Kiss of the Spider Woman (11 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
—Good to her, but a traitor to his own country.
—But he understood the maquis were all a bunch of mafiosos; just wait and listen to what you find out later on in the film.
—Do you know what the maquis were?
—Yes, I already know they were patriotic, but in this film they’re not. Let me finish, okay? So . . . let’s see, what happened next?
—I don’t understand you at all.
—Well, it’s just that the film was divine, and for me that’s what counts, because I’m locked up in this cell and I’m better off thinking about nice things, so I don’t go nuts, see? . . . Well?
—What do you want me to say?
—That you’ll let me escape from reality once in a while, because why should I let myself get more depressed than I am? Otherwise I’ll go nuts, like Charlotte of Mexico. Though I’d rather be Christina of Sweden, since I’ll end up a queen, no matter what.
—No, be serious, it’s true you can end up going nuts in this place, but you can drive yourself crazy here in other ways, not just out of despair . . . but from alienating yourself the way you do. Because that business of only thinking about nice things, as you put it, well, that can be dangerous too.
—How? I don’t think so.
—It can become a vice, always trying to escape from reality like that, it’s like taking drugs or something. Because, listen to me, reality, I mean
your reality
, isn’t restricted by this cell we live in. If you read something, if you study something, you transcend any cell you’re inside of, do you understand what I’m saying? That’s why I read and why I study every day.
your reality
, isn’t restricted by this cell we live in. If you read something, if you study something, you transcend any cell you’re inside of, do you understand what I’m saying? That’s why I read and why I study every day.
—But politics . . . What’s the world coming to, with all your politicians . . .
—Don’t talk like a nineteenth-century housewife, because this isn’t the nineteenth century . . . and you’re not a housewife. And tell me some more of the film, or is there much more left to go?
—Why, bored?
—I don’t like it, but somehow I’m intrigued.
—If you don’t like it, then I’ll stop.
—Whatever you want, Molina.
—One thing is for sure, there’s no way to finish it tonight, there’s still lots left, like almost half.
—It interests me as propaganda, that’s all. In a certain sense it serves as a document.
—Yes or no, once and for all?
—Maybe just a little more.
—Now it sounds like you’re the one doing me the favor. Remember, you asked me because you couldn’t get to sleep, that’s why I started telling it.
—And I appreciate that, Molina.
—But now I’m the one who’s awake, so you pulled a fast one on me.
—Then tell me a little bit more and maybe we’ll both get sleepy at the same time, thank God.
—You atheists never stop mentioning God.
—It’s an expression. Come on, tell me some more.
—Okay. So she, without telling him anything about what just happened, she asks the officer to put her up at his place, she’s so afraid of the maquis. Now, this scene is really fantastic, because I didn’t tell you he plays the piano too, and this time he’s in a brocaded robe, I couldn’t begin to describe it to you, the way he looks! With this white silk ascot around his neck. And by the light of a few candelabras, he plays something rather sad, because I forgot to tell you she’s very late getting back to his place. And he thinks she’s somehow never coming back again. Oh, because I didn’t tell you either how she leaves the museum when nobody notices her and walks insanely through all the streets of Paris, she’s so confused, with the death of that poor kid, her cousin, she loved him so much. And it’s already getting dark, and she continues just to walk, all over Paris, past the Eiffel Tower, up and down through all the bohemian quarters, and past the artists that paint in the streets there, and they all stare at her, and so do the couples under the streetlamps on the edge of the River Seine, because she’s walking along like a poor lost soul, like a sleepwalker with the veil of her hat pushed back, and not caring any longer whether anyone recognizes her or not. In the meantime, the officer is giving orders for a candlelight dinner for two, and afterwards you see the candles all look twice as short as they did before, but he’s still playing the piano, a sort of very slow, very sad waltz. And that’s when she walks in. He doesn’t get up to say hello; he keeps on playing that marvelous waltz on the piano, which seemed so sad a minute ago but now it’s turning faster and happier, more romantic than you could believe, but so, so joyful. And at that point the scene ends, without him saying a word, you just see his smile, his relief, and you hear the music. Listen . . . you can’t imagine how great that scene was.
—And then?
—Then she wakes up in a marvelous bed, all upholstered in pure satin, I think it must have been in like faded pink or pale green, with satin sheets. It’s a shame some films aren’t made in color, isn’t it? And tulle curtains on the sides of the canopy, wonderful, and she wakes up so in love and looks out the window and a slight drizzle is falling. She goes to the telephone, lifts the receiver and without meaning to she hears him talking to someone. He’s advising what form of punishment should be dealt out to a couple of mafiosos from the black market. And she can’t believe her ears when he says execute them, but she waits for the conversation to end and when they hang up, she hangs up the receiver, too, so he doesn’t realize she’s been listening. Next thing he comes into the bedroom, and says, does she feel like breakfast now? She’s so divine-looking, reflected in the windowpane where the drizzle falls, and she asks him, is he truly unafraid of anyone, the way they say the soldiers of the new Germany are, like that hero he talked about. He answers, if it’s for his own country, then he’s ready to accept any challenge. So then she says, she wonders if it’s not just fear that makes someone kill a defenseless enemy, the fear that sometime in the future the tables might be turned and you might have to face him that way, too, with nothing but your bare hands. He says he doesn’t understand what she’s getting at. But she changes the subject. Then later that day when she’s by herself, she dials the number she got from the clubfoot to contact someone from the maquis, in order to hand over the secret of the arsenal. Because, having heard how ready he is to condemn someone to death, he now seems less of a man to her. So she goes off to meet one of the maquis, and they decide to rendezvous at the theater, as a cover, because she’s busy there with rehearsals. And she sees the man approaching and gives the agreed-upon signal, when all of a sudden someone comes down the center aisle of the empty theater and calls for Miss Leni, Miss Leni. It’s that they’ve sent her a telegram from Berlin to invite her to star in an important film, with one of the best studios in Germany, and right there with the invitation is an official connected with the government of the occupation and so she can’t say anything to the maquis now, and she has to start packing immediately to go off to Berlin. Like it?
—No, and now I am sleepy. Let’s wait for tomorrow to go on, all right?
—No, Valentin, if you don’t like it I don’t want to go on.
—I’d like to know how it ends.
—No, if you don’t like it, why bother? . . . So now it’s settled. Good night.
—Tomorrow we’ll talk.
—But not about that.
—Whatever you want, Molina.
—Night.
—Why are they taking so long to bring dinner? I think they already brought it to the next cell a while ago.
—Mmm, I heard it too. You stop studying?
—Not yet. What time is it?
—After eight. I’m not very hungry today, luckily.
—That’s strange for you, Molina. Are you sick?
—No, it’s just nerves.
—Here they come, I think.
—No, Valentin, that’s just the last of the prisoners coming back to their cells from the showers.
—You never told me what they said to you in the warden’s office.
—Nothing. It was just to sign some papers with the new lawyer.
—Power of attorney?
—Mmm-hmm. Since I changed lawyers I had to sign a few things.
—How did they treat you?
—No way special. Like a faggot, same as always.
—Listen, here comes somebody, I think.
—Mmm, here they are. Stash the magazines, quick; if they see them, they’ll get stolen for sure.
—I’m dying of hunger.
—Please, Valentin, no complaining to the guard.
—Okay . . .
— . . .
— . . .
—Take it . . .
—Rice . . .
—Right . . .
—Thanks.
—Eh, so much . . .
—That’s to keep you guys happy.
—Okay, but what about this other plate . . . Why so much less?
—What’s your problem, bud? Ain’t no use griping about it anyway . . .
— . . .
— . . .
—I didn’t answer back for your sake, Molina, if it weren’t for you, I think I would have thrown it right back in his face, this shitpile of glue they call rice.
—But what’s the good of complaining.
—One plate has twice as much as the other, the guard must be crazy, that fat son of a bitch.
—Look, Valentin, I’ll keep the smaller plate.
—No, you always eat the rice anyway, take the big one.
—No, I told you I’m not hungry. You keep the big one for yourself.
—Don’t stand on formalities, take it.
—No, I tell you. Why should I get the bigger dish?
—Because I know you like rice.
—I’m not hungry, Valentin.
—Take some, and then you’ll feel like the rest.
—No.
—Look, it’s not so bad today.
—I don’t want any. I’m not hungry.
—Afraid of getting fat?
—No . . .
—Eat it then, Molina. The glue’s not so bad today anyway, it almost tastes like rice. The smaller portion’s more than enough for me.
—Ahg . . . aghhh . . .
— . . .
—Aghhh . . .
—What’s wrong?
—Nothing, agh . . . this girl is in a bad way, that’s all.
—What girl?
—Me, stupid.
—What are you moaning like that for?
—My stomach . . .
—Want to throw up?
—No . . .
—I’ll get the bag out just in case.
—No, leave it . . . The pain’s lower down, in my gut.
—It’s not diarrhea?
—No . . . It’s a really sharp pain, but up further.
—I’ll call the guard . . .
—No, Valentin. It feels like it’s going away . . .
—How does it feel when it hurts?
—Like stabbing pains . . . but really sharp . . .
—On one side?
—No, all over my stomach . . .
—Could it be appendicitis?
—No, I already had mine out.
—The meal didn’t bother me . . .
—Has to be my nerves. I was so nervous today . . . But it feels like it’s letting up . . .
—Try to relax yourself as much as possible. Loosen up your arms and legs.
—Mmm, it feels like it’s letting up a bit.
—Has it been hurting you long?
—Mmm-hmm, a while now. I’m sorry I woke you up.
—Not at all . . . You should have gotten me up earlier, Molina.
—I didn’t want to bother you with . . . aghhh . . .
—It hurts a lot, huh?
—Just these sharp stabs . . . now it feels like it’s going away again.
—Want to sleep a little? Or can’t you?
—I don’t know . . . Ugh, how awful . . .
—If we talk a little, maybe it would help to take your mind off the pain.
—No, you get back to sleep, or you won’t be able to.
—Oh, I’m already up.
—Sorry.
—No, most of the time I wake up by myself, and can’t fall back to sleep anyway.
—Feels like it’s letting up a bit. Aghhh, no, ugh, it’s awful . . .
—Maybe I better call the guard.
—No, it’s letting up . . .
—You know something?
—What?
—I’m still curious about the end of that film, the Nazi one.
—Didn’t you hate it?
—Yes, but all the same I want to know how it turns out, just to understand the mentality of whoever made the film, the kind of propaganda they were into.
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