The Unknown University (21 page)

THE SHEET

The Englishman said it wasn’t worth it.
For a long time he wondered what
the Englishman could mean.
Ahead of him the shadow of a man slipped though the
forest.
He rubbed his knees but made no move to get up.
The man popped up from
behind a bush.
Over his forearm, like a waiter approaching his first customer of the
evening, he carried a white sheet.
His movements were slightly clumsy and yet he
radiated a serene authority when he walked.
The hunchback assumed that the man had
seen him.
With a little yellow cord the man tied a corner of the sheet to a pine,
then tied the other corner to the branch of another tree.
He repeated the operation
with the bottom corners, after which the hunchback could only see his legs, because
the rest of his body was hidden by the screen.
The hunchback heard him cough.
His
legs began moving placidly, eventually bringing the man back around the other side.
He contemplated the knots with which the sheet was tied to the pines.
“Not bad,”
said the hunchback, but the man ignored him.
He reached his left hand up to the top
left corner and slid it, the palm against the cloth, to the center.
Once he had done
that, he removed his hand and tapped the sheet a few times with his index finger, as
if to test its tension.
He turned to face the hunchback and sighed in contentment.
Then he clicked his tongue.
His hair fell over his forehead, which was damp with
sweat.
He had a long red nose.
“Not bad, in fact,” he said.
“I’m going to show a
film.”
He smiled as if in apology.
Before he left he looked up at the darkening
treetops.

MI ÚNICO Y VERDADERO AMOR

En la pared alguien ha escrito «mi único y verdadero amor».
Se puso el
cigarrillo entre los labios y esperó a que el tipo se lo encendiera.
Era blanca y
pecosa y tenía el pelo color caoba.
Alguien abrió la puerta posterior del coche y
ella entró silenciosamente.
Se deslizaron por calles vacías de la zona residencial.
La mayoría de las casas estaban deshabitadas en esa época del año.
El tipo aparcó en
una calle estrecha, de casas de una sola planta, con jardines idénticos.
Mientras
ella se metía en el cuarto de baño preparó café.
La cocina era de baldosas marrones
y parecía un gimnasio.
Abrió las cortinas, en ninguna de las casas de enfrente había
luz.
Se quitó el vestido de satén y el tipo le encendió otro cigarrillo.
Antes de
que se bajara las bragas el tipo la puso a cuatro patas sobre la mullida alfombra
blanca.
Lo sintió buscar algo en el armario.
El armario estaba empotrado en la pared
y era de color rojo.
Lo observó al revés, por debajo de las piernas.
Él le sonrió.
Ahora alguien camina por una calle donde sólo hay coches estacionados al lado de sus
respectivas guaridas.
En la avenida parpadea el letrero luminoso del mejor
restaurante del barrio, cerrado hace mucho tiempo.
Las pisadas se pierden calle
abajo, a lo lejos se ven las luces de algunos automóviles.
Ella dijo no.
Escucha.
Alguien está afuera.
El tipo encendió un cigarrillo junto a la ventana, después
regresó desnudo a la cama.
Era pecosa y a veces fingía dormir.
La miró dulcemente
desde el marco de la puerta.
Alguien crea silencios para nosotros.
Pegó su rostro al
de ella hasta hacerle daño y se lo metió de un solo envión.
Tal vez gritó un poco.
Cielo raso pardo.
Lámpara de cubierta marrón claro.
Un poco sucia.
Se quedaron
dormidos sin llegar a despegarse.
Alguien camina calle abajo.
Vemos su espalda, sus
pantalones sucios y sus botas con los tacones gastados.
Entra en un bar y se acomoda
en la barra como si sintiera escozor en todo el cuerpo.
Sus movimientos producen una
sensación vaga e inquietante en el resto de los parroquianos.
¿Esto es Barcelona?,
preguntó.
De noche los jardines parecen iguales, de día la impresión es diferente,
como si los deseos fueran canalizados a través de las flores y enredaderas.
«Cuidan
sus coches y sus jardines» .
.
.
«Alguien ha creado un silencio especial para
nosotros» .
.
.
«Primero se movía de dentro hacia afuera y luego con un movimiento
circular» .
.
.
«Quedaron completamente arañadas sus nalgas» .
.
.
«La luna se ha
ocultado detrás del único edificio grande del sector» .
.
.
«¿Es esto Barcelona?» .
.
.

MY ONE TRUE LOVE

On the wall someone has written “my one true love.”
She put the
cigarette between her lips and waited for the man to light it for her.
She was
pale-skinned and freckled and had mahogany-colored hair.
Someone opened the back
door of the car and she got in silently.
They glided along the deserted streets of a
residential neighborhood.
It was the time of year when most of the houses were
empty.
The man parked on a narrow street of single-story houses with identical
yards.
She went into the bathroom and he made coffee.
The kitchen had brown tiles
and looked like a gym.
She opened the curtains, there were no lights in any of the
houses across the street.
She took off her satin dress and the man lit another
cigarette for her.
Before she pulled down her underpants the man arranged her on all
fours on the soft white rug.
She heard him look for something in the wardrobe.
The
wardrobe was built into the wall and it was red.
She watched him upside down,
through her legs.
He smiled at her.
Now someone is walking down a street where cars
are parked only next to their respective lairs.
Above the street flickers the
lighted sign of the neighborhood’s best restaurant, closed a long time ago.
Footsteps vanish down the street, headlights are visible in the distance.
She said
no.
She listens.
There’s someone outside.
The man lit a cigarette over by the
window, then came back naked to the bed.
She was freckled and sometimes she
pretended to be asleep.
He looked at her sweetly from the door.
There are silences
made just for us.
He pressed his face against hers until it hurt and pushed himself
into her with a single thrust.
Maybe she screamed a little.
Dun ceiling.
Light brown
lampshade.
Kind of dirty.
They fell asleep without moving apart.
Someone walks down
the street.
We see his back, his dirty pants and his down-at-the-heel boots.
He goes
into a bar and settles himself at the counter as if he felt a prickling all over his
body.
His movements produce a vague, disturbing sensation in the other drinkers.
Is
this Barcelona?
he asked.
At night the yards look alike, by day the impression is
different, as if desires were channeled through the plants and flower beds and
climbing vines.
“They take good care of their cars and yards” .
.
.
“Someone has
made a silence especially for us” .
.
.
“First he moved in and out and then in a
circular motion” .
.
.
“Her buttocks were covered in scratches” .
.
.
“The moon has
hidden itself behind the only tall building in the neighborhood” .
.
.
“Is this
Barcelona?”
.
.
.

INTERVALO DE SILENCIO

Observe estas fotos, dijo el sargento.
El hombre que estaba sentado en
el escritorio las fue descartando con ademán indiferente.
¿Cree usted que podemos
sacar algo de aquí?
El sargento parpadeó con un vigor similar al de Shakespeare.
Fueron tomadas hace mucho tiempo, empezó a decir, probablemente con una vieja Zenith
soviética.
¿No ve nada raro en ellas?
El teniente cerró los ojos, luego encendió un
cigarrillo.
No sé a qué se refiere.
Mire, dijo la voz .
.
.
«Un descampado al
atardecer» .
.
.
«Larga playa borrosa» .
.
.
«A veces tengo la impresión de que
nunca antes había usado una cámara» .
.
.
«Paredes descascaradas, terraza sucia,
camino de gravilla, un letrero con la palabra oficina» .
.
.
«Una caja de cemento a
la orilla del camino» .
.
.
«Ventanales desdibujados de restaurante» .
.
.
No sé
adónde diablos quiere llegar.
El sargento vio por la ventana el paso del tren;
llevaba gente hasta el techo.
No aparece ninguna persona, dijo.
La puerta se cierra.
Un poli avanza por un largo pasillo tenuemente iluminado.
Se cruza con otro que
lleva un expediente en la mano.
Apenas se saludan.
El poli abre la puerta de una
habitación oscura.
Permanece inmóvil dentro de la habitación, la espalda apoyada
contra la puerta de zinc.
Observe estas fotos, teniente.
Ya no importa.
¡Mire!
Ya
nada importa, regrese a su oficina.
«Nos han metido en un intervalo de silencio.» Lo
único que quiero es regresar al lugar donde fueron tomadas.
Estas cajas de cemento
son para la electricidad, allí se colocan los automáticos o algo parecido.
Puedo
localizar la tienda donde fueron reveladas.
«Esto no es Barcelona», dice la voz.
Por
la ventana empañada vio pasar el tren repleto de gente.
La luz recorta los contornos
del bosque sólo para que unos ojos entornados disfruten del espectáculo.
«Tuve una
pesadilla, desperté al caer de la cama, luego estuve casi diez minutos riéndome.»
Por lo menos hay dos colegas que reconocerían al jorobadito pero justo ahora están
lejos de la ciudad, en misiones especiales, mala suerte.
Ya no importa.
En una foto
pequeña, en blanco y negro como todas, puede verse la playa y un pedacito del mar.
Bastante borrosa.
Sobre la arena hay algo escrito.
Puede que sea un nombre, puede
que no, tal vez sólo sean las pisadas del fotógrafo.

INTERVAL OF SILENCE

Look at these pictures, said the sergeant.
The man who was sitting at
the desk flipped through them indifferently.
Do you think there’s something here?
The sergeant blinked with Shakespearean vigor.
They were taken a long time ago, he
started to say, probably with an old Soviet Zenith.
Don’t you see anything strange
about them?
The lieutenant closed his eyes, then lit a cigarette.
I don’t know what
you’re talking about.
Look, said the voice .
.
.
“A vacant lot at dusk” .
.
.
“Long
blurry beach” .
.
.
“Sometimes you’d think he’d never used a camera before” .
.
.
“Crumbling walls, dirty terrace, gravel path, a sign that says Office” .
.
.
“A
cement box by the side of the road” .
.
.
“Restaurant windows, out of focus” .
.
.
I
don’t know what the hell he’s trying to get at.
Through the window, the sergeant
watched the train go by; it was crowded to the roof with passengers.
There’re no
people in them, he said.
The door closes.
A cop walks down a long, dimly lit
hallway.
He passes another cop with a file in his hand.
They barely nod at each
other.
The cop opens the door of a dark room.
He stands motionless inside the room,
his back against the metal door.
Look at these pictures, Lieutenant.
It doesn’t
matter anymore.
Look!
Nothing matters anymore, go back to your office.
“We’ve been
consigned to an interval of silence.”
All I want is to go back to the place where
they were taken.
Those cement boxes are for power lines, that’s where the circuit
breakers go, maybe.
I can find the shop where they were developed.
“This isn’t
Barcelona,” says the voice.
Through the foggy window he saw the train go by full of
people.
The woods are silhouetted against the light just so that half-closed eyes
can enjoy the show.
“I had a nightmare, and woke up when I fell out of bed, then I
laughed at myself for almost ten minutes straight.”
There are at least two other
cops who would recognize the hunchback, but they’re away right now, on special
assignments, worse luck.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
In a small photo, black and
white like all the rest, you can see the beach and a little piece of sea.
Pretty
fuzzy.
There’s something written in the sand.
Maybe it’s a name, maybe not, it might
just be the photographer’s footsteps.