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On the silt and pebble-covered floor of the lagoon lay the body of a man. His open eyes seemed to be looking at the sun of a lower, liquid sky. A small black and yellow fish swam along the ridge of his leg, another nibbled at his ear. He had been down there for some time, and his unmoving body had become a part of the watery landscape. His face seemed peaceful, but now and then it was as though his lips curled in an expression of disgust. The seaweed moved with his hair in the gentle current. As long as the mud adhered to it, his body changed slowly; the eyes, which originally had been hollow, pushed out of the swollen face. They had lost their color; they would have seen only blackness. The belly grew to be enormous, and one night the body rose up out of the black mud, the muck covered all trace of where it had lain, and the flesh came into the open as it was propelled by the waves to the shore.

The police commissioner of Flores leaned over the body, his handkerchief pressed to his nose. There were few things which displeased him as much as an unexplained death; his bloodshot eyes slowly searched for some sign of violence. He only found the marks left by the hands of the fishermen who had discovered the corpse and pulled it out of the water, and the fish-bitten face and clenched hands. The commissioner had someone force the fists open: one was empty and the other held a bit of earth and a stone. From its size he judged the body to be that of a foreigner. He raised his head and folded his handkerchief.

Richard Ward, an American, had come to the Petén nine months earlier, and had purchased a piece of land facing the lagoon of ltza, where he built a small cottage. He intended to retire there with his wife Lucy, who was waiting in Wisconsin for news of him. Two weeks before the body was found, Richard Ward had been seen in a shop in Flores, and then he had disappeared. His servant Rafael Colina was taken to the police station, where he was questioned. No result came of this, nor of the search made of his hut, on Ward’s land. They kept him for a few hours, and after administering the customary beating, let him go.

Lucy Ward arrived in Flores one wet Sunday in September. She was stout, with graceful arms and legs. At the police station they gave her the little box containing the ashes: 37, she read on the cover, Sr. R. Ward. A police car took her to the property, where Rafael was expecting her.

She wandered around the terrain, examining the landscape with the questioning expression of someone looking at an abstract painting he fails to understand; then she realized with some surprise that it pleased her. She went into the cottage, looked around, and decided to spend the night there. Later, on her way to sleep, she thought of her husband, and was grateful to him for having found this place. She decided to try living there for a while.

From the outset it was as though the absence of human companionship, an absence which she had dreaded, was compensated for by the feverish life of the plants, the activity of the insects, and the tenuous presence of Rafael. Little by little she became aware of the forest’s tiny miracles, and she learned how to resign herself to the inconveniences: the ever-present ants, the constant sweating, the mosquitoes at twilight and at dawn.

After supper she would go out and sit in the rocking chair and stay listening to the voices of the earth, metallic and hypnotic. During the day she liked to walk among the trees along a narrow path cleared by her husband. She would walk until she was tired, and relax among the vines to breathe in the scent of branches and dead leaves. From time to time she caught a strange butterfly, or gathered flowers whose names she did not know.

One night when rain fell unceasingly, the sound of it on the palm-thatched roof kept her from sleeping and for the first time she was troubled by her husband’s death. Like the rain that was starting to drip into the room, fear began to seep into her consciousness. A heavy drop landed next to her pillow; she got up and pushed the bed into the middle of the room. There were flashes of lightning. As she was finally on her way to falling asleep, by a bolt of lightning she saw Rafael in the doorway, watching her. She blinked her eyes, and considered stretching her arm out to light a match; then she realized with relief that she had been wrong. The face was a stain in the wood. She breathed deeply and sank into sleep.

ln the morning when the sun was high, she opened her eyes and heard Rafael working in the kitchen. The air was sweet with the smell of corn. Needles of sunlight pushed between the slits in the ceiling, a fly buzzed. She made her bed and dressed to go out.

Morning, said Rafael, showing his yellow teeth.

She went to sit on the porch. Rafael put the tray on the small table beside her chair. As he was pouring her coffee, she turned and looked into the distance, saying in a hushed voice:· I’ve been thinking of Don Ricardo.

He stared at her an instant, surprised; then he looked away and lifted his head. Don Ricardo, he said. The light moved on the surface of the lagoon. Lucy raised her cup, and he turned and went into the kitchen.

That morning, instead of taking her walk in the forest, Lucy went to the end of the dock and spread out a towel to sunbathe. She thought of the past; it was empty and vague. Memory dissolved in the heat.

The sun burned her face. She heard Rafael push his rowboat into the water. Sitting up, she saw him row past the dock. I’m going to see if there’s any fish, he told her, continuing to row toward the other bank.

She lay face down, looking at the white flowers under the water; then she shut her eyes in order not to think.

The heat became intense. She plunged into the water and swam back and forth at the end of the dock. Then she came out and let the sun dry her. On her way to the house, she noticed that the door to the hut under the banana plants was open. She glanced behind her — only the still water — and walked rapidly to the door, peering into the dark interior.

There was a large earthenware pot in the corner, resting on some stones that kept it from touching the floor; underneath it were ashes and dead embers. She stopped, astounded, in the middle of the room. In the air, near her face, an enormous toad was staring at her. It opened its mouth, and she saw the glass jar and the cord that suspended it from above. The toad moved, pushing its four toes against the glass. Her fear was transformed into pity. She touched the jar with a fingernail, and the toad raised and lowered its eyelids. The cover had been pierced with a nail. In the bottom of the jar were some blades of grass and a fly. She turned it around and held it close to her face so she could examine the toad’s skin.

From some distance away came a hollow wooden sound. From the doorway she saw the boat in the middle of the lagoon. Rafael was rowing in a standing position, a stroke on the left, then on the right, never taking his eyes off the shore. She felt a trickle down her spine, and she realized that her hair was dripping wet. She went out of the hut, leaving drops of water on the floor where she had stood.

That noon Rafael served her a fish stew. She tasted it without pleasure, and left it almost intact. He asked her if anything was the matter with the food. No, the food was good, but the sun had taken away her appetite. After he had disappeared into his hut to take his siesta, she went to the kitchen and prepared herself a dish of fruit.

She must speak to Rafael. His treatment of the toad was cruel. She thought of the wrinkled skin, the unhappy eyes behind the glass. Sitting on the porch, she looked out over the lagoon and thought of her husband’s ashes.

She rose from the rocking chair and went silently – the afternoon was very still – to the open door of the hut. Rafael, crouching with his back to her, was playing with the toad, which he had taken out of the jar and was poking with a stick. The cornered toad puffed itself out threateningly; above its eyes had appeared pointed black ridges, like horns.

She took a few steps back, and called out loudly: Rafael! He jumped up and stuck his head outside the door.

I’m sorry, she said. I need some lemons. Do you think you could go and buy some?

When Rafael had gone, taking the road to the village, Lucy drew back the bolt and pushed open the door to the hut. The toad was once again in the jar. She unscrewed the top, put the jar on the floor, and urged the toad out of the room with her foot. She bolted the door again and went back to the porch. The sun was getting close to the horizon.

Rafael returned at dusk. There were no lemons, he said as he walked past her, on his way to the hut. Lucy watched him as she rocked in the chair. She saw him open the door and go in. Then suddenly he rushed out again, as if he had been pushed. He looked here and there on the ground, behind the bushes that surrounded the hut, under the banana plants, in the ditch beside the path, and between the stalks of the canebrake. He returned to the hut and searched once more, and after that he stood in the doorway looking out.

What is it? Lucy called. She saw him coming toward her, his head lowered.

Is something wrong?

Somebody went into my house.

The mosquitoes were biting her. Somebody? When?

Rafael glanced behind him. You didn’t see anybody?

There was a full moon, and the air was still. Before supper, Lucy went out and stood on the shore looking at the sky. She knew that her lie had offended Rafael. For a moment she felt like admitting her wrongdoing, but then silence seemed the better course.

The food was on the table. Listlessly she finished all the fish; this was to please him. (Now she felt sorry for him.) In a low voice she begged his pardon. Rafael served himself and said good night. When the candle in his hut no longer burned, she went into her room.

In the night she awoke to feel a weight on her abdomen. She felt it move upward across her chest. It was something cold, it was crawling now on her neck, and it stopped at her mouth.

She could not move: her limbs were heavy. Then she saw the toad, its body swelling …

She threw back the sheet and jumped out of bed. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. She seized a flashlight, ran into the bathroom, and tried to be sick. Letting the water run, she put her head under the tap. Then she sat down on the bathmat and found that she was unable to get up again. In the mirror she saw the flashlight shining.


*This story is taken from: Dust on Her Tongue © Rodrigo Rey Rosa, 1989, 1992; English translation by Paul Bowles, 1989.

You walk, you walk and you forget: that’s what she always says. Well, not in those exact words. It’s usually a more specific complaint: you didn’t call Pacheco, you didn’t check the Supercable contract, you didn’t take the car to the shop, it’s past dinnertime, you forgot our wedding anniversary and to buy the shampoo I asked you to. She doesn’t expect answers, and Benjamin knows it would be useless to reply. He also knows that beyond that litany of small complaints the true reproach rises up like a weathered plateau, existential, unforgivable. That he didn’t remember. There’s an enormous difference between forgetting and not remembering.

A reproach that, of course, has never been stated outright. The damning weight of everything Benjamin doesn’t remember—or pretends not to remember—could trigger a massive earthquake in all the geological layers that have built up patiently over the years to form a stable foundation. Benjamin doesn’t remember the future that was left behind in the past, that glorious future, bright as the sun, its contours mysteriously fading the closer he got to it. Their thirty-five years together has proved it.

The worst part is that you didn’t remember, she says without saying it, as she talks about the mechanic and the shampoo. You forget everything, she says. The life you promised me (she doesn’t say that). You just walk, and walking doesn’t solve anything, she says, and lately that’s all you do.

As if she didn’t know that Benjamin had started walking under doctor’s orders. The cure for everything at his age, high cholesterol, fatty liver, clogged arteries, and a heart as slow as the owner of these broken-down organs. So he got used to walking. Now his wife suspects that he likes doing it and that’s not something she can allow; it’s not fair, while she lives with the burden of having to remember that dazzling shared future that has simply vanished into the present.

“Enough with the walking, Benjamin. Open the door please! Mauricio is coming for dinner tonight with your grandkids. He never knows what to do with them when it’s his turn to take care of them. They’ve become unbearable since the divorce, clearly their mother’s doing (don’t get me started on her), and Sandrita is sleeping, so you’ll have to run by the bakery. And you could set the table, too, don’t you think? I have to do everything myself. And you, walking and walking!”

The gravel crunches under his feet and the spring air bursts with the trill of invisible birds. Benjamin turns up the volume; from far away comes the neighing of a horse. A delicious sound.

He’s surrounded by a green world of vegetation, just like in the beginning, when he went to the places with public walking trails: La Autopista, Los Caobos, El Parque del Este. He bought himself a Walkman and for a while sucked in his stomach and raised his head, the way one should as a member of the healthy athletic community, where the successful businessmen democratically wear the same shorts as the losers; kingdom of long muscular legs training for marathons, tight leggings, impeccable rear ends, bodies glimmering with sunscreen and sweat. Until the inevitable day when he realized that the others ran or jogged, and even the ones that walked like him passed him easily, time and again. Pounding the cement of the shady trails they seemed to be rushing to some important destination unknown to him. Benjamin, on the other hand, just strolled. He was left behind, as ever. And that reminded him in a way of his wife’s silent reproach, unavoidable as a mountain range. So he put his Walkman in a drawer (you always buy things and then you don’t use them) and opted to give up the car and walk to work, there and back.

“Did you hear me, Benjamin, enough already!” she says. “Open this door! The bakery is going to close.”

Benjamin picks up his pace. He still has a way to go.

His office is in the same old building in which he’d set it up when it was new, long before the city had passed it by and left it forgotten at the end of a pedestrian-only street now crowded with peddlers. Walking there meant getting lost among the stalls and tables, among the chaos of plastic jewelry, perfumes from Taiwan, knockoff blue jeans and Lycra panties with lace. Benjamin wandered, skimming secondhand books and pawing at the pornographic magazines displayed on the sidewalk; sometimes he bought dulce de leche or a badly weighed kilo of tangerines from a young mestiza whose baby the color of raw chocolate slept surrounded by her wares. She spoke in a friendly manner, said that the tangerines were sweet, she called him “my love,” and the magazine seller, a German with white hair and a Colombian accent, shared with him profound reflections on the current state of the nation that Benjamin couldn’t disagree with.

Here there was no past or future at all, much less a now-past future. It was easy to wander with no destination or luggage through that immediate present, ephemeral and eternal at the same time, brought down by shouts and the folding of blankets as soon as the uniformed officers peered around a corner leaving the street suddenly empty, with peeling facades, trash cans crammed with rubbish, and asphalt patches on the cobbled street; but none of it was tragic or permanent: minutes later the vibrant hustle and bustle would return.

Very soon the walk to and from work became the most pleasurable part of each day. Benjamin kept it a secret, of course. He knew very well that he didn’t have the right, while Mauricio was being cleaned out by that harpy of an ex, and Sandrita was putting that powder up her nose that made her incoherent and shrill. And her, poor thing, in the house, alone and remembering.

In the end they found him out. It was inevitable. He was late getting to work, and he had to lie to his elderly secretary. To top it all, his brother-in-law was mugged nearby at the entrance to the Notaría. They ripped open his coat, took out his wallet, and apparently got very angry, since they hit him again and again. So his wife and the doctor forbade him to walk on the street: in any number of ways it was hazardous to the health.

It was an indisputable fact that his cholesterol had increased considerably and his heartrate wasn’t terribly improved by the aimless wanderings of those walks. It doesn’t do anything, they told him, to walk at such a slow pace. Now they’re worried: it seems he walks too fast. At your age it’s dangerous; it could give you a heart attack.

Benjamin, open the door! come the voices of Sandra and his wife. But he plays the madman, he walks, walks, walks, faster and faster. His legs have become strong and his belly has decreased in volume; however, he’s sweaty and panting, his heart pounds in his chest. It doesn’t matter, someday he’ll reach the end of the route. For once in his life he’s doing the right thing: setting objectives and achieving them.

In fact, they’re all responsible, too. They suggested this solution and were even pleased when The Walker was delivered to the house, although they were a bit surprised by the uncharacteristic initiative he’d shown by buying it without consulting anyone. It had been years since Benjamin had bought so much as a shirt by himself. He didn’t even seem to know how he’d discovered the machine in a department store, or how he managed to be immediately persuaded by the salesman, who—strangest thing—didn’t even realize the value of his own merchandise. Almost without meaning to, Benjamin became the owner of a walking machine, the best on the market, latest model. Thankfully they’ll never know how much the extravagance cost.

Immediately thereafter he converted the guest room (totally useless, by the way) into a kind of private gym. There, reading the instruction manual with painstaking care, he set up The Walker with its battery of speakers and projectors.

He began to walk at the lowest speed, and from the start felt a great affinity for this form of exercise that seemed to have been designed especially for him. There’s a melancholically familiar abandon in the act of walking and walking and never reaching your destination. He’d been doing something like that his entire life.

With the exception that he now has something more: the video that came in the package. From the first moment he turned on the projector he knew that something new and important had come into his life. The white wall in front of him was filled with green landscapes as he paraded from tree to tree between crystalline fountains and flowerbeds, the speakers perfectly reproducing the chirping of birds and the crunch of the gravel under his steps. He was alone, marvelously alone, undisputed king of all that beauty. He had a deadbolt installed on the door of his improvised gym. He jealously guarded the key, even sleeping with it in the pocket of his pajamas; your father has gone crazy, she says, who’s going to clean in there?

He patiently clarified that he’d finally found the ideal form of exercise, and he needed to concentrate in order to improve. He was so animated that his wife furrowed her eyebrows, suspicious, but she abstained from commenting. In the end it was a healthy activity, boring, and something recommended by the doctor. She didn’t recognize the signs of danger.

Benjamin, on the other hand, sensed that his life had acquired a new dimension, although it was only after two or three weeks that he began to notice slight alterations in the landscape of the video. First came the inexplicable sounds, suggesting a barely perceptible animal presence. It started with a cicada whose stubbornly unpleasant buzzing followed him for a long stretch of the path. Convinced that the creature had crawled in through the window, Benjamin interrupted the session, determined to get rid of the intruder, and realized with surprise that the buzzing ceased at the very instant he stopped the video. It was either a strange coincidence or a particularly intelligent insect; it began its flight again as soon as he restarted the projection. It never returned. And Benjamin soon forgot it as he concentrated on his walking—becoming ever faster—until one day he stopped, pensive, at the edge of the third pond. He could’ve sworn that every time he’d passed it a clear and powerful stream erupted from its center; nevertheless, today the fountain was turned off, the water took on deep-green tones, and a small wild duck played on the bank. Perplexed, Benjamin let the tape rewind, then started it from the beginning and retraced his steps. This time the stream of water gushed forth, there was no doubt about it, but the little duck remained in place. It was strange that he’d never noticed it before.

For the first time he realized that he’d never made it past that pond, and he was curious. He extended the duration of his walks, then he made an effort to increase his speed. The video rewarded his efforts: indeed, further on the landscape changed. The trees of the park began to morph, on both sides of the path elaborate iron gates now appeared allowing glimpses of opulent mansions two or three stories high and surrounded by gardens. On the third day, panting from exhaustion, he reached a particularly beautiful house, made of wood and covered in rampant ivy. It seemed vaguely familiar to him. He wanted to know who lived there, to ring the bell and go inside, but the rules of The Walker wouldn’t allow it. He could only stay on the path, walking slowly without taking his eyes from the cheerful yellow curtains that hid the mystery within, and he strained his ears to pick up the faint laughter of children playing somewhere in the garden. Suddenly the memory surged forth: her, young and radiant, cutting out pictures from a magazine, the home she’d dreamed of for their shared future. Deep down he knew that it couldn’t be merely a coincidence, a chance image in the video. That house was there for him, some kind of divine trick. Benjamin was struck by it. He stopped exercising and the image disappeared, leaving him sweaty and huffing in front of the blank white wall of the former guest room.

That night he couldn’t get to sleep. Her irregular snores and the sounds of partying that filtered in from Sandra’s room heightened his state of feverish excitement. So anxious was he to return to the house that by five in the morning he was already decked out in his gray sweat-suit.

“Did you fall out of bed or something?” On a sudden impulse he wanted to bring her along—come with me, I want to show you something. She turned her back to him, unwilling to indulge such foolishness. “At this hour? You’re crazy.” So Benjamin briefly caressed the soft foam rollers on his wife’s head and gave up the idea of sharing his discovery with her.

It was for the best: she would’ve called him crazy. From the third pond the clear fountain sprouted up and a family of ducks now swam on the water, but there was no sign of the ivy-covered house. He searched in vain as he walked furiously. He left behind the iron gates and mansions and the path was replaced by a two-lane highway through an uninteresting rural landscape. Soft bluish hills rippled on the horizon. Atop one of them was a city, like a drawing of something far away. After a few days he stopped looking for the house and concentrated all his efforts on reaching the city.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re more distracted than ever. You have the same glazed look as Sandra when she was in that institution. And you forgot to call the bank about my credit card … You’re worse than ever. You forget everything. Everything!”

This time it was true: he forgot everything. But he felt better than ever. With a secret sense of anticipation Benjamin caressed the key in his pocket and couldn’t wait for his next exercise session. Now he walked several times a day, locking himself away with The Walker for longer and longer stretches. Unfortunately, the video was designed to encourage a progressive increase in effort: there was no way to restart it at any given point on the route, it always rewound itself to the beginning. If he wanted to get to the end, where the faraway city rose up on the hill or, who knew, further still, he had to return each time to the starting point, cross the park, run around the ponds, the path, the mansions … the highway that followed seemed endless.

“You’ve gone crazy,” she said. “Look at yourself when you leave that room. Pale. You can hardly breathe from exhaustion. The doctor said it’s dangerous; you can’t do it. It’s worse than a physical. No one should do a physical without medical supervision.”

It was true. In some hidden part of Benjamin’s consciousness he knew he had to slow his pace. His legs had become stronger, but his heart had not reacted well. Last night he’d had a pain in his chest again; he had to stop the machine and lie down, panting beside the path, without taking his eyes off the distant hills until they vanished into the whiteness of the horizon. The wall came down on him as he tried to sit up on the carpet, his ears filled with the inexorable whir of the video as it rewound again to the beginning of the route.

They were pounding on the door now. He heard voices, Sandra’s stupid giggling, the shouts of Mauricio’s kids, Come out, Dad. Come out, Grandpa. We want to eat!

“Benjamin, enough already! Forget about the table. I already set it myself. Just come out. Ridiculous old man. I’m going to sell that damned machine. It’s bad for you.”

Benjamin has just reached the foot of the first hill and begins the long-dreamed-of ascent. The pain returns, sharp, this time in his left arm, and his vision blurs a little, but the city isn’t so far away now. His last chance to escape. There, he’ll find another street where the peddlers display their frivolous wonders just for him along the sidewalk. Maybe another office. Maybe another house. Maybe a car will pass and give him a ride, because his time is precious.

“Benjamin,” she begs, now in an anxious voice. “Open the door, Benjamin.”

Mauricio says something about the locksmith who’s on his way. Benjamin longs for the shelter of that unknown city. What a shock they’ll get when they finally break down the door.

He knows that if he gets there soon enough they won’t be able to take away The Walker. Or anything else. Getting to the end is vitally important … A goal, finally. If he trains enough, he’ll get there. It’s simply a question of practice.

With his eyes fixed on his goal, Benjamin picks up the pace.

Six olives contain as many calories as a small steak. Could that be right? She’d read it out of the corner of her eye in a magazine belonging to a woman in a faded ski sweater sitting next to her on the metro. It came from an article about common dietary myths featuring surprising graphics: a large cup of cocoa is as fattening as a mid-sized ice-cream, fifty grams of peanuts or half a litre of beer; six olives were the same as a small steak, etc. Could that be right? She’d never really understood how calories work; it had never been an issue for her. Maybe they were just making it up. According to her Chinese doctor, calories weren’t what mattered; they were part of it but mostly it depended on your body and the type of food in question.   

She walked hurriedly down the platform of Chacarita station. Now that she was about to see Espina, she began to ask herself why she had insisted on meeting in person and whether it was a good idea. What would the doctor think about what she was doing? What was she doing? Nothing. She was meeting up with Javier Espina so he could give her a copy of his next film and then maybe they’d go for a coffee. Espina had written to her out of the blue to ask whether she could translate some subtitles for him. She hadn’t heard from him for months. He could just have emailed her the script or a link to the film, but something made her say that she’d love to, why didn’t they meet up? She’d hesitated over signing off with a kiss, a hug or just ‘best’. The latter seemed too formal and the former implied some form of inappropriate physical contact. She ended it with a simple ‘thanks’. Espina answered four days later. A curt note saying that he could make her a copy. She said great, if it’s not too much trouble, and again got stuck over the sign-off: she could ask him to leave it at somebody’s house or with the secretary at school. But that would be too cold and distant. Then again, suggesting they meet for a drink would be too much. In the end, she said they could meet up one afternoon in the week; she got out of school at three and passed by Chacarita station on her way home. He liked that idea, but when he asked when, her mental schedule cluttered up instantly. This week was difficult, but next week was fine. Ten days of silence, no word from Espina. She was the one to get back in touch, apologizing: she’d been so busy, this week would be difficult, too, but next week for sure. A few days later Espina sent her a blank email without a subject line or anything, and she answered it with the suggestion that they meet at four at Chacarita station, if that was OK with him. On the Tuesday Espina wrote to confirm and gave her his new number, just in case. That Thursday, at lunchtime, she sent him a message saying that something had come up, sorry, they’d have to do it another time. In fact, nothing had come up apart from an inexplicable argument with Adrian that morning and an overbearing anxiety as the hour of their encounter approached. By putting ‘time’ instead of ‘day’ she hoped to clear away a mist that had grown stifling. Espina was patient and understanding. Or maybe he just didn’t care; maybe this was all in her head. After several more back and forths, they ended up arranging to meet at the same place, at the same time, on the same day of the week. A Thursday; this Thursday. A month and a half, twenty emails and fourteen text messages later, here she was.   

It had been silly to suggest they meet in person, she realized that now. But not that silly. The silly part was the thirty-four messages. She’d calculated on arriving a little late, ten or fifteen minutes… but now she’d left it too long, and when she didn’t see him standing under the main arch of the station she regretted her tardiness. What if he’d got impatient and left? She scanned the faces of the passers-by with the same manic, flickering intensity as she looked at the newspapers and magazines in the kiosk in the main hall. She couldn’t help scrutinizing typos, lapses in grammar or bodily flaws: a woman who was so short and fat that she looked wider than she was tall; a guy who was missing an arm and had the empty sleeve tied around his neck; another with a pock-marked face, as though he’d suffered from a virulent form of chicken pox or had been spattered with a pan of boiling oil when he was a boy. Although she kept repeating to herself that there was nothing wrong with what she was doing, there was nothing wrong with what she was doing, what she was doing had been a little wrong ever since she’d started to feel guilty about writing to Espina and insisting they meet. She was stepping back into a minefield she’d thought long since buried many metres below ground. In a nuclear bunker. And now she’d insulted him by arriving so late. Guilt began to bubble up from some hidden deposit in her body.

How far could one flee on a train from Chacarita station? General Lemos. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She was sure it was him, the sudden rush of blood left her in no doubt. Espina’s expression looked like that of a man who wasn’t very happy to have been kept waiting. Instead of apologizing, she asked him how he was with a shamelessness that surprised her, because somehow it seemed aimed at sabotage, ensuring that their meeting would be over in the blink of an eye having collapsed under its own weight. Espina stepped back to a respectable distance. Fine, he replied, barely opening his mouth. It sounded warm and welcoming, he wasn’t upset. There was something about his half-open mouth and the gleam in his eyes, the disproportionately large nose that somehow suited him. There was definitely something about him. After he’d been so prominent in her thoughts for the past few weeks, and having gone so many months without seeing him, she had to readjust the image she had of him in her head to fit the one standing right in front of her. She imagined that he must be doing something similar and tried to fix her features into the position that she thought suited her best. They’d last seen each other in the summer and had ended up so close to one another that all she’d been able to see were his cheekbones, eyes and some of his hair as he kissed her so passionately that there was no way she could have resisted, not that she had wanted to.

Espina wrongfooted her by asking whether she had time to come with him, he had to go somewhere close by. A short walk. She said she did, she was free until seven. They crossed the avenue to the entrance to the municipal cemetery. Then, as always, every day of the week, people were coming and going, wandering around the city of the dead with its neighbourhoods for the rich and poor. The idea of going for a walk around there came as a relief. It was an innocent setting, a neutral balm upon a potentially explosive encounter. There was nothing wrong with going for a walk with a man she’d kissed six months ago, a man she thought about every now and then, a man she wanted to see again even if she was ready to stop him short if he tried something. She wasn’t going to sleep with him, just for a walk. Not even a drink. But if there was nothing wrong with it, why was she feeling this combination of excitement and guilt? 

She asked if they were going to the cemetery. Espina said they were going to a cemetery but not the municipal one. A small British cemetery next door. He had to take a photo of a particular grave to send to another film director, a friend of his. It was a slightly irritating job he’d been putting off for weeks because Chacarita was out of his way. They passed by the flower stalls and large portico and went on along the deserted pavement that ran around the cemetery wall. Espina was wearing a checked shirt, a heavy coat and dark trousers that had seen better days. She had made sure to wear everyday clothes: the black trousers that were a little tight on her, the green jacket, the shoes that Adrian had brought her back from his last trip and her favourite coat that winter, a black waterproof one with a hood. These were definitely her ordinary work clothes, but maybe she’d put a little more thought into the combination. Or maybe it was just the unusual touch of eyeliner and wearing her hair loose with a shaggy, side-swept fringe. There was definitely something. She’d noticed it this morning at school, the eager way in which a couple of colleagues and many of the fourth- and fifth-year students had looked at her. 

The scant sunlight that filtered through the thick foliage of the huge trees lining Avenida Elcano was insufficient to burn off the perennial dampness. Across from the road curving around the cemetery was a railway line heading west from the station. On the other side of the rails and chain-link fences she saw the squat houses of a neighbourhood that looked completely inaccessible from where they were, although an iron footbridge appeared further on. They talked to the beat their footsteps on the pavement. Conversation flowed, hopping from topic to topic: they tried to decide whether it was cold or not, whether the temperature could still be described as mild, which of the books by a friend they had in common was their favourite, how exhausting it was to go back to work at the school after the winter holidays. A trip to a festival in South Korea that Espina had had to turn down.  

Espina said that she looked different. So he remembered her face. Different in a good or bad way, she asked. Good, of course. His lips formed his characteristic half-smile, revealing just a couple of teeth. His eyebrows arched, and his eyes settled on hers as he waved his hands to lend emphasis to what he was saying. He had grown unexpectedly eloquent. Or at least they didn’t stop talking for the entirety of their walk. Ten minutes along the wall of the municipal cemetery, passing the occasional side entrance, the odd locked gate, not much else. At one point she started to worry. Where was he taking her? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Espina – although if she thought about it, what did she really know about him? – ­but if something happened to them, if they were accosted by a stranger, for instance, they’d have to shout pretty loud for someone to hear. We’ll be there in a second, Espina said calmly with an adventurer’s aplomb. It was as though he were getting ready to grab her arm, drag her to the next station along the line and jump onto the first train that came along to take her far away from there. Far, far away. Not that they could go very far on that line. The suburbs, or maybe a little further.

Wasn’t it strange, he was saying now, that Chacarita Cemetery had been built on what had then been the outskirts of the city and now it was right at the centre? Why had she told him that she was free until seven if they were just going on a brief detour, with maybe a quick coffee at the station afterwards? Who was asking these questions? Were they coming from her, or was this Adrian’s voice echoing inside of her? The guilt started to well up inside her again, and this time it must have reached the surface because her neck and face had grown warm. She was blushing as if she’d been caught with her hand in the till. Now she didn’t know what to think or what to do. She checked the time on her phone and started to write something endearing to Adrian. Then she thought again and put the phone back in her coat pocket with the message only half written.  

The avenue curved in such a way that the German Cemetery almost snuck up on them. Espina told her that it was just a few metres more, and before they got to the end, or the beginning, of Avenida Elcano, on the western side of the gigantic expanse that was Chacarita Cemetery, opposite the first stop on the Lemos line, they arrived at the British Cemetery. They went in through a gate in the iron railings. It looked completely deserted. They walked up to a chapel. It was like a small park, a veritable secret garden of peace and quiet with paths wending around carefully tended lots, austere monuments and a silence broken by the remote sound of cars and buses heading down the avenue, the occasional train stopping at the station and intermittent birdsong. It was the meadow on the other side of the rainbow, an oasis in a bustling city. Espina seemed to know where he was going, and she let him take the lead. He had to take a photo of a grave he and a British friend of his had visited ten years ago. The grave belonged to the friend’s grandfather. He remembered that it was to the left and next to the wall but not much more. He knew the name and surname: they could go and look it up in the administrator’s office, but that wouldn’t be so much fun, he said.

They wandered around, peering at gravestones, reading names and inscriptions. No one else was to be seen, although there was ample evidence of the caretakers’ work: a rake and a shovel leaning against a tree, a neatly coiled-up hose, a tap with an erratic drip, recently mown grass and a wheelbarrow that was empty save for a metal watering can. Most of the trees were pines and limes, but there were others she didn’t know the names of. Was Espina the kind of man who knew the names of plants and trees? From the night that he’d kissed her on the film producer’s patio she remembered the warmth of his lips and how her body had throbbed and her left leg had juddered. Plus the sweet smell of summer flowers. It must have been jasmine. 

The main asphalt path was criss-crossed with narrower gravel ones that were in turn crossed by even narrower trails only wide enough for one person. As they walked along them, they brushed against each other, or Espina stopped to let her pass and she could feel his eyes on her – they were rather less discreet than his half-smiles – on her back, the back of her head, neck and hands. They stopped in front of an ivy-draped grave. It belonged to the Hermosilla family. Her eye was caught by an inscription: Nemesia C de Hermosilla. 19th December, 1865–4th May, 1958 next to one for Sara Hermosilla. 16/11/1896–10/5/1958. One was much older than the other, but they’d died only six days apart. As though after the death of her mother, the daughter had died of sadness at the age of sixty-three, she said. Or maybe they were in a traffic accident and the mother died immediately but the daughter lingered on for a week, said Espina, who was immediately distracted by a stone that read: Peter Doherty, died 20th November, 1938. And then by one for Alejandro Rendina, who died in February 1968, two days after he was born. Espina said that he found the death of a baby devastating but also perfectly pure.   

Espina pointed to a wooden bench sitting in a pool of winter sunlight. How long had it been since she’d slept with someone who wasn’t Adrian? Was that a good thing? Was that what it meant to be in love or was she just doing her duty as a girlfriend? Would five years with Adrian be the equivalent of three or four months with a guy like Espina, like with the olives and the steak? An extended, three-month weekend before he left you for the star of his next film. But what did that have to do with anything? They cut across a section of plots without tombstones or inscriptions. The earth was disturbed as though someone had recently been buried or old remains had been dug up. The soil had a different consistency under their feet. It was still loose and their shoes sunk in deeper than elsewhere.

It was originally called the Non-Conformist Cemetery, and its first location was on the corner of Juncal and Esmerelda. The first occupant had been one John Adams, a thirty-year-old carpenter. Before that, non-Catholics had been buried by the side of the river. As well as the British, it was also occupied by Germans, Americans, French and Jews. It quickly filled up, and they opened a second one, Victoria, which was shared by the British, Americans and Germans. Victoria Cemetery was at what’s now known as Pasco and Alsina. She knew where that was; her grandmother lived a couple of blocks away. You know where the plaza is now? Well, a hundred years ago it was a cemetery, but the city grew and the local residents campaigned to have it moved. So land was set aside behind Chacarita Cemetery: one section for the British and other Anglo-Saxons and another for the Germans. Meanwhile, Victoria Cemetery was abandoned. The decades passed, and it became a wasteland. A little while ago they turned it into a plaza. The graves weren’t moved, at least not the ones belonging to families that couldn’t afford to pay for the transfer. Any that were at least a metre and a half below ground were left intact. A few years ago they were doing renovation work in the plaza, and when they dug up the sandpit they found a marble tombstone for the grave of ten-month-old German girl along with bones, necklaces and bottles.           

She rummaged in her bag for cigarettes. It was her first of the day. She couldn’t stop herself from telling him that the Chinese doctor she went to, whose name was Alejandra but she was fully Chinese, had told her not to smoke more than one or two a day. She had enough fire in her lungs already. But that wasn’t a bad thing at all, she hurriedly explained. Every time she went to see the doctor she got her talking. She valued everything she had to say about health and life in general; the doctor had a special kind of wisdom. Ever since he’d managed to get control of his vices, Espina had discovered that tobacco was the most pernicious but also the most inoffensive. To smoke a cigarette, he said longingly. 

Espina asked her how her classes were going. Suddenly, talking to him about her work at school or the fact that he was showing interest in her everyday routine made things seem different, more vivid. She was glad that he was close by. It made her feel calm, bigger, inspired, and she didn’t think it ridiculous to assume that he was feeling the same way. He asked her if she was translating anything, and she made something up about a book of essays that were turning out to be pretty difficult, it was taking her longer than she’d expected. Maybe being close to Espina would mean that she lived life more intensely and stopped putting off what was really important. Then he asked after her students, how it felt to teach a class of teenagers, and she started to say that it was fine, it could be unbearable at times, but she liked it. He was a disaster at secondary school, but if he’d had a teacher like her, he said, he’d have learned English just to please her. He broke into another of his half-smiles.  

Right behind the bench where they were sitting was a tombstone commemorating the Byrding family. Over the years it had been split in two by a tree trunk, very gradually, millimetre by millimetre. She could count the number of times they’d met on one hand, but each encounter had revealed a new facet of Espina. She was gradually beginning to sense that behind the womanizing dandy was something genuine and fragile, brilliant, if a little petulant. Her posture was defensive, as though she were anticipating some kind of move. The time he kissed her, an impartial observer, someone from the outside, a linesman or arbitrator of seduction, would not have ruled that she tried to push him away. But neither did she fully go along with the kiss. Rather, she allowed herself to be kissed until Espina pulled back a little to breathe and broke the spell. Then she’d said that she had to go, that this was wrong, very wrong. She had a boyfriend, please understand. She said sorry several times and then please as he walked her to the door.     

Some time ago, when he’d just started out in the world of films, he’d worked for a film festival in the city. It was his job to accompany the foreign guests on their visit, day and night. One year he was tasked with accompanying Keith Reitzal, a kind of cult director. He was fun and jolly in spite of his years and asked very little of him. Except for one morning, the second to last, when Reitzal asked him to go with him somewhere: it was a ‘matter of life and death’. We got on the metro at Abasto and got off at Lacroze. I thought that he wanted a slice of pizza from one of the famous places around there, or maybe he wanted to visit Chacarita Cemetery to see the tombs of Gardel or Gatica. But we passed by the gates of the municipal cemetery and went on down the same pavement we came down today. I was surprised to see him walking so confidently through a little-known part of the city, somewhere I’d never been before. I suggested we take a taxi, it might be dangerous around here, but Reitzal said no. He was determined, he had to walk just like he’d done the last time. So you’ve been here before? Years ago the same festival had organized a retrospective in his honour. This isn’t my first visit to the city, but I fear that it might be my last, he said. He walked faster than I did. I had to make an effort to keep up. I started to worry about him, he looked as though he might collapse at any moment. When we finally got to the British Cemetery we went in and he led me straight to a grave at the back, to the left, next to the path that runs along the wall. There, we found a tombstone for someone with whom he shared a name: Keith Reitzal. His paternal grandfather. A British engineer sent to the Argentinian affiliate of a shipping company. He’d come with his wife and three children. My father was the youngest, he was just two at the time. Shortly after his arrival my grandfather was in a fatal accident at the port. At first, Keith’s grandmother decided to stay in the country: the company gave her a very generous pension and the house where they lived was a small mansion. But she couldn’t manage, she didn’t know the language and she had to raise three children on her own, so they went back. There were attempts to repatriate the remains, but then the war came and after that… Reitzal said, waving his hands in the same gesture he used to illustrate matters of ‘life and death’, it came to seem less important. His father always talked about his own father’s far-off grave in Argentina with a pain that was only alleviated by the knowledge that he had been moved to the British Cemetery, as though it were a foreign embassy of death, a small, neutral outpost of posthumous diplomacy.

Ever since his father’s death Reitzal had wanted to come to the country, but he’d never had a chance. He wasn’t going to go all that way just to visit a grave. Then he was invited to attend the festival. Back then he was still young and had walked on his own. But this time, he told me, as strange as it might seem, he’d agreed to come to talk about one of his films, something that he didn’t really do any more, just so he could stand in front of his grandfather’s grave. So what happened? she asked. Reitzal stood quietly for a few minutes, said Espina. The old man’s expression grew solemn but peaceful. I held out for as long as I could, but eventually I asked him if he’d rather be alone. That’s the last thing I want, he said. I don’t want to be alone. Like the sun, one should never look death in the face for too long. Take me away from here. Before they left the cemetery, Reitzal looked up at a Latin inscription. I asked him what it meant, and he told me in English that it was something like: ‘He who believes in me, shall live in death’. We hailed a taxi, and he asked me to take him for a drink. He had a craving for a herb-based German liqueur, but the closest thing we could find was Fernet, which he drank on its own with ice. Then he had another, and then we took a taxi so he would arrive in time to answer questions from the audience at the theatre where they were showing his film. That was at least ten years ago. He’d seen Keith at several other festivals across the world, but he’d never come back to Buenos Aires. A little while ago Keith had asked him to do him the favour of taking a photograph of his grandfather’s grave. He needed it for the cover of a book he was writing, an autobiography of a seventy-eight-year-old man, he said. Espina couldn’t decide whether he thought it was a great idea or just macabre.      

As the afternoon went on, she felt them growing closer and closer. Their bodies, however, didn’t move at all. Espina sat upright and moved his arms as he spoke, his eyes shining. Every now and again he rubbed his nose and energetically scratched his head. There was something in his gestures, in his posture, in the way he was, a grace that could overwhelm any form of resistance. At one point he stretched out his hand to swipe at a mosquito, and she leaned back instinctively. Easy, he said. Espina was handsome. When he gave her an envelope containing the DVD with the copy of the film, he moved a little closer. A couple of nights later, watching the film alone in bed, she couldn’t help remembering his warm lips, the crazy beating of her heart, the mental effort it took to keep her leg still and the sweet smell of jasmine. But there was also the afternoon in the empty cemetery, hidden in a corner of the city, whiling away the afternoon with their chatter, as though they’d been teleported to the north of Europe for an hour and a half.

Throughout the afternoon she’d been worried that Espina would try to kiss her before they said goodbye and had mentally prepared a number of different ploys to evade him. Please, please. Actually she just had one: she’d been with a man for years. It had been right there, on the tip of her tongue, so much so that even though Espina never made a move, she said it anyway. He’d asked whether they lived together and she’d said, We have moved in together. It was an odd, stupid choice of words by which she’d meant that they had lived together in the past but it hadn’t worked out. But, of course, he’d interpreted it differently. He’d thought she’d just moved in with him and was living with him now, a misunderstanding that took a long time to clear up.

They would see each other again, many times, but they didn’t know that then. She asked him about the German Cemetery. It was similar to this one but neater, better looked after. Why don’t we take a peek? It’s just about to close; maybe they could do this again some time, he said. She thought that now the silent walk back to Chacarita would be awkward. Maybe it was better to say she was in a hurry and take a taxi. Had he meant to say that he wanted to see her again? She’d have agreed in a second, she’d have signed up right there and then, although she didn’t like to lie to Adrian. Telling him that she was going on walks around secret corners of the city with Espina was out of the question. Was it? She’d have to do something about this.  

As if he knew that a kiss in these circumstances was out of the question, Espina had been cautious and carefree. He hadn’t made a move, or if he had it was imperceptible, millimetre by millimetre. She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. What if he wasn’t attracted to her any more? She stood up and, rubbing her arms, said that the cold had got into her bones, they’d better go back. It was getting late. 

Alicia’s entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde, angelic, and timid young girl, the childish fancies she had dreamed about being a bride had been chilled by her husband’s rough character. She loved him very much, nonetheless, although sometimes she gave a light shudder when, as they returned home through the streets together at night, she cast a furtive glance at the impressive stature of her Jordan, who had been silent for an hour. He, for his part, loved her profoundly but never let it be seen.

For three months—they had been married in April—they lived in a special kind of bliss.

Doubtless she would have wished less severity in the rigorous sky of love, more expansive and less cautious tenderness, but her husband’s impassive manner always restrained her.

The house in which they lived influenced her chills and shuddering to no small degree. The whiteness of the silent patio—friezes, columns, and marble statues—produced the wintry impression of an enchanted palace. Inside the glacial brilliance of stucco, the completely bare walls, affirmed the sensation of unpleasant coldness. As one crossed from one room to another, the echo of his steps reverberated throughout the house, as if long abandonment had sensitized its resonance.

Alicia passed the autumn in this strange love nest. She had determined, however, to cast a veil over her former dreams and live like a sleeping beauty in the hostile house, trying not to think about anything until her husband arrived each evening.

It is not strange that she grew thin. She had a light attack of influenza that dragged on insidiously for days and days: after that Alicia’s health never returned. Finally one afternoon she was able to go into the garden, supported on her husband’s arm. She looked around listlessly.

Suddenly Jordan, with deep tenderness, ran his hand very slowly over her head, and Alicia instantly burst into sobs, throwing her arms around his neck. For a long time she cried out all the fears she had kept silent, redoubling her weeping at Jordan’s slightest caress. Then her sobs subsided, and she stood a long while, her face hidden in the hollow of his neck, not moving or speaking a word.

This was the last day Alicia was well enough to be up. On the following day she awakened feeling faint. Jordan’s doctor examined her with minute attention, prescribing calm and absolute rest.

‘I don’t know,’ he said to Jordan at the street door. ‘She has a great weakness that I am unable to explain. And with no vomiting, nothing…if she wakes tomorrow as she did today, call me at once.

When she awakened the following day, Alicia was worse. There was a consultation. It was agreed there was an anaemia of incredible progression, completely inexplicable. Alicia had no more fainting spells, but she was visibly moving toward death. The lights were lighted all day long in her bedroom, and there was complete silence. Hours went by without the slightest sound.

Alicia dozed. Jordan virtually lived in the drawing room, which was also always lighted. With tireless persistence he paced ceaselessly from one end of the room to the other. The carpet swallowed his steps. At times he entered the bedroom and continued his silent pacing back and forth alongside the bed, stopping for an instant at each end to regard his wife.

Suddenly Alicia began to have hallucinations, vague images, at first seeming to float in the air, then descending to floor level. Her eyes excessively wide, she stared continuously at the carpet on either side of the head of her bed. One night she suddenly focused on one spot. Then she opened her mouth to scream, and pearls of sweat suddenly beaded her nose and lips.

‘Jordan! Jordan!’ she clamoured, rigid with fright, still staring at the carpet.

Jordan ran to the bedroom, and, when she saw him appear, Alicia screamed with terror.

‘It’s I, Alicia, it’s I!’

Alicia looked at him confusedly; she looked at the carpet; she looked at him once again; and after a long moment of stupefied confrontation, she regained her senses. She smiled and took her husband’s hand in hers, caressing it, trembling, for half an hour.

Among her most persistent hallucinations was that of an anthropoid poised on his fingertips on the carpet, staring at her.

The doctors returned, but to no avail. They saw before them a diminishing life, a life bleeding away day by day, hour by hour, absolutely without their knowing why. During their last consultation Alicia lay in a stupor while they took her pulse, passing her inert wrist from one to another. They observed her a long time in silence and then moved into the dining room.

‘Phew…’ The discouraged chief physician shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is an inexplicable case.

There is little we can do…’

‘That’s my last hope!’ Jordan groaned. And he staggered blindly against the table.

Alicia’s life was fading away in the subdelirium of anaemia, a delirium which grew worse through the evening hours but which let up somewhat after dawn. The illness never worsened during the daytime, but each morning she awakened pale as death, almost in a swoon. It seemed only at night that her life drained out of her in new waves of blood. Always when she awakened she had the sensation of lying collapsed in the bed with a million-pound weight on top of her.

Following the third day of this relapse she never left her bed again. She could scarcely move her head. She did not want her bed to be touched, not even to have her bedcovers arranged. Her crepuscular terrors advanced now in the form of monsters that dragged themselves toward the bed and laboriously climbed upon the bedspread.

Then she lost consciousness. The final two days she raved ceaselessly in a weak voice. The lights funereally illuminated the bedroom and drawing room. In the deathly silence of the house the only sound was the monotonous delirium from the bedroom and the dull echoes of Jordan’s eternal pacing.

Finally, Alicia died. The servant, when she came in afterward to strip the now empty bed, stared wonderingly for a moment at the pillow.

‘Sir!’ she called Jordan in a low voice. ‘There are stains on the pillow that look like blood.’

Jordan approached rapidly and bent over the pillow. Truly, on the case, on both sides of the hollow left by Alicia’s head, were two small dark spots.

‘They look like punctures,’ the servant murmured after a moment of motionless observation.

‘Hold it up to the light,’ Jordan told her.

The servant raised the pillow but immediately dropped it and stood staring at it, livid and trembling. Without knowing why, Jordan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

‘What is it?’ he murmured in a hoarse voice.

‘It’s very heavy,’ the servant whispered, still trembling.

Jordan picked it up; it was extraordinarily heavy. He carried it out of the room, and on the dining room table he ripped open the case and the ticking with a slash. The top feathers floated away, and the servant, her mouth opened wide, gave a scream of horror and covered her face with her clenched fists: in the bottom of the pillowcase, among the feathers, slowly moving its hairy legs, was a monstrous animal, a living, viscous ball. It was so swollen one could scarcely make out its mouth.

Night after night, since Alicia had taken to her bed, this abomination had stealthily applied its mouth—its proboscis one might better say—to the girl’s temples, sucking her blood. The puncture was scarcely perceptible. The daily plumping of the pillow had doubtlessly at first impeded its progress, but as soon as the girl could no longer move, the suction became vertiginous. In five days, in five nights, the monster had drained Alicia’s life away.

These parasites of feathered creatures, diminutive in their habitual environment, reach enormous proportions under certain conditions. Human blood seems particularly favourable to them, and it is not rare to encounter them in feather pillows.

The autumn felt more like summer than the summer had. I was wearing my blue silk dress, and I had the little Pekinese they’d given me for my birthday when I arrived at my boyfriend’s house. I remember that day clearly.

“Jealousy rules the world,” said Mrs. Yapura, thinking I didn’t want to marry Romirio out of jealousy. “My son sleeps only with the cat.”

I didn’t want to marry Romirio, or hadn’t decided whether I wanted to marry him, for other reasons. Sometimes the words people say are changed by the intonation of the voice with which they say them. It seems like I’m getting off topic, but there’s an explanation. The voice of Romirio, my boyfriend, was repulsive to me. Every word he uttered, even if said with the utmost respect for me, although he hadn’t touched so much as a toe of my foot, sounded obscene. I couldn’t love him. I felt bad about this, not so much for him as for his mother, who was generous and kind. The only negative trait she was known for was jealousy, but she was old now and had even lost that. And should we believe the rumors? People said that she had got married very young to a man who soon betrayed her with another woman. Once she began to suspect, she spent a month without sleep trying to uncover the adultery. When she did, it was like a knife wound to the heart. She didn’t say anything, but that very night, as her husband slept beside her, she threw herself at his throat and tried to strangle him. The mother of the victim came to save him; if it hadn’t been for her he would have died.

My courtship with Romirio had gone on too long. “What’s a voice,” I thought. “It’s not an insolent, groping hand, it’s not a repulsive mouth trying to kiss me, it’s not that obscene and protuberant sex I so fear, it’s nothing physical like buttocks or hot like a belly.” Nevertheless, Romirio’s voice was much more disagreeable to me than any of those things. How could I bear living alongside a man who broadcasted that voice to whoever would listen? That visceral, lewd, scatological voice. But who would dare say to their boyfriend, “Your voice displeases me, it repulses me, it scandalizes me. It’s like the word lust in the catechism of my childhood”?

Our wedding was put off indefinitely without any obvious reason.

Romirio visited me every afternoon. Rarely did I go to his dark house, because his mother, who was sick, went to bed early. But I very much liked their little garden, full of shadows, and Lamberti, Romirio’s reddish-gray cat. There was not a more timid couple in the neighborhood. We might have kissed at most once during the summer of that year. Did we hold hands? Not a chance. Embrace? Slow dancing was out of fashion. This unusual behavior sparked a suspicion that we’d never marry.

That day I took the Pekinese they’d given me to Romirio’s house. Romirio picked him up to pet him. Poor Romirio, he loved animals so much. We were sitting in the living-room as usual, when Lamberti’s fur stood on end, and with a spitting sound he ran away knocking over a flowerpot. Mrs. Yapura called me the next day crying. That night, as always, Romirio had slept with Lamberti in his bed, but in the middle of the night the cat went into a frenzy and clawed Romirio’s throat. The mother went running in when she heard his screams. She managed to pull the cat from her son’s throat and she strangled it with a belt. They say nothing is more terrible than a frenzied cat. It isn’t hard to believe. I hate them. The incident left Romirio without a voice, and the doctors that looked after him said he wouldn’t ever recover it.

“You won’t marry Romirio,” his mother said crying. “I had good reason for telling my son not to sleep with that cat!”

“I will marry him,” I responded.

From that day forward I loved Romirio.

When I was a little girl my mother had a fungus on one of her toenails. On her left pinkie toe to be exact. From the moment she discovered it she tried everything to get rid of it. Every morning she’d step out of the shower and with the help of a tiny brush pour over her toe a capful of iodine whose smell and sepia, almost reddish tone I remember well. She saw to no avail several dermatologists, including the most prestigious and expensive in the city, who repeated the same diagnoses and suggested the same futile treatments, from traditional clotrimazole ointments to apple cider vinegar. The most radical among them even prescribed her a moderate dose of cortisone, which only inflamed my mother’s yellowed toe. Despite her efforts to banish it, the fungus remained there for years until a Chinese doctor to whom nobody—not even my mother— gives credit, was able to drive it away in a few days. It happened so unexpectedly that I could not help wondering if the parasite itself hadn’t decided to move on to another place.

Until that moment fungi had always been—at least for me—curious mushrooms that appeared in children’s book illustrations and that I associated with the forest and elves. In any case, nothing to do with that rugosity that gave my mother’s toenail the texture of an oyster shell. However, more than the dubious and shifting appearance, more than its tenacity and attachment to the invaded toe, what I remember best about the whole affair was the disgust and repulsion the parasite inspired in my mother. I have seen other people over the years with mycosis on different parts of their body. All kinds of mycoses, from those that cause the bottom of the foot to dry out and peel to the circular red fungi you often see on chefs’ hands. Most people bear them with resignation, some with stoicism, others with genuine disregard. My mother on the other hand suffered the presence of her fungus as if it were a mortifying affliction. Terrified by the thought that it might spread to the rest of her foot, or worse, her entire body, she separated the affected toenail with a thick piece of cotton to keep it from rubbing against the adjacent toe. She never wore sandals and avoided taking off her socks in front of anyone she wasn’t very close to. If for some reason she had to use a public shower she always wore plastic slippers, and to swim in a pool she’d take off her shoes right at the edge just before diving in, so that nobody would see her feet. And so much the better; if anyone had found out about that toe and all the treatments it had been through, they would have thought that instead of a simple fungus, what my mother had was the beginning of leprosy.

Children, unlike adults, adapt to everything. So little by little, despite my mother’s disgust, I began to see that fungus as an everyday presence in my family life. It didn’t inspire the same aversion in me as it did my mother; just the opposite. I felt a protective sympathy for that iodine-painted toenail, which seemed vulnerable to me, similar to what I would have felt for a crippled pet that had trouble moving around. Time went on and my mother stopped making such a fuss over her affliction. For my part, I grew up and completely forgot about it and never again thought about fungi until I met Philippe Laval.

At that time I had just turned thirty-five. I was married to a patient and generous man who was ten years my senior and the director of the National School of Music, where I had completed the first part of my training as a violinist. We didn’t have children. We had tried for a while, but rather than agonizing over it, I felt fortunate to be able to focus on my career. I had completed my training at Juilliard and had garnered certain international prestige, enough to be invited to Europe and the United States to give concerts two or three times a year. I’d just recorded a CD in Denmark and was about to return to Copenhagen to teach a six-week course in a palace that every summer hosted the best students in the world.

I remember one Friday afternoon shortly before I was to leave I received a list with the biographical information of all the professors who would be at the residency that year. Laval’s was among them. It wasn’t the first time I read his name. He was a violinist and conductor of great renown, and on more than one occasion I’d heard from the mouths of friends words of praise about his live performances and how naturally he led the orchestra with his violin. From the list I learned that he was French and lived in Brussels, but often went to Vancouver where he taught at the School of Art. That weekend my husband, Mauricio, had gone out of town to attend a conference. I didn’t have plans that night so I searched the Internet to find which of his concerts was available to purchase online. After browsing for a while I ended up buying one of Beethoven, filmed live at Carnegie Hall years earlier. I remember the sense of wonderment I felt listening to it. The night was hot. I had the balcony doors open to let fresh air in and still, emotion restricted my breathing. Every violinist knows that arrangement—many by heart—but hearing his interpretation was an absolute revelation. As if I could at last understand it in all its depth. I felt a mix of reverence, envy, and gratitude. I listened to it three times at least and each time produced the same shiver. I then searched for pieces interpreted by other musicians invited to Copenhagen, and while the level was undoubtedly very high, not one of them surprised me as much as Laval did. Afterward I closed the file and though I thought of him more than once, I didn’t listen to the concert again in the following two weeks.

It wasn’t the first time I’d be separated from Mauricio for a few months, but being accustomed to it didn’t lessen the sadness of leaving him. As I did for every long trip, I asked him to come with me. The residency allowed it and despite his insisting otherwise I’m sure his work did as well. He could at least have spent two of the six weeks of the course there, or visited me once at the beginning and again at the end of my stay. Had he accepted, things between us would have gone down a different path. However, it didn’t make sense to him. He said that the time would go by quickly for us both and the best thing for me would be to concentrate on my work. It would be, according to him, an incredible opportunity, one I couldn’t miss or cut short, to plumb my depths and collaborate with other musicians. And it was that, just not in the way we’d imagined.

The castle where the summer school was held was located in Christiania, a neighborhood just outside the city. It was late July and at night the temperature was very pleasant. I wasted almost no time in making friends with Laval. At the beginning his schedule was more or less the same as mine: he was unquestionably nocturnal; I was still on North American time. After classes we’d work the same hours in soundproof rooms so as not to wake the others, and now and again we’d run into each other in the kitchen or at the tea stand. We were the first—and only—ones to make it to the early breakfast, when the cafeteria began serving. From friendly and excessively polite our conversations became increasingly personal. An intimacy quickly grew between us, and a sense of closeness different from what I felt toward the other teachers.

A summer school is a place beyond reality that allows us to surrender to that which we usually deny ourselves. You can take all kinds of liberties; to visit the heart of the host city, attend dinners and events, socialize with the locals or other residents, give in to laziness, to bulimia, to some addicting habit. Laval and I fell into the temptation of falling in love. A classic, it would seem, in such a place. During the six weeks of the program we passed through Copenhagen’s parks on buses and bikes, went to bars and museums, attended operas and several concerts. But mostly we were intent on getting to know each other as much as possible in that limited amount of time. When you know a relationship is fated to end on a given day it is easy to let fall the walls you put up to protect yourself. We are more benign, more indulgent with someone who will soon cease to be there than with those who take shape as long-term partners. No fault, no defect deters us, as we won’t have to stand it in the future. When a relationship has an expiration date as clear as ours had, there’s no wasting time on judging the other person. The only thing you focus on is enjoying their best qualities, fully, urgently, voraciously, as time is not on your side. At least that is what happened to Philippe and me during that residency. His infinite quirks when it came to work, to sleep, and to organizing his room amused me. His phobia of sickness and every type of contagion, his chronic insomnia, melted me and made me want to protect him. The same happened to him with my obsessions, my fears, my own insomnia, and my constant frustration with my music. Still, I should say that it was also a time of great creativity. If I had noticed in my CD recorded months earlier in Copenhagen a certain stiffness, a certain horological precision, then now my music had more flow and greater presence. Not the strict vigilance of someone who fears making a mistake, but rather the abandon and spontaneity of someone who thoroughly enjoys what she is doing. There is, luckily, some evidence of that favored moment in my career. In addition to the recordings required by our host institution, I did three radio programs that I hold as proof of my greatest personal achievements. Laval conducted two concerts at the Royal Danish Theatre, both awe-inspiring. The audience gave him a standing ovation that lasted several minutes and, after the event, the musicians professed it had been an honor to share the stage with him. Having followed closely his development since then, I can attest that the month and a half he spent in that city marked one of the best—if not the very best— moments in his entire career. Yes, he established himself later on, but it is enough to listen to the recordings from those weeks to realize that within them there is an extraordinary emotional transparency.

Like me, Laval was married. Waiting for him in a chalet outside of Brussels were his wife and daughters, three blond, round-faced girls whose treasured photographs he kept in his phone. We preferred not to speak too much about our respective relationships. Despite what one might think, in that state of exceptional bliss there was no space for guilt or fear of what would happen later, when we returned to our worlds. There was no time but the present. It was like living in a parallel dimension. Whoever has not been through something similar will think I am coming up with these failed metaphors to justify myself. Those who have will know exactly what I’m talking about.

The residency ended in late September and we returned to our respective countries. At first it felt good to be home and to get back to our daily lives. But, speaking for myself, I did not return to the same place I had left. To begin with, Mauricio was out of town. A work trip had taken him to Laredo. His absence couldn’t have been better for me; it gave me enough time to refamiliarize myself with the apartment and my normal life. It’s true that, for example, in my study things were intact; the books and CDs in their places, my music stand and sheet music covered by a layer of dust barely thicker than when I’d left. But the way I was in my home, in every space and even in my own body, had changed, and even though I wasn’t aware of it then there was no going back. During the first days I still carried on me the scent and taste of Philippe. More often than I would have liked they rushed over me like crushing waves. Despite my efforts to maintain composure, none of it left me unaffected. Once I’d given in to those feelings described, they were followed by those of being lost, of longing, and then by guilt for reacting that way. I wanted my life to go on as it always had, not because it was my only option, but because I liked it. I chose it every morning when I woke up in my bedroom, in the bed I had shared with my husband for over ten years. That is what I chose, not the sensorial tsunamis and not the memories that, had I been able to, I would have eradicated forever. But my will was an inadequate antidote to the pull of Philippe.

Mauricio came home on a Saturday at noon, before I’d been able to sort my feelings out. He brought me relief, like the boat you find in the middle of a storm that will save you from the shipwreck. We spent the weekend together. We went to the movies and the supermarket. On Sunday we had breakfast at one of our favorite restaurants. We told each other the details of our trips and the annoyances of our respective flights. In these days of reacquainting I wondered more than once if I should explain to him what had happened with Laval. It troubled me to hide things from him, especially things so serious. I had never done it before. I realized that I needed his absolution and, if it were possible, his advice. But I preferred not to say anything for the time being. Greater than my need to be honest was my fear of hurting him, of something between us rupturing. On Monday we both returned to work. The memories continued their attack on me but I managed, rather adeptly, to keep them at bay until Laval reappeared two weeks later.

One afternoon I got a long-distance phone call from a blocked number. My heart started beating faster before I picked up. I lifted the receiver and, after a brief silence, I recognized Laval’s Amati on the other end of the line. Hearing him play from thousands of miles away, being in my own home, it tore open what I had tried so hard to heal. That call, seemingly harmless, brought Philippe into a place where he didn’t belong. What did he want, calling like that? Probably to reestablish contact, to show me that he still thought of me, that his feelings for me still burned. Nothing explicit, and yet, so much more than my emotional stability could take. There was a second call, this time with his own voice, made, he said, from a phone booth two blocks from his house. He told me what his music already had: he still thought about us and was having trouble breaking free. He talked and talked for several minutes, until he’d used up all the credit he’d put in the phone. I barely had enough time to make two important things clear to him: first, everything he was feeling was mutual; and second, I didn’t want him calling my house again. Laval exchanged phone calls for e-mails and text messages. He wrote in the morning and at night, telling me all kinds of things, from how he was feeling to what he’d had for lunch and dinner. He gave me reports on his outings and work events, on what his daughters were doing and when they got sick, but most of all—and this was the hardest part—he gave me in-depth descriptions of his desire. So it was as if the parallel dimension, which I believed to be suspended indefinitely, not only opened up again, but began to become everyday, stealing space from the tangible reality of my life, from which I became increasingly absent. Bit by bit I learned his routines, when he took his daughters to school, the days he stayed home and those when he went into town. The exchange of messages gave me access to his world and, by asking questions, Laval was able to open up a similar space in my own existence. I’d always been a person who often daydreamed but because of him this tendency increased dramatically. If before I had lived 70 percent of the time in reality and 30 in my imagination, that ratio did a complete reversal. It got to the point that everyone who came into contact with me began to worry, including Mauricio, who I suspect already harbored some notion of what was going on.

I was becoming addicted to my correspondence with Laval, to this interminable conversation, and to thinking of it as the most intense and essential part of my daily life. When for some reason it took longer than usual for him to write or it wasn’t possible for him to immediately respond to my messages, my body exhibited obvious signs of anxiety: clenched jaw, sweaty palms, leg twitches. If before, especially in Copenhagen, we almost never spoke about our respective spouses, that restriction ceased to be enforced in a long-distance dialogue. Our marriages became objects of daily voyeurism. At first we only told each other about our partners’ suspicions and worries; then about our arguments with and judgments of them; but so too about the gestures of affection they showed us to justify, to the other and to us, their determination to remain married. Unlike me, who lived in a calm and taciturn marriage, Laval was not happy with his wife. At least that’s what he told me. Their relationship, which had already gone on for over eighteen years, had been for the vast majority of that time a living hell. Catherine, his wife, did nothing but demand his attention and intensive care and would unleash upon him her uncontrollable violence. It was unbearably sad to think of Laval living in such a situation. It was unbearably sad to imagine him, for example, stuck in the house on a Sunday, enduring the screaming and the accusations as the interminable Brussels rain fell outside. But Laval wouldn’t think of leaving his family. He had resigned himself to living that way to the end of his days and I should say that that resignation, though incomprehensible, suited me. I didn’t want to leave Mauricio either.

After three months of messages and occasional phone calls, we finally settled into a routine I felt more or less comfortable with. Even though my attention, or what remained of it, was on Laval’s virtual presence, my daily life began to be tolerable, even enjoyable, until the possibility of seeing each other again arose. As I mentioned, every three months Laval traveled to Vancouver and on his next trip, post-Copenhagen, it occurred to him we could meet there. It would be easy enough for him to secure an official invitation from the school for me to lead a very well-paid workshop during the same days he’d have to be there that winter.

The idea, if extremely dangerous, could not have been more tempting and it was impossible to say no, even knowing that it threatened the precarious balance we had found.

So we saw each other in Canada. It was an incredible three-day trip surrounded once again by lakes and forests. The same thing we had felt during the residency again took root between us, only this time it was more urgent, more concentrated. We declined social obligations as far as it was possible. Whenever we were not working we were alone in his room, rediscovering in every way imaginable the other’s body, the other’s reactions and moods, as if returning to a familiar land you never want to leave again. We also spoke a lot about what was happening between us, about the joy and novelty this encounter had added to our lives. We came to the conclusion that happiness can be found beyond conventionality, in the narrow space that our familial situations as much as geographical distance had condemned us to.

After Vancouver we saw each other in the Hamptons; months later at the Berlin Festival of Chamber Music; then at the festival held in Ambronay for ancient music. Philippe had orchestrated every one of these encounters. And still, all the time we spent together was never enough for us. Each return was, at least for me, more difficult than the last. My distractedness was worse and much more obvious than when I came home from Denmark; I it became impossible for me to live with my husband. Reality, which I was no longer interested in holding up, began to crumble like an abandoned building. I might never have noticed were it not for a call from my mother-in-law that drew me out of my lethargy. She had spoken to Mauricio and was very worried.

“If you’re in love with another man, it’s slipping through your fingers,” she said to me with the bluntness she was known for. “You do whatever you have to to get it under control.”

Her comment fell on absent but not deaf ears.

One afternoon Mauricio came home from work early to the sound of a Chopin piece for piano and violin that Laval had performed ten years before. A CD I’d never played in his presence. I don’t know if it was the look of surprise on my face to see him home or if he had decided beforehand, but that day he interrogated me about my feelings. I wanted to give his questions honest answers. I wanted to tell him of my conflicts and my fears. I wanted most of all to tell him what I had been suffering. However, all I could do was lie. Why? Maybe because it pained me to betray someone whom I continued to love deeply, but in a different way; maybe I was scared of how he would react, or because I clung to the hope that, sooner or later, things would go back to the way they were. Mauricio’s mother was right: I was losing my grip on the affair.

After turning it over in my mind, I decided to call off the next trip and put all my energy into distancing myself from Laval. I wrote to him explaining the state of things and I asked his help in recovering the life that was dissolving before my eyes. My decision upset him but he understood.

Two weeks went by without any kind of contact between Laval and me. However, when two people think constantly of each other there grows between them a bond that transcends orthodox means of communication. Even though I was determined to forget him, or at least to not think of him with the same intensity, my body rebelled against that plan and started manifesting its own volition through feelings, physical and, of course, uncontrollable.

I first felt a soft itch in my crotch. But when I inspected the area several times I didn’t see anything and gave up. After a few weeks the itch, faint at first, barely noticeable, became intolerable. No matter the time of day, no matter where I was, I felt my sex, and feeling it inevitably meant also thinking of Philippe. I received his first message about it around that time. An e-mail, concise and alarmed, in which he swore that he’d contracted something serious, probably herpes, syphilis, or some other venereal disease, and he wanted to warn me so that I could take the necessary precautions. That was Philippe, tout craché, as they say in his language, and that was the classic reaction of someone given to hypochondria. The message changed my perspective: if we both had the symptoms, then most likely the same thing afflicted us both. Not a serious illness as he thought but maybe a fungus. Fungi itch; if they are deeply rooted, they can even hurt. They make us always aware of the body part where they have grown and that was exactly what was happening to us. I tried to assure him with affectionate messages. Before resuming our silence, we agreed to see doctors in our respective cities.

The diagnosis I got was just what I’d suspected. According to my gynecologist, a change in my mucus acidity had fostered the appearance of the microorganisms and simply applying a cream for five days would eradicate them. Knowing this did not calm me. Far from it. To think that some living thing had grown on our bodies precisely where the absence of the other was most evident astonished and rattled me. The fungus bound me to Philippe even more. Though at first I applied the prescribed medicine punctually and diligently, I soon stopped the treatment; I’d developed a fondness for the shared fungus and a sense of ownership. To go on poisoning it was to mutilate an important part of myself. The itch became, if not pleasurable, at least as soothing as the next best thing. It allowed me to feel Philippe on my own body and imagine with such accuracy what was happening to his. That’s why I decided not only to preserve the fungus, but also to take care of it, the way that some people cultivate a small garden. After some time, as it grew stronger, the fungus started to become visible. The first thing I noticed was white dots that, upon maturing, turned into small bumps, smooth in texture and perfectly round. I came to have dozens of those little heads on my body. I spent hours naked, pleased to see that they had grown over the surface of my labia in their path toward my groin. All the while I imagined Philippe doing all he could, to no end, to get rid of his own strand. I discovered I was wrong when one day I received an e-mail in my inbox: “My fungus wants one thing only: to see you again.”

The time I had before dedicated to communicating with Laval I now devoted to thinking about the fungus. I remembered my mother’s, which I’d all but erased from my memory, and I began to read about those strange beings, akin in appearance to the vegetable kingdom but clinging to life and to a host, and cannot but be near us. I found out for example that organisms with very diverse life dynamics can be classified as fungi. There exist around a million and a half species, of which a hundred thousand have been studied. I realized that something similar happens with emotions: very different kinds of feelings—often symbiotic—are identified by the word love. Loves are often born unforeseen, of spontaneous conception. One evening we suspect their existence because of some barely noticeable itch, and by the next day we realize they have already settled into us in such a way that if it is not permanent, it at least seems to be. Eradicating a fungus can be as complicated as ending an unwanted relationship. My mother knew all about it. Her fungus loved her body and needed it in the same way that the organism that had sprouted between Laval and me was reclaiming the missing territory.

I was wrong to think that when I stopped writing to him, I would detach myself from Laval. I was also wrong to believe that that sacrifice would be enough to get my husband back. Our relationship never came back to life. Mauricio left discreetly, no fuss of any kind. He started by not coming home one night out of three and then extended his periods of desertion. Such was my absence from our common space that, although I could not help noticing it, neither could I do anything to stop him. I still wonder today if, had I tried harder, it would have been possible to reestablish the ties that had dissolved between us. I am certain that Mauricio discussed the circumstances of our divorce with very few of our friends. However, those people spoke to others and the information reached our relatives and closest friends. There were even people who felt authorized to express to me their support or disapproval, which angered me to no end. Some told me, as consolation, that “things happen for a reason”; that they had seen it coming and that the separation was necessary, as much for my own growth as for Mauricio’s. Others claimed that for several years my husband had maintained a relationship with a young musician and that I should not feel guilty. This latter part had never been proven. Far from calming me, the comments did nothing but increase my feeling of abandonment and isolation. My life had not only ceased to be mine, it had become fodder for others’ discussions. For that reason I couldn’t stand to see anybody. But neither did I like being alone. If I’d had children it probably would have been different. A child would have been a very strong anchor in the tangible and quotidian world. I would have been attentive to the child and its needs. A child would have brought joy to my life with that unconditional affection I was so badly in need of. But besides my mother, who was always so busy with her work, in my life there was only the violin and the violin was Laval. When I finally decided to seek him out, Philippe not only resumed contact as enthusiastic as ever, he was even more supportive than before. He called and wrote several times a day, listened to my doubts, gave me encouragement and advice. Nobody was as involved in my psychological recovery as he was in those first months. His calls and our virtual conversations became my only enjoyable contact with another human being.

Unlike my mother during my childhood, I decided to remain with the fungus forever. To live with a parasite is to accept the occupation. Any parasite, as harmless as it may be, has the uncontainable need to spread. It is important to limit it, or else it will invade us entirely. I, for example, have not allowed mine to reach my groin, nor any other part beyond my crotch. Philippe has adopted an attitude toward me similar to mine toward the fungus. He never allows me beyond my territory. He calls my home whenever he needs to but I cannot, under any circumstance, call his. It is he who decides when and where we meet and who always cancels our trips if his wife or daughters mess up our plans. In his life, I am an infallible ghost he can summon. In mine, he is a free spirit that sometimes appears. Parasites—I understand this now—we are unsatisfied beings by nature. Neither the nourishment nor the attention we receive will ever be enough. The secrecy that ensures our survival often frustrates us. We live in a state of constant sadness. They say that to the brain, the smell of dampness and the smell of depression are very similar. I do not doubt it’s true. Whenever the anguish builds in my chest, I take refuge in Laval, like turning to a psychologist or a sedative. And though not always immediately, he almost never refuses me. Nevertheless, as to be expected, Philippe cannot stand my neediness. Nobody likes to be invaded. He already has too much pressure at home to tolerate this scared and pained woman he has turned me into, so different from the one he met in Copenhagen. We have seen each other again a few times, but the trysts are not like before. He’s scared too. His responsibility in my new life is weighing him down and he reads, even in my most innocent remarks, the plea for him to leave his wife. I realize this. That is why I have lessened, at the cost of my health, my imploring. But my need remains bottomless.

It’s been more than two years since I assumed the nature of an invisible being, which barely has a life of its own, that feeds on memories, on fleeting encounters in whatever part of the world, or on what I am able to steal from another organism that I yearn for to be mine and in no way is. I still play music but everything I play seems like Laval, sounds like him, like a distorted copy nobody cares about. I don’t know how long it’s possible to live like this. But I do know that some people do for years and that in this dimension they are able to build families, entire colonies of fungi spread far and wide that live in secrecy and then one day, just when the infested being dies, raise their head during the funeral and make themselves known. That will not be me. My body is infertile. Laval will have no descendants with me. Sometimes I think I catch, in his face or the tone of his voice, a certain annoyance similar to the repulsion my mother felt for her yellowed toe. So despite my enormous need for attention I do everything I can to come off inconspicuous, so that he thinks of my presence only when he desires or needs it. I can’t complain. My life is tenuous but I do not want for nourishment, even though it comes one drop at a time. The rest of the time I live locked up and motionless in my apartment where I have barely raised the blinds in the past few months. I like the dimness and the dampness of the walls. I spend a lot of time touching the cavity of my genitalia—that crippled pet I glimpsed as a child— where my fingers awaken the notes Laval has left there. I’ll stay like this as long as he lets me, forever confined to one piece of his life or until I find the medicine that, at last, once and for all, frees us both.


*Copyright © 2013 by Guadalupe Nettel, c/o Guillermo Schavelzon & Asoc., Agencia Literaria, www.schavelzon.com.

*English translation copyright © 2014 by J. T. Lichtenstein.

How could Edgardo have hunted an animal if he didn’t even know how to love, much less kill. He’d become a useless idler, sitting all day in front of the television set or on the computer raising cattle, setting up cities, conquering nations, stealing gold, feeding entire zoos while the yard was overrun by weeds. How could he have killed an animal if he only killed monsters and mutants by way of cables and a keyboard. But all of a sudden in real life, killing a creature as tough as that one? It was incredible.

He entered the kitchen drenched in sweat that morning very early and threw it on the table. The shell slid across the old Formica top, and he, changing his voice, imitating I’m not really sure who, said to me, “Here, woman, cook it up.” The animal had its eyes closed. I thought it was alive, and I screamed as soon as I saw it there on the kitchen table, loose dirt on its paws.

“Get that creature out of here,” I said angrily, but Edgardo, triumphant, playing the role of hunter, just laughed with his hands on his hips as if he were wearing two silver pistols, a cowboy like the ones he’d admired so much in his childhood. Or one of his electronic avatars that he dressed up to go out shooting in the alleyways of virtual cities. He was playing his part. Ha, ha, ha, he laughed falsely. I’d stopped screaming when he turned around, a cowboy who’d just won a duel, and returned to the yard to continue his battle with the weeds. He’d finally decided to clear the ground, to abandon his games momentarily.

In this game I was his opponent, and I’d lost. My punishment was the animal, hard as a battle tank, resting on the table. It was as if he’d said to me, Oh, didn’t you want to live in the country? As if he’d shouted at me, Didn’t you want to return to your hometown? Then I told myself that the duel wasn’t over, and I remembered Antonia’s stories as she’d prepared the animals that my dad brought in from the woods, so many years ago in this same house. Antonia’s large hands cutting their throats, removing their skin, ripping out their long intestines like an infinite piece of bubble gum. I played with that bubble gum and with the little hearts until one day it all started to disgust me. At a certain age we became aware that they were the bowels of the animals, the ones Dad used to kill by shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning them. From then on I told myself that I’d only eat chicken breasts, meat butchered by other people, placed in white trays and covered in sheets of transparent plastic. Pink breasts, thin, soft, with all vestiges of blood and guts cleaned and boiled away. Any traces of savageness erased by bleach and hormones. My life in the city was a life of chicken breasts until they stopped selling them, or until we couldn’t buy them anymore, it’s the same thing. Edgardo lost his job, and I was too fat for the catwalk or photo shoots, no one remembered that I had almost won Miss Venezuela. Then began our decline. The punishment for having insisted on returning to this town was having to give up the fillets butchered by others or an imposed macrobiotic diet. Having to face this armored animal. 

The duel was not over, I told myself, and I took the horrible animal over to the sink. Determined to defeat him, I stabbed at it with the biggest knife in the kitchen, making it impossible to tell whether the poor creature showed signs of previous violence. How had Edgardo killed it if he didn’t have guns, or knives, or clubs, just a rusty rake and a machete that he barely knew how to use to cut back the brush?

I saw him go back to the end of the yard, near the ravine. I saw through the window that he’d abandoned his role of macho hunter and reassumed the role of farmer, rake and machete in hand. He disappeared from my view around the spot where we were supposed to build the shacks for the mushrooms or anything else we could sell. The idea had been to grow some crop and sell it, but with my drowsiness from the pills and his non-stop games the days passed quickly. Pills for sleeping, pills to wake up, to keep from eating, laxatives, birth control. Games of building, destroying, devastating, and killing. The blood spurted out, thick like oil, I remember. Black. The shell cracked much more easily than I thought it would. The little eyes remained closed as if nothing had happened. My hands were guided by my memory, by my images of Antonia cutting the throats of animals. The rest, I don’t remember. The guts and all that . . . Just the pleasure, the wet sensation of the meat inside. A warmth that took me straight back to my childhood. It wasn’t blood, no, it was the little hearts beating in the palms of my little hands.

I looked at the sink splattered with blackish red, and I wondered how, dear God, Edgardo could’ve killed an animal like this if he couldn’t even pull the weeds that threatened to strangle us all, his son who’d come for the weekend included. Toño had come under obligation. After a two-hour trip, his mother dropped him off with his little backpack. He got out of the car wearing headphones and that eternal look of disdain. Edgardo asked him to at least take off the headphones to say hello. He was thirteen, and he wasn’t at all pleased to be trapped in the country with us. He was bored.

“Let him help you in the yard,” I said.

“What are you thinking?” he said as if the suggestion was monstrous, as if the most natural thing would be for Toño to shut himself away with his games and messages. “I’ll find someone local,” he continued before going to the end of the lot where the abyss of the valley began. Why had that kid even come? He continued his routine of games and messages as if he weren’t even here, while his father broke his back clearing the ground.

The duel was not over, I told myself as I cleaned the purple meat. Yes, I’d wanted to come, to leave behind the mediocrity of Maturín, that rainy city that didn’t have anything to offer us, I told myself as I placed the meat in a white nest of salt and tried to remember the recipe. Edgardo had accepted without any objection: he thought growing mushrooms was the business opportunity of the century: all you needed was manure and some cold damp shacks. The weather would take care of the rest, the cold air that blew between the mountain and the valley. He didn’t think twice when I suggested we move here, and he immediately had the idea to grow mushrooms.

He’d never liked the town, it was true. In the pharmacy where I bought my pills they always had Pink Floyd playing as background music, and Edgardo thought that was a bad sign. In the movie that he directed in his head we were a couple of city folks who’d come to a godforsaken town. Soon blood would spurt from the faucets or things of that nature. It’s not normal, he’d said, that music and all the bottles of aspirin. Just because of Pink Floyd in the pharmacy and the pharmacist ready to sell us any kind of pills without a prescription, Edgardo began to presage our ruin. He put off the mushrooms. However, he hadn’t looked closely at that animal he’d found as he cleaned the leaves and brush. He hadn’t noticed that its little eyes were already closed. I’m certain that it was not killed by Edgardo’s hands, delicate hands accustomed only to the keyboard and the remote control.

I baked the animal in the oven and not like Dad would’ve done it, out there, on the grill that was now knitted with vines.

In the movie I’d begun directing in my head, the vines would knit itself around our arms and legs until we were no longer able to leave the house, also knitted over with green. We wouldn’t die of starvation but of withdrawal. Withdrawal from Lexotanil or some other tranquilizer; from Age of Empires or some other computer game. Knitted in. Toño wouldn’t even realize it thanks to his headphones, the messages he constantly sent and received, because he was capable of entering such a state of absorption that hunger or any other need could be ignored or even made to disappear. However, as soon as I called him to eat that day at lunchtime, he came running.

“The power’s out,” he said, and that explained everything.

The spot where the shacks for the mushrooms would be built had been halfheartedly raked, but Edgardo looked like someone who’d cleared an entire hectare with his bare hands. He was sitting on a rock continuously wiping away sweat with the sleeve of his shirt, his back curved and a vacant look in his eyes. The solitary cowboy had been stripped down, and he was now just solitary. I didn’t say anything to him, and he didn’t talk to me either, his exhaustion making him unable to speak. I handed him a bottle of water and laid the foundation for my victory: a tablecloth spread across the ground, the silverware, a bottle of juice, and in the center the trophy. The meat gleaming on the plate, along with rice and plantain. With my hands on my waist, as if in place of these wide hips I had a pair of silver pistols, triumphant, I said, “Come on, man, eat.”

I’d wanted land, yes. I’d wanted to return to the town where I’d been born.

The farmer, Edgardo that is, wiped the sweat off his forehead, stamped a grudging smile on his face and sat down. We looked like the happy couple inside the farm game. He began to eat with a hunger earned through physical labor. He’d never eaten like that, not even in his days as an accountant, not even in his nights as a strategic builder of civilizations. I’d never cooked with more zest, not even in my days as a bulimic or my nights as an anorexic.

I sat on his rock as he tasted the first bites. I looked at him without looking at him because, in reality, my eyes were seeing Antonia’s hands, her large frame walking this same lot, hanging clothes, butchering Dad’s animals, telling us stories all the while. Her stories weren’t about ghosts but about death, poisonings, abortions. Mom forbade us to listen to her, but it was impossible to pull ourselves away from her skirts. Antonia, her hands, her stories, and her recipes. When he was finally able to speak, Edgardo asked me if I was going to eat.

“I’m on a diet,” I said.

“You and your endless diets,” he said and continued eating.

I decided to leave before the illusion of the happy couple came crashing down again with one of my outbursts. I wanted to say, And you, you’re OK with your belly hanging out? but instead I said, “I’m going in. I have to give Toño his lunch.”

He wanted to say, What good do your diets do? but instead he said, “A boy I hired is coming to help me finish clearing.” Maybe he wanted to say what he said. Maybe it was true that I was always putting words in his mouth, sentences that he hadn’t even thought of. What was certain was that without the cowboy gestures Edgardo looked like a third-rate actor and anything he said would’ve sounded insincere.

Back inside, I served Toño a full plate. The power’s out, he said before sitting and eating his lunch in silence. The only thing on the table was his plate. Edgardo ate at the end of the yard; he’d probably already finished, and I wasn’t planning to try a single mouthful of that animal. Toño ate without asking what it was he was eating. So distracted that he probably thought it was pork as he took hasty bites so that he could return again to his world. He’d brought a load of batteries just in case, he said.

The sink still had blood in it, little droplets that had splattered here and there, that hadn’t been washed away by my initial cleaning. Blood wasn’t gushing from the faucets but from the animals found by chance. With a rag dipped in bleach I scrubbed away the hard, black blood. Time was a drop of coagulated blood, everything was still that day with the feel of something lying in wait, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary to me because that’s the way time was in the country. I’d always known that.

I’d defeated Edgardo and his animal. I’d gutted and cooked it, I’d erased the stains from the sink, I’d put the creature’s armor out to dry in the sun like Antonia would have. Toño finished eating and went back to his games or messages, his headphones, or his books. And I was debating whether to serve myself some of that meat or finish off a pack of chocolate chip cookies I had hidden at the back of the pantry, when a stranger came into the kitchen through the back door, which was always open. Covered in sweat, smelling like burnt wood, he shouted that Edgardo was dying, that we had to take him to the medic, fast. He barely paused between words, he could hardly breathe, his chest rose and fell violently. For a minute I couldn’t make sense of what I was hearing, I just asked myself who this man was, whether this might be a robbery, thinking that Toño with his headphones surely wouldn’t hear anything and they could kill me right here in the kitchen, take everything we have, and Toño and Edgardo wouldn’t hear a thing. The slamming door maybe.

The stranger tugged on my arm and repeated his rushed refrain. Suddenly the midday stillness was broken, my stomach closed up like a fist: no meat, no chocolate chip cookies. Run.

We ran to the cleared section of land. It was close to the house but it seemed so far away. Rocks, branches, and Antonia’s hands slowed me down. Words, warnings, the vine that quickly knitted itself around my legs. The stranger was much faster, agile, and he leaped over the uneven ground, the branches, the brush. Once near the rock beside which Edgardo’s body had fallen, he started to shout. He’s dead, I said to myself, and I stopped running. I looked down into the valley. The green bluffs, the disorderly orange trees, the mass of dry limbs.

The boy gestured for me to help him lift the body, shouted that we had to take him quickly, that it seemed like he’d been poisoned, to hurry.

“Come on, run,” he shouted waving his arms.

I couldn’t approach the fallen soldier, the cowboy slain by the poisoned arrow, the farmer attacked by wild animals. His body lying on the ground cleared for the mushrooms and the voice of Antonia warning my father: Only eat what you kill yourself. Don’t try to take advantage of death or of other people’s hunting.

How could Edgardo have hunted an animal if he didn’t even know how to love, much less kill. I should never have asked him to abandon his digital world and enter this land of dirt, shit, snakes, and weeds. I turned around instead of running to him. I thought of Toño, who no one would miss or look for in the house. He surely hadn’t heard the shouting, lost in his world. I wanted to find him, pull him from his room so he could help me with Edgardo, to save him, too. But my foot got caught, and I fell over the edge into the ravine, dragged down by the weight of the silver pistols.

Almost, almost there, but not quite. Something woke me up. A noise. I’m dripping wet, but I didn’t get there. I’m still half asleep. Nearly, but not quite. The wind is blowing through the coffee groves; maybe a branch fell onto one of the bushes. It’s funny and a little embarrassing. I was dreaming about Johnnier, the young man who looks after the estate during the week. 

This afternoon I went to pick up the keys to the house and felt something new when he handed them over. Something in his scent, in his intimidating simian gait. This time, I sort of liked the way he walked; it was a kind of half-ironic lope. He was making fun of himself, showing off, as though he were saying: Have you noticed the way I walk, like an ape? Have you noticed how I act like an animal to seem more stupid than I really am?  

Maybe I imagined it. I’m still half asleep. I should open my eyes and go to the window or out onto the veranda to investigate the noise. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve misread the signals. Then I go and make a fool of myself, my lust brazenly exposed for all to see. I’ve had more than my share of misunderstandings. My friends tell me that a woman has to make herself the object of desire. I never knew how or why a woman would want to make herself the object of desire. If I want something, I ask for it. My friends think that my defiant attitude befits a man better. Johnnier, I now realize, is much smarter than he seems. What if I went to visit him at home? What if I got up, stepped out into the night, saddled the mare and rode through the darkness to his house? It would be a lot of trouble, particularly because the mare is asleep, and I know that she doesn’t like being woken up unexpectedly. She gets surly and difficult. But what if I did? There’s nothing to stop me. Nothing. What if I went down the narrow path, down the slope, crossed the muddy field with the ruined house, rode along the river, crossed over the bamboo bridge and then climbed up the steep slope on the other side to Johnnier’s house. What if I got to Johnnier’s house and knocked on the door? I’d make up an excuse for being there. He’d invite me in and offer me a glass of wine or whatever, some rum maybe. The idea wakes me up; now I’m fully awake. My eyes are open wide in the animal darkness of my plan: riding through the middle of the night to knock on a peasant’s door and go to bed with him. Doing in real life what just a few moments earlier I had been enjoying in my dream. Johnnier’s stiff cock in my hand. In my mouth. In other circumstances it would seem ridiculous, but we’re in the countryside. The rules are different here. In the countryside, if you want something you take it.     

Now that I think about it, I’m unusually horny right now. It’s not the kind of horniness that comes from inside your body; this isn’t your everyday lust. This comes from outside. It’s here in the room, rising up from the earth, and now that my eyes are wide open I think I can see a black mist, slightly blacker than the surrounding darkness. It slips inside my body, then playfully billows out of my mouth and twists through my hair before plunging back down under the sheets where it finally re-enters my body as though it had now been sifted for greater purity. It’s here inside, but it comes from outside. From the enormous weight of the world you can sense out there. You realize that this lust forms in the heart of the coffee grove, in the sound of footsteps over dry leaves, in the warm rocks cooling in the darkness, in the inexplicably empty nest left by a bluebird in a guama tree. In a rotten branch that wakes me up with its fall. 

Make yourself the object of desire. What if my mother was right? Staying quiet, knowing how to attract attention effortlessly, to catch someone’s eye and sit still like a pretty, passive thing. Immobility and silence, the key would appear to be skilful management of those two variables. Ordinarily, I’d be disgusted with myself if I acted like that with a city man; it would be demeaning. But wasn’t that exactly what I did with Johnnier when he gave me the keys and swaggered around like an ape? I was polite and haughty – anyone watching would have said I’d been acting cold. And I also allowed myself to be looked at, I deigned to smile, I stood perfectly still, reducing myself to the status of a pretty object that just stands and watches. Above all, I stayed sweetly silent, firmly silent, because the estate is mine. I bought it through my work, my effort, my independence. I’m the boss, so let’s have some respect around here.  My expression must have conveyed something along those lines. But maybe my eyes lingered a little too long on Johnnier’s body, the threatening, musical way he lurched from side to side, his face looking as though it had been superimposed with the features of several different animals, a bear on top of a bat on top of an alligator on top of a cat. The wind rustles through the coffee grove in unpredictable gusts that break up the long, dry silence. I’m so wet; the lust won’t go away. In fact, it’s expanding deep into the darkness.

I have no idea when I got up and reached for my clothes, pulling on the first things I could find – mud-spattered jeans, a woollen jacket, wellington boots, a poncho, my rucksack and the machete, just in case. You never know. 

I step out of the house and walk along the veranda without turning on the lights, heading for the stable. I don’t want to scare the mare, for her to rear away from me. It’s been hard enough getting on with her, learning to ride her without being laughed at by the labourers. But the mare is awake already, and when I see the jelly around her big eyes I feel as though she’s been waiting for me all this time. I pull open the stable door, clicking my tongue, and taste the scent of the noble beast, which has been gathering all night. I stroke her mane. She seems comfortable, ready for an adventure. I manage to saddle her without any trouble, then I lead her out of the stable by the bridle. In the moonlight she allows me to climb onto her. She can barely feel the weight of my small body, she just lets out a little grunt. What a delight to ride on a clear night. A man would probably start to whistle, but I prefer to let the sounds of the night guide the way. Hidden behind a couple of coffee bushes, through which I have to cut my way with my machete, is the dry path. It’s a little dusty because it hasn’t rained in days. The mare heads on down it. She’s stocky; spirited but slow. She knows where we’re going, she knows how to get there. And while she takes the lead, my mind begins to wander, as though it were on the back of another animal. A strange thought forms: this estate isn’t mine. Or, rather, I’m just the owner. I bought it about a year ago after years of hard work. The deed is in my name. But the estate isn’t mine. Property is a feeling. Sometimes it’s a sense that one has sunk roots, sometimes it’s that one has conquered territory and sometimes it’s a mixture of the two. But deep down I don’t feel that way at all. I don’t feel rooted or a sense of ownership. I can say that to myself with complete honesty now that I’m riding through the darkness, feeding the sensation that I’m heading into the interior of the landscape – I mean, into the engine room of the landscape where, now that my eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, I think I can finally see how the gears and complex system of façades really work. The very centre, the factory where everything that seems so pretty and picturesque in the daylight is produced. It sits so still in the light, making itself the object of desire, looking back at us in silence. Why did I buy the estate? Why do I come here every weekend, often without any civilized company? And where is this rampant lust coming from? The mare’s muscles are keeping the electricity between my legs alive. I’m coming, Johnnier, I’m almost there. I’m coming to your door. I’m going to knock, softly at first. Maybe I’ll wake you up. Maybe you’re already awake, thinking about me, waiting for me. Wondering whether you should saddle your horse to come and find me, but I know you wouldn’t dare. I know that you respect me in spite of yourself, that you’re a little afraid of me even, because you know that I’m the boss. The lust generates words that pile up inside of me like leaves in the shadows. The mare goes on and on through the coffee grove, keeping to a path she knows by heart, and I can barely believe that I’m here doing what I’m doing at this hour. Another crazy idea begins to form, that all this secret machinery of the landscape might be part of someone else’s dream. Ciphers, archetypes of someone else’s subconscious. This night-time horse ride might be the misogynist fantasy of someone who’s asleep right now dreaming about me. Or I might be dreaming. I myself could be someone else, a man maybe, imagining all this in a nightmare. In that case, this mare wouldn’t be a mare but my penis. And the path through the coffee grove isn’t just a simple path through a coffee grove but an allegory. Something more, something else. Symbolic of who knows what trauma. For some reason this reminds me that I have a torch in my pack. I try turning it on, and it works, a wayward stream of yellow light flows out of the device like an unthinking genie from a lamp. The foliage reveals a little of its colour, frozen in surprise but also somehow contorted in discomfort in the harsh light. Before turning off the torch, I aimlessly light up different sections of my surroundings: the tree tops, a barbed-wire fence, the ground. This minor magical act brings to mind a far-off time, a memory that arrives like a falling branch. I was a little girl, I must have been about seven, and my daddy had taken me on an outing to a place very similar to this one. My daddy worked as a lawyer for a small company that sold spare parts for heavy vehicles. Once a year the company owner organized an outing to one of his properties but he only invited a select group of employees, those whom he judged deserved it. That year my father was one of the chosen few. It was the first and last time, and he decided to take me instead of my mother because he could only take one companion and thought that I’d enjoy the outing much more because I’d get to see the countryside, play with other children, swim in the river and maybe, just maybe, ride a horse. I don’t remember having done any of those things, I don’t remember any other children being there, just other employees with their wives eating bowl after bowl of stew and drinking beer and rum. By the afternoon they were all drunk, my father included. He’d spent all day being awkward, whispering in corners, walking from one side of the gallery to the other with a bottle of beer in his hand and chain smoking. I played on my own to one side and was starting to get bored of my own company when I saw my father step away from the others and sit on a boulder by a ravine. I’d seen my father sad and drunk plenty of times, but I’d never seen him looking so thoughtful, as though the toughest part of his spirit was being ground down, pestled into dust. I went over and crouched down beside him, but I didn’t say anything. My father looked at me with a bitter smile. Across the ravine, a lovely landscape not dissimilar to this one with its coffee groves, guama trees, bogs, guayacans in bloom and fields of cows stretched out before us. My father’s eyes drank in the landscape. He smoked and drank, smoked and drank. There, he said suddenly, pointing into the ravine. You see that scorched tree? It got hit by lightning in ’47. Your great-grandfather asked to be buried under that burned-out tree, and he’s still there, unless some local idiot has dug up the grave thinking they’d found an Inca tomb. Over there, at the foot of the ravine, where you see those old iron bars and fence posts, that was where the train stopped and the coffee was loaded up to be taken to Buenaventura. We grew first-rate coffee here, tons of it. These farms produced whatever you wanted, everything from sugarloaf to plantains, yucca, meat, eggs… everything. Whatever you planted just came up. My great-grandfather came here with nothing but the clothes on his back. He panned for gold in gullies near Bolívar. He worked very hard, saving up everything he could until he had enough to buy some land. Then he bought the land next to the first plot, and the farm grew. We were so happy in those years; it was bliss. You can’t imagine. But nothing lasts forever. Happiness is fleeting. We lost everything. Or, rather, it was taken from us. My grandfather was killed. His brothers, too. Only the women and children were left. And, of course, if you have no land, you’re nobody. Listen to me now, and listen well. You’re nothing without land, less than nothing. Without land you’re worse than an animal.

My daddy went quiet for a long time, smoking and drinking, smoking and drinking, and in the end he asked: Can you imagine if all we see before us belonged to you? Can you imagine if we had horses and we could ride through those fields, you and I, seeing to the livestock and the crops? I remember that I tried very hard to imagine it.

A few days after that my father quit his job at the parts company. Or maybe he was fired, I don’t know. Then everything started to go wrong. Money was very tight. I went to a school mismanaged by Spanish nuns; my mother got a job as a cashier in a supermarket. A few months later my father left my mother and we never saw him again. People say that he went off to live in Caquetá with another woman and other children. People say that he became a drug dealer in Panama and that he worked with the Rodríguez Orejuela brothers. They say that he’s in prison in the USA and that he has a lot of land held in trust in other people’s names. They say a lot of things. I never bothered to find out what really happened to him. But I don’t resent him for leaving us. My mother was happy without him, and so was I. I could study, give classes at the university, save up and eventually buy this estate.

Now the path is coming out of the coffee grove and starts to stretch out across what we call the bad field, the field where the livestock can’t graze because it makes them sick. From here you can see the ruins of the old house in the moonlight. Who lived here? Or, rather, how long as it been since someone lived here? This is the first time I’ve ever thought about the previous owners. I entertain myself for a little while fantasizing about the ruin, and now I start to think I can see movement behind the empty windows. The breeze gusts through what’s left of the building, making strange noises. Voices, murmurs. It makes me shiver, and for the first time since I embarked on this mad jaunt I feel scared. I decide not to look at the house. I quicken the pace. The mare is nervous. I don’t know if I’m transmitting my fear or she senses something, too. I’m terrified to look behind me. Suddenly I feel as though someone’s been following me for some time. I get goosebumps. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead and ride faster. The mare responds well. We’re allies in this; it reassures me to think so. Soon we get to end of the bad field, and beyond a shallow ditch we see the river. At this time of year it flows weak and cold. I don’t want to look behind me. I just want to get to Johnnier’s house. The mare has shifted from a trot to a gallop in the moonlight. The prospect of a fall scares me less than stopping and looking back. When we get to the bamboo bridge the mare stops abruptly. I hear my ragged breath getting louder around me and sometimes I think that my breaths are multiplying, echoing in the surrounding shadows, as though there were someone behind me, breathing just as loudly, just as fearfully. The mare knows that she can’t cross the bridge with me on top of her. She knows that I have to get off and lead her. And that’s what I do. I dismount, still refusing to look behind me, and walk in front of the mare. Then I have to decide if it’s better to use my free hand to light the way in front or brandish the machete. I choose the latter; it’s not that dark after all. You can see the bamboo perfectly well. And if I do have to defend myself the torch won’t do me much good. The things one has to do to get laid in this backwater. This thought makes me laugh, and I calm down a little.

On the other side of the river I get back on the horse. The mare seems calmer, too. Obviously I was scaring her with my vivid imagination.

We gallop up the hill, and finally Johnnier’s house appears at the top; it looks peaceful. The house of a good, hardworking man, I think. There’s a light on. Still, before dismounting, I lead the horse to the front of the house to announce myself the way people do around here, with the sound of horseshoes on the ground. No one appears at the window.

Eventually I get off the horse and knock on the door. By now I realize that not a trace of the lust that brought me here is left in my body. But it’s too late. I’ve set out on this crazy adventure and have to face the consequences.

The door opens. Johnnier looks me over with an unreadable expression. He’s utterly dumbfounded.

Good evening, I say shyly. I ask him if I can come in. He steps back and lets me in. He doesn’t bother to conceal his confusion. I’m scared to sleep at home, I say as he offers me a wooden chair.

Johnnier thinks about his reply for a good long while. You can sleep here, he says. There’s only one bed, but I can sleep in the hammock tonight, no problem. Not that I’ll be getting any sleep, he mutters.

After a while he starts to make coffee. What are you afraid of? he asks.

I don’t know, I say, I heard a noise.

As the water heats up, Johnnier sits across from me in another chair and takes out a bottle of rum. I realize that he’s been drinking for hours. He’s drunk, but he can hide it, partly because he’s so large and partly because of his tough-guy demeanour, the way he looks you in the eye without saying a word.

I’m scared, too, he says. That’s why I can’t sleep.

I look at him in surprise. What are you afraid of? I ask.

I’m afraid of the witches, he answers. I’m scared of witches.

What witches?

The witches, he says, the ones that live here. They’re everywhere. They scare me. Look what they do to me, he says irritably, almost with a sob, and he shows me the scars on his back. They live in that fucking old witches’ house. I can’t stand it any more. I’m leaving tomorrow.        

Thursday, July 6

I’m sitting down to write because I finally have something to tell you. The boy from the newsstand didn’t bring me the paper today. I went to complain. On the way there I had the idea to tell him to bring me a copy of every newspaper. How many are there? He doesn’t even know, so we counted them. Bring me all the newspapers, all of them. Poor boy, you should’ve seen his face.

Saturday, July 15

It’s exhausting. I start at eight in the morning. I stop for lunch and then keep going until around seven at night. I read the newspapers like you’d read a book, in exact order, from the first page till the last. I have to read like this so as not to miss anything. I tried other methods. For example, reading the politics section of each newspaper first, then the sports section, then entertainment, then international news. But no, the way I’m doing it now is much better.

Sunday, August 20

I’m sorry but I had to throw out your clothes. It’s strange, I didn’t even feel that guilty. I know I told you I was going to donate them, but I don’t have time. I just threw them away. There are days that this job with the newspapers takes me twelve hours and leaves me completely worn out, especially on weekends. So I have to leave some to finish on Monday. Usually by Tuesday I’m all caught up and I can take some time to clean. Since I got rid of your clothes, I have room in your wardrobe to keep the papers I’ve already read.  Every time she comes to visit, Ana says I have to throw away the newspapers. Why are you saving them, Mom. Now your smell is mixed with the smell of the ink, but it’s not a new smell, it’s a battle of competing smells.

Friday, September 1

I read what no one else does in the newspapers. Sometimes I tell myself that I’m the only person that has read such and such news, in some forgotten corner of the paper. Sometimes I tell myself that I’m the reason they publish these insignificant news items that don’t change anything in the world at all. You should see me. I compare the stories. I copy the strangest ones into a notebook. Sometimes Ana comes over and I ask her to help me move the stacks of old papers into your wardrobe.

Monday, September 11

I don’t trust the stories that are printed in only one paper. I don’t trust the stories that are exactly the same in all the papers. I only trust the stories that are different in all the papers. Yesterday Ana came over, I showed her the notebook and I read her the story of the man who got a second head implanted. It was published in just one paper, so I guess the best stories are the ones I don’t trust. Ana tells me that it’s all lies, that there are papers that make things up. Of course. Then I ask her to stay and I read her my favorite story from the past month. In Holland, a movie director was found guilty of murdering four actors who’d worked for him years prior. The murderer had never been able to accept that his actors continued to appear in other movies made by other directors. When I finished reading it, Ana started laughing; she laughed so hard that she ended up crying and she looked sad. Then I told her that I miss you, that I’d love to be able to read you the things I copy into the notebook. I have other stories that sometimes, at night, I pretend to read to you. Ana got mad and didn’t want to listen anymore.

Sunday, October 29

Ana hasn’t been here in a while. The last time she came over I asked her not to drop by on weekends anymore because those are the days I work the most. It would be very convenient for her to come on Wednesdays after six o’clock in the evening, but I don’t know what’s wrong with her, she won’t listen to reason.

Monday, November 6

Yesterday Ana told me that a new paper started coming out last month. I didn’t know and I got really mad. Honestly, I don’t know if I was angry about what she told me or because yesterday was Sunday and I don’t want anyone bothering me on weekends. Today I went to the newsstand and I gave them a piece of my mind. In the end, they admitted I was right. Yes, ma’am, starting tomorrow we’ll send you the new paper too.

Friday, November 10

You should see how easy it is. I look up the phone number. I call. I find a section name and the name of whatever reporter and I ask for them. It almost never fails. Sometimes they tell me no, that they’re freelance, so I cross their name off the list. But the reporters they call editors are there all day. They’re on call like doctors or police. It’s required of them. I ask them any old dumb questions just so they they’ll have someone to talk to, someone to entertain them. They have to be nice because they know a reader could always complain to their boss. At this point I already know many of their voices. The ones who write about politics are mostly men and they sound like smokers. With entertainment it’s the opposite, all women with voices like secretaries. Lately, when I read the articles by the reporters I talk to regularly, I feel like I’m hearing them.

Thursday, November 16

I don’t know if I should tell you this. I met Sergio yesterday. Ana talked so much about Sergio. Do you remember? Then she stopped talking about him and I didn’t know if I should ask. Then she started talking about him again, I don’t remember if you were still here, but she’d mention him casually like they were friends. Last night Ana brought him over. The boy doesn’t talk much. He seems polite, but I don’t think you’d like him.

Tuesday, November 28

Now there’s another new paper. This makes things more complicated because the other newspapers are thicker and thicker. I was getting behind and that’s why I didn’t write you, but this weekend I didn’t sleep and I finally got caught up.

Wednesday, November 29

I forgot: Ana went on a trip without Sergio. It’s strange because she didn’t go on vacation, she went to pick up a shipment of I don’t know what for his business. I think she went to Brazil. Just in case I’ll read the news from Brazil more carefully tomorrow.

Monday, December 11

Ana already came back and then left again. With the excuse that she has to travel she hardly comes over now, we just talk on the phone. Last week I went to the ophthalmologist because my eyes have been bothering me for a few months. I didn’t say anything before so as not to worry you. The problem isn’t that I read too much, but that my hands get stained with ink and then I rub my eyes. That’s what the eye doctor says and he’s right. Sometimes my fingertips turn black. The day before yesterday I had the idea to start using a wet cloth to wipe my fingers every once in a while and my eyes are much better.

Thursday, December 21

I can’t believe it. Our Ana did something terrible. I read it in the papers. They say that Sergio is free, that he’s innocent and has nothing to do with it. Sergio could’ve at least called to let me know. Maybe he doesn’t have my number. Maybe he’ll stop by the house to explain what happened. Just in case I’m not going to leave, so he’ll be able to find me. Now Ana’s in all the papers. But all the papers say the same thing, so I shouldn’t believe them. I’m going to call and you’ll see, Ana will pick up and tell us that it was all a misunderstanding, that it’s someone else with her same name. But what if Sergio answers? I’ll just hang up.

Saturday, December 23

Ana was in all the papers again today, but this time they don’t all say the same thing. I’m hearing more about her now than I have in recent weeks, since she stopped visiting. Finally, I can catch up on Ana’s life without interrupting my reading.

Thursday, January 4

In a village in China a woman gave birth to a dog. What I don’t understand is how they could put such an important story on a back page. Yesterday I argued with several editors about it. The thing is I waste the whole afternoon talking on the phone and then I have to make up for lost time. But they keep doing things so badly that I have to call more often. This didn’t happen so much before. And the worst part is that they refuse to listen. For example, one of the ones that writes about Ana won’t take my calls anymore. We used to talk regularly. Now they always tell me he’s not there. I shouldn’t have told him who I am. At first he didn’t believe me, you know, and he treated me like a prank caller. Listen to me, I told him. Listen to me carefully. And I told him the story of Ana and Sergio, and I gave him their phone number so he’d believe me. What’s that number, he asked. And he made me repeat it.

Friday, January 12

I’m going to have to ask the boy from the newsstand to help me organize the papers in your wardrobe. I was doing some calculations and in three months from now there isn’t going to be any room left. I might have to throw out some of my own clothes. There are things I don’t wear.

Wednesday, January 24

Today I woke up to Ana’s voice on the phone. What time is it? It’s eleven in the morning, she tells me, were you asleep? I didn’t argue with her because the poor thing’s in a bad state but on my watch, it was ten to seven. It seems Ana is back home now. But she gave me another phone number and told me to forget the old one. What about Sergio? We have to forget about Sergio too. You haven’t been in the papers for a while, I told her. Then Ana started to cry and said I need to see you, I want to tell you what happened. Luckily, I was able to convince her not to come, it’s not necessary, what for if I already know everything from the papers. I hung up on her.

Monday, January 29

Ana keeps calling. Now she says Sergio was guilty, that he sent her on those trips and then later pretended he knew nothing about it. I don’t know what to think. For the past four days I’ve been calling the guy who used to write about Ana to tell him this story, so they’ll tell me the truth. Today, if they say he’s not there again, I’m calling another paper.

Tuesday, February 13

In Hungary, during a concert, someone in the audience shot the violinist. The police arrested the man and discovered he was deaf. Here, the newspapers are getting fatter and my health is getting thinner. I was already a week behind, but the past few days I’ve had pains in my chest and legs, so now I’m two weeks behind. I don’t even turn on the TV or the radio so that I won’t find out about anything I haven’t read yet. You’re going to laugh: yesterday I made my order from the market and I told them not to wrap the eggs in any paper newer than January 20.

Tuesday, February 27

I can tell Ana is better because she hardly calls me anymore and she no longer insists on visiting during weekends. Yesterday she came over for a little while and, surprisingly, she wanted to help me organize the newspapers. I told her that there was no more room left in your wardrobe and it didn’t smell like you anymore. Then I tripped and I almost fell. Poor Ana was scared. Did you get dizzy? No, I told her. I’m used to that happening a lot now.

Monday, March 5

It’s getting worse. I’m still behind. I’m having eye problems again. Yesterday, to top it off, I started reading a newspaper I’d already read. I don’t know how I could’ve mixed them up. And I lost a whole hour because I didn’t realize it right away. When I got to the news about the Siamese quadruplets, all four conjoined at the head like a good-luck clover, that’s when I said I’ve already read this, because the truth is, except for the stories like that, the rest is always pretty much the same. That was yesterday because today my head hurt so bad that I lowered the blinds and sat in the dark, I didn’t read anything. I’m writing you in a rush. Sorry.

Sunday, March 11

Can you believe my bad luck that yesterday I got dizzy right as I was opening my wardrobe, I fell against the door, the whole thing shook, and the last three months of newspapers spilled out all over the floor. Now I don’t know what I’ve read and what I haven’t. I’m afraid I’ll skip a whole day by accident. The thing is I’ve lost count, I don’t know what date I was on, I just know that at this point I’m very behind. If I keep it up I’m going to be reading the papers a year after they come out. I still read the horoscopes and the weather forecast as if it were the right day.

Tuesday, March 20

I must’ve skipped several days because all of a sudden I don’t understand the news. Strange things are happening in Spain. I don’t know where I read about it. When my head hurts a lot I can only read the headlines. I don’t know if I told you about something that’s happened a few times now. I’ll be following a story day after day, like a soap opera, and then one day the story disappears. I tell myself it’ll be back. But the days go by and nothing. What happens to all those people when they’re not news anymore? No one at any of the papers can tell me what happened with the quadruplets. I don’t even have the energy to complain anymore.

Thursday, March 29

A boy was born in India with his hands on backwards, the fingernails on the inside and palms on the outside. For a second I thought it was you in the paper. The photo was blurry but the boy looked so much like you that I got out a magnifying glass to check. The thing I told you about in Spain has gone from bad to worse. Now Ana says she has a plan to solve my backlog. A friend of hers, a nurse, can’t find work, so she suggested I hire her to help me with the papers. The two of us together will be able to make some headway.

Saturday, April 7

I’ve never met anyone more useless than Violeta. If she keeps it up I’ll have to fire her. Ana asked me to be patient with her, because she’s out of work and has a five-year-old son. Since she’s no help at all with the papers, yesterday I sent her to the kitchen to make me something to eat.

Sunday, April 15

You looked better yesterday than you did the other day. What I don’t understand is why they print such tiny pictures of you. I have to spend all day with the magnifying glass so I can see you. I had to fire Violeta. Ana comes by sometimes.

Monday, April 30

They both begged me so I told Violeta okay, that she could come back, but with the condition that she can’t touch the papers. Just in case I lock the wardrobes with a key. I already caught her trying to open yours once. I shouted at her and she took off running. But if I shout too loud I get dizzy.

Thursday, May 17

I’m still dizzy. I even get dizzy sitting down, like I’m on a boat day and night.

Wednesday, June 20

This morning when I woke up I noticed a sour smell coming from the wardrobe. Everything stinks. The old newspapers are rotting. I won’t give up, but I’ve never smelled anything like it. Sometimes at night I start to howl.

Wednesday, July 4

Now the newspapers are coming in strange shapes: circles, rhombuses, ovals. The other day one of the papers had only one story: the same story told a hundred different ways. I’m so backlogged there’s no way I’ll be able to catch up. But I won’t stop trying. If I look very carefully, if I use the magnifying glass, there are very strange things going on behind you in the pictures. Some of the photos make me gag. Yesterday I fainted. Things in Spain are more and more worrying. I’m going to have to spray some perfume.

Monday, August 20

Dear Dad, it’s Ana. I just found this diary yesterday. As you already know, Mom died two Thursdays ago. I imagine she’d like to close out this journal with the clipping I’m pasting below. To think I was about to tell the funeral home not to run an obituary. But then I felt bad about it. I thought that maybe this way some old friend of hers might get the news. As far as I know, it’s the only time Mom has ever been in the paper.

My sister is going out with a guy who got famous for being on a reality show in the United States. She met him at the cafe where she works in L.A., where she’s lived since 2002, when she told me she couldn’t take it here anymore and left. She waited on him the same way she did all her customers, and after the guy left, her coworkers started jumping up and down around her, and one of them said “Didn’t you recognise him? That was Ozzy, from Survivor.” She had never seen the show (me either), except for a few random episodes from the first season, so she didn’t understand at the time what the whole deal with Survivor was about, or why the girls she worked with could be so excited about someone as gross as an ex-reality show contestant.

Ozzy came back the next day, and my sister would have liked to wait on him the same way  she waited on all her customers, but that day she couldn’t help but comment on the book about sharks that he was flipping through. It was one she knew very well: I had given her that book on her fifteenth birthday (a bookseller had told me it was a classic, one with hard facts that was suited to aficionados, and it had soon become her favourite and the first of a collection of twenty titles on the subject). My sister told me it had moved her to see that someone else in the world had that book, that one in particular, and that her emotion had nothing to do with the fact that the someone in question was Ozzy from Survivor, because Survivor meant nothing to her. And then I thought of an article I’d read in a magazine: Ricky Martin’s kids only recently realized, now that they’re almost seven years old, who their father “is:” “You’re Ricky Martin?” they asked him in astonishment after watching a show for the first time from the audience and not from the side of the stage.

So, my sister had nothing to say about Ozzy from Survivor, but she did talk a lot about Ozzy the boy who went to the cafe almost every day and whom she found irresistible: cute, with a kind face, simple and very sweet. Little by little, and in spite of both of their shyness, they had sought out coincidences and excuses to see each other when she got off work.

Starting then, everything my sister told me about him made me think they were made for each other, especially because they both held life goals that were quite achievable, which made them prone to happiness.

One day, my sister told me she was in love. Utterly in love, she said. “And him?” I asked worriedly, because love was a state that tended to leave her overly vulnerable. She told me that only when the feeling is reciprocal can one be in love and be serene at the same time. And then I remembered that love can also turn her a little sappy.

I had googled “Ozzy” and “Survivor” the first time she mentioned him to me. I looked at his photos to get an idea of what he looked like, and I read a few articles and the comments on some forums to try to find out what kind of person he was (I knew my sister would never do a thing like that, and it seemed like a waste not to take advantage of the fact that he was very well-known). I got a little worried imagining my sister —the way she is, so candid sometimes— in the life of someone who was almost famous.

Right away I found out that Ozzy wasn’t just any contestant, but was quite a popular character on the show; most of the fans had opinions about him. And the strangest thing: almost all of them had the same impression of him, though some people took certain characteristics as virtues and were for him, and others, for the very same reasons, were against him.

In that quick search I also found out that Ozzy was really named Oscar, that he’d been born in Guanajuato, Mexico, and that he hadn’t been on one season of the show, but three. It seems that after his first time he’d turned into a kind of star contestant, a favourite among the fans, who voted for him every time the producers decided to bring back old  “castaways” for a new and special season. So, after his first appearance on Survivor: Cook Islands, he came back for Survivor Micronesia: Fans vs. Favourites, and later he was on Survivor: South Pacific.

The show’s grand prize, which goes to one winner among twenty participants, is a million dollars. Ozzy never won, and only once did he make it to the final round, although in the other seasons he was part of the “jury” (the group of the last seven participants expelled, who vote to choose the winner). Twice, his first and last time, he won the prize of a hundred thousand dollars for “Survivor Favourite:” the only one awarded according to an audience vote. It would seem that Ozzy was the ultimate expression of the survivor, and viewers voted for him because he was a full-on Robinson who could climb trees like a  monkey, hold his breath underwater for three minutes, and harpoon fish that weighed over a kilo. Plus, he won all the physical tests the participants had to undergo in order to win “immunity” or “rewards.” That’s how he managed to advance far in the game, but it seemed his lack of malice, his arrogance, and his inability to manipulate the others and head off a betrayal always left him shy of the grand prize. Of course, all this was what, to his fans, made him the game’s true “moral winner.” For his detractors, it was what made him an athletic and brainless wimp. Survivor awakens grand passions in United States audiences, and people for or against Ozzy (or any other more or less striking character), would use these expressions and others even more enthusiastic or cruel.

There had been a couple of times when I’d tried to get my sister to talk to me about Ozzy and his experience on the program, and especially to find out what he thought about his inability to win the million, but she had refused to talk about the Ozzy of Survivor. In fact, over time she began to call him Oscar. She wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with his time on TV. She even seemed to feel a certain aversion to that part of him, though she would never openly admit it.

It was more or less around when she started to call him Oscar that I decided it was time to watch Survivor.

I couldn’t travel—with my salary, I couldn’t even think about buying a ticket to the United States. But the fact that he had spent so many hours on TV being “himself” on a reality show gave me the chance learn about the man my sister was spending more and more time with; to see him in action, as it were. The last few times my sister and I had talked, he had been there. He didn’t say anything or show himself on Skype, but I knew he was there. One time my sister asked him to turn down the TV; another time, laughing, she told him to be still (maybe he was tickling her); and the last time, I saw one of his hands as it passed quickly in front of the camera to grab some papers from the desk.

Anytime I caught a glimpse of what was happening near my sister (not because she told me directly, but from some other clue), I grew more anxious about the distance that separated us. After all, I had never seen or set foot in those places she talked to me from. I’d never been to the café where she worked, or the apartment she rented with her coworkers, or the school where she was studying pastry-making (my sister had always had a great flair for cooking, and she’d decided to turn that natural disposition into a more official, and hopefully more lucrative, activity). I think the Ozzy on Survivor had something to do with my sister signing up at a prestigious cooking school and being so conscientious with her classes; she’d always been reluctant when it came to academic schedules and study goals (it had been a pitched battle to get her to finish high school). I’m sure he was the one who paid her enrollment fee, and even her monthly tuition. My sister denied it all, but she was a terrible liar. She went into detail to make her story more credible—she gave so many details that at some point, one of them would always give her away. Maybe because my primary instinct was to protect her, I never let her know when I’d caught her in a lie. And when she got a scholarship from the cooking school (one they would never have given to an immigrant whose papers weren’t in order), it was no exception. What I did was congratulate her, and start to think that if Ozzy was doing these things for her it was because the relationship was getting very serious. I also thought that a marriage proposal must be near. He would buy her a ring, get down on his knee during some romantic dinner, and very soon they would be fiancées. It was strange how the Yankees had that idea of three steps so engrained: dating, engagement, marriage. And although Ozzy had been born in Mexico, he’d spent his whole life in the U.S., and surely those habits were now part of him as well.  

It wasn’t easy to get my hands on a decent-quality copy of the entire season of Ozzy’s debut: Survivor: Cook Islands.

The season starts off with the twenty participants and the show’s host on a ship. The contestants have limited time to jump overboard with the rafts they have to row out to the desert islands where they’ll spend the next thirty-nine days. As they do this, the host explains that this is the first time that the four starting tribes are of different ethnicities. Ozzy is part of the Latino tribe. There is also an African-American tribe, an Asian American one, and a Caucasian one.

That season was filmed between June and August of 2006, and Ozzy eight years younger was a boy with short, curly hair, olive skin, and agile body, who almost never smiled and spoke little, though very soon he was at the head of his tribe. One of his three companions, on watching him climb a palm tree to get coconuts, commented that he felt like he was watching something from The Jungle Book. “I thought it was Mowgli going up a tree.” He was also good at fishing using what they called a Hawaiian harpoon, oversaw the construction of their hut (made of bamboo and palm leaves), and designed a trap to hunt wild chickens. But his companions didn’t trust him completely; they couldn’t explain why, but they didn’t trust him. I think it must have been because Ozzy didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, he took himself and everything he did very seriously. He seemed obsessed by winning every challenge, and he was self-sufficient to the point it was irritating.

I thought it would take me at least a week to watch that season’s fourteen episodes. But my curiosity and the dynamic of the program itself (perfectly designed to generate tension and intrigue) impelled me to spend all day Saturday at home. By two in the morning I’d seen everything, all the way through the post-finale reunion. On top of an excruciating headache, I had a pretty clear idea of what Ozzy’s fans had seen in him.

Some aspirin and a good night’s sleep got me to Sunday recovered and more interested than ever in talking to my sister’s famous boyfriend. I wanted to find out how he’d felt after he lost the grand prize with a vote of only four against five (the winner was Yul, a lawyer of Korean descent who dominated the game from the social point of view). The grand finale (which is when the jury’s votes are counted and the winner is announced) was filmed on a CBS set in New York, where the season’s twenty contestants were all gathered, now recovered from the dirt, hunger and injuries that physically ravage all the participants. They, the public, and the host all had general questions about how or why this or that had happened, but they all had one big question for Ozzy: how was it possible that a city boy, over twenty years old, Mexican and (at the time) working as a waiter, seemed to have been born to live and survive on a desert island? Ozzy, serious as always, listened to the question without changing his expression, and gave the one answer no one expected, one nobody knew what to do with: “I’ve always read a lot,” he said. I clapped. Sitting there, alone in my living room in front of the laptop where young Ozzy was talking about his first love—Robinson Crusoe—and how ever since he was little he’d fantasized about being abandoned on a desert island, I clapped.

At that moment I felt like calling my sister and for the first time just asking her to let me talk to Ozzy. I wanted to congratulate him for that answer, but I also wanted to ask him what other books had been important to him (in the end, I couldn’t help feeling Robinson Crusoe was a little obvious).

I was tired that night, but I decided the next time we talked I would tell my sister it was high time she introduced me to her boyfriend (“I just want to get to know him a little,” I would tell her).

I found the complete season Micronesia: Fans vs. Favorites (Ozzy’s second season) on YouTube.

For two days, when I came back from the school where I was subbing in a third-grade class, I sat down in front of my computer to watch the show. I felt completely trapped. It was the only thing I wanted to do, the only thing I could get myself to focus on. I had an opinion about Ozzy and about each of the participants, about every alliance, every elimination in all the tribal councils. I got excited about the challenges for rewards or immunity. The fans (a tribe of ten people who had never played before) struck me as naïve, inept, out of place. I waited anxiously for the moments when the cameras would return to the favorites tribe (Ozzy and nine other ex-participants), where even the most banal conversations had potential repercussions in how the game unfolded, and where everyone was extremely self-conscious and suspicious.

Friday night, I was finishing the finale, watching and rewinding to see Ozzy’s parts again, commenting on the two finalists before casting his vote for the winner of the million dollars, when the house phone rang. I knew it was my sister. Ever since I broke up with Germán, no one else calls the house at that hour. “Get online,” she said. She practically didn’t say hi, she just said “get online,” and hung up.

Lately we’d been chatting on Gmail, so I opened my inbox and sent her a message to let her know I was there. “On Skype,” she wrote. I didn’t like to use Skype. Sure, it was all much more comfortable and fluid than chatting; the problem came later. Ending a chat just meant typing “xo” or “xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,” or a little phrase like “I miss you” or “Love you” (it all depended on how our conversation had gone). Hanging up on Skype, saying “bye” to my sister who was right there on the screen, moving and raising the palm of her right hand to her lips to blow me the kiss she always said goodbye with—I was afraid of that moment. Cutting off communication and sitting in front of the black screen terrified me. In my head I’d built up the idea that it was like giving the world the chance to swallow her: on her end, the dark monitor turned into a giant mouth that opened up to swallow my sister, taking her away from me forever.

Once we were connected, as soon as my sister’s face appeared onscreen, I could tell she had been crying. I asked if she was all right. She smiled at me, a weak smile, and said: “They invited him back to the show.”

When good things happened to my sister, I was happy—very happy, even. But when the good news for some reason was cut short or turned against her, I was also happy then. And I was very ashamed of that. I knew it was pure envy of the worst kind, and also that it was the result of an idea I would never admit to anyone: I didn’t think there was any reason for things to go better for her than for me. At those moments I also realized that I was still resentful she had cut and run when things in the country were falling apart. I stayed, I thought sometimes, and enduring is more commendable than fleeing to a place where everything is easier.

There was no one in the world I loved more than my sister, and no other person awoke such low feelings of resentment and envy in me. I didn’t understand why that happened; I couldn’t forgive myself for it, and I tried hard to repress those feelings.

However, when I saw how disconsolate she was because CBS had invited Ozzy to be on a new season of Survivor, I felt that in some twisted way it was a rightful turn of events.

“It’s not so bad,” I told her. And she burst out crying the way she used to when we were little. After she’d calmed down, she explained that the season would be called Blood vs. Water and that each of the ex-participants chosen by the viewers had to compete alongside a loved one. Ozzy wanted my sister to go with him. “But you’re not a blood relative. You’re not even married to him,” was the only thing that occurred to me to say, trying to seem like I was in her corner. Apparently, for the producers of Survivor, “blood” and “loved ones” were the same thing. I do not agree.

I didn’t need to ask, I knew my sister had already told Ozzy she didn’t want to take part. The only thing I didn’t know was how he had reacted. “He’s furious,” said my sister, and she started to cry again. “He says it’s his favorite place in the world, that he’s happy there. It’s ridiculous, we’re talking about a TV show.” I tried to explain that surely he wasn’t referring to the program itself, but to the places where it was filmed (for the most part, idyllic Pacific islands), and where Ozzy seemed to really be in his element. “You don’t know him,” said my sister. And I went on insisting that she wasn’t going to know him completely either until she’d seen him climb trees, swim like a dolphin, and crack coconuts with a machete. Only then, I told her, would she realize that when he was doing all of that, he was happy. All those things made him happy, and so did the competition. Because when you were watching Ozzy compete, you weren’t watching a guy who was enjoying some exotic vacation; you saw, rather, an extremely competitive person fighting to win a game he knows he’s good at, but not unbeatable, and he can improve. “The program’s whole concept is his place in the world, understand?” I told her. “And maybe it’s a good idea for you to go with him. You two might even win.” There was silence. My sister stared at me. For a moment I thought the image was frozen—my house had a terrible internet connection. But then she blinked. “I hate you,” she told me. And at that moment she wasn’t looking at my image on her monitor, but right at the webcam, so I would feel her eyes meet mine. “I hate both of you,” she said, and hung up.

Black, silent screen. It took me a while to react. I couldn’t understand what had happened. This time, when I’d seen her crying like that, I’d managed to forget about everything and offer advice that was for her own good; I even felt proud I’d encouraged her to go on the program. After all, if they won it meant losing her completely. A boyfriend and a million dollars was enough to keep her from ever thinking about coming back. And deep down, I was always hoping my sister would want to come back. Then I thought that she wasn’t really understanding the situation, that she was making a serious mistake and I had to help her.

It took me all night, but I found what I needed. I put together a file with a compilation from YouTube that some fan had made with Ozzy’s best moments on the program, another one-minute video where Ozzy (interviewed shortly after being eliminated from Survivor: South Pacific) was saying to the camera how depressed it made him to have to return to his life, to the city, to everything he felt pulled him away from his truest self. There was also a third video in which, during his first season, Ozzy was celebrating having spent so long on the island with a shout of “treinta días, es increíble,” and he said it with a big, unexpected smile and in Spanish (he’d never spoken in Spanish on the program, and I knew he and my sister only spoke in English). The last video was one I’d compiled myself and consisted of several shots of Ozzy swimming, because that was the best of Ozzy. It was beautiful to see him swim. And it wasn’t a matter of admiring his technique, or speed, or stamina, it was simply exciting. It was like letting a slow, lazy housecat into an unknown yard and seeing how it instantly became a savage animal.

I saved the files as an attachment in a blank email and wrote in the subject: “Don’t miss this.” I sent the email and went to sleep. I felt satisfied with myself. I had overcome my lowest instincts and was again the person my sister deserved, someone who advised her for her own good and with a more generous goal: her happiness (and maybe even that of her “Oscar”).

I woke up around noon. It was Sunday. My inbox had an email from my sister. Not a reply to the one I’d sent, but a new one. I opened it and saw that it didn’t have text, either, but a video attached, untitled. I spent a while sitting in front of the computer without daring to open the file. I was afraid my sister hadn’t understood what I’d wanted to tell her with my message, and that now she was even angrier. For very little, she’d already told me “I hate you.” What was there after that?

I lit a cigarette and pressed play. The video opened with a sign that said “Reality Show,” and went on with several edited fragments from very homemade recordings. Ozzy now had very short hair and several kilos more than the boy on TV.

In all the shots, my sister is wearing clothes I’ve never seen. In all of them, one of them is filming the other or someone is filming the two of them in very domestic situations. A breakfast. The preparation of a welcome home sign for someone she never mentioned and who was coming home from somewhere I couldn’t say. A toast for something that was important to my sister about which I’d never heard anything. Ozzy opening his arms and smiling at the camera at the entrance to the cinema. Her with wet clothes acting angry while she threatened the camera with a bucket full of water. The two of them lying in a park on the grass, while a dog belonging to someone unknown went running over them and the two of them double up in laughter and kiss and wave at whoever is filming them. The two of them asleep, sharing the seat on a bus. The two of them very serious and elegant, walking in someone’s wedding party. The two of them in bed, her holding the camera aloft so she can get both their faces in close-up; neither of them speaks but they smile, they smile and breathe a little quickly and finally say something to each other that can’t be heard.

It’s been days since then and I haven’t heard from her again. I still haven’t replied. I’m tired of talking and understanding. What I did was change the photo in all my profiles, impossible she hasn’t seen. Now there’s an image of the big bonfire they make at the end of each episode of Survivor for the tribal council, the one when the participants decide which member of the tribe they will eliminate from the great game.

The Short Story Project C | The Short Story Project INC 2018

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