Authors: Manuel Puig

Tags: #Regional.Latin America, #Fiction.Magical Realism, #Fiction.Literature.Modern, #Acclaimed.Horror 100 Best.Index

Kiss of the Spider Woman (2 page)

BOOK: Kiss of the Spider Woman

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—How did you know?

—Didn’t, just guessed it.

—You saw the film.

—No, I swear. Go on.

—And the girl, Irena I mean, says that then they can go do that errand. Well, right away, he wonders if he has enough cash to buy two identical presents, one for the assistant’s birthday and another for Irena, so he can win her over completely. On the way Irena says how this afternoon, oddly enough, it doesn’t make her sad to see it getting so dark already, when it’s only three in the afternoon. He asks her why the nightfall upsets her, is it because she’s afraid of the dark. She thinks about it and answers yes. And he stops in front of the store where they’re going and she stares at the window uncomfortably, it turns out to be a petshop that only sells birds, marvelous, in cages you can see from the window there are all kinds of birds happily flying from one perch to another, or swinging back and forth on swings, or pecking at little shreds of lettuce, or birdseed, or taking sips of cool water, freshly changed for them.

—Wait a minute . . . Is there any water in the bottle?

—Mmm-hmm, I refilled it when they let me out of the john.

—Oh, that’s all right then.

—You want a little? It’s nice and fresh.

—No, just so there’s no problem with tea in the morning. Go on.

—Don’t worry so much, we have enough for the whole day.

—But I’m getting into bad habits. I forgot to bring it along when they opened the door for showers, if it wasn’t for you remembering, we’d be stuck without water later on.

—There’s plenty, I’m telling you . . . But when the two of them walk into the petshop it’s as if who knows what walked in, the Devil himself. The birds go crazy, flying at the bars of their cages, blind with fear, beating their wings. The owner doesn’t know what to do. The little birds squawk with terror, but it’s like the squawking of vultures, not some little birdsong. She grabs the architect by the arm and pulls him outside. The birds calm down right away. She asks if he’d mind her leaving. They make a date and separate until the next night. He goes back into the petshop, the birds go on singing peacefully, he buys a little canary for the other one’s birthday. And afterwards . . . well, I don’t remember so clearly what comes next, guess I’m tired.

—Go on a little more.

—Just that I get sleepy and forget the film. What do you say we go on with it tomorrow?

—If you really don’t remember, better go on tomorrow.

—I’ll pick it up in the morning then.

—No, it’s better at night, during the day I don’t want to be thinking about such trivia. I’ve got more important things to think about.

— . . .

—If I’m not busy reading and I’m still keeping quiet, it’s just because I’m thinking. So don’t take it personally.

—No, it’s okay. I’m not going to disturb you, don’t worry.

—I knew you’d understand, I really appreciate it. Good night.

—Night. Sweet dreams of Irena.

—I prefer the assistant.

—I figured that already. Ciao.

—Good night.

—We left off where he went back into the petshop and the birds weren’t scared of him. It was her they were scared of.

—I didn’t say that, you thought that up yourself.

—All right, what happens?

—Well, they go on seeing one another and they fall in love. She fascinates him incredibly, because she’s so strange, on the one hand so openly affectionate, and always looking at him, caressing him, putting her arms around him, but as soon as he wants to hold her close and kiss her she slips away and barely lets his lips brush against her. She asks him not to kiss her, just to let her kiss him, very tender kisses, but like a baby’s, with her lips so soft and fleshy, but shut.

—Back then, there was no sex in movies.

—Wait and you’ll see. The thing is that one night he takes her out to that same restaurant again, which isn’t first-class but very quaint, with checkered tablecloths and everything in dark wood, or no, it must be stone, no, wait, now I know, inside it’s like being in a log cabin, with gaslight and just candles on the tables. And he lifts up his glass of wine, his goblet, and proposes a toast, because tonight a man who is very much in love is going to commit himself to marry if his chosen one will accept him. And her eyes fill up with tears, but from being so happy. They touch goblets and drink without saying another word, just holding hands. All of a sudden she lets go of his hand: she’s seen someone coming over to their table. It’s a woman, beautiful-looking at first sight, but a second later you notice something really strange about her face, something frightening and yet it’s hard to know what it is. Because it’s a woman’s face but it’s also the face of a cat. The eyes slant up, and so peculiar, I don’t know how to tell you, she has no whites to her eyes, her eyes are completely green in color, with black pupils at the center, and nothing else. And her skin very pale, as if she had a lot of powder on.

—But you told me she was pretty.

—Yes, she’s beautiful. And from the strange outfit it’s obvious she’s European, her hair fixed in a sausage roll.

—What’s a sausage roll?

—Like a . . . how can I explain it to you? a chignon . . . a coil of hair something like a tube that goes around the head, over the forehead and all the way around in back.

—Doesn’t matter, go on.

—But come to think of it maybe I’m wrong, I think she had more of a braid around her head, that’s more like that part of the world. And a long dress down to the floor, and a fox stole over her shoulders. And she comes to the table and looks at Irena as if with hatred, or not quite, more the way a hypnotist looks, but an evil look in every way. And she speaks to Irena in an incredibly strange language, pausing there by the table. And he, being a gentleman, gets up from his chair at the approach of a lady, but this minx doesn’t even look at him and says something else to Irena. Irena answers her in that same dialect, but very frightened. He can’t understand one word of what they’re saying. Then, so he’ll understand too, the woman says to Irena: “I recognized you instantly, but you know why. Be seeing you . . .” And she walks away, without having so much as looked at the guy. Irena is petrified, her eyes are filled with tears, but dark tears, looking like filthy water from a puddle. She gets up without a word and wraps a long scarf, a white one, over her head, he drops some money on the table and walks out with her, taking her by the arm. They don’t say anything to each other, he sees that she’s frightened. Looking over at Central Park, it’s snowing lightly, the snow deadens every sound and noise, the cars almost slide down the street, very quietly, the streetlamp lights up the pure white snowflakes that are falling, and it’s as though way off somewhere the cries of wild animals can be heard. And that’s not so unlikely, because just a little distance from there is the city zoo, in that same park. She can’t seem to go on, she begs him to hold her close. He holds her in his arms. She’s shivering, from cold or from fear, although the distant cries seemed to have died down. She tells him, almost in a whisper, that she’s afraid to go home and spend the night alone. A taxi comes by, he signals it to pull over and the two of them get in without saying a word. They go to his apartment, not talking the whole way there. His building, it’s one of those old apartment houses, very well kept up, carpets, very high-beamed ceiling, dark wooden staircases all hand-carved, and there in the entranceway by the foot of the stairs a giant palm set into a magnificent urn. It must have had Chinese motifs. The palm is reflected in a tall mirror with a very elaborate frame, also carved like the staircase. She looks at herself in the mirror, examines her face, as if searching for something in her own features. There’s no elevator, he lives on the first floor. Their footsteps can barely be heard on the carpet, like out in the snow. Apartment’s huge, with everything turn-of-the-century, very proper, the fellow’s mother had it first.

—And him, what’s he do?

—Nothing, he knows there’s something going on inside the girl that’s torturing her. He offers her a drink, a cup of coffee, whatever she’d like. She doesn’t want anything, she asks him to sit down please, she has something to say to him. He lights up his pipe and gives her the warm look he has all the time. She can’t get herself to look him in the eyes, she sits resting her head on his knees. Then she begins to tell how there was some terrible legend back in her mountain village, that always terrified her, even as a kid. And this part I don’t remember too well how it goes, something to do with the Middle Ages, something about villages that once were cut off for months and months by the snow, and they were starving to death, and all the men had gone off to the wars, something like that, and the starving wild beasts of the forest came right up to the people’s houses, I don’t remember exactly, and the Devil appeared and said a woman had to come outside if they wanted any food from him, and one woman, the bravest, went out to him, and at his side the Devil had a ravenously hungry black panther, and the woman made a pact with the Devil, so as not to die, and I don’t know what happened but the woman had a daughter with the face of a cat. And when the Crusaders returned from the Holy Wars, the soldier who was married to this same woman came home, and when he tried to kiss his wife she tore him to pieces, as if a panther had done it.

—I don’t really get it, it’s very confusing the way you tell it.

—I can’t remember right now, that’s all. But it doesn’t matter. What Irena tells that I do remember is that they were still giving birth to panther women in those mountains. Anyway, by that time the soldier was dead but a fellow Crusader figured out it was the wife who murdered him and set out to follow her, and meantime she escaped through the snow and at first the tracks she left behind were a woman’s footsteps until close to the forest they turned into a panther’s, and the Crusader followed them and struck deep into the forest where it was already night, and in that darkness he saw two bright green eyes of someone lying in wait for him, and with his sword and dagger he made the sign of the cross and the panther lay still and turned back into a woman, lying there half asleep, as if hypnotized, and the Crusader backed away because he heard other roaring coming near, the wild beasts aroused by the woman’s smell and coming to eat her. The Crusader made it back to the village more dead than alive and told them everything. And the legend is that the race of panther women never died out and remains hidden in some corner of the world, and they all seem like normal women, but if a man happens to kiss any of them, the woman can turn into a savage beast.

—And she’s one of those panther women?

—All she knows is that the stories frightened her terribly when she was a girl, and she’s always lived with that fear of being a descendant of such women.

—And the one back in the restaurant, what’d she have to say?

—That’s just what the architect asks her. And Irena throws herself into his arms, crying, and says the woman was only saying hello to her. But then no, she gets up her courage and tells him how in the dialect of her own village she told her to remember who she was, that the sight of her face alone was enough to make it obvious they’re sisters. And that she’d better watch out for men. The architect bursts out laughing. “Don’t you realize,” he says to her, “she saw you were from the same part of the world because people from the same country always recognize each other. If I see an American in China I go out of my way to say hello. And because she’s a woman and maybe a little old-fashioned, she tells you to watch out, don’t you see?” That’s what he says, and it’s enough to calm her down. And she feels so peaceful now, she begins to fall asleep in his arms, and he lifts her onto the sofa that’s right there, fixes a pillow under her head, and brings a blanket from his bed for her. She’s fast asleep. Then he goes to his room and the scene ends with him in his pajamas and robe, good but not too expensive-looking, a solid color, and he’s watching her from the doorway, the way she’s sleeping, and he lights up his pipe, standing there pensive. The fireplace is lit, no, I can’t remember, light must be coming from the lamp on the night table, in his room. When she finally wakes up, the fire’s gone out, hardly any embers left. Dawn already breaking.

—The cold wakes her up, just like us.

—No, that’s not what wakes her up, I knew you’d say something like that. The canary singing in the cage wakes her. Irena’s afraid to go near it at first, but she hears how happy the little bird seems to be and that gives her the courage to go up close. She looks at it carefully, breathes a deep sigh of relief, satisfied because the little creature isn’t afraid of her. She goes to the kitchen and makes toast with butter, and that crunchy cereal they have up there and . . .

—Don’t talk about food.

—And pancakes . . .

—Really, I’m serious about it. No food and no naked girls.

—Okay, so she wakes him up and he’s happy to see her so comfortable in his home and he asks her if she wants to stay and live there forever.

—He’s still in bed?

—Mmm-hmm, she brought him his breakfast in bed.

—Me, I never liked to have breakfast right away, the first thing I have to do is brush my teeth. Sorry, go ahead.

—Okay, so then he wants to kiss her. And she won’t let him get close.

BOOK: Kiss of the Spider Woman

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