note on her bedside table! Though she did need the money. She was furious, however, when he didn’t care to believe her story. She showed him, almost waving it under his nose, the blood-stained sheet. He laughed at her.

On Monday morning she made up her mind: she’d no longer work as a typist, she had other talents. Mr. Clairson could go to hell. She’d walk the streets and take men back to her bedroom. Since she was good in bed, they’d pay her handsomely. She could drink Italian wine every day. She felt like buying a bright red dress with the money the hairy chap had left her. She’d let down her thick hair that was the most beautiful shade of red. She resembled a howl.

She had learned that she was quite valuable. If Mr. Clairson, that phoney, wanted her to work for him, it would have to be in some other capacity.

First she’d buy that low-cut red dress and then she’d go to the office, arriving on purpose, for the first time in her life, very late. And here’s what she’d say to her boss:

“I’ve had it with typing! Don’t play dumb with me! Want to know something? come to bed with me, you bastard! and another thing: pay me a high salary every month, you cheapskate!”

She was sure he’d go for it. He was married to a pale and insignificant woman, Joan, and had an anemic daughter, Lucy. He’ll live it up with me, that son of a bitch.

And when the full moon came—she would take a bath to purify herself of all those men to be ready for the feast with Ixtlan.

The Body

(“O corpo”)

Xavier was a belligerent and red-blooded man. Mighty strong, that man. He loved tangos. He went to see
Last Tango in Paris
and got awfully turned on. He didn’t get the movie: he thought it was a sex film. He didn’t realize it was the story of a desperate man.

On the night he saw
Last Tango in Paris
the three of them went to bed together: Xavier, Carmem and Beatriz. Everyone knew that Xavier was a bigamist: he lived with two women.

Every night it was one of them. Sometimes twice the same night. The odd one out would watch. Neither was jealous of the other.

Beatriz ate like a pig: she was fat and greasy. Whereas Carmem was tall and thin.

The night of the last tango in Paris was memorable for all three. By dawn they were exhausted. But Carmem got up in the morning, made a most sumptuous breakfast—with fat spoonfuls of thick cream—and brought it to Beatriz and Xavier. She felt groggy. She had to take a cold shower to pull herself together.

That day—Sunday—they had lunch at three in the afternoon. The one who cooked was Beatriz, the fat one. Xavier drank French wine. And he ate a whole chicken all by himself. The two women ate the other chicken. The chickens were stuffed with raisins and prunes tossed in manioc flour, all moist and good.

At six in the evening the three went to church. They resembled a bolero. Ravel’s bolero.

And at night they stayed home watching television and eating. That night nothing happened: all three were very tired.

And that’s how it went, day after day.

Xavier worked hard to support the two women and himself, their lavish meals. And sometimes he cheated on them both with a fantastic prostitute. But he didn’t mention it at home because he wasn’t crazy.

Days passed, months, years. No one died. Xavier was forty-seven years old. Carmem was thirty-nine. And Beatriz had just turned fifty.

Life was good to them. Sometimes Carmem and Beatriz would go shopping for super sexy nighties. And perfume. Carmem was more elegant. Beatriz, with her fat rolls, would pick out some little panties and a skimpy bra for those enormous breasts of hers.

One night Xavier didn’t come home until very late: the two women distraught. Little did they know he’d been with his prostitute. The three were in fact four, like the three musketeers.

Xavier came home with a bottomless hunger. And popped open a bottle of champagne. He was flush with vigor. He chatted enthusiastically with the two women, telling them that the pharmaceutical business he owned was making good money. And he suggested all three take a trip down to Montevideo, to a luxury hotel.

What a frenzy, packing the three bags.

Carmem brought all her complicated makeup. Beatriz went out and bought a miniskirt. They caught a plane. They sat in a row with three seats: he between the two women.

In Montevideo they bought whatever they wanted. Including a sewing machine for Beatriz and a typewriter Carmem wanted to learn how to use. She didn’t actually need anything, she was a poor wretch. She kept a diary: she’d write in the pages of her thick red notebook the dates Xavier sought her out. She’d let Beatriz read the diary.

In Montevideo they bought a cookbook. Except it was in French and they couldn’t understand a thing. The words looked more like dirty words.

Then they bought a recipe book in Spanish. And perfected their sauces and soups. They learned how to make roast beef. Xavier gained over six pounds and his bullish strength increased.

Sometimes the two women slept together. The day was long. And, though they weren’t homosexuals, they’d turn each other on and make love. Sad love.

One day they told Xavier about it.

Xavier quivered. And he wanted the two women to make love in front of him that night. But, on command like that, it all came to nothing. The two women cried and Xavier flew into a rage.

For three days he didn’t say a word to either.

However, during that time, and not on command, the two women went to bed together and it worked.

The three never went to the theater. They preferred television. Or going to dinner.

Xavier had bad table manners: he’d pick food up with his hands, make a lot of noise while chewing, besides eating with his mouth open. Carmem, who was more refined, felt disgusted and ashamed. The really shameless one was Beatriz who even went around the house naked.

No one knows how it began. But it began.

One day Xavier came home from work with lipstick stains on his shirt. He couldn’t deny that he’d been with his favorite prostitute. Carmem and Beatriz each grabbed a stick and chased Xavier all over the house. He ran in frantic desperation, shouting: sorry! sorry! sorry!

The two women, also worn out, finally stopped chasing him.

At three in the morning Xavier got the urge for a woman. He called Beatriz because she held less of a grudge. Beatriz, weak and tired, gave in to the desires of the man who was like a superman.

But the next day they informed him that they weren’t going to cook for him anymore. Let him work it out with the third woman.

The two would burst into tears every so often and Beatriz made them some potato salad with mayonnaise.

That afternoon the women went to the movies. They went to dinner and didn’t come home until midnight. To find Xavier despondent, sad and hungry. He tried to explain:

“It’s because sometimes I want it in the middle of the day!”

“Well,” said Carmem, “well why don’t you come home then?”

He promised he would. And cried. When he cried, it broke Carmem and Beatriz’s hearts. That night the two women made love in front of him and he was consumed with envy.

How did the desire for revenge begin? With the two women getting closer and despising him.

He didn’t keep his promise and sought out the prostitute. She turned him on because she talked dirty a lot. And she called him a son of a bitch. He took it all.

Until one fine day.

Or rather, one night. Xavier was sleeping peacefully like the good citizen he was. The two women were sitting at a table, pensive. Each was thinking about her lost childhood. And they thought about death. Carmem said:

“Someday all three of us will die.”

Beatriz answered:

“And for no reason.”

They had to wait patiently for the day they’d close their eyes forever. And Xavier? What would they do with Xavier? He looked like a sleeping child.

“Should we wait till Xavier dies of natural causes?” asked Beatriz.

Carmem thought and thought and said:

“I think the two of us should take care of it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But we’ve got to figure it out.”

“Just leave it to me, I know what to do.”

And doing nothing was out of the question. Soon it would be dawn and nothing would have happened. Carmem made them some very strong coffee. And they ate chocolate until it made them sick. And nothing, nothing at all.

They turned on the transistor radio and listened to a heartrending piece by Schubert. It was a piano solo. Carmem said:

“It has to be today.”

Carmem led and Beatriz followed. It was a special night: full of stars watching them, sparkling and tranquil. What silence. Oh what silence. They went up to Xavier to see if they might get inspired. Xavier was snoring. Carmem really did get inspired.

She said to Beatriz:

“In the kitchen are two big knives.”

“So?”

“So there are two of us and we’ve got two big knives.”

“So?”

“So, dummy, the two of us have weapons and we can do what we have to do. God commands it.”

“Isn’t it better not to talk about God at a time like this?”

“You want me to talk about the Devil? No, I’m talking about God, the lord of everything. Of space and time.”

So they went to the kitchen. The two big knives were sharpened, made of fine, polished steel. Would they have the strength?

Yes, they would.

They were armed. The bedroom was dark. They stabbed in the wrong places, piercing the heavy blanket. It was a cold night. Then they managed to distinguish Xavier’s sleeping body.

Xavier’s rich blood flowed all over the bed, onto the floor, a waste.

Carmem and Beatriz sat at the dining room table, under the yellow glare of the bare bulb, they were exhausted. Killing requires strength. Human strength. Divine strength. They were sweaty, mute, despondent. If they could have helped it, they wouldn’t have killed their great love.

Now what? Now they had to get rid of the body. The body was big. The body was heavy.

So the two went out to the garden and with the help of two shovels, dug a grave in the ground.

And, in the dark of night—they carried the body out to the garden. It was hard because, Xavier dead seemed to weigh more than when he was alive, since his spirit had left him. As they carried him, they groaned with exhaustion and pain. Beatriz was crying.

They laid the big body in the grave, covered it with the damp, fragrant soil from the garden, good soil for planting. Then they went back inside, made more coffee, and were somewhat revived.

Beatriz, being a hopeless romantic—she was constantly reading pulp romances involving star-crossed or lost loves—Beatriz got the idea to plant roses in that fertile soil.

So they went back to the garden, took a cutting of red roses and planted it on the tomb of the late lamented Xavier. Day was breaking. The garden was kissed with dew. The dew was a blessing on the murder. That’s what they thought, sitting out there on the white bench.

Days passed. They bought black dresses. And hardly ate. When night fell sadness overtook them. They no longer enjoyed cooking. Out of rage, Carmem, the hot-tempered one, tore up the cookbook in French. She kept the Spanish one: you never know when you might need it.

Beatriz eventually took over in the kitchen. Both ate and drank in silence. The red rose cutting seemed to have taken root. A nice green thumb, good thriving soil. It had all worked out.

And that took care of the problem.

But it so happened that Xavier’s secretary wondered about his extended absence. There were urgent documents to sign. Since there was no phone at Xavier’s house, he came over. The house seemed bathed in “
mala suerte
.”
*
The two women told him Xavier was on a trip, that he’d gone down to Montevideo. The secretary didn’t entirely believe it but seemed to buy the story.

The next week the secretary went to the Police. You don’t fool around with the Police. At first, the Police hadn’t wanted to believe the story. But, confronted with the secretary’s persistence, they lazily decided to search the polygamist’s house. All in vain: no sign of Xavier.

Then Carmem spoke up:

“Xavier’s in the garden.”

“In the garden? doing what?”

“Only God knows.”

“But we didn’t see anything or anybody.”

They went out to the garden: Carmem, Beatriz, the secretary whose name was Alberto, two police officers, and two other men nobody knew. Seven people. Then Beatriz, without a single tear in her eyes, showed them the flowering grave. Three men dug it up, destroying the rose bush that suffered human brutality for no reason.

And they saw Xavier. He looked horrible, deformed, already half-eaten, eyes open.

“Now what?” said one of the police officers.

“Now we arrest those two women.”

“But,” said Carmem, “let us be in the same cell.”

“Look,” said one of the officers in front of the stunned secretary, “the best thing to do is pretend nothing happened or else it’s gonna stir up a lot of noise, a lot of paperwork, a lot of chatter.”

“You two,” said the other officer, “pack your bags and go live in Montevideo. Don’t give us any more trouble.”

The two women said: thank you so much.

And Xavier didn’t say a thing. There really wasn’t anything to say.