—You can’t imagine how marvelous it is to see it.
—Well, if it helps to distract you, why don’t you tell me a little more of it, briefly? The ending just.
—Ow! Damn it!
—Hurting a lot again?
—No, it comes and goes, but whenever those stabbing pains do come back they feel incredibly sharp, but once they’re over with it hardly hurts at all.
—How does the film end?
—Where did we leave off?
—When she was about to help the maquis, but then along came the offer to make films in Germany.
—So it got to you after all, eh?
—Well, it’s not just an ordinary film. Tell me quickly, that way you can get to the ending faster.
—Okay, so what happened after that? Uhmm . . . ugh, this is awful, hurts so damn much . . .
—Tell me about the film so you don’t think about the pain, it hurts you less if you try not to pay so much attention . . .
—Afraid I’ll kick the bucket before you hear the ending?
—No, just telling you something to try and help a little.
—Okay, so she goes to Germany to make films, and she’s absolutely crazy about Germany, and the young people who exercise all the time. And she forgives her officer for everything because she found out the guy he put to death was a horrible criminal, and had done all kinds of evil things. And they show her a photo of another criminal they still haven’t been able to catch up with, some accomplice of the one the officer sentenced to death . . . Aghhh, it’s still there . . .
—Then stop, better try to sleep.
—Forget it . . . no way . . . it still hurts too much.
—You get them often, those pains?
—Christ Almighty! I never felt this kind of sharp . . . Ugh . . . You see, now it’s gone . . .
—I’m going to try to go back to sleep.
—No, wait.
—You’ll fall asleep too.
—No, no way for that . . . I’ll go on with the film.
—Okay.
—What then? Oh, she thinks she recognizes the other criminal but doesn’t have any idea where she’s seen him before. And then she goes back to Paris, which is the place where she thinks she actually came across the guy. But she’s hardly back there when she tries to make contact with the maquis again, only this time to see if she can net the real head of the whole organization that’s secretly behind all the black market, and responsible for everything being so scarce. And she leads them on with the promise of the secret location of the German arsenal, which is what the clubfoot was after, you remember?
—Yes, but you know the maquis were actually heroes, don’t you?
—Hey, what do you take me for, an even dumber broad than I am?
—If you’re into that girl stuff again you must be feeling better.
—So, whatever . . . But just try and remember that when it came to the love scenes the film was divine, an absolute dream. The political stuff, well, it was probably foisted onto the director by the government, or maybe you don’t know how those things work?
—If the director made the film, then he’s certainly guilty of complicity with the regime.
—Okay, just let me finish it once and for all. Aghhh . . . you start one of your discussions and the pain comes right back . . . Ugh . . .
—Tell some more, distract yourself.
—What happens now is that she insists that, in order to be persuaded to turn over the secret arsenal, she must be allowed to meet the high command of the maquis. And so one day they drive her out of Paris, to some castle or other. But first she arranges to be followed by her officer, with some of his soldiers, so they can round up all the maquis from the black market. But the driver who takes her, and happens to be that same murderer who was always driving the clubfoot around, he realizes that he’s being followed and changes his direction, suddenly, to make them lose the trail, the Germans following right behind him, with the boyfriend in the lead. Anyhow, then he drives up to the castle and makes Leni go inside, and to settle things quickly they present her to the head of the maquis, and it’s the majordomo! the one who was spying on her all the time!
—Who?
—The one who worked in the boyfriend’s house. Then she looks more closely and suddenly realizes it’s the same horrible guy with the beard, the one from the film about the two criminals that she saw back in Berlin. And she tells him the secret, because she’s so sure her officer is about to arrive with all the soldiers to save her. But since he lost the trail, it gets later and later and they still don’t arrive. Then she overhears that sleazy driver talking secretly to the boss, about how he has a hunch they were being followed. But at this point she remembers how the majordomo was always peeping in her window back at the house, to catch her in the nude, etc., so she plays her last trump, which is to try and seduce the guy. During all this, the young officer and his patrol are still trying to follow the tracks left by the other car in the rain. And after a lot of searching, but I don’t remember how they actually did it, they find the way. And she’s there all alone with that monster, the majordomo, who is actually the boss of everybody, a worldwide figure in crime, and when he throws himself at her, there in that curtained back room where an intimate dinner’s already set out for them, she grabs the carving fork and stabs him to death. And now the officer and the others arrive, she opens a window to escape and right there down below stands the driver assassin, and her boyfriend sees him in time and fires a shot, but the clubfoot, no, I mean the driver, because the clubfoot’s already dead back at the museum, then the driver, while he’s dying there, manages to get off one shot at the girl. She grabs onto the curtain and manages not to fall, so her boyfriend and the young officer still find her on her feet, but just as he gets to her and takes her in his arms, she loses whatever strength she has left and says how much she loves him, and how they’ll soon be together in Berlin again. And now he sees that she’s really wounded because his hands are red with her blood, from the bullet wound, in her shoulder, or in the chest, I don’t remember. He kisses her, and when he takes his lips away from her mouth she’s already dead. And the last scene takes place in this Pantheon, in Berlin, for heroes, and it’s an incredibly beautiful monument, like a Greek temple, with huge statues of each hero. And she’s there, too, like an enormous statue, or life-size I mean, incredibly beautiful in like a Greek tunic, but I think it was herself standing there just like a statue, with her face powdered white, and he places flowers on her arms, which are reaching out, as if to hug him. And he’s leaving now, and there’s a light that seems to come from way up in heaven, and he goes off with his eyes full of tears and the statue of her remains there with the arms extended. But all alone, and there’s an inscription on the temple, which says something like how the fatherland will never forget them. And he walks all alone, but the road is bathed in sunlight. The End.
CHAPTER 5
* * *
—You should have had something for lunch.
—It’s just I didn’t want anything at all.
—Molina, why not ask to go to the infirmary? Maybe they could give you something, so you would get better.
—I’m already getting better.
—But then don’t look at me that way, as if I were the one to blame.
—What do you mean look at you “that way”?
—Staring at me like that.
—You’re crazy, Valentin, just because I look at you doesn’t mean I’m blaming you. For what? You crazy or something?
—Well, you’re arguing again so you must be feeling better.
—No, I’m not any better, it’s left me feeling awfully weak.
—Your blood pressure must be way down.
— . . .
—Well, I think I’ll study a little.
—Talk to me a bit, Valentin, come on.
—No, it’s time to do some studying. I have to keep up with my reading schedule, you know that.
—Just o
ne day, what can that do . . .
—No, if you skip a day, that’s just the beginning.
—An idle mind is the devil’s workshop, my mother always told me.
—Ciao, Molina.
—How much I’d love to see my mom today. What I wouldn’t give to see her for a little while.
—Hey, how about a little quiet, I have a lot to read.
—You’re such a pisser.
—Don’t you have a magazine to look at, or something?
—No, and it bothers me if I read, just looking at the print makes me dizzy. I’m not well, so there.
—Excuse me, but if you’re not well you should go to the infirmary.
—Fine, Valentin. You study, you’re perfectly right.
—Don’t be unfair, don’t talk to me in that tone.
—Sorry. Enjoy your studying.
—We can rap a little bit tonight, Molina.
—You’ll tell me a film.
—I don’t know any, you can tell me another one.
—Boy, how I’d like you to tell one, right now. Some film I never got to see.
*
—In the first place I don’t remember any films, and in the second place I have to study.
—Someday this could happen to you, then you’ll see how it feels . . . Oh, I’m just kidding. You know what I think I’ll do?
—What?
—Think about some film to myself, one you wouldn’t like, totally romantic. That way I’ll keep myself busy.
—Fine, that’s a good idea.
—And tonight you’ll tell me about something, like what you’re reading.
—Great.
—Because I’m half out of it, anyway. Right now, I couldn’t even remember any film enough to tell you in detail.
—Mmm, think about something nice.
—And you, you study and no nonsense . . . because remember, an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.
—Right.
—forest, lovely little houses, all in stone, roofs of straw? no, slate, misty winter, no snow on the ground so it has to be autumn, guests arriving in comfortable cars, headlights illuminating the cobblestone drive. Elegant palisades, windows open so it has to be summer, gorgeous chalet, the air suffused with the scent of pines. Living room lit with candles, no logs burning—such a sultry evening—in the fireplace highlighted by the English furnishings. So not looking onto a fire, instead, the armchairs turned the other way around facing a grand piano, finished in pine? or mahogany? no, sandalwood! A blind pianist, surrounded by the guests, his eyes—almost no pupils left—don’t see what’s in front of them, appearances that is, they see other things, the ones that really count. Debut for a sonata, composed by the blind man, to be played tonight in front of his friends: women in lovely long dresses, not too formal, just right for a country supper. Or maybe some rustic furniture, Colonial-American? atmospheric lighting provided by oil lamps. Happy-looking couples, young, middle-aged, and some of them old, all turning toward the blind man, who’s ready to begin. Silence, the blind man’s explanation of the actual events that inspired the composition, a story of love transpired in this very same forest. The tale itself, prior to the performance, so as to allow the guests a better insight into the music, “It all began one autumn morning while strolling through the forest,” gnarled wooden cane and seeing-eye dog, so many fallen leaves providing a carpet, acute sound of foot-steps, crack-crack of leaves splitting like laughter, is the forest laughing? nearby an old chalet, probing with his cane, making his way along the palisade, certainty of witnessing a rare phenomenon, a house enveloped by something strange, enveloped by what? nothing visible, given his blindness. House enveloped by something strange, it isn’t music, resounding in its walls, its stones, its beams, its roughcast of cement, the ivy vines clinging to the stones: it’s a heartbeat, they are alive, the blind man for just a moment standing so still, but the beating ceases, from off in the forest the slow approach of timid footsteps, in our direction. A girl it is. “I do not know whether you, sir, and your dog might perhaps be the masters of the house, or perchance you two are lost?” and the girl’s voice sounds so sweet, so polite a manner, lovely like a sunrise, I’m sure she must be, and though I shan’t manage to look at her in the eyes let me at least doff my hat to greet her. Poor sweet old blind man, doesn’t even know I’m just a servant, so he takes off his hat to me, he’s the only human being without the need to conceal his shock at my ugliness, “Do you live in this cottage, sir?” “No, I was out walking and had to tarry a moment,” “Isn’t it that you’ve lost your way? In that case I could show you, for I was born in the county,” or do they say hamlet? county and hamlet are both of ancient times, and in Argentina we say townships, so what could be the name for villages in those lovely forests up in the United States? my mama, just like me, was once a serving maid and—a babe in her arms—she took me to Boston, and since she passed away I’ve been left all alone in the world, so I came back to the forest, and I’m looking for the house of a woman, who’s living all alone and needing a maid. Squeaking of a door on its hinges, embittered voice of an old spinster, “Might there be something you’re looking for?” giving the impression of being annoyed. Farewell from the blind old man, entrance of the ugly girl into the quaint old house. To the spinster a letter of recommendation, agreement to stay as a maid, spinster’s curt remarks, news of the imminent arrival of tenants, “Seems impossible, I know it, but nevertheless happy people do exist in this world, though it’s difficult to believe somehow, but when they arrive you’ll have to admit yourself what a handsome pair of sweethearts they make. Anyway what do I want with such a big house? I can make do with a cozy little room on the first floor, and you, you’ll have a maid’s room in the back.” Beautiful country-style living room, varnished wood and stone, sputtering logs on the hearth, windowsill invaded with ivy. Windowpanes not large, little casement panels all a little warped and no two alike, so rustic, stairway of dark and polished wood leading up to the bedroom, the bride and groom’s, and for the young man’s work a study, an architect perhaps? Such rushing to ready everything by this afternoon, house-cleaning under the spinster’s supervision, unkind look of the old lady, apologies with every complaint of how the maid doesn’t know her job, “I’m sorry I’m so bossy, it’s just I’m nervous and can’t control myself.” But with that voice, better no apologies at all. And nothing left for me to do but wash out the spinster’s favorite vase and fill it with flowers, a car is pulling up! A couple getting out of the car, a blonde divinely dressed, a fur coat, mink? little maid looking out the window, at the young man with his back turned, closing the car door, maid’s rush to arrange the flowers, messy splat on the floor of the water in the vase, it’s falling! . . . But there! thank goodness I managed to catch it in my clumsy hands and save it from getting smashed, dying to catch a glimpse of the couple, maid bent over, mopping up the floor, words of the spinster showing them the house, voice of the young man unable to contain his excitement, voice of his fiancée not altogether pleased with the house, or rather, its feeling of isolation out in the woods, dare I lift my head to look at them? is it correct, or not, for a maid to greet them? voice of the fiancée fairly curt, so demanding, quick glance of the maid over in the young man’s direction, no one could ever be more handsome, but not even a greeting from him. Complaints on the part of his fiancée over the loneliness of a house lost in the forest, such sadness must invade the place at dusk. Impossibility of dissuading him, final decision to take the house, word of honor given, promise to write and mail the lease, along with a certified check, arrival more or less planned for just after the wedding. Young man’s request for the maid to leave the room, her nervous hands trying to arrange the flowers in the vase, young man’s desire to be alone with his fiancée, “Let me just take a minute more to finish arranging these lovely flowers,” “That’s okay like that, now please go.” Desire to sit with his fiancée over by the window and look out on the forest while taking hold of those soft hands, with
long, lacquered fingernails, hands of a woman worlds apart from domestic chores. Timeworn inscription roughly cut into one of the thick little windowpanes, coarsely beveled lettering: a couple’s names and the date just below, 1914. Young man’s suggestion to his fiancée that she take off her engagement ring and give it to him, fat stone cut rhomboidally, wish to carve their own names as well, with the stone, into one of the windowpanes. But while trying to inscribe the name of his fiancée the stone slips out of the setting and onto the floor. Both of them silent, unspoken fear of a bad premonition, ominous music, spinster’s shadow falling on the leafless garden, down below. Departure of the couple shortly thereafter, promise to be back soon, growing fear of fated consequences, impossible to quell. How sad autumn can be at times! with sunny afternoons cut short, and long twilights, spinster’s own story confided to the little maid, “I too was once on the verge of getting married.” Outbreak of the war in 1914, death of her fiancé at the front, and everything prepared for him: little stone house in the forest, lovely-looking trousseau, tablecloths and sheets, curtains all embroidered by the spinster’s very hand, “Each stitch I put into those fine clothes was like one more declaration of love.” Almost thirty years gone by, a love still intact, an inscription on a casement window the very day of his departure. “I go on wanting him just as if it were only yesterday, and worse still, go on missing him as much as that same afternoon he departed and left me here all alone.” And how sad, more than ever this autumn afternoon, an ill-fated broadcast on the radio, the nation’s entry into still another war, the second worthless world war. Yesterday is once again today, inconsolable weeping of the spinster, locked in her bedroom, little maid shivering from the cold, only a couple of dying coals, no right to add logs to the fire just for herself all alone and forgotten by the world there in the living room, with a shovel carefully removing ashes of a last flickering ember. Days later arrival of a letter, from that young man so taken by the house, virtually its tenant already, but news of his enlistment in the air force, for the time being postponing any wedding, and apologies for not keeping his word, history repeating itself? Unnecessary presence of a maid now in the empty house, lack of daily chores, no tenants, all day long just to look out the window, at the rain, nothing to do anymore, talking to herself . . . Aren’t you tired of reading yet?