—Wait . . . no, it’s better like this, let me lift my legs.
— . . .
—A little slower . . . please . . .
— . . .
—That’s better . . .
— . . .
—Thank you . . . thank you . . .
—And you . . .
—No, you . . . This way I hold you in front of me, even if I can’t see you there, it’s so dark. Wait, it still hurts . . .
— . . .
—Now, yes . . . now it’s beginning to feel better, Valentin. It doesn’t hurt.
—Does it feel better?
—Yes.
— . . .
—And you, Valentin? . . . Tell me . . .
— . . . I don’t know, don’t ask questions . . . Because I don’t know anything.
—Oh, it’s good . . .
—Don’t talk, Molina . . . for a little while.
—It’s that I . . . I feel such strange things . . .
— . . .
—Just then, without thinking, I put my hand up to my face, trying to find the mole.
—What mole? . . . I have it, not you.
—Mmm, I know. But I put my hand to my forehead, to feel the mole that . . . I haven’t got.
— . . .
—It looks so handsome on you, it’s a shame . . . why can’t I see you?
— . . .
—Are you enjoying it, Valentin?
—Just quiet . . . just quiet a little while.
— . . .
— . . .
—And know what else I felt, Valentin? But only for a second, no more.
—What? Talk to me, but just . . . don’t move . . .
—For just a second, it seemed like I wasn’t here . . . not here or anywhere out there either . . .
— . . .
—It seemed as if I wasn’t here at all . . . like it was you all alone.
— . . .
—Or like I wasn’t me anymore. As if now, somehow . . . I . . . were you.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
—Morning . . .
—Good morning . . . Valentin.
—Sleep well?
—Mmm . . .
— . . .
—How about you, Valentin?
—What?
—Did you sleep well, too?
—Yes I did, thanks . . .
— . . .
—I heard the coffee going around just now, you really don’t want any?
—No . . . I don’t trust it.
— . . .
—What’ll you have with breakfast? Tea or coffee?
—What are you going to have, Molina?
—Me, oh, some tea. But if you want coffee it’s no more trouble . . . it’s no trouble at all. Whatever you’d like.
—Thanks a lot. Coffee, please.
—You want to be let out first, Valentin?
—Thanks, yes. I would like to go out first.
—Fine . . .
— . . .
— . . .
—You know why I chose coffee, Molina?
—No . . .
—To wake up so I can study. Not too much, a couple of hours or so, but of concentrated studying. So I get back into the swing of it.
—Sure.
— . . . And then a nice break before lunchtime.
— . . .
—Molina . . . How did you wake up, okay?
—Fine . . .
—Not feeling gloomy anymore, are you? . . .
—No, but I’m like really out of it . . . I can’t think . . . about anything.
—That’s good . . . once in a while.
—But I’m fine . . . I’m okay.
— . . .
— . . . I’m even afraid to speak, Valentin.
—Well don’t, then . . . There’s no need to speak, or to think.
— . . .
—If you’re feeling good, just don’t think about things, Molina. Whatever you think about is just going to bring you down.
—And you?
—Me? I’m not going to think about things either, I’m just going to study. That’s my remedy.
—Remedy for what? Regrets about last night?
—No, I don’t have any regrets about anything. The more I think of it the more I’m convinced that sex is innocence itself.
—Can I ask you a favor . . . very seriously?
— . . .
—Let’s not . . . let’s not talk about anything, let’s not discuss anything today. Just for today I’m asking.
—If you want that.
— . . . You’re not going to ask me why?
—Why?
—Because I . . . feel good . . . really good . . . and I don’t want anything to spoil this sensation.
—If you want that . . .
—Valentin . . . I think I haven’t felt so happy since when I was a kid. Since when my mom used to buy me a toy, or something like that.
—You know what? Think up a good film . . . and when I’m all finished studying you can start telling it to me while the meal is cooking.
—Okay . . .
— . . .
—What kind of film would you like to hear?
—One that you really like a lot yourself, don’t think up one for me this time.
—But what if you don’t like it?
—No, if you like it yourself, Molina, I’m going to like it, too, even if I don’t like it.
— . . .
—Don’t be so silent. I just mean that if you like something, that makes me happy, because I feel like I owe you something, no, what am I saying? because you were nice to me, and I’m grateful. And knowing that something made you feel good . . . it’s a relief to me.
—Honestly?
—Honestly, Molina. And you know what I’d like to hear? It seems ridiculous . . .
—Tell me . . .
—I want to know if you remember a toy you really liked, the one you even liked most of all . . . of all the toys your mother bought you.
—A dolly . . .
—Ugh, I don’t believe it . . .
— . . . Why are you laughing so much?
—Oh, if they don’t let me out fast I’ll do it in my pants . . .
—But why are you laughing so much?
—Because . . . Oh, I’m dying . . . oh, some psychologist I turn out to be . . .
—What’s wrong?
—Nothing . . . I just wanted to see if there was any relation between myself and . . . and that toy . . .
—You asked for it . . .
—You’re sure it wasn’t like a toy soldier or something else?
—No, a dolly with very blond hair, all braided up, and she could blink her eyes, and wore a Bavarian costume.
—Oh, tell them to open up . . . This is too much; I can’t believe it . . .
—I think this is the first time you’ve laughed since I had the great misfortune to end up in your cell.
—That’s not true.
—I swear, I’ve never seen you laugh before.
—But come on, I have so laughed, lots of times . . . even at you.
—Yes, but it’s always been when the lights were already out. I swear I never saw you laugh before.
—It takes place in Mexico, some city on the coast, very tropical. The fishermen are already heading out in their boats; it’s just before daybreak. They hear the echoes of some music drifting out to them. The only thing they see from out on the water is this spectacular villa, all lit up, with several stunning balconies overlooking a sumptuous walk, full of jasmine, then a row of palms, and below that the beach itself. Most of those who were invited to the masked ball have already left. The orchestra’s playing a very rhythmic melody, with maracas and bongos, but nice and slow, a kind of habanera. Only a few couples are left dancing, and one in particular, with their masks still on. The famous Mardi Gras of Veracruz is finally drawing to a close, and unfortunately the sun is beginning to rise and announce the coming
of Ash Wednesday. The couple wearing the masks, they look fabulous, her in a kind of gypsy costume, very tall-looking, wasp-waisted, dark, with her hair parted in the middle and hanging loose down to her waist, and he’s very strong and swarthy, with dark sideburns and the hair swept to one side in like a wave, and a heavy mustache. She’s got a petite little nose, very straight, with a delicate profile that at the same time reveals lots of character. She’s wearing a band of coins across her forehead, and one of those full blouses with the elasticized necks, so they can stretch and be worn off the shoulder, or off both shoulders, one of those gypsy-type blouses, know what I mean?
—More or less, it doesn’t matter though, go on.
—And then a very fitted waist. And the skirt . . .
—What about the neckline. Don’t skip around.
—Well, back then it was that period when a very low neckline was in fashion, and you got to see some cleavage, but they didn’t prop the bosom up like buoys. Because they didn’t really show you that much but you still got the idea; they just left it more to your imagination.
—Well how much is there then? a lot or a little?
—Lots, and the skirt she has on is all billowy; it’s made of kerchiefs, loads of kerchiefs, all chiffon, in lots of different colors, and when she’s dancing, now and then you catch a glimpse of her legs, but just a glimpse. And him, he’s in a domino costume, which is like a black cape, that’s all, and with a suit and tie on underneath. He tells her that’s the last dance the orchestra’s going to play, and so now it’s time to unmask themselves. But she says, no, the night must end without his knowing who she is, or her knowing who he is. Because they won’t ever see one another again; it’s been a perfect encounter, but it’s just one night of carnival and that’s that. He insists and takes off his mask, he’s divine-looking, and he tells her all over again that he’s spent his whole life waiting for her, and he’s not about to let her just slip through his fingers now. And he stares at the fabulous-looking gem set in the ring she’s wearing, and asks whether it signifies anything like a serious engagement. And she says, yes, it does, and asks him to wait out in his car, while she goes to the powder room to freshen up her makeup. And that’s the fatal moment, because he goes outside to wait and he waits and she never shows. So, next thing, the action switches to the capital city of Mexico, and it turns out that the guy works as a reporter for a big afternoon daily. Oh, wait! I forgot to tell you that while they were dancing she says how lovely the melody is that the orchestra’s playing, and what a pity there are no lyrics to that tune, and then the guy tells her he’s a kind of poet. And so one afternoon he’s there at the city desk of the paper he works for, where everything’s a madhouse, with people running in and out, and he notices this article being put together about some peppery scandal, with lots of photos, concerning some actress-singer who went into retirement a while back, and who now lives in total seclusion with some incredibly powerful tycoon, a magnate feared by many important people, a semi-mafia type, but whose name is nowhere mentioned. And looking at the photos, the guy starts thinking to himself: this incredibly beautiful woman, who started her career in theatrical revues, and then became a very successful dramatic actress, but only for a short time, because she retired—anyway, this woman turns out to look totally familiar to him, and when in one photo he discovers on the hand in which she’s holding up her champagne glass . . . an incredibly rare gem, there’s no doubt left in his mind. And by playing dumb, he manages to find out just how much of a scandal is brewing, and they tell him it’s bound to create a sensation when the story breaks, and they just have to get hold of a few more photographs, of when she undressed on stage, and that stuff they’ll have in just a couple of days more. He also sees her address there, because they’ve been busy spying on her as well, and so he manages to take it down and go pay her a visit at her home. He stares in astonishment, for she’s wearing only a black tulle negligee. It’s an ultramodern apartment, with recessed lighting fixtures that create a kind of diffuse light so you can’t tell where it’s coming from, and everything’s all in white taffeta—the drapes taffeta, the lounges taffeta, and the hassocks, too, round, with no legs. She’s sitting back on the divan and listening to him. He relates the whole story of what’s going on and promises her to get rid of all the photographs and squash the story that’s been put together, so the article’s never going to see the light of day. She thanks him profusely. He asks her if she’s happy inside this gilded cage. She says she doesn’t like to hear him talk like that. Then she tells him the truth, how, exhausted by the terrible ordeal of the theater, where she’d managed to climb to the very pinnacle, she let herself be taken in by a man she thought was decent. That man, incredibly wealthy, took her around the world on a long voyage, but once they got back home he became more and more jealous, to the point of reducing her to a virtual prisoner in her own house. She soon got bored with just doing nothing all the time and asked him to allow her to return to acting, but he refused. Then the reporter tells her he’s ready to do anything for her, and he’s not afraid of the other guy. But, well, she keeps looking straight at him, from over there on the divan, and takes out a cigarette. He goes and lights it for her, and then kisses her. She throws her arms around him, for a minute letting herself be carried away by an impulse, and says, I need you . . . But then he asks her to go away with him. And she’s too afraid to do it. The guy tells her, don’t be a coward, because together they can go to the ends of the earth. She asks for a little time, a few days. He insists it’s now or never. She tells him to go away then. He says, no, he’s not leaving without her, and he takes her by the arms and shakes her, to make her let go of her fears. Well, then she does react, but it’s against the guy, telling him, all you men are the same, and she’s not a belonging, something for them to manipulate whatever way they like, all at their own choosing, and she’s going to make up her own mind. Then he tells her he never wants to see her again, and marches over to the door. Furious, she says to wait a minute, and goes into her bedroom and comes back with a pile of banknotes, and says it’s to pay for the favor he’s done for her, by destroying the article. He throws the money down at her feet and walks out. But down on the street he regrets the fact that he acted so impetuously. He doesn’t know what to do, and goes off to have a couple of rounds at a bar, where through the heavy smoke all you can make out is some blind fellow sitting at the piano, playing that same very slow, very sad, tropical song, the one they danced to at the Mardi Gras ball. The guy drinks, and drinks, and starts composing lyrics for the song, while he’s thinking about her, and starts singing, because he’s actually a singer, the leading man, the reporter: “Even though you’re . . . a prisoner, in your solitude . . . your heart whispers still . . . I love you.” And how does the rest go? Let me see, there’s something else and then comes, “Your eyes cast a shadow, your smile brings such pain, your lips . . . I remember . . . they once used to lie . . . and I ask my darkest self, if those lips I adore, with their fervent kiss . . . with their fervent kiss . . .” then what else? something like “. . . could ever lie to me again.” And then it goes, “Black flowers . . . of fate, cruelly keep us apart, but the day will come, when you’ll be . . . mine forever . . . mine alone . . .” You remember that bolero?
—No, I don’t think so. I don’t know . . . Go on.
—Next day, at the paper, the guy sees how everyone’s busy trying to find the article on her, and they can’t. Obviously, because he’s got it locked up in his desk. And since they can’t find any of the stuff, the editor-in-chief decides to forget the whole story, because it’d be practically impossible to gather so much material all over again. So the guy’s relieved, and after hesitating a little . . . he dials her number. And he tells her she can relax, there’s no chance the article is ever going to be printed. She thanks him, he asks her to forgive him for all he said yesterday, and to see him again, and suggests where and when. And she accepts. He asks the boss if he can leave work early; the editor-in-chief giv
es him the rest of the day off, saying he’s been looking overworked for a couple of days now. All this time she’s busy getting ready to go out, in a black two-piece suit, those really smart ones they wore back then, very fitted, and without any blouse on underneath, and a diamond brooch on the lapel, and a white tulle hat, like a white cloud behind her head. And her hair in a bun. And she’s already got her gloves on, white to match the hat, when she suddenly thinks twice about the risk involved in this rendezvous, because the magnate walked in just at that minute, while she was busy trying to figure out whether or not to go. And the magnate, who’s middle-aged, with gray hair, about fifty or so, a little heavy, but presentable enough as a guy, he asks her where she’s running off to. She says shopping, he offers to come along, she says it’ll be such a bore for him, she has to pick out fabrics. The magnate looks like he suspects something, but doesn’t openly reproach her. Then she responds by telling him he has no right to put on a bad face, because she always does whatever he asks, she’s dropped the idea of returning to the theater, hasn’t she? and of radio singing, but it’s really the limit when he dares to look at her like that just because she’s going out shopping. Then the magnate tells her to go ahead, to buy anything she wants, but if he ever catches her lying . . . it won’t be her he takes his revenge out on, he knows well enough he can’t live without her, but he’ll wreak his vengeance on any man who dares to go near her. The magnate leaves, and moments later she does, too, but she doesn’t know what to tell the chauffeur, because the magnate’s threat is still ringing in her ears: “I’ll wreak my vengeance on any man that dares to go near you.” Meantime the guy is waiting for her at some posh bar, and he’s looking and looking at the time, and begins to realize she’s not coming. He orders another whiskey, a double. Another hour goes by, two hours, and by then he’s totally drunk, but tries to pretend not to be, getting up and walking stiffly out of the bar. He goes back to the office, sits at his desk and asks the errand boy to go get him two containers of coffee. And he sets himself to work, trying to forget everything. Next day he shows up earlier than usual, and the editor-in-chief is happy to see him, and pats him on the back for coming in so early to help out, because it’s a tough day ahead of them. He buries himself in his work and even finishes up early, and hands in the assignment to the chief, who congratulates him on how it’s written, and tells him he can have the remainder of the day off. So then the guy leaves, and goes off to have a few glasses with some reporter friend who asks him along; he refuses at first, but the other guy insists—but no, wait, it’s the boss himself that invites him to have a drink, right there in his private office, because since the guy’s managed to solve the whole day’s problem, which happened to be an article on some gigantic embezzlement high up in the government, the boss wants to celebrate a little. Then after a drink or two, the guy goes down into the street, feeling gloomy, the scotch gave him the blues, and before he realizes what he’s done he’s standing in front of her house. He can’t resist and goes in and rings the buzzer of her apartment. The maid asks, who is it? He says he wants to talk to the lady of the house, it’s just five o’clock then, so she’s having tea with the magnate, who has brought her an extravagant surprise, an emerald necklace, to ask her forgiveness for the scene he made yesterday. She orders the maid to tell the reporter she’s not at home, but he’s already barged into the room. Then she tries to handle the situation by telling the magnate what happened with the business of that article, and thanks the guy, and tells the magnate how he wouldn’t accept any money, so she really doesn’t know what more to say in order to settle the affair, but him, the guy, furious at seeing her holding on to the magnate’s arm like that, he says the whole thing makes him sick and all he wants is for them to forget him once and for all. Neither she nor the magnate have a word to say; the guy walks out, but leaving a piece of paper on the table, with the lyrics of the song written for her. The magnate stares at the girl; her eyes are flooded with tears, because she’s in love with the reporter and can’t deny it any longer, especially to herself, which is worst of all. The magnate looks hard at her eyes and asks her to say exactly what she feels for that creep of a newspaperman. She can’t answer, there’s a knot in her throat, but then she sees how red in the face he’s getting; well, she has to swallow somehow and say, that creep of a newspaperman means absolutely nothing to me, but I just met him over the problem of that news article. And the magnate asks her for the name of the newspaper, and when he finds out it’s the one that’s been relentlessly investigating his ties with the mafia, he asks her for the name of the guy, too, so as to in some way try to bribe him. But the girl, terrified that what the magnate actually wants to do is revenge himself on the guy . . . refuses to tell him his name. Then the magnate gives her a heavy slap across the face, knocking her to the floor, then leaves. She just lies there sprawled on the carpet that’s made of real ermine, her pitch black hair against the snowy white ermine, and the tears twinkling like stars . . . And she looks up . . . and sees over on one of those taffeta hassocks . . . a sheet of paper. She gets up and reaches for it, and reads . . . “Even though you’re a prisoner, in your solitude your heart whispers still . . . I love you. Black flowers of fate . . . cruelly keep us apart, but the day will come when you’ll be . . . mine forever, mine alone . . .” and presses the paper all crumpled to her heart, which is probably just as crumpled inside as that piece of paper, just as much . . . or even more.