Necropolis (39 page)

I always knew he was cheating on me, she said, but I'd reached the age when a woman gives up and prefers to close her eyes. His meetings and business trips to Acapulco and Sinaloa and the Bahamas were getting longer and longer and seemed to be less and less justified, but I didn't care because it all happened far away, in that great nothingness made up of all the places we haven't lived and know only as dots on a map. Until one day he started to seem strange, nervous, exhausted. He would get home in the evening or at night and go straight in the shower claiming he was hot or tired. His mouth smelled of alcohol. One day he traveled to Chicago and I got into his office and gave it a complete once-over. That was a serious mistake, of course, because what you look for, you find. It's something you should never do.

Well, I found it. A key ring with an address and two keys. 1587 Tijuana Drive, Apartment 6D. I went straight there, and it turned out to be a respectable-looking building, not luxurious but quite clean and well-maintained. When I got to the door of 6D I took out the key, but just as I was about to put it in the lock I heard a voice inside saying, can't you get back before tomorrow? will you be here by noon? She was talking on a cell phone near the door. Then she said, bring me something nice, darling, different than what you always bring me. I felt jealous. I dialed Tony's cell phone and of course it was engaged. I waited until the conversation was over and dialed again. This time he replied immediately and said, did you just call me? I was talking to the office, I'm going to have to stay until Saturday, it's freezing cold here, but there's no way I can get out of it, the Abbotts want to meet with me on Friday and it's too much bother to go and come back.

The next day I found an observation post, a coffee shop on the corner of Tijuana Drive and Anchorage Street, just opposite the entrance to the building. Of course I saw him arrive at noon, right on time, with a bag of gifts. It made me angry, but then I cooled down and plotted my revenge. The first thing I did was make copies of the keys and leave them in their place so that he didn't notice anything. Then I started keeping an eye on the bitch, who was a Colombian named Dorys. She was a stylist in a salon near Fito's office, which was where he'd met her. One day I went in to get my hair done and studied her. She was an attractive woman just under forty, that idiot Fito had good taste. It was obvious she didn't know who I was, because there was nothing nervous or uncomfortable about the way she behaved. On the contrary, she was very friendly and attentive. I started to make plans. My idea was to get her to dump him, or to make him believe that she had a lover. Something like that. One day, while Dorys was in the salon, I got into her apartment. It was quite nicely furnished, the home of someone who was neat and tidy but also romantic. A painting of a stormy dusk in the Caribbean, two heart-shaped red cushions, things like that. I looked through her underwear and was surprised not to find daring panties or garter belts, the kind of thing that appeals to older men going out with younger women. I wasn't there for very long, I knew they'd be coming back together that night. Before I left, I put a pair of men's socks beside the bed. That was part of my strategy. Leaving things that would incriminate her. Another day, I left a half-full bottle of eau de cologne, which I'd bought and half emptied, of course, like everything I left. And it worked, things started to go sour between them. One day I entered the apartment after they'd spent all weekend together, and saw that they had moved the TV into the bedroom. There was a bottle of rum, cigarette butts, and various DVDs strewn on the floor. I picked one up and saw you in the photograph on the cover. I recognized you in spite of the make-up and all the ways you'd changed, and in spite of the fact that you were naked. I sat down on the bed. My god, my husband has erotic parties with his lover and gets off on watching pornographic videos of my daughter. I felt really disgusted by the time I left, and when he got home I told him I knew everything and didn't want to see him anymore. He gave me this apartment and a decent income. So I separated from him and found out what you did. Then I investigated a little and discovered that you were a great professional in that kind of thing and had even won prizes. I'm not going to tell you I was pleased, but I thought, if a person chooses to do something in life, however strange it may be, they should do it well, and that's exactly what you're doing, daughter.

I told her about my life, about Kay and Kim and Eve Studios, I talked about my experience with drugs, about Giorgetta and how hard things had been, but how that hardness had become my greatest treasure, an inexhaustible source of strength, and probably of talent. She felt guilty: if she had been closer I wouldn't have suffered so much, but I insisted and said, Mamma, I repeat, those difficult years are my resource, I wouldn't change them for anything.

I stayed for a week and found out about her life, which was quite simple. She had a group of women friends she played cards with every Friday in a restaurant called Sapori di Sicilia, and she was a member of an evangelical church led by a strange Latino, a handsome, muscular man with tattoos all over his body, who would certainly have had a great future in the porn industry. A few days later, Kay traveled to Los Angeles, and that was where we all met up. I think they got along well, because after four days Mamma invited him to Miami and later he bought her an airline ticket to Paris so that she could come and see us.

We are already coming to the end of this eventful life, full of highs and lows. Having now recounted how the only family I had was reunited, and how my professional success came about, it only remains for me to tell you about the last great idea of Kim, our brilliant screenwriter, something he wanted to call “left-wing porn.” His screenplays started to depict sexual situations in which selfishness was combated and the collective ownership of the means of production was advocated. The first one, Orgasmic Integration, was a founding document. It includes an amusing scene in which a Mediterranean fisherman, hard at work, catches his wife in the hold of his boat, being given a double penetration by two Senegalese immigrants with very large cocks, who had gotten on the boat the night before after drifting in on a clandestine raft. The fisherman takes off his rubber boots and his leather apron all smeared with scales, looks straight at the camera, and says, maybe having her with them will bring me new pleasures, through a combination of all the means of arousal I'll be able to have better sex, because my pleasure is inseparable from everyone else's. Having said this, he throws himself into the fray, displaying a fairly reasonable cock, although, as if to prove certain cultural myths, it's smaller than those of the Africans, and everything ends in a double facial ejaculation accompanied by ejaculation over the buttocks, three cannons shooting their load at the same time, a sublime image intended, according to Kim, to recall the cannons in The Battleship Potemkin, which was the inspiration for the scene.

We made a new series of twelve movies to illustrate the theory of left-wing porn, and they were very successful, although, as often happens, we were soon attacked by those envious of us, who said that our esthetic approach was opportunistic, that we were jumping on the bandwagon of the new currents then transforming European socialism, and other nonsense like that. As often happens, instead of damaging us these diatribes gave our work a stronger impetus and helped to spread it. Some even started working in the opposite direction to ours, for example, a Danish production company introduced “center-right porn,” although the concept wasn't very clear, because in the end it was all just routine humping and geysers of sperm, with no real significance.

In spite of its difficult beginnings, my story actually has a happy ending, which, of course, is something our screenwriter Kim hates, being an advocate of open and slightly incomprehensible endings, à la Bergman. Our company is one of the biggest in Europe and the movies we make are sold in America, Africa, Asia, and the former Soviet Union. The latest, The Clitoris and Its Forms, has sold 680,000 copies on DVD. A real hit.

I haven't mentioned the books I've written, because that probably isn't the part of my life you wanted to hear about, and it's the least important anyway. Lives are like cities: if they're too neat and tidy they don't have a story. The best stories come out of misfortune and destruction.

I have told you mine.

 

 

 

During Edgar Miret Supervielle's lecture, I kept peering anxiously around at the audience, hoping to recognize the guest from Room 1209—looking, in fact, in order to confirm my theories or, rather, my vague conjectures, for Walter. But the auditorium was poorly lit, the ICBM favoring subdued lighting to concentrate the audience's attention on the speaker, and I did not see anyone who looked like him. In response to the applause, Supervielle made a series of athletic bows at the front of the proscenium, bending almost double as he did so. Marta Joonsdottir announced to me that she was going to her date with the doctor: she had no wish to arrive late. Then she gave me an imploring look and said, I have rather a big favor to ask of you, which is that when I get back I'd like . . . to sleep in your room, can I? I left my cell phone there and I can't get back to my hotel. I told her she could, and added: remember, I owe you one.

Things were a bit chaotic on the way out, with people pushing and shoving to get from the hall to the corridor. Many lingered in small groups to pass comment on the lecture, stopping the others from advancing. I was making my way through the crush when I heard a familiar voice saying, my distinguished compatriot, what a pleasure to see you, come, let's have an aperitif together. It was Kaplan. Reluctantly, I said yes. What I really wanted at that moment was to keep an eye on the people heading for the lobbies and staircases, but as I was unable to think of an excuse, my reflexes still being slow, I accepted.

In the first-floor bar, Kaplan ordered two whiskeys and said, what a tragic thing about that preacher, my God, who knows what sins he must have committed in his life, and what pangs of remorse he must have felt! Well, he certainly paid for those sins with his life. Kaplan sipped at his drink and asked me if I had left Colombia for political reasons, but I said, no, I left because I needed a change of scenery and wanted to know the world, but the world just seems to be getting bigger and bigger, and I still don't really know it, that's why I keep moving, and that's the only reason I've stayed away . . . It's an excellent reason, my friend, and how long do you think it will be before you go back? I don't know, I said, sometimes I think what I'm looking for is a way out, but that has nothing to do with the world or even with our distant country, to be honest, I don't really understand it myself.

There was a rumbling in the distance, and the floor shook slightly. Soon afterwards sirens sounded, and Kaplan said, they're pounding Talpiot, what a shame, it's one of the most beautiful parts of the city, the writer S. Y. Agnon, the uncle of the novelist Amos Oz, used to live there, on Joseph Klausner Street. So many trees in the area, pines, eucalyptus. I hope they don't destroy it. I spent some time there, in Bet Hataava. The houses have been evacuated and they're putting up a strong resistance, with Patriots to destroy the enemy missiles in the air, mobile hospitals, chains of evacuation, oh yes, it's a real war all right. We both fell silent for a while. Then I said: why hold a conference here, in the middle of this chaos, with people dying on the outskirts of the city? Kaplan downed his whiskey in one. Oh, my friend, I'd say the opposite, I think right now this is the one place in the world where an event like this has any meaning.

There was another silence, then I said, don't forget you still owe me the end of your story. Kaplan ordered two more whiskeys and said, that's right, my God, so much time has passed, I can speak about it now as if it had happened to someone else, the pain and anger have worn off; it's like when you walk away from a fire and stop feeling the heat.

I told you last time that my family had decided to fight back, well, after our warnings the paras counterattacked, setting fire to my brother's house, and killing the guard, who was only twenty-two; one of our agents called New York and they said to us, you have to respond, and we have a number of suggestions. One was to kill one of the politicians linked to the paras, but I said we weren't murderers, no, let's bring them down, I said, let the shit hit the fan, I want everyone to know what they're doing and raise a fuss about it. It'll be more difficult, they said, but we'll try. They followed these people, tapped their phones, and finally managed to catch some very interesting conversations: one of the politicians, for example, demanding the head of a mayor with the words, “get rid of that Communist for me”; another call where a paramilitary phoned a governor and said, “I need eighty million pesos, I'll send for them tomorrow,” and the governor replied, “Yes, chief, I have them ready here, send for them whenever you like.” My agents informed the press and there was a big scandal, the men were arrested and forced to give up their seats in parliament, now they would have to face the law and see if they could bribe and threaten ordinary judges, but that wasn't our problem anymore, it was the country's. Of course, they told the press it was all a set-up orchestrated by their political enemies. One day I sent their lawyer the following message: “Tell your client, yes, we Jews do all have the same sense of humor.” We found out that they had asked the paras to kill us, but by that time we had already left.

He finished his account with a burst of laughter and ordered another drink. Then he said, let's change the subject, friend, shall I tell you what most impressed me about Maturana's story? It was that, in the end, the famous savior that everyone believed in was just a wimp! A real wimp, to screw up a business like that through pride! I put my glass down and stood up, pretending that I was expecting an urgent call. Thanks for the aperitif and your stories, Señor Kaplan, the next time it's on me. He gave me his hand and said, it's obvious you're a writer, oh, by the way, if you have any of your books here I'd like to read one, do you have any? I was thinking about his request when he himself said, if you have a spare one leave it in reception in my name, I'm in Room 1211. I stopped dead, 1211? He was next door to 1209! I went back to him and said, excuse me, but have you noticed anything strange about the room next to yours, number 1209? But Kaplan said, I haven't even seen the person staying there, has something happened? don't frighten me. Nothing special, I'm right underneath, in 1109, and I heard noises, that's all. My friend, this city is full of noises. That's because of all the spirits hovering in the air.

I said goodbye to Kaplan and headed for the elevators. Twelfth floor. I crept to the door of Room 1209 but could not hear a thing, nor could I see if there was a light on inside. Apart from Walter, the second likeliest guest, in my opinion, was the black man, Jefferson. As I stood there, I saw a hotel employee coming with a tray, delivering room service; I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and saw that he was carrying a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. I thought he might stop at 1209, but he walked right past.

I decided to go back down to my floor, the eleventh, and take another look at the ex-pastor's room. Again, the door was open! I pushed it cautiously, stood in the entrance, but could not see anyone. Suddenly, I heard a moan. On the other side of the bed, a young woman in the hotel uniform was writhing on the carpet, with her legs apart. A man, also in uniform, had his head under her skirt. Seeing me standing there, the young woman froze. When the man's head emerged, I recognized Momo, who said: I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry, as you can imagine, working in a place full of beds it really makes you want to . . . The young woman leaped to her feet and ran out the door. Then Momo said: you have to understand, these beds just seem to be saying, sex, sex . . . Her name is Mel and she's my girlfriend. We usually meet in 2918, which is a suite, but Mel is studying cinema and sociology and wanted to see the place where that man killed himself, are you going to report me? Don't talk nonsense, Momo, the only thing I might feel is envy, what's her job here? She works in the snack bar on the third floor, she's Brazilian but her family is from Belarus, these Russian women, my God, they're stunning, and with this war all around it gives you a hard-on all the time, I'm really sorry, sir, it's not my fault.

The room was in perfect condition, ready to receive new guests. The cleaners had done their work well. Momo said that a police team had come that morning and taken everything away, even the dust and the water in the vase. We're used to it, these things happen quite often, was that telephone number I gave you any use to you? Yes, I called Tel Aviv and got hold of an address. I was thinking to go tomorrow. Momo snapped his fingers and said, if you like I can take you, it's my day off and I always go to Tel Aviv. I thanked him. We agreed that he would pick me up outside the main entrance of the King David at eight in the morning.

Back in my room, I grabbed my notes again, but it was hot, so I opened the window and breathed the night air. It was very cool, even the noises of war seemed distant. Marta had left a bunch of newspapers on the table, which she must have picked up from reception. The international news agencies had reported Maturana's suicide and a few papers had picked it up before they went to press. I looked at the headlines: Suicide at the ICBM, or Death Hovers over Conference; one of the more sensationalistic was Death Gatecrashes the Feast of Life. The most succinct was in a French-language newspaper: Death of a Biographer. The item mentioned that the marks found on the body “would seem to indicate suicide.” I was looking at this when I heard a conversation coming from the terrace of the floor below. Somebody was saying: what bad luck to give my talk after Maturana's suicide, and how ironic, after I'd e-mailed and telephoned the organizers and managed to have the program changed so that I could go before Sabina Vedovelli, it's like a bad joke, pour me a little more of that. The voice was Supervielle's. Then I heard Kosztolányi say, don't be so negative, people were really pleased and interested to hear your story, you told it really well and it'll stay lodged in their brains, I assure you. Maturana's story may have been loud and attention-grabbing, and made even more so by his subsequent suicide, but yours was a slow burner, you'll see, very soon everyone will be praising the sober manner in which you conveyed the narrative, the vividness of the metaphors you chose, the convincing way in which you handled time, with a highly original mise en abîme that cracks open and leads to an equally original anagnorisis or recognition, my God, yes, Edgar, and if one adds the stenographic accuracy of the dialogue, your discretion in dealing with burning issues, and your firm control of the emotional content, I don't know what else to tell you, I don't think you should have the slightest worry about the result, it was impeccable, don't you see that?

Thanks, Leonidas, replied Supervielle, you're a friend and what you say is some consolation, although you might be exaggerating a little, I don't know, do you really think he came to hear me? did you see him at the talk? There was a silence. Perhaps Kosztolányi made a gesture asking, who are you talking about, who was supposed to be there? because Supervielle replied, who do you think? the head of Tiberias! Ebenezer Lottmann! Did you see him? My agent sent him two of my books a couple of weeks ago and he's considering them, didn't I tell you that? Kosztolányi said: oh, well, there's no need to worry about that, he was there, and I'll tell you this, he was taking notes and he had a rectangular object in his hand that might have been . . . I don't know, a Palm, a cell phone or even a miniature tape recorder, yes, something like that, I can see it now, and that's good, isn't it? it means he was interested, he wasn't only there as a member of the audience but as part of his job, and guess what, now that I rack my brains, I can remember there was one moment he spoke into the machine, yes, there's no doubt about it, it was his cell phone, putting two and two together we may assume he was calling his office, he might have been saying, find those books by Edgar Miret Supervielle, check if there's a chapter about two chess players named Osloski and Flø, put them on my table, take them out of the pile and give them a place apart, and he might even, my dear friend, have been giving instructions to draw up a draft contract to send to your agent, perhaps this very day, now that would be tremendous news, wouldn't it?

Supervielle must have been soothed by his friend's words, because he interrupted, saying, do you think he used the telephone for that? wait, I'm very nervous, if that were the case it's possible that my agent has already received something, mother of God, let's find out immediately. Then I heard him on the telephone, saying, Supervielle here, now listen to me carefully, Ethan, did you receive anything from Tiberias this afternoon? no? how strange, I have reason to believe that Lottmann is thinking of making an offer at any moment, whatever you do keep your eye on the fax machine, and for the love of God, check to see if that damned piece of junk has paper and is connected!!! Make sure you don't miss any calls, Ethan, I wouldn't ask it if it wasn't VERY important, what did you say? yes, of course the war is still on, but who the hell cares about that now?? keep an eye on the machine, sit by it till that damned contract arrives! Am I making myself clear?

He hung up and said to Kosztolányi, there's no offer yet, at least according to my agent, who of course is an idiot, why must we always be in the hands of idiots? May God forgive me, Ethan is the son of a friend, but the poor man never gets things right, I must change agents as soon as I get back to Paris, phew, there's no offer so far, that means if he called his office from the hall it wasn't because of that, a false alarm, don't you think? what if he called the publishing house to say exactly the opposite, to tell his assistant, put everything in an envelope and return to sender?

Anything's possible, said Kosztolányi, but if that was the case your agent would already know, why send back manuscripts if he can write an e-mail? you can never tell with somebody whispering on the phone, he might even have been calling his wife, Edgar, or his young mistress, I don't know, a female writer of the new generation anxious for recognition, why not? it often happens, he might have been calling to say, listen, darling, I know I promised I'd be there at seven but I'm listening to one of the best talks I've ever heard in my life, please wait for me, ask room service for whatever you like, clear out the minibar, but wait for me, don't you think it could have been something like that?