The Complete Stories (7 page)

“The prisoners,” Daniel said trying to lend a lighthearted, disdainful tone to the words.

That was the last moment of understanding we had together.

There was an extremely long pause, the kind that plunges us into eternity. Everything around us had stopped.

With another sigh, I came back to life.

“I’m leaving.”

He didn’t make a move.

I walked to the door and at the threshold stopped again. I saw his back, his dark head lifted, as if he were looking straight ahead. I repeated, my voice singularly hollow:

“I’m leaving, Daniel.”

My mother had died from a heart attack, brought on by my departure. Papa had found refuge with my uncle, in the country.

Jaime took me back.

He never asked many questions. More than anything he wanted peace. We went back to our old life, though he never came completely close to me again. He sensed that I was different from him and my “lapse” frightened him, made him respect me.

As for me, I go on.

Alone now. Forever alone.

The Fever Dream

(“O delírio”)

The day is hot and near its peak when he gets up. He looks for his slippers under the bed, groping around with his feet, burrowing into his flannel pajamas. The sun starts to fall across the wardrobe, reflecting the window’s broad square onto the floor.

His neck feels stiff at the nape, his movements so difficult. His toes are some frozen, impersonal thing. And his jaw is stuck, clenched. He goes to the sink, fills his hands with water, drinks eagerly as it swishes around inside him as if in an empty flask. He splashes his forehead and exhales in relief.

From the window he can see the bright and bustling street. Boys are playing marbles in the doorway of the Mascote Bakery, a car is honking near the corner bar. Women are coming back from the farmers’ market carrying bags, sweating. Scraps of turnip and lettuce mingle with the dirt on the narrow street. And the sun, glaring and harsh, shining over it all.

He moves away in disgust. He turns back inside, looks at the unmade bed, so familiar after a night of insomnia . . . The Virgin Mary now stands out, distinct and commanding, in the light of day. In the shadows, she herself a shadowy figure, it’s easier not to believe in her. He starts walking slowly, dragging his lethargic legs, lifts the sheets, pats the pillow, and slides back in, with a sigh. He’s so humbled at the sight of the lively street and indifferent sun . . . In his bed, in his room, eyes shut, he is king.

He burrows in deeply, as if outside it were raining, raining, and here inside some warm and silent arms were drawing him close and transforming him into a small boy, small and dead. Dead. Ah, it’s the fever dream . . . It’s the fever dream. A very sweet light is spreading over the Earth like a perfume. The moon is slowly dissolving and a boy-sun languidly stretches his translucent arms . . . Cool murmurings of pure waters that surrender themselves to the hillsides. A pair of wings dances in the rosy atmosphere. Silence, my friends. The day is about to begin.

A faraway lament comes rising along the Earth’s body . . . There’s a bird that escapes, as always. And she, panting, suddenly tears asunder with a rumble, left with a gaping wound . . . Gaping like the Atlantic Ocean and not like a wild river! She vomits gushes of mud with every shriek.

Then the sun raises its trunk erect and emerges whole, powerful, bloody. Silence, friends. My great and noble friends, ye shall witness a millennial struggle. Silence. S-s-s-s . . .

From the black and broken Earth, tiny beings of pure light emerge one by one, gentle as the breath of a sleeping child, barely treading the earth with their transparent feet . . . Lavender colors hover in space like butterflies. Slender flutes extend toward the heavens and fragile melodies burst in the air like bubbles. The rosy shapes keep sprouting from the wounded earth.

All of a sudden, thundering anew. Is the Earth bearing children? The shapes dissolve in midair, scared away. Corollas wilt and colors darken. And the Earth, arms contracted in pain, splits open into fresh black fissures. A strong smell of wounded earth wafts in dense plumes of smoke.

A century of silence. And the lights reappear timidly, trembling still. From bloody and heaving grottoes, other beings are endlessly being born. The sun parts the clouds and shimmers warm shine. The flutes unfurl strident songs like gentle laughter and the creatures rehearse the most nimble of dances . . . Tiny, fragrant flowers throng over the dark wounds . . .

The continuously depleted Earth shrivels, shrivels in folds and wrinkles of dead flesh. The joy of the newborn beings has reached its peak and the air is pure sound. And the Earth ages rapidly . . . New colors emerge from the deep gashes. The globe now spins slowly, slowly, weary. Dying. One last little being made of light is born, like a sigh. And the Earth hides.

Her children take fright . . . break off from their melodies and nimble dances . . . Their delicate wings flutter in midair in a confused hum.

For a moment they shimmer. Then flicker out in exhaustion and in a blind beeline plunge vertiginously into Space . . .

Whose victory was it? A tiny man stands up, in the last row. He says, in an echoing, strangely lost voice:

“I can tell you who won.”

Everyone shouts, suddenly furious.

“The audience won’t say! The audience won’t say!”

The little man is intimidated, but goes on:

“But I know! I know: it was the Earth’s victory. It was her revenge, it was revenge . . .”

Everyone wails. “It was revenge” comes closer and closer, reaches a violent crescendo in every ear until, gigantic, it explodes in a roaring din. And in the abrupt silence, the space is suddenly gray and dead.

He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a piece of white wood. Looking beyond it, he sees other planks, all alike. And in the middle of it all dangling, is a bizarre animal that gleams, gleams and sinks its long, flashing claws into his pupils, until reaching the nape of his neck. It’s true that if he lowers his eyelids, the spider retracts its claws and is reduced to a red, moving speck. But it’s a question of honor. The one who should leave is the monster. He points and shouts:

“Get out! You’re made of gold, but get out!”

The dark girl, in a white dress, rises and says:

“You poor thing. The light’s bothering you.”

She turns on the light. He feels humiliated, deeply humiliated. Now what? it would be so easy to explain that it had been a light bulb . . . Just to hurt him. He turns his head to the wall and starts weeping. The dark girl lets out a small cry:

“Oh don’t do that, darling!”

She runs her hand over his forehead, stroking it slowly. A cool, small hand, that leaves in its wake a span of time in which there are no more thoughts. Everything would be fine if the doors weren’t slamming so much. He says:

“The Earth shriveled up, girl, just shriveled up. I didn’t even know there was so much light inside her . . .”

“But I just turned it off . . . See if you can sleep.”

“You turned it off?” he tries to make her out in the darkness. “No, it went out by itself. Now all I want to know is: given the choice, would she have refused to create, if only to avoid dying?”

“Poor thing . . . Oh you’re so feverish. If you’d sleep you’d definitely get better.”

“Later on she got her revenge. Because the creatures felt so superior, so free that they imagined they could get by without her. She always gets her revenge.”

The dark girl is now running her fingers through his damp hair, sending his ideas spinning with gentle motions. He takes her by the arm, interlaces his fingers with those delicate fingers. Her palm is soft. The skin a little rough near the nails. He rests his mouth on the back of her hand and moves it every which way, meticulously, his eyes wide open in the darkness. Her hand tries to escape. He holds onto it. It stays. Her wrist. Delicate and tender, it goes tick-tick-tick. It’s a little dove that he’s caught. The little dove is frightened and its heart goes tick-tick-tick.

“Is this a moment?” He asks in a very loud voice. “No, not anymore. And this one? Not anymore either. All you have is the moment to come. The present is already past. Lay the cadavers of these dead moments upon the bed. Cover them with a snow-white sheet, put them in a child’s coffin. They died while still children, sinless. I want adult moments! . . . Miss, come here, I want to tell you a secret: miss, what should I do? Help me, for my world is shriveling . . . Then what will become of my light?”

The room is so dark. Where is the Virgin Mary his aunt tucked into his suitcase, before he left? Where is she? At first he feels something moving very close to him. Then two cool lips alight on his parched mouth, gently, then more firmly. His eyes aren’t stinging anymore. Now his temples stop throbbing because two moist butterflies are hovering over them. Then they fly off.

He feels good, very, very sleepy . . .

“Miss . . .”

He falls asleep.

Now he’s on the terrace off Dona Marta’s bedroom, the one that opens onto the large yard. They brought him there, laid him on a wicker lounge chair, a blanket swaddling his feet. Though he was carried there like a baby, he’s worn out. He thinks that not even a fire would make him get up now. Dona Marta wipes her hands on her apron.

“Now then, my boy, how are your legs? This is my boardinghouse; I’m happy you’re living here, sir. But, my own business interests aside, I’d suggest you go back to the North. Only your own family could keep you to this restful routine, with regular hours for sleeping and eating . . . The doctor didn’t like it when I told him how you’ve been keeping the light on into the wee hours, reading, writing . . . Not only because of the electricity, but, for Heaven’s sake, that’s no way to live . . .”

He hardly pays attention. He can’t think much, his head suddenly hollow. His eyes sink, tired.

Dona Marta winks.

“My goddaughter came to pay another little visit . . .”

The girl enters. He looks at her. She gets flustered, blushes. So what happened? On his hands he feels the touch of somewhat rough skin. On his forehead . . . On his lips . . . He stares at her. What happened? His heart speeds up, beats hard. The girl smiles. They remain silent and feel good.

Her presence came like a gentle jolt. The melancholy is already leaving him and, lighter now, he takes pleasure in sprawling out in the chair. He thrusts his legs out, kicks off the blanket. It’s not cold anymore and his head’s not quite so empty. It’s also true that fatigue keeps him in his seat, lethargic, in the same position. But he surrenders to it voluptuously, benevolently observing his confused desire to breathe frequently, deeply, to bare himself to the sun, to take the girl’s hand.

For so long he hasn’t been able to really examine himself, hasn’t allowed himself a thing . . . He’s young, after all, he’s young . . . He smiles, out of pure joy, almost childish. Some gentle thing wells up from his chest in concentric waves and spreads throughout his body like musical swells. And the good weariness . . . He smiles at the girl, looks at her gratefully, lightly desires her. Why not? An escapade, yes . . . Dona Marta is right. And his body has its demands too.

“Did you ever visit me before?” he ventures.

She says yes. They understand one another. They smile.

He breathes more deeply still, pleased with himself. He asks excitedly:

“Do you remember when the little man in the last row stood up and said, ‘I know . . . and . . .’ ”

He breaks off in fear. What’s he saying? Mad phrases he’s blurting out, unfounded . . . And now? They both grow serious. Now reticent, she says politely, coolly:

“Don’t worry. You had a bad fever, sir, you were delirious . . . It’s natural not to remember the fever dream . . . or anything else.”

He looks at her in disappointment.

“Ah, the fever dream. I’m sorry, when it’s over we don’t know what really happened and what was a lie . . .”

She’s now a stranger. Failure. He looks at her from behind, observes her common, delicate profile.

But that bodily languor . . . The heat.

“But I do remember everything,” he says suddenly, determined to attempt the escapade anyway.

She gets flustered, blushes again.

“How so . . .?”

“Yes,” he says more calmly and suddenly almost indifferently. “I remember everything.”

She smiles. Little does she know, he thinks, how much this smile means to him: helping him go down a more convenient route, where more is permitted . . . Perhaps Dona Marta is right and, with the gentleness of convalescence, he agrees with her. Yes, he thinks a bit reluctantly, be more human, don’t worry, live. He returns the girl’s gaze.

However, he doesn’t feel any particular relief after deciding to pursue an easier life. On the contrary, he feels a slight impatience, an urge to steal away as if he were being pressured. He invokes a powerful thought that makes him calmly consider the idea of changing himself: one more illness like this and he might be left incapacitated.

Yet he’s still uneasy, worn out in advance by what is to come. He seeks the landscape, suddenly dissatisfied, without knowing why. The terrace grows gloomy. Where is the sun? Darkness has fallen, it’s cold. For a moment he feels the darkness itself inside him, a dim desire to dissolve, to disappear. He doesn’t want to think, can’t think. Above all, don’t make any decisions right now—put it off, you coward. You’re still sick.

The terrace opens onto a compact grove. In the half-light, the trees sway and moan like resigned old women. Ah, he’ll sink into the chair infinitely, his legs will go to pieces, nothing will remain of him . . .

The sun reappears. It drifts out from behind the cloud and emerges whole, powerful, bloody . . . Its brilliance shimmers over the little wood. And now its whispering is the ever so gentle lilt of a transparent flute, extended toward the heavens . . .

He sits up in the chair, a little surprised, dazzled. Frenzied thoughts suddenly collide in his head . . . Yes, why not? Even the fact of the dark girl . . . Is the entire fever dream rising up before his eyes? Like a painting . . . Yes, yes . . . He gets excited. But what poetic material does it contain . . . “The Earth is bearing children.” And the dance of those beings upon the open wounds? Heat returns to his body in faint waves.

“Do me a favor,” he says eagerly. “Get Dona Marta . . .”

She comes.

“Will you bring me the notebook on top of my desk? And a pencil too . . .”

“But . . . Sir, you can’t work now . . . You’ve hardly left your bed . . . You’re thin, pale, you look like someone sucked all your blood . . .”

He stops, suddenly pensive. And most importantly if she only knew how much effort it took him to write . . . When he began, every fiber in his body stood on end, irritated and magnificent. And until he covered the paper with his jittery scrawl, until he felt that it extended him, he didn’t stop, depleting himself until the very end . . . “The Earth, her arms contracted in pain . . .” Yes, his head’s already hurting, heavy. But could he contain his light, to spare himself?

He smiles a sad smile, a little proud perhaps, apologizing to Dona Marta. To the girl, for the frustrated escapade. To himself, above all.