The Savage Detectives (64 page)

The next morning we returned to Parque Hundido. I'd had a bad night, unable to sleep, such a nervous wreck that even reading Amado Nervo couldn't soothe me (incidentally, I would never admit to Don Octavio that I'd been reading Amado Nervo, I'd mention Don Carlos Pellicer or Don José Gorostiza, and of course I have read them, but you tell me what point there is reading Pellicer or Gorostiza when you're trying to relax, or with luck even fall asleep, when really it's better not to read anything at all, even Amado Nervo, it's better to watch television, the stupider the show, the better), and I had huge circles under my eyes that makeup couldn't hide and even my voice was a little hoarse, as if the night before I'd smoked a pack of cigarettes or had too much to drink. But Don Octavio didn't notice a thing and he got in the Volkswagen and we left for Parque Hundido, without speaking a word, as if we'd been doing it all our lives, which was exactly one of those things that drove me wild, that ability of human beings to adapt to anything, instantly. In other words: if I stopped and thought calmly, which was the proper thing to do, and said to myself that we'd only been to Parque Hundido twice, and this was the third time, well, I could hardly believe it, because it really did seem as if we'd been there many times, and if I admitted that we'd only been there twice, then it was worse, because it made me want to scream or drive my Volkswagen into a wall, so I had to get control of myself and concentrate on the steering wheel and not think about Parque Hundido or the stranger who visited it when we did. In short, not only was I haggard that morning, with circles under my eyes, I was irrationally upset. And yet what happened that morning was very different from what I'd expected.

We got to Parque Hundido. That much is clear. We walked into the park and sat on the same bench as always, under the shelter of a big, leafy tree, although I suppose it was as sick as all the trees in Mexico City. And then, instead of leaving me alone on the bench as he had before, Don Octavio asked me whether I'd completed the task he'd given me yesterday, and I said yes, Don Octavio, I made a list of lots of names, and he smiled and asked whether I'd memorized the names and I looked at him as if to ask whether he was serious and took the list out of my bag and showed it to him and he said: Clarita, find out who that boy is. That was all he said. And I got up like an idiot and went to wait for the stranger, and to pass the time I started to walk until I realized that I was following the same path Don Octavio had taken on the two previous days and then I stopped walking, not daring to look at him, my gaze fixed on the spot where the stranger whose identity I was supposed to discover should appear. And the stranger appeared, at the same time as he had twice before, and he started to walk. And then, not wanting to prolong matters any further, I went up to him and asked him who he was and he said I'm Ulises Lima, the visceral realist poet, none other than the second-to-last visceral realist poet left in Mexico, and to be honest, what can I say, his name didn't ring any bells, although the night before, on Don Octavio's orders, I'd gone through the indexes of more than ten anthologies of recent and not so recent poetry, among them the famous Zarco anthology that catalogs more than five hundred young poets. But his name didn't ring any bells. And then I said: do you know who that gentleman is sitting over there? And he said: yes, I know. And I said (I had to be sure): who is he? And he said: it's Octavio Paz. And I said: do you want to come sit with him for a while? And he shrugged his shoulders or made a similar gesture that I interpreted as a yes and both of us went walking toward the bench from which Don Octavio was following our every move with great interest. When I reached him I thought that it wouldn't hurt to make a formal introduction, so I said: Don Octavio Paz, the visceral realist poet Ulises Lima. And then Don Octavio, as he motioned for Lima to take a seat, said: visceral realist, visceral realist (as if the name was familiar to him), wasn't that Cesárea Tinajero's circle? And Lima sat down beside Don Octavio and sighed or made a strange noise with his lungs and said yes, that was what Cesárea Tinajero's circle was called. For a minute or so they were silent, looking at each other. An excruciating minute, to be honest. In the distance, past some bushes, I saw two bums. I think I got a little nervous, which foolishly led me to ask Don Octavio what the group was and whether he had known them. I might just as well have remarked on the weather. And then Don Octavio looked at me with those pretty eyes of his and said Clarita, back in the days of the visceral realists I would hardly have been ten years old, this was around 1924, wasn't it? he said, addressing Lima. And Lima said yes, more or less, the 1920s, but he said it with such sadness in his voice, with such… emotion, or feeling, that I thought it was the saddest voice I would ever hear. I think I even felt ill. Don Octavio's eyes and the stranger's voice and the morning and Parque Hundido, such a seedy place, isn't it? so neglected, wounded me in the depths of my being, just how, I couldn't say. So I left them to talk in peace and moved several feet away, to the nearest bench, with the excuse that I had to look over the next day's schedule, and I brought along the list I'd made of the names of Mexican poets from recent generations and I went through it from beginning to end, and I can promise you that Ulises Lima was nowhere on it. How long did they talk? Not long. And yet from where I was sitting it was clear that it was a leisurely, calm, polite conversation. Then the poet Ulises Lima got up, shook Don Octavio's hand, and left. I watched him walk off toward one of the park exits. The bums I had seen in the shrubbery, three of them now, were moving toward us. Let's go, Clarita, I heard Don Octavio say.

The next day, as I expected, we didn't go to Parque Hundido. Don Octavio got up at ten and worked on an article to be published in the next issue of his magazine. There were moments when I felt like asking him more about our little three-day adventure, but something inside of me (my common sense, probably) made me give up that idea. Things had happened the way they'd happened and if I, who was the only witness, didn't know what had gone on, it was best that I not know. Approximately a week later, Don Octavio went away with the señora to give a series of lectures at an American university. I didn't go with them, of course. One morning, while he was away, I went to Parque Hundido with the hope or fear of seeing Ulises Lima appear again. The only difference this time was that I didn't sit in plain view of everyone but hid behind some bushes, though with a perfect view of the clearing where Don Octavio and the stranger had met for the first time. For the first few minutes of my wait, my heart raced. I was freezing cold, and yet when I touched my cheeks I had the feeling that my face was about to explode. Then came disappointment, and when I left the park at around ten, it could even be said that I felt happy. Don't ask me why, I couldn't tell you.

María Teresa Solsona Ribot, Jordi's Gym, Calle Josep Tarradellas, Malgrat, Catalonia, December 1995
. It's a sad story, but when I think about it, it makes me laugh. I needed to rent a room in my apartment and he was the first person to show up, and although I don't entirely trust South Americans, he seemed like a good guy and I said he could have it. He paid me two months in advance and went into his room and closed the door. Back then I was in every championship and demonstration in Catalonia and I also had a job as a waitress at the pub La Sirena, which is in the touristy part of Malgrat, by the sea. When I asked him what he did, he told me he was a writer, and I don't know why but I got the idea that he must work at some newspaper, and back then I had what you might call a special weakness for reporters. So I decided to be on my best behavior, and the first night he spent at my place I went to his room, knocked on the door, and invited him to have dinner with me and Pepe at a Pakistani bar. Pepe and I weren't going to eat anything at the bar, of course, a salad, maybe, but we were friends of the owner, Mr. John, and that lends a certain cachet.

That night I found out that he didn't work for any newspaper but wrote novels. That got Pepe excited, because Pepe is a mystery novel fanatic and they had plenty to talk about. Meanwhile, I picked at my salad and watched him, sizing him up as he talked or listened to Pepe. He ate well and he was polite, to start with. Then, the more you watched him, other things began to appear, things that slipped away like those fish that come close to the shore when the water is shallow and you see dark things (darker than the water) moving very quickly past your legs.

The next day Pepe went back to Barcelona to compete in Mister Olympia Catalan and didn't come back. That same morning, very early, the writer and I met in the living room while I was doing my exercises. I do them every day. First thing in the morning in high season, because I have less time then and I have to make the most of the day. So there I was, in the living room, doing push-ups on the floor, and he comes in and says good morning, Teresa, and then he goes into the bathroom, I think I didn't even answer him or maybe I grunted, I'm not used to being interrupted, and then I heard his footsteps again, the bathroom or kitchen door closing, and a little later I heard him asking me whether I'd like a cup of tea. I said I would and for a while we stared at each other. I think he'd never seen a woman like me. Do you want to exercise a little? I said. I said it just for the sake of saying something, of course. He didn't look well and he was already smoking. As I expected, he said no. People only take an interest in their health when they end up in the hospital. He left a cup of tea on the table and shut himself in his room. A little later I heard the sound of his typewriter. That was the last we saw of each other that day. The next morning, however, he appeared in the living room again at six in the morning and offered to make me breakfast. I don't eat or drink anything at that time of day, but it made me feel sort of, I don't know, bad to say no, so I let him make me another cup of tea, and I told him that while he was at it he could look in the cupboard for some jars of Amino Ultra and Burner that I should have had the night before but had forgotten about. What, I said, haven't you ever seen a chick like me? No, he said, never. He was pretty honest, but it was the kind of honesty that makes you not know whether to feel offended or flattered.

That afternoon, when my shift was over, I went to get him and said we should go out. He said that he would rather stay home and work. I'll buy you a drink, I said. He thanked me and said no. The next morning we had breakfast together. I was doing my exercises and wondering to myself where he was because it was already seven forty-five and he still hadn't come out. When I start to do my exercises I usually let my mind wander. At first I think about something specific, like my job or my competitions, but then my head starts to do its own thing and I might start thinking about where I'll be a year from now or I might just as easily end up thinking about my childhood. That morning I was thinking about Manoli Salabert, who won whatever there was to win wherever she went, and I was wondering how she did it, when suddenly I heard his door open and a little later I heard his voice asking me whether I wanted tea. Of course I want tea, I said. When he brought it I got up and sat at the table with him. That time we spent maybe two hours talking, until nine-thirty, when I had to leave in a hurry for the pub, because the manager, who's a friend of mine, had asked me to settle something with the cleaning lady. We talked about all kinds of things. I asked him what he was writing. He said a book. I asked him whether it was a romance. He didn't know what to answer. I asked him again and he said he didn't know. Man, I said, if you don't know, who the fuck will? Or maybe it wasn't until later that night that I said that, when we had gotten a little more relaxed around each other. Anyway, love was a subject I enjoyed and we talked about that till I had to leave. I said I could tell him a thing or two about love. That I'd been involved with this guy Nani, the top bodybuilder in Gerona, and that after that experience I felt qualified to teach a course. He asked me how long it had been since we broke up. About four months, I said. Did he leave you? he said. Yes, I admitted, he left me. But now you're going out with Pepe, he said. I explained that Pepe was a good person, a sweetheart, he wouldn't hurt a fly. But it isn't the same, I said. Arturo had a habit that I'm not sure whether to call good or bad. He would listen and not take sides. I like it when people express their opinions, even if I don't agree with them. One afternoon I invited him to come to La Sirena. He said he didn't drink and so he felt sort of dumb hanging out in a pub. I'll make you an herbal tea, I said. He didn't come and I stopped inviting him. I'm outgoing and friendly, but I don't like to be a pest.

A while later he showed up at the pub, though, and I made him his chamomile tea myself. After that he came every day. Rosita, the other waitress, thought there was something going on between us. When she said that it made me laugh. I thought about it for a while and it made me laugh even more. How could there be anything between Arturo and me! But then, for no good reason, I thought about it again and I realized I
wanted
to be his girlfriend. Until then I'd only dealt with two South Americans, both basically assholes, and I didn't have any desire to go through that again. And I'd never known any novelists. Here was this guy from South America and he was a writer and suddenly I wanted to be his girlfriend. Anyway, it's better to share an apartment with a boyfriend than a stranger. But it wasn't just practical reasons that made me want to be his girlfriend. It was how I felt, I didn't ask myself why. He needed someone too, I could see that right away. One morning I asked him to tell me something about himself. I was always the one who talked. That time he didn't tell me anything, but he said I could ask him whatever I wanted. I found out that he'd been living near Malgrat and that he'd recently given up his place. He didn't say why. I found out he was divorced and had a son. His son lived in Arenys de Mar. Once a week, on Saturdays, he would go see him. Sometimes we took the train together. I would go into Barcelona, to see Pepe or my friends at Muscle Gym, and he would go to Arenys to see his son. One night, as he was having his chamomile tea at La Sirena, I asked him how old he was. Over forty, he said, but he didn't look it. I would have guessed thirty-five at most, which is what I said. After that, even though he hadn't asked, I told him how old I was. Thirty-five. Then he smiled at me. I didn't like that smile at all. He smiled at me like someone with a kind of complex, or someone who doesn't give a shit. Anyway, it was a smile I didn't like. I'm basically a fighter. I try to stay positive. Things don't
have
to be bad or inevitable. That night, after that smile, I don't know why but I said that I didn't have kids even though I would've loved to have them, and that I had never been married either, and I didn't have much money, which was obvious, but that I thought life could be a pretty thing, a beautiful thing, and a person had to try to live a happy life. I don't know why I said all that corny stuff. I regretted it immediately. Naturally, all he said was of course, of course, like he was talking to a moron. Still, we talked. More and more. In the mornings, over breakfast, and at night, when he came to La Sirena, once he finished his workday. Or took a break, because I guess writers are always working: I remember hearing the sound of his typewriter at four in the morning in my sleep. And we talked about everything. Once, while he was watching me lift weights, he asked me why I'd gotten into bodybuilding. Because I like it, I answered. Since when? he said. Since I was fifteen, I said. Do you think there's something wrong with it? Does it seem unfeminine to you? Does it seem weird? No, he said, but there aren't many girls like you. I tell you, sometimes he drove me crazy. I should have answered that I was a woman, not a girl, but instead I told him there were more and more women doing what I did. Then, I don't know why, I told him about the time two summers ago that Pepe suggested that we perform in Gramanet, at a club in Gramanet. They gave us all stage names. They called me Lady Samson. I had to strike poses on the go-go girls' platform and also lift weights. That was all. But I didn't like the name. I'm no Lady Samson, I'm Teresa Solsona Ribot, period. But it was an opportunity, it paid all right, and Pepe said that some guy who scouted for models for the special-interest magazines might show up any night. In the end no one showed up, or if they did nobody told me. Still, it was a job, and I did it. What was it that you didn't like about the job? he asked me. Well, I answered, thinking about it for a while, what I didn't like was the stage name they gave me. It's not that I'm against stage names, but I think that if someone's going to take a different name she should have the right to choose it. I would never have called myself Lady Samson. I don't see myself as a Lady Samson. It's a cheap, sleazy name. Anyway, I wouldn't have chosen it. What name would you have chosen? Kim, I said. After Kim Basinger? he said. I knew he was going to say that. No, I said, after Kim Chizevsky. And who's Kim Chizevsky? A champion in the sport, I said.