The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini (13 page)

—

The door opened wide and Señora Puccini entered pushing a cart with something in aspic and a salad. I had been watching the door for some minutes because I'd seen it move very slightly when Pacheco was in the midst of his story. Now I believed that Señora Puccini had been standing outside, waiting for him to finish. She gave no sign of having heard anything and seemed as cool as ever. As for us guests, we were in a state of sexual disruption and stared at her, wishing to strip away the years to discover the young woman who had been lying on the white bed.

Señora Puccini put the salad before us, a salad Beatrice with green beans, watercress, and tomatoes. The aspic dish was made up of slices of duck and slices of orange. The food was absurd, an endless progression of comestibles in which only Malgiolio still maintained an interest. We were silent as she put the plates on the table. I nibbled a little aspic and a few green beans. Then, as Señora Puccini was pushing the cart from the room, Pacheco said, “Did you hear what I told them about how I entered your bedroom that night long ago?”

Señora Puccini stood with her back to us, very stiff and tall. At first I thought she wouldn't respond. A draft from the door made the candlelight dance.

“Yes, I heard,” she said at last.

“And had you known it before?”

“What does it matter what I knew?” she asked. Then she continued into the hall, shutting the door behind her. Pacheco speared a piece of the duck and lifted it to his lips. Next to me I could hear Dalakis chewing.

“I had the picture enlarged,” said Pacheco. “I would stare at it, trying to come to hate that face or at least grow indifferent to it. How is it possible for one person to have such control over another? I would think myself a rational human being, a respected surgeon surrounded by people who admired me, but I would again look at that photograph and all my logic would be swept away.

“A few days after I stole the picture, my friend Paco called to say there was a picnic planned for the following weekend. A mass of young people were going out to some farm where there would be an ox roast and then dancing and general carousing. Paco asked if I cared to go with him. I thanked him but said no. That sort of foolishness has always been immensely boring to me: twenty or thirty people sitting around bonfires singing old songs. But then Paco chuckled and said, ‘What if I told you that Antonia Puccini will be there?'

“As you may imagine, I went after all. The farm was about twenty miles from the city, just in the foothills. Over two hundred people must have attended. There were horses and riding paths and games and various sporting activities and these great blackened cows turning over and over on a spit. The young people cavorted. The older guests sat at round tables and talked and played cards. It was a warm, cloudless day and the mountains rose above us to the east like a green curtain. Far up there were still traces of snow.

“Paco and I separated in order to search for Antonia. Shortly I found her near the stable with her fiancé. They were saddling horses. They had a way of always standing close to each other, of constantly touching each other as they talked. I stood back by a tree and watched, and moments later Paco joined me. ‘We have to get them apart,' I said. Just then Antonia leapt on her horse and rode off by herself. The boy, her fiancé, was still tightening the cinch on his saddle. ‘Quick,' I told Paco, ‘run and tell him that his host wants him right away, anything, just get him away from the horse.'

“Paco ran to the boy and blurted out some story. Later he told me he'd said there was a phone call from the city. Someone had had an accident and the boy was needed. Clearly, the boy didn't want to go. Antonia was galloping off across the field, not looking back but certain he'd follow. Then the boy turned and ran off toward the house, leaving his horse still tied to the corral. By the time I got there Paco had the animal ready. ‘I hope you can ride,' he said. I climbed into the saddle and as Paco tossed me the reins I dug my heels into the horse's sides.

“Soon I was galloping across the field and there, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead, was Antonia, still galloping wildly. Looking back over her shoulder, she again urged her horse forward, and I knew she'd mistaken me for her fiancé. I was also certain that she was intending to lead him somewhere into the woods up ahead where they could be alone, and I imagined Antonia getting herself trapped in some narrow canyon, then turning and finding me by her side. How could I not have my way with her?

“When I reached the woods, there was no sign of Antonia. My horse, a huge chestnut, galloped along the narrow path. I slowed a little so I wouldn't miss some turning. It had recently rained and everything was very green. I rode on for some minutes without seeing Antonia. Then off to the left was another path and in the dirt were the marks of a horse's hooves. I followed it, keeping my head down in order to get under the low-hanging branches. After several more minutes, I saw Antonia ahead of me. She had turned her horse around. She was smiling, a wonderfully kind and loving smile. Just behind her was a little meadow between the trees and the cliff face. I still had my head ducked down in the horse's mane and she still mistook me for her fiancé. Then I sat up and nodded to her. Immediately, her face changed. She didn't show anger or surprise or fear. Her face showed nothing. I reined up my horse perhaps two feet from hers. She didn't speak. We looked at each other in silence.

“‘Do you know what I want of you?' I asked.

“She ignored my words. ‘That's Roberto's horse,' she said. ‘Where is he?'

“I repeated my question. ‘Do you know what I want of you?' She wore a white shirt and khaki riding pants. The top three buttons of her shirt were undone, exposing a triangle of flesh. ‘Get down from your horse,' I said.

“‘Where is Roberto?' she asked again.

“‘I have no interest in Roberto,' I told her. ‘Get down from your horse.'

“She didn't respond or make any expression. Then, unexpectedly, she dug her heels into her horse and it leapt forward, kicking and whinnying. She slapped it with her riding crop and pulled back on the reins so that it reared up, its forefeet pawing the air just inches from the head of my own horse, which shied away. As she came down, she again dug her heels into her horse's flanks and it galloped forward. I tried to catch her bridle but as I reached out she slapped my wrist with her crop and galloped past. I spun my horse after hers. I was furious and I wanted to catch her and strip her.

“We galloped down the narrow path between the trees. Branches kept hitting me no matter how close I crouched over the horse's neck. Still, I kept urging my horse forward and managed to stay about ten feet behind Antonia. My horse was much larger than hers and once we reached the main path I was sure I could catch her. But again I was mistaken. Although I was faster, she was the better rider, and although I gained on her I couldn't quite reach her. She rode beautifully, perfectly balanced, and never once looked back.

“When we galloped into the field, I was perhaps half a length behind her. I still meant to drag her to the ground but as I rode into the high grass I saw her fiancé riding toward us on another horse. She galloped toward him and he, seeing me, charged at me, shouting. Clearly, he knew I was responsible for the little trick about the phone call. I didn't slow but rode directly at him, intending to knock him from his horse. By that point I had worked myself into such a pitch that I was ready to do anything. Unfortunately, he saw my intention and as I leaned out to strike him, he grabbed my arm and dragged me from the saddle. I fell heavily in the grass, rolled, then got to my feet. But immediately he charged down on me with his riding crop, and as I looked up, he struck me across my face and I was knocked to the ground. This time I got up more quickly but he was faster still and was again upon me. I jumped to avoid being trampled, and he struck at me and missed.

“All this time I was aware of Antonia sitting on her horse and watching, not with pleasure or distaste, just watching. Again I got to my feet and again this boy, this Roberto, struck me with his riding crop. By then I was bleeding. I got to one knee and buried my face in my hands, but it was all pretense. As he rode at me I stayed down till the last possible moment. Then, as he swung the riding crop, I leapt up, grabbed his arm, and pulled him from his horse so he fell into the grass. I had no wish to struggle with him. Near me was a large stone and, as the boy fell, I grabbed it and lifted it above my head intending to smash out his brains. Just as I was about to send the stone crashing upon him, Antonia screamed, ‘No!'

“I looked up. Her face was full of terror. I realized I was wrong, I was only thinking of the moment, and that perhaps I could use this boy to get what I wanted. I threw down the stone and walked to my horse, which stood cropping grass about thirty yards away. Antonia ran to her fiancé, who was sitting up looking rather dazed and stupid. Mounting my horse, I rode back to the farm. Then I hunted out Paco and we drove back to the city.”

Pacheco sat back and began poking at the food on his plate with a butter knife. I stared at him, trying to guess his thoughts. His expression seemed one of anger, of relentlessness. Dalakis had made a small ball of wax from the candle drippings and was rolling it between his palm and the tablecloth.

“Why didn't you give up?” asked Malgiolio. “Or did you?”

“Give up?” asked Pacheco. “Believe me, if anything my resolve was even greater.”

I glanced at the door and wondered if Antonia Puccini stood behind it. Never had I experienced a passion such as Pacheco described. Even though I loved my wife, I dislike those emotions which oversweep you and leave you beaten.

“You've had many women,” said Malgiolio. “Why didn't you just leave this one and find another?”

“Because I'm not interested in whores, my friend.” Pacheco's tone was cool and Malgiolio assumed he was suggesting something about his own tastes. He leaned forward and stared at Pacheco across the tablecloth. How foolish Malgiolio appeared, with his strings of black hair artistically arranged in little swirls across his bald head.

“Are you suggesting that I am?”

“You seem to have a preference for bought flesh.”

Even though I was surprised by Pacheco's rudeness, I expected nothing to come of it. If Malgiolio wasn't used to insults, then he should be. But this occasion was different. Malgiolio bent his head and sat hunched over his plate. A few seconds went by. Abruptly he sat up and surprised us all by hurling his glass to the floor, where it smashed, sending splinters of glass skittering across the marble.

“I resent what you say about my relationships with women. You know nothing about me!”

Without glancing at Malgiolio, Pacheco lit a cigarette from one of the candles, holding it to the flame without moving from his chair. It was only later that I decided that he had some purpose in upsetting Malgiolio. Perhaps he already knew what Malgiolio was about to tell us and was even forcing him to say it. Perhaps in revealing his obsession, Pacheco also wanted to shake us free of our own.

“You think my feelings are not as strong as yours?” Malgiolio continued. He had gotten to his feet and stood with his hands on the edge of the table. Not only was his blue suit old, but it was slightly small on him. “Look at the two of us. You are wealthy and respected. I am poor and full of spite. Yet I too can burn for a woman. In fact, I burn daily.”

I watched how Dalakis stared at Malgiolio. He has endless capacity for empathy. His thick glasses were perched on the tip of his nose like a potential suicide. I thought of the poetry Malgiolio had written as an adolescent. It was a poetry of complaint.

“We all have stories,” said Pacheco with a degree of kindness. “Who is this woman, Malgiolio, who makes you burn? Perhaps I can buy her for you.”

“Don't mock him, Daniel,” said Dalakis, quietly.

Pacheco looked back at Dalakis, then nodded his head. Malgiolio had resumed his seat at the table. He was angry, but whether at himself or Pacheco I wasn't sure. I kept reminding myself that here was a man who had squandered a fortune, who could have made himself comfortable for life but had thrown everything away. I remembered stories about Malgiolio buying a car in the morning, then selling it at a great loss in the afternoon. He had grown tired of it; he desired a change. He had wanted to be someone who never had to think about money and as a result he'd tied himself to it forever.

“It's no story,” said Malgiolio in a low voice. “I met a woman when I was wealthy. I gave her gifts and she gave me favors. Then I became poor again and the favors stopped. How simple a situation could you ask for? It's like your story of the man with his blind wife. Did you know about me, Pacheco? Always I am collecting money. I steal it from here, borrow it from there, maybe I even earn a little. And I go to her again with another gift which she is kind enough to accept. She is a tall blond woman, maybe Scandinavian, maybe Dutch. Perhaps she is eight or nine inches taller than I am. She lets me walk with her in her garden. But she is not kind. She laughs at my gifts and says they are too small. If I beg her for something, just a touch of her hand, she slaps my face. If I complain, she tells her servant not to let me in the house. Is it not comical? She makes me lie down on the patio. She makes me lie on my back and she stands above me. And do you know what she does? Never have I told this to anyone. She urinates on me, she pees and laughs and as she laughs the urine snakes back and forth across me. And do I complain? Not a sound do I make. Then I go back home and steal and finagle and borrow until at last I have a little money and again I return to her house with a gift and again I lie out on the stones of the patio as she stands above me. When she stands there she digs her heels into my ribs and kicks, then she squats down and I feel the urine spatter across my clothes, the clothes that my wife later washes.”