Kiss of the Spider Woman (28 page)

Authors: Manuel Puig

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

BOOK: Kiss of the Spider Woman

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— . . .

—Does it bother you if I say things like that?

—No.

—It’s that when you’re here, like I already told you, I’m not me in a way, and that’s a relief. And afterwards, until I sleep, even though you’re back on your little cot, I’m still not me. It’s a strange thing . . . How can I explain it?

—Go on, tell me about it.

—Don’t hurry me, let me concentrate . . . And it’s like when I’m alone here in my bed I’m no longer you either, I’m someone else, who’s neither a man nor a woman, but someone who feels . . .

— . . . out of danger.

—Yes, that’s exactly it, how did you know?

—Because it’s what I feel.

—Why is it we feel like that?

—I don’t know . . .

—Valentin . . .

—What?

—I want to tell you something . . . but don’t laugh.

—Tell me.

—Each time you’ve come to my bed . . . afterwards, I’ve wanted . . . not to wake up again, once I was asleep. Sure it upsets me about my mom, that she’d be all alone . . . but if it was just me, I wish I wouldn’t wake up ever again. But it’s not just some notion that’s gotten into my head or something; I’m telling you the only thing I want is to die.

—First you have to finish the film for me.

—Ugh, well there’s a lot left; I won’t finish it tonight, anyway.

—If you’d told me a little more the last couple of days, we’d almost be finished tonight. Why didn’t you want to go on with it?

—I don’t know.

—Don’t forget, it could be the last film you’ll get to tell me.

—It just might be, God only knows.

—Tell me a little before it’s time to go to sleep.

—Just until you get tired.

—Okay. Where were we?

—The part when he’s singing in that miserable dive, singing to her, after she appears at the bottom of his tequila glass.

—Right, and they sing together. In the meantime, the girl . . . she’s actually left the magnate, she felt so ashamed of going on and living that way, and decided to go back to work. She’s going to appear in a nightclub, as a singer, and tonight she’s supposed to make her debut; she feels very nervous, because it’s the first night she’s going to appear in front of the public once again, and that afternoon it’s dress rehearsal. She shows up in a long gown, like all the ones she wears, strapless, very fitted in the bust, the wasp waist and the incredibly full skirt, all in black sequins. But the shine of the sequins is like only a glow. The hair very simple, parted down the middle and flowing over the shoulders. An accompanist on the piano, the props nothing more than a curtain in white taffeta tied by a sash of the same fabric, because wherever she goes she always wants to have that lustrous finish of taffeta, and to one side a Greek column faked in white marble, the piano white, too, a baby grand, and the pianist in a black tuxedo. Everyone there in the nightclub is working feverishly to arrange the tables, polish the floors, hammering all sorts of things, but when she appears and you hear a few introductory notes on the piano, of course, everybody in the place quiets down. And she sings—or no, not yet, it begins with those few chords on the piano, and, almost imperceptibly, the rhythm of the maracas in the background, and she sees her own hands trembling, and her eyes fill with tenderness, she reaches out for a cigarette from the prompter down in front, takes her position next to the Greek column, and begins with a deep but melodious voice to start the introduction, almost spoken, thinking about her reporter: “. . . Everyone says absence makes you forget, but I swear . . . it’s not that way at all . . . From that last moment we spent together, my life has known . . . only regrets,” and at this point the whole invisible orchestra starts to accompany her as loud as can be and she, she belts it out with “You, you stole away the kiss, that I kept in my heart, for you? . . . Was it you? . . . You, you took with your eyes, that whimsical world that you saw in my eyes . . . for you . . . yes, for you . . .” and then there’s a short interlude, of just the orchestra, and she strolls rhythmically across to the middle of the floor, then spins around and lets it out again, with her whole voice, “How could you leave then, when love was on fire! . . . when you discovered my heart held out . . . so much, so much ecstasy . . . You, although you’re far away, you’ll cry just like a child, looking for the same love, that I gave you that day . . .”

—I’m listening, go ahead.

—And as she finishes the song she’s like completely wrapped up inside herself, and everyone breaks into applause, everyone who’s been working there and setting up the room for the evening. And she walks happily off to her dressing room because she imagines to herself how he will find out she’s working again, and therefore . . . she’s not with the magnate anymore. But she’s got a terrible shock in store for her. The magnate has bought out the whole nightclub, and he’s ordered them to close it down, immediately, before her debut. And there’s also a writ of attachment against her jewelry, because the magnate has bribed the jewelers to pretend that none of the jewels has been paid for, and so on. She realizes immediately that the magnate has decided to prevent her from being able to work, to make her life really impossible, obviously, so she’ll go right back to him. But she doesn’t let it get her down and decides with her agent to fill in with any work at all, until a good contract comes along. The newspaper guy, for his part, down in Veracruz, realizes now that he’s running out of funds and has to look for work. He can’t be a reporter anymore because he’s been put on the blacklist by the union; and as for other kinds of work, without a recommendation, and with that spongy face of his from so many drunken binges, and the sloppy appearance, they’re not going to take him either. Finally he gets a job as a laborer in a sawmill, and he works there a few days, but he doesn’t have any strength left; his physique has been totally undermined by drinking, he no longer has any appetite, the food never goes down. One day on their lunch hour break, a fellow worker insists that he take something to eat, and he tries a mouthful, but he can’t even swallow it; the only thing he feels is thirst, always that thirst. And that afternoon he collapses. They have to take him to a hospital. Delirious with fever he calls out her name. His fellow worker goes through all his papers, trying to find her address, and calls her in Mexico City, and of course she’s no longer in that luxurious apartment, but the housekeeper, who was very kindly, delivers the message to the girl, now living at a cheap boardinghouse. The girl immediately prepares to rush to Veracruz—but now comes the toughest part of all, and it’s that she doesn’t have the money for the fare, and the owner of the boardinghouse is this repulsive guy, old and fat, and she asks him to lend her the money, and he says no. So then she begins to warm up to him, and the filthy slob immediately tells her, yes, he’ll lend the money but in exchange for . . . dot, dot, dot. And you see him entering her room, something the girl had never let the slob ever do. And meanwhile the guy’s there in the hospital, and the doctor comes in, along with a nun, and he looks at the chart they always have to note how the patient’s doing, and takes his pulse, and looks at the whites of his eyes, and tells him he’s responding fairly well to treatment, but he needs a lot of caring for, no more alcohol, lots of good food, and rest. And he tells himself sure, lots of luck . . . seeing how he’s completely broke, when he spots this incredible figure suddenly appearing from out of the hallway, way over at the other end of the pavilion. She’s coming slowly, glancing at each patient, slowly coming toward the guy, and all the patients are staring up at her like she was some kind of apparition. She’s clothed very simply, but divine-looking, all in white, a very simple but flowing dress, with her hair tied back and not a single piece of jewelry. Obviously, because she doesn’t have any, but for the guy it all has a very special significance, it means she has broken away from the life of luxury she was caught up in with the magnate. When she sees him, she can’t believe her eyes, because he’s been changed so much by the drinking, and her eyes are flooded with tears, and it’s just at the point when the intern is telling him that he’s been discharged, and he’s telling the intern that he doesn’t have anywhere to go, but she says, yes, he does, because there’s a sweet house with a garden, very tiny, very modest but shaded with coconut trees and caressed by the salt sea air. And they go off together, where she has rented that house, almost out in the country, just outside the suburbs of Veracruz. He’s kind of faint with weakness, so she prepares his bed but he says he’d rather rest on a hammock, out in the garden, hung between two of the palm trees surrounding the little house. And he stretches out there, and they hold hands, they can’t stop looking into each other’s eyes, and he says he will soon recover because of the joy of having her there with him, and he’ll manage to find a good job, and won’t be a burden to her, but she answers not to worry, she has some money saved up, and she will only let him return to work after he is totally cured, and they stare in silent adoration at each other and echoes drift up to them from the distant songs of the fishermen, melodious strings, very delicate, you don’t know if it’s on the guitar or the harp. And the guy, in almost a whisper, begins to think up some lyrics to the song; talking more than singing, and the rhythm is very slow, like the one they’re strumming on those instruments playing way off in the distance, “ . . . I live in you . . . you live in me . . . All sorrow is ended . . . why suffer more . . . Be still, my happiness . . . let the world never guess . . . how it cries out within me . . . this yearning to live . . . to love . . . I’m happy now, you’re happy, too . . . You love me now, I love you more . . . Let the past drift away, let life begin today . . . when I feel such happiness, because . . . just now I saw you . . . cry for me . . .”

—Don’t stop.

—The days go by, and he’s feeling much better, but he’s disturbed because she won’t let him go to the luxurious hotel where she has been singing every night, or even accompany her as far as the door. Little by little jealousy begins to worm its way into his mind. He asks her why there’s never any ads in the papers for a star attraction like herself, and she says it’s in order to prevent the magnate from pursuing her again, and also the magnate might try to send someone to kill him if he were seen at the hotel, and he begins to suspect that she’s seeing the magnate again. And one day he goes over to the ultra-luxurious hotel with its downstairs supper club, featuring international attractions. And she’s not mentioned anywhere on the billboard, and no one knows her and no one’s ever seen her either—they recall the name, yes, but like a star from some time ago. Then, desperate, he starts prowling the harbor districts, trying to find a cheap tavern. And he can’t believe what he sees: on a corner, under a streetlamp, it’s her: a hooker . . . that’s how she made the money to support him! So he hides, not to let her spot him, and goes back to the house a broken man. When she gets there toward morning, he pretends to be—for the first time—asleep when she arrives. Next day he gets up early to look for work, giving her some excuse or other. And he gets back toward evening and of course without having found anything, but she was really getting worried. He just pretends to her everything is fine, and when it’s time for her to go back out on the street, or as she puts it, to go sing, he begs her not to go, the night feels rife with dangers, and please stay with him tonight, he feels so afraid of never seeing her again somehow. She asks him to control himself, it’s absolutely necessary for her to go out, because the rent has to be paid. And the doctor, without his knowing it, has suggested the possibility of a new, very costly treatment, and tomorrow they have to visit his office together. And she leaves . . . He realizes then what a dead weight he is on her shoulders, to the point that she needs to humiliate herself in order to save him. The guy watches the fishing fleet return to their anchorage at sundown; he walks along the shore, there’s a gorgeous full moon, and the moon quivers apart as it shimmers reflected in the soft surging tide of the tropical night. There’s no wind at all, everything is quiet, except his heart. The fishermen sound like they’re humming together, droning this sad, sad melody, and the guy sings to it; the words seem to be dictated by his own desperation . . . I don’t remember the song much, but it’s something about him asking the moon to take her a message, because he thinks the moon’s going off to spend the night on the town just like she does. And the message is to take care of herself, because those nights on the town cause nothing but pain and in the end only make people cry. I can’t remember the words. Anyway, the next morning when she returns he’s no longer there; he left a note saying he loves her like crazy, but can’t go on being a burden to her, and she shouldn’t try to find him, because if God wants to bring them back together again . . . they’ll meet even if they don’t try to . . . And she sees a lot of cigarette butts lying around, and a book of matches forgotten there, the kind you pick up in the bars along the harbor district, and at that point she realizes he has somehow seen her . . .

—And that’s it?

—No, there’s more still, but we’ll leave the final part for another day.

—You’re sleepy.

—No.

—Then what is it?

—This film really gets me down, I don’t know why I ever started it.

— . . .

—Valentin, I have a bad premonition.

—Of what?