Mona and Other Tales (3 page)

“So how are you planning to get funding for the great publishing house?” inquired the award-winning poetess, with an ingratiating twinkle, before adding in a conspiratorial tone: “Oh, come on, I'm not going to ask you for a loan. I only want to publish a little volume of mine. . . .”

Somehow—Alfredo could not figure out exactly how— Berta had managed to slip one hand through the glass, and right in front of her astonished creator, turned the lock and opened one of the tower windows.

“Look, lady,” Alfredo said curtly, “the fact is I don't have any money. As far as the publishing house is concerned, I am here to find out how everyone here plans on establishing it and whether I can get my books published, too.”

“We've all been told that you are going to be the backer.”

At that moment, Delfín slid down the tower and was now hanging dangerously by his fingers from the edge of the open window.

“Watch out!” Alfredo screamed, looking toward the window and trying to avert his character's fall.

“I thought we poets were the only crazy ones,” said the lady poet, staring intently at Alfredo, “but now I see that novelists are too—perhaps twice as crazy.”

“Three times as crazy!” proclaimed Alfredo, running to Delfín's aid at the window, just as Berta González and Nicolás Landrove entered the room.

Alfredo felt embarrassed to have Nicolás, Berta, and Delfín Prats (whose life he had just saved) see him surrounded by all these people instead of being at work with them; therefore, feeling more and more under pressure to remove himself and his characters from the scene, he decided to say good-bye to his hostess and to the rest of the guests instead of waiting for the famous discussion to begin. Followed by Narcisa, who was now intent on sniffing his leg, he walked over to them.

But a strange tension permeated the tower. Suddenly nobody was paying any attention to Alfredo. Worse, he seemed to have become invisible. In her tinkling tones, the celebrated poetess had just communicated something to Gladys and her friends, and they all made faces as if surprised or offended. Alfredo did not need a writer's observational skills to realize that they were talking about him, and not favorably.

“He'd better leave!” he heard Gladys Pérez Campo mutter in a low, indignant voice.

But even if he understood (albeit with some measure of surprise) that those words referred to him, Alfredo felt so confused that he was not able to absorb them. Besides, the words had not been spoken directly to him, although they were certainly intended for his ears. Gladys's good manners and social standing would not allow her to make a public scene, much less force one of her guests to leave. Therefore, still with the intention of rescuing his characters (who were now, for their part, completely ignoring him), Alfredo pretended not to have noticed and tried to blend in with the conversation. But the countess gave him a look of such withering scorn that the confused writer took refuge in a corner and lit a cigarette. But wouldn't it be a sign of very poor breeding to leave without saying good-bye to the host and the other guests?

On top of everything else, right at that moment Delfín Prats opened the door to the spiral staircase, and Daniel Fernández and Olga Neshein came in. Holding hands and without even looking at Alfredo, they joined Nicolás Landrove and Berta González del Valle, both of whom had already had a few drinks and were well on their way to getting drunk. Once again Alfredo felt Narcisa's tail brushing against his legs.

The five characters of his story (by now, at least, he knew that these people were worth only a story) took great pleasure in walking around the room, eyeing everything with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Alfredo concentrated all his energy on trying to make them leave. But they just would not obey. On the contrary, they mingled with the most prominent of the guests, the true elite, introducing themselves to one another, bowing and curtseying, and exchanging pleasantries.

From the corner where he was hidden behind a huge tropical palm and obscured by the smoke from his cigarette, Alfredo carefully observed his five characters and discovered that none was dressed as he had decided. Olga, supposedly shy and sweet, had arrived wearing too much makeup and a tight miniskirt; she was gesticulating wildly, making faces and laughing too hard at a joke that the director of Reunification of Cuban Families had just told her. Meanwhile, Berta and Nicolás, the paragons of “unshakable integrity,” according to Alfredo's vision of them, were kowtowing outrageously to the governor's assistant. At one point, Alfredo even thought he overheard them asking for a small business loan to open a pizzeria in the center of the city. For his part, Daniel (“the introverted, solitary one”) had already introduced himself as Daniel Fernández Trujillo and was telling the award-winning poetess such off-color stories that the old countess had discreetly moved to another seat. But the insolence seemed to have met its master in the talented Delfín Prats Pupo. While downing a beer (his fifth? his seventh?) straight from the bottle, he mocked his creator—that is, Alfredo Fuentes—in a manner that was not only grotesque, but also almost obscene and ruthless. With diabolical skill, Delfín Prats Pupo imitated Alfredo, exaggerating all of the writer's tics, gestures, and idiosyncrasies, including his manner of speaking, walking, and even breathing. Only then did Alfredo realize that he sometimes stammered, that he walked with his stomach thrust forward, and that he was bug-eyed. And as he watched his favorite character mock him, he also had to endure more face-licking from the passionate Saint Bernard.

“The worst thing of all is that for all his pretensions and ridiculous posturing as a brilliant author, he has no talent whatsoever and can't even write without making spelling mistakes. He often misspells my first family name and writes it without the
t,
” concluded Delfín Prats Pupo, so as not to leave any doubt on the matter.

And everyone laughed, again producing a strange sound like the tinkling of wineglasses.

Increasingly nervous, Alfredo lit another cigarette, which he quickly dropped on the floor when Delfín Prats Pupo, mimicking his every gesture, began to light one too.

“Sir, would you please pick up that butt?” one of the nearest servants reprimanded him. “Or are you trying to burn the carpet?”

Alfredo bent down to do as he was told, and, while in that position, verified that the peculiar tinkling sound was produced by the tittering voices of the guests as they whispered, glancing at him with contempt. He brusquely extricated himself from the Saint Bernard's legs, as the dog howled pitifully, and approached the guests to try to figure out what was going on. But as soon as he joined the group, the governor's assistant, without looking at him, announced her immediate departure.

Suddenly, as if propelled by a spring, the guests decided that it was time to leave. The countess was carried away in her imposing chair, while most of the guests kissed her hand, which was now transparent (at least to Alfredo). The famous opera singer was also leaving, on the (truly transparent) arm of the bank president. The minister turned to go while keeping up a lively conversation with the pianist, whose face was becoming more and more shiny and brilliant. When the award-winning lady poet left with Daniel Fernández Trujillo's arm around her waist, Alfredo saw the young man's hand sink effortlessly into her translucent body (although Daniel Fernández Trujillo's hand soon became invisible as well, and both figures fused into one). The black musicians were also leaving, led by Delfín Prats Pupo, who jumped around among them cheerfully, producing the familiar tinkling sound, while mimicking the gestures of the writer, who could do nothing to stop him. Olga Neshein de Leviant left with a mathematics professor, their hands entwined. In the midst of this stampede, Berta González del Valle stuffed her handbag with French cheeses, and Nicolás Landrove Felipe carted away the candy, both of them oblivious to Alfredo's signals and the protests of the hostess, Gladys Pérez Campo, who, on her way out in the company of her Chihuahuas, threatened to call the police. But her voice faded away into an imperceptible tinkling.

Within a few minutes, the hostess, the guests, and even the hired staff had disappeared, along with the characters of the story, and Alfredo found himself alone in the huge mansion. Disconcerted, he was getting ready to leave when the thunder of trucks and cranes reverberated through the building.

Suddenly the foundations of the house began to move and the roof disappeared; the carpets rolled up automatically; the windowpanes, freed from their casements, flew through the air; the doors left their frames; the paintings came off the walls; and the walls, moving at an unbelievable speed, vanished along with everything else, into a huge truck. As everything disassembled and packed itself (the whole garden with its plastic trees, walls, and air fresheners was already moving out), Alfredo saw that the mansion had been nothing more than an enormous prefabricated cardboard set that could be installed and dismantled quickly, and which one could rent for a few days or even a few hours, according to the ad on the side of the large truck in which everything was being carted away.

In a flash, the site where the imposing mansion had stood became nothing but a dusty embankment. Standing in the center, still perplexed, Alfredo could not find (it no longer existed) the path that would take him back to the city. He walked around aimlessly, thinking about the story he had never written. But an enthusiastic bark pulled him out of his meditation.

Exasperated, Alfredo began running, but the Saint Bernard, evidently more athletic than the writer, caught up with him quickly, knocked him down, and began licking his face. An unexpected joy came over Alfredo when he realized that her tongue was indeed real. He pulled himself together and got up. Caressing Narcisa—who followed him faithfully—he abandoned the site.

Miami Beach, April 1986

With My Eyes Closed

I'M ONLY GOING to tell the whole story to you because I know that if I tell it to you, you're not going to laugh in my face and you're not going to scold me either. I can't tell my mother. I can't tell Mother anything, 'cause if I did, she would never stop nagging and scolding me. And, even though she would probably be right, I really don't want to hear any kind of warning or advice.

So that's why. Because I know you're not going to say anything to me, I'm telling you all.

Since I'm only eight, I go to school every day. And that is when all my troubles start, 'cause I have to get up pretty early—when the bantam rooster my grandaunt Angela gave me has only crowed twice. My school is pretty far.

About six in the morning my mother begins scolding me for not getting up, and by seven I'm already sitting on the bed and rubbing my eyes. Then I have to do everything in a hurry: get dressed fast, run fast to school, and get in line fast because the bell rang already and the teacher is standing by the door.

But yesterday was different. My grandaunt Angela had to leave for Oriente and catch a train before seven. And there was a tremendous racket around the house. All the neighbors came to say good-bye, and my mother got so nervous that she dropped the pot of boiling water for making coffee on the floor, and burned her foot.

With all that unbearable noise, I couldn't sleep any more. And since I was already awake, I decided to get up.

Grandaunt Angela, after a lot of hugs and kisses, finally managed to go. And I left right away for school, even though it was still pretty early.

Today I don't have to rush, I told myself, almost smiling. In fact, I began walking pretty slowly. And when I was going to cross the street, I stumbled over a cat lying on the curb. “What a place you picked to sleep,” I told him, and I nudged him with the tip of my shoe. But he didn't move. Then I bent down closer and realized he was dead. Poor thing, I thought, he was probably run over by a car and someone dragged him over to the curbside so he wouldn't get totally squashed. What a shame. He was a big yellow cat who surely did not want to die. Anyway, it's too late now. And I kept on walking.

As it was still early, I stopped by the pastry shop. It's far from school, but it always has freshly baked, delicious pastries. There are two old ladies always standing by the door of the shop, each one carrying a shopping bag and asking for charity, hand extended. One day I gave each lady a nickel, and they both said at the same time, “May God bless your soul.” That really made me laugh, so I grabbed two more nickels to put in their awfully wrinkled, freckly hands. Again they said together, “May God bless your soul,” but by that time I didn't feel like laughing anymore. And since then, every time I walk by, these wrinkled black women give me a knowing look, and I can't help but give each one a nickel. Except yesterday: I really couldn't give them anything 'cause I had already spent the whole quarter I have for my afternoon snack on chocolate cookies. I had to leave through the back door so they wouldn't see me.

I only needed then to get across the bridge and walk two more blocks to school.

I stopped at the bridge for a moment because I heard a lot of noise below by the river's edge. I leaned as far as possible over the railing in order to be able to see. A group of boys of all ages had trapped a water rat in a corner and were throwing rocks and hollering at it. The rat was running from one side of the corner to the other and squealing sharply in desperation: it had no escape. Finally one of the boys took a bamboo pole and hit it on the back with all his might, squashing it. After the others ran to it, jumping up and down with the joy of victory, one of them picked up the body and hurled it into the middle of the river. The dead rat did not sink. It floated on its back for a while until it disappeared under the current.

The boys kept on shouting and moved to another part of the river. I started walking also.

Gosh, I told myself, it's so easy to walk over the bridge. I can even do it with my eyes closed. There is a railing to prevent you from falling in the water on one side and, on the other, the edge of the curb warns you not to step on the road. And to prove it, I closed my eyes and kept walking. At first I held on to the bridge railing with one hand, but after a while I didn't need to. And I kept walking with my eyes closed. And don't you go and tell it to my mother, but with your eyes closed there are many things you can see, even better than when you keep them open. The first thing I saw was a big yellowish cloud that sometimes shone more brightly than others, just like the sun when it's filtering through the trees. Then I closed my eyes really tight and the reddish cloud turned blue. And not only blue, but green. Green, then purple. Bright purple, like a rainbow that comes out after it has rained a lot and the earth is almost drowning.

And, with my eyes closed, I began thinking about the streets and about other things, and I kept on walking without stopping. And I saw my grandaunt Angela as she was leaving the house. Except she wasn't in the red polka-dot dress that she always wears when she goes to Oriente but in a long, white dress. And being so tall, she was like a telephone pole wrapped in a bedsheet. But she looked fine.

And I kept walking. I stumbled again over the cat on the curb. But this time, when I touched him with the tip of my shoe, he jumped up and ran away. The bright yellow cat ran away because he was alive and got scared when I woke him up. And I laughed a lot when I saw him vanish like a tornado, his back arched, his hair bristling with electricity.

I kept walking, with my eyes closed tight, of course. And that's how I got back to the pastry shop. Since I couldn't buy any pastries for myself because I had already spent all my food money, I could only look at the ones in the shop window. And I was just doing that, looking at them, when I heard two voices behind the counter asking me, “Wouldn't you like one of these?” And when I looked up, I saw that the two old ladies who were always begging at the shop entrance now seemed to be working there. I didn't know what to say. But their guess was exactly right, and full of smiles they picked up a large, reddish chocolate-almond cake. And they gave it to me.

I went crazy with joy and walked away with my huge cake.

While crossing the bridge, carrying the cake in my hands, I again heard the ruckus of the noisy boys. And (with my eyes closed) I leaned over the bridge railing and saw them down below, swimming fast toward the middle of the river in order to rescue a water rat. The poor thing looked sick and couldn't swim.

The boys took the trembling rat out of the water and put it on top of a rock on the sandy shore so it could get dry in the sun. Then I was just about to call all of them over to join me and share the chocolate cake, because it was so big that I wouldn't be able to eat it all by myself.

I swear I was going to call them. And I lifted the cake up high for them to see, so that they would believe what I was about to tell them and come running. But then, pow!, a truck almost ran over me in the middle of the street, which is where, without realizing it, I had been standing.

So here I am: my legs are all white because of the casts and the bandages. As white as the walls in this room, with only women dressed in white coming in to give me an injection or a pill, also white.

And don't you think that what I told you is made up. And don't you think, just because I have a bit of a fever and every once in a while I complain about the pain in my legs, that I am lying to you, because it's not so. And if you want to see if what I told you is true, you only need to go to the bridge and you'll probably find, all over the asphalt, the big, reddish chocolate-almond cake that the two old ladies at the pastry shop gave me with a smile.

1964