Read Bad Light Online

Authors: Carlos Castán

Bad Light (14 page)

BOOK: Bad Light
12.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
19
(gallows)

Those days with Nadia were the best thing that had happened to me in an awful long time. There were even evenings on which she busied herself knitting while I lay on her sofa, reading peacefully, my feet resting on the cushion she had placed on the coffee table and the two of us covered by the same blanket, which we grew to see as a metaphor for tedium of the sweetest sort. We had for the most part succumbed to a state of gentle melancholy, broken only by the intermittent stabs of savage desire to which we fell prey in the most unlikely moments. We were forever looking at each other, we spoke little, and the silence that enveloped us stood in stark contrast to the frenzied fits of passion that came hot on its heels, the buttons torn off in haste, her tennis player’s moans, pinned against the kitchen counter. We ourselves were frightened by that contrast and by our own inability to do anything by halves. Later, barely saying a word, we’d console each other for all the guilt writhing beneath the surface. We asked for each other’s forgiveness and never withheld it. She was the mistress of my sorrow, and all of the storms, all of the waves of fear ended up breaking between her legs.

We resolved to head outdoors to see how what we had between us might fare in the open air. The idea was to walk among people, to position ourselves among the rest of the world’s things to see how it went, and that aroma, so otherworldly, of pleasure and nightmare, slipped from our skin. We went to see a film at the Eliseo movie theater. Staring straight ahead at the screen, she started fondling me, before resting her head on my shoulder—I could tell she was crying—and, finally, falling asleep. One day, a fierce wind blowing, we took a trip to the old town of Belchite and strolled among the ruins, barely exchanging a word. A plane (one from this century, I think) cut across the sky at one point and made us shiver. Wearing a white headscarf, she sat atop the rubble so that I might photograph her. In those pictures she looks like a frightened Italian refugee amid the ruins of an air raid that’s escaped from time. We were forced to beat a hasty retreat when the tower and the walls looked all set to crumble above our heads under the northern wind.

At that time, I returned to the old folks’ home to see my mother. In a few short weeks, her memory and general well-being had taken a considerable turn for the worse. She did not ask me to take her to any cemeteries this time. When I made the offer myself, she gave me a puzzled look, as if wondering what on earth she might possibly have to do out there among the graves. I was pleased that she had forgotten about death and, in general, the causes of a sorrow that now lived as if untethered within her, now just a free-floating nebula. The sorrow that could still be seen in her expression seemed purely a matter of force of habit. There comes a point when the composition of a face—the wrinkles, the bags under the eyes, the gaze—serves only to look sad. By then, it is already too late for any redemption. I don’t think she had the slightest idea who I was, aside from the fact that my voice and my face may have struck her as vaguely familiar.

“Listen up a minute, please, tell me something: Do you know who I am?”

She tried to dodge the question, but I repeated it. And without taking my eyes off hers, up close, I forced her to reply.

“Well, no, I don’t know,” she said at last, “the truth is I don’t know. But something very close to my heart.”

Then she began telling me, one more time, the story of her friend Gisia Paradís. I knew that the story, in her mouth, was not a long one, so I made no protest, and I summoned all my patience and sat back to listen again, as if it were the very first time, to the old, familiar exploits of my mother’s friend. How pretty she was, how much they had loved each other as young girls, and how her friend had left the lovely Provincia with hopes of becoming an actress—that’s how gorgeous she was—and of making it big in the capital and all that jazz. Though she ended up plying her trade in a few movies between ´59 and ´67, all the talk back in her hometown, always in somewhat hushed tones, was of poor Gisia, her head in the clouds, her flings with men and maybe, who knows, with drugs. Taken for a ride, abused. They all liked to picture the girl, her mascara smeared by tears, in one of those dens of iniquity that stay open all night long, lit up in red, a glass in her hand and all her dreams lying on the floor. And my mother told me how one day, in some local festival, her friend had turned up in the lovely Provincia on board a white Mercedes, bigger and shinier than the sort they rented out for a fortune when the great and the good tied the knot back in those days, and how she descended from the car in much the same way the great artists of the day alighted from theirs, feigning a clumsiness that would allow them to drag the process out a second or two more, knees on display for all to see and skirt hiked up an inch or too higher than might be deemed reasonable, just as the flashes of the throng of photographers waiting at the door to the theatre went off, almost in unison. And she told me how Gisia’s door was opened by a gentleman who one second before, in the manner of a presidential bodyguard, had dashed around from the other side of the car, and that gentleman was none other than Carlos Larrañaga. Carlos Larrañaga, no less. And how that instant was worth an entire lifetime, for even though Gisia was to meet a premature end not long after, the event had been witnessed by the whole town, and she had managed—without entirely wanting to, mind, for she wasn’t like that, Gisia was always such a sweetheart, what light she gave off—to rub all their noses in it, triumphantly watching, albeit for that one day only, as their envy was all of a sudden struck dumb, the glances of astonishment, the silenced blabbermouths, the speed at which the smugness of those fine folks gave way to rage and bafflement among that cluster of ladies, some with their husbands hanging from their arms, all pressed up against the security fences and even dressed up in all their finery, fresh from the neighborhood hairdresser’s, who looked like parrots, if not down-and-outs, at Gisia’s side. Ever since I was a child, I have always wondered why my mother was so drawn to that simple story and above all why, against her nature, she flew in the face of all of her neighbors and championed the dazzling downfall of Gisia Paradís, standing up for a life she imagined to be filled with everything she found most reprehensible: late-night bars, drugs she couldn’t even name, mornings in strange beds, bags of ice for aching heads, gifts from gentlemen to be pawned off for a pitiful sum to cover the rent. No doubt the key to her loyalty lay in the fact that as young girls, back in their neighborhood days, lying on the ground and gazing up at the summer sky, the pair of them had spoken of their dreams and of everything they hoped to make of their lives, and had wished each other luck with a sincerity that perhaps no longer exists in adult life. I also think that what my mother truly envied about her friend was not her wayward artistic ways in search of life in the city at night, or her dresses, or the fact that she broke out a fresh pair of panty hose every three or four days, or anything else in her world of red lights and slimy producers. What she truly envied was everything her friend had escaped by leaving, the webs she had slipped through, even at the cost of ruining her own life: a wedding in the Church of Santo Domingo, a Seat 600 crammed full of kids heading for La Peña reservoir, ten o’clock mass, the street market on Tuesdays, the chorus lines of windbags waiting for their children at the school gates, eleven o’clock mass, the
Educación y Descanso
union membership card that entitled you to use the swimming pool at a discount, the endless scrubbing, the
Lagarto
-brand bars of soap, the widow’s pension, twelve o’clock mass, the Sunday afternoons sipping hot chocolate in dimly lit cafés, the friends who tell you to cheer up and join them for a night on the town, the indignity of it all, the bachelors, the bingo, the defeat.

I saw her looking at me, my mother, trying to figure out exactly who I was. It has always seemed to me that it saddens her to look at me, even now that she no longer knew who stood before her. It’s as if my identity had been wiped from her memory before her worry for me, and that worry, which had outlived my name in her brain, was now drifting around in there, bereft and aimless.

Listen, Mom, I’m telling you this precisely because I know that you don’t understand me or understand who I am, where this guy talking to you now and taking you by the hand has sprung from, and because, when all is said and done, you’ll have forgotten before long: I’m happy now, you know? Not because things are looking up. Things never do, that’s just the way of things. It’s hard to explain, like this, sitting before one of these foul cups of coffee they serve in here, lukewarm and stomach-churning, so grandmotherly, and with you sitting there in front of me, staring back at me. But I feel I owe it to you, for you have always thought that there was not enough light in my eyes, and you suffered because of that, and you’ve spent your life searching for some sign of happiness in me, no matter how small. There’s this woman, you see? You still asked me about that not even a year ago; so here’s the thing, I’ll spare you the bit about her name and what she does for a living and all those details that don’t matter at all now, but if you only knew, if you could only understand what I feel every time my semen spurts out toward the sky of her mouth, how my heart races at that moment, then perhaps the melancholy that lingers on your face every time you look at me would be wiped away. She runs it over the roof of her mouth, it doesn’t disgust her in the slightest. She looks at me as she swallows it, then wipes me off very slowly with a damp towel, all without saying a word, before going back to whatever it was she was doing, just like that, to her book, her knitting. Then, very serious, she crosses her legs again on the other end of the couch as she listens, now without looking at me, to my ragged breathing. Thank you for smiling, Mom. Thank you for not understanding a thing and yet looking at me as if you understood. Guess what? I sometimes take a hundred euros out of your savings account. For this and that, for myself. That’s right, at this stage of the game. Me, who not long ago dreamed of buying a house in the country for Dad and you. Now he’s dead and I don’t know where you are, even though you sit here before me, with those eyes that are the same eyes that have always watched me and which, truth be told, look at first glance like something more than what they actually are: the windows of an uninhabited house.

We saw each other almost every day, Nadia and I. Almost always at her apartment, a spotless, one-room hideout where everything was an immaculate white—the walls, the furniture, the sheets. Though she claimed to live there, it did not take me long to realize she wasn’t telling the truth. Late one night, after she had convinced me to sleep back at my place, I waited awhile inside my car, just to see how long it would take her to switch off the lights, and I saw her heading out the front door just minutes after I had left, before hopping on board a waiting cab and disappearing up the street. I repeated the same routine on the following nights and discovered that she always left, she never slept the night there. I, meanwhile, had some trouble sleeping, and on the very few occasions on which we ever spent the whole night together, after she had dozed off, I’d get out of bed and begin exploring the barely more than five hundred square feet, not including the bedroom, of her cramped apartment. If I’d spent the afternoon compulsively searching my own place, I’d find it hard to stop myself from opening the drawers in Nadia’s apartment, or, I believe, any other place in which I might find myself. There was something robotic and machine-like in those gestures of a wannabee spy. It took some effort to resist, and in the darkness of the night, my efforts were sometimes to no avail. One of the first things that struck me was the total absence in the apartment of the sort of objects that build up with the simple passing of time, objects that seem to have a life of their own, like insects, and that surreptitiously take possession of rooms and furniture. There was no sign, for instance, of the usual drawer containing bunches of keys for who knows what doors, batteries for the radio, random passport-sized photos, a small sewing kit, plugs that serve no purpose any more, nail clippers, the papers and documents that everyone keeps somewhere or other, spare bulbs, and that sort of thing. There was none of that. Nothing that might make one think of that apartment as somewhere truly lived in. It struck me instead as one of those places that are rented out fully furnished and with all the trimmings, tableware, towels, and kitchen rags included. During my first search, I found a bunch of red flowers, now dried, inside the trash can, cellophane wrapping and all. Days later, the gold-rimmed card that had no doubt accompanied those flowers turned up, one corner peeking out from beneath the television stand: “My darling Mantis: fresh blood, my own love.” It was signed with the initial
I
, and the date coincided exactly with the day on which Jacobo’s dead body had been found.

From then on, it was all cars on my tail, long-range telescopes watching over my apartment from hundreds of windows. I went to Jacobo’s apartment to fetch his axe and baseball bat and hid them within easy reach, right next to the front door. I tried to stay awake, the lights turned off, I brewed pots of coffee in the near dark and spent my time scrutinizing everything, the noises behind the partition walls, the sliver of light beneath the door. One evening, it seemed to me that the scaffolding of gallows earmarked for me was being built in the next-door apartment. I could hear the sound of a hammer on nails, of timber being hoisted.

I wanted to call on a friend to keep me company, but he was dead. Aside from Nadia, I couldn’t think who to turn to. When I called her, she told me I was freaking out, that I was losing my mind for real, and that the best thing I could do was take a strong sedative and go to bed. Everything would look different in the morning light, I’d see. I had to sob down the line to convince her to catch a cab and turn up at my door to help me get through what seemed a terrible ordeal. And that night, I killed her. Her legs seemed to me more beautiful than ever, jerking in the air, thrashing about this way and that as I suffocated her with my pillow until it was all over. Before the final trickle of life abandoned her body, I begged her to love me, in the darkness, from whatever well into which her soul might fall. Needless to say, I’d never have thought myself capable of such a thing. I harbored serious doubts as to my ability to see it through. I had to summon up the redskin I sometimes sense within me, I thought of white lambs, I thought of a cathedral filled with women and burning candles. Killing a human being is by no means easy, but sometimes there is nothing for it but to pluck up the courage and show some mettle. And, as they say around these parts, you can’t learn how to castrate without chopping off a few balls.

BOOK: Bad Light
12.37Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Bumper Crop by Joe R. Lansdale
Breaking the Bad Boy by Lennox, Vanessa
Unscripted by Christy Pastore
Possessing Allura by Reese Gabriel
Wide Awake by Shelly Crane
Insatiable by Lucy Lambert