Carcinus' Malediction Read online

  She thought about moving to Barcelona, Vigo, Gijón, but nothing filled her eye. One day, after a night of spree with two college girlfriends, she woke up dehydrated and depressed. Her head was spinning, and when she stepped in front of the mirror, she realized that she had to see me again.

  I wanted to clap in excitement, but that might have been inappropriate, and she would have slapped me hard. So, I simply nodded, like someone who listens to a good tale of suspense. Was she declaring her love to me? Stupid me, I did not realize it. Blanca went on and said she had left everything to come see me.

  The tables had turned, the omelette had gotten cold, and my can of beer was empty.

  It was my turn.

  Blanca’s story, hunger, and the lack of habit had immersed me in a slight state of drunkenness — the driving force to get carried away by primary impulses.

  I threw myself at her, we kissed again, this time in the sofa. The kissing turned more intense and passionate. I heard her moaning. We stripped naked, I broke her bra and threw it into the kitchen. Our bodies encountered while the temperature rose, sweating alcohol and desire. We touched each other and, letting ourselves go — no questions asked, no comments — and made love.

  Once we reached that point, there was no turning back, nor way out but to let ourselves get carried away. And so, we did.

  Engrossed in each other’s naked body, life went on while we made love on the kitchen countertop, the shower, the living room, the rest rooms of Sala Stereo — a popular concert room where renowned local bands played. No matter where desire caught us, we let ourselves get carried away.

  We lived in a silent bubble, white lies, and literary fiction, playing characters in a book whose pages were left blank. Soon, we would face the hardships of life, both hers and mine. Money would start to dwindle — if I still had any left — and we had to find jobs, and... live together? I was not ready for that, not yet.

  We danced night after night in the bars of the capital city, dragging the soles of our shoes to the beat of soul and radio songs they played at university bars. We did not mind mixing with people with whom we shared nothing but a small part of the dance floor. We were together, we were invincible, the heroes of our night. It was magical not to account to anyone, to be the protagonist of her eyes, of my own, of our own song.

  Gradually, I started to neglect the social commitments I still had left, rejecting appointments, coffees, and meetings with former colleagues. They had girlfriends, wives, children, and jobs. They had all that is considered necessary to be a winner, either from the working or bourgeois class. That depended on each one, their jobs, and the list of traumas and complexes that burdened their shoulders.

  Despite everything, I loved myself. I possessed the self-worth that no one would have for me, and things kept looking good.

  Blanca and I depleted our resources and ran through every penny in our pockets. She had enough to finish her trip while I would barely make the end of the month.

  She returned to Madrid for Christmas, I caught up with her a few days later. I met her brother, a sympathetic young man who aspired to be a mayor. They were both sides of the coin, though they complemented each other. There was a hint of madness to him, contained under his bespoke suits. She set iron limits in his life to balance the constant disorder.

  I stayed at a hostel in Alberto Aguilera over the weekend and walked down the streets of Madrid while visiting her family. Astray, that is how I felt. The city was beautiful and unique and offered the possibility of getting lost and disappearing. That one was meant to be a romantic winter weekend, with long walks in the park, the endless alleyways, and falling in love again while seeing the lights of the cars crossing the Gran via at the distance.

  That night, by the bell tower, under the enormous Schweppes billboard illuminated by neon lights, I waited, observing the cars that drove in all directions, the women in winter clothes, young groups of urban tribes, and the hustle and bustle of the city. I waited for Blanca, a life path that was not mine, and a black and white finale worthy of Nouvelle Vague.

  Blanca arrived and kissed me. She seemed happy — she was coming from seeing some girlfriends — and I caught a glimpse of alcohol in her breath. I saved my words of redemption and the verses with a taste of catastrophe for later and congratulated myself for my own selflessness. We walked to a bar near to the hostel, we ordered beer, olives, and a small salad. Real Madrid was making a comeback in a home match. The venue was crowded with fans, commentators, both outraged and optimistic. All united by a cause. Was there anything more beautiful than collective happiness? I do not think so. I lived in a country where bars held the borderline between real and imaginary life. They are also shelters and spiritual confessionals, for no one throws the first stone, nor asks questions in there.

  In a corner, back to back, Blanca and I laughed, drank, and besieged the waiter to fill our glasses, preventing him from watching the match on the TV.

  “I don’t know where this all will take us,” she said smiling.

  We toasted, looked at each other, and sensed the chemistry again. The thawing and courtship broke the distance between her body and mine.

  Real Madrid won, and we witnessed the diners share their euphoria and hopefulness. I noticed there was something in those people’s eyes that was beyond just a simple feeling. Somebody chanted “olé.”

  “Pepe! Get me a gin and tonic!” a man wearing an unbuttoned pink shirt next to me shouted.

  “Another one here! It’s Johnny’s birthday today!” a third man added.

  Somebody won a prize at the slot machine. The lucky player got an ovation. Out of the chute, piles of coins fell like a summer storm.

  “Bingo!” somebody yelled. “I’m taking my children to eat out tomorrow!”

  Blanca and I looked at each other, observing the Madrilian spectacle, resulting from the joy, the football match, and the liters of alcohol being dispatched at the countertop. Goodbye crisis, depressed economy, and monthly bills. I sang “Bye bye baby,” the way the Ramones sang it, for my neurons were intoxicated with alcohol. Avid, I paid before we got kicked out, grabbed Blanca by the hand, and rushed down the street to the hostel.

  We made love.

  We got entangled under the sheets. But that night, we did not swear eternal love, nor faithfulness.

  Not that night.

  We slept embraced with the bitter taste of beer lingering in our palates.

  The following morning, I got up before Blanca, and after taking a shower, I told her that I would be waiting for her at the coffee shop next to the subway station. There, I had time to order a strong black coffee and write a farewell note for Blanca.

  I was aware that every relationship has a beginning and an end. Only the richest ones endure until death, leaving X unsolved in the equation of years. The rest end during one’s lifetime — here and now — and ours had come to an end.

  It may have all happened so quickly that I was not prepared to go through that infamous game of debauchery and lack of commitment. Sooner or later, Blanca would wish for something else — commitment, ties, seriousness — searching for fulfillment in the partnering models imposed by society. Or perhaps, we happened to have met in the most inappropriate time of our careers, to call it somehow.

  Pretty, in a black blouse, and her hair in a ponytail, she entered the coffee shop with a smile on her face. The waiter smiled at her and asked her what she would order. Blanca sat next to me on a foam stool and kissed me on the cheek. Intercourse had sat her well.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  I sipped a bit of coffee and grabbed her by the waist, that unique, sensual, and delicate part of each person’s body. That swinging of the hips is in it of itself a world, rite, and gift unique to femininity. With a discreet sleight of hand, I slid the slip of paper in her back pocket, without her realizing.

  “Did you sleep well?” I asked.

  “I have been at better places...” she replied. The waiter placed a white coffee on
the countertop in front of her. Blanca thanked him and took a sip. “Is there something wrong?”

  She noticed I was a little overwhelmed. I looked at the clock on the wall. My train departed in two hours. I was going to miss all of that — Madrid, the loneliness of the days under the neon lights. It all had been so ephemeral that I could not believe I was there.

  “I have to leave,” I said plainly and cowering. “I’ll take the subway, don’t worry.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and left the place before she burst into tears.

  Blanca was perplexed.

  The sun shone bright that morning despite being roughly 40 F. The city was waking up in good spirits, with the lazy Sunday traffic and the smell of frying oil coming from the restaurants.

  Blanca came out after me.

  “Are you leaving? Just like that?” she shouted at my back. “You are an asshole!”

  I kept walking without looking back. The subway station was getting closer, and my steps shorter.

  I turned my head to the left and managed to see Blanca’s silhouette with the corner of the eye. It turned out to be extremely painful.

  I took a deep breath, got in the underground staircase, and took the first train toward the airport.

  I will never forget my cowardice that day. And even though I had seen worse — men, women, whole families — I wondered what made us so mean-spirited at times. To my eyes came many scenes, like that girl at the Barcelona airport who broke her boyfriend’s heart forever. I happened to be there, doing a crossword puzzle, reading a news story about Brad Pitt, and sipping coffee. They must have planned to go on vacation, and he had foregone a business to go see her. I would have liked to tell him that, on the brighter side, he was not alone — Brad Pitt had gone through the same thing when he traveled to California to meet with his girlfriend. She had cheated on him with a Hollywood producer, according to the article. I would have liked to tell him that he could become the next Brad Pitt and that that was nothing but a life lesson.

  However, I did not. It was not my story, nor my problem.

  When it all ends and our hearts are no longer beating toward the person we have at our side, we become selfish, vile, and impassive. We deceive ourselves by saying that we are only doing what is best for them when — in reality — we are only thinking of ourselves, of our future.

  However, I doubt I made a mistake that day. I could only think of myself, and that would have been totally unfair to Blanca. Later, on the train, I felt relieved, strange, but free. I had gotten rid of a great emotional burden. I had erased Blanca with a single stroke.

  The winter came to an end, and I returned to Alicante to put up with a writer’s block that I underwent by writing small columns for local newspapers and giving a few talks at the university. The shimmer of my last story was enough to stretch my economic survival until the summer.

  * * *

  One Saturday night, I had gone out by myself when I met that woman at a tourist bar. She was a mature woman in a tight red dress, her skin was smooth, and her lips had been augmented. I looked at her hands and deduced that she must be divorced. There was a contest at the bar for a trip for two to Mallorca, and she was singing for it. Drunken and miserable, I left the countertop and asked her to let me sing with her. The woman — who had given in to alcohol and had much more of it in her bloodstream than I did — whispered in my ear and told me to dance with her after the song. I promised to go to Mallorca with her if we won the prize.

  And we won.

  We delighted the drunken crowd in the dim light, who clapped enthusiastically after a “beautiful” performance and took our improvised duet to the top of the roster thanks to a “heavenly” version of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

  The prize consisted of two open round ferry tickets, with no accommodation. We celebrated our success and danced to an upbeat melody that compromised my movements on the dance floor.

  I felt her breath on my neck. Then she approached my ear, stroked my earlobe with the tip of her tongue, and told me that I looked a lot like a former lover she had had when she was young. I thanked her compliments and subtly prevented her from kissing me. Then she told me about one of her children. She also found certain resemblance of him in me. The upbeat song would not stop, and that lady’s body was getting heavier. I signaled the waiter and took that lady off the dance floor to get some air. Those poor swollen eyes looked at me with mercy as I held her hair so that she could release the snacks into the ladies’ room.

  When the night ended, I called a taxi and sent her back home.

  Then I saw it. I was paying for my mistakes. I should have never taken that path. I should have never left Blanca.

  The rest was history.

  3

  I asked Rojo to drop me off by the railway station. It was still early, and I was a little hungry. We said goodbye, and I promised that I would call him. The patrol car got lost in the streets, leaving an endless array of opportunities before me. I needed a drink to help me forget the day. I needed something to regret about the following morning.

  I went down the street and sat on the terrace of The Duke, an ordinary Irish bar, because they all are the same like fast-food restaurants — wherever there is one, it is always furnished with wooden tables and red faux leather upholstery. It was a Guinness bar with stained windows and a group of British tourists who had decided to part ways with the tour.

  The waitress came over, and I ordered a cold pint of beer. The afternoon was still hot in that square.

  I would be lying if I said that, during all that time, I had not wondered about Blanca. I would not be able to pull such a con. I would also be lying if I said that everything was going fine. Because it was not. I was pretty bored. People of my generation had begun to scatter, to attend night clubs less and snack bars more, as a preview of what was to come. I paid the bill without worrying about the change and left for a walk. The radio conversation that I had overheard in the patrol car came to my mind. We tend to think that everything is fine until we realize that it is not. Social life is, in the end, like an onion — some of the layers are shriveled whereas others are more tender. In the life of a worldly and ordinary citizen — whose parents belong to the working class and has had public education and a college degree — many things lurk among the layers. Drugs, crime, marginality. Those terms are exclusively read on the press or used to speak ill of someone. Some are seduced by the illegal, looking for some fun within their layers of conformity, so predictable and fragile. But life is different for everyone, depending on their eyes and their own layers. My life did not differ much from that of the ordinary citizen — trivial and with no other concern than paying for an apartment, making ends meet, and buying new underwear at the end of the month.

  The beer had gone up a little bit, and I felt a little tipsy. My guts were growling too. I hastened my pace and headed toward the bullfighting arena. A white VW Golf passed by so fast that I almost got hit by it. I raised my hand with ire. The few bypassers turned to see. A man smoked at the entrance of a bar. Then a Seat León passed by. A loud bang of shattered glass and bending metal resonated in the street. Flying debris reached the façades of the buildings nearby. I ran several meters toward the crash and found the Golf embedded against a dental clinic. The driver had lost control of the vehicle and the hood was shrunk like an accordion. The other car had stopped in the middle of the street, earning the honking of the cars in the oncoming lane.

  The personnel of the clinic ran terrified.

  “Someone call the police!” one lady shouted.

  “Where are they when they’re needed?” another one replied.

  Confusion, panic, and oh-my-gods filled the place as a result of chaos and shock. From the bar where the man was smoking, another came out with an unbuttoned shirt and his neck covered in gold chains. He walked decisively to the car with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A young man came out of the Golf unaided — his face bruised, a bleeding wound in his forehead, and another
one on his back.

  “Are you all right, kid?” said the man with the cigarette. Those were the last words he pronounced.

  The mysterious driver grabbed the man by the shirt and smashed him against the tarmac.

  The confusion in the street grew, that was going to make a great headline for me.

  The Seat León appeared again all of a sudden. Like a raging bull, it rammed the wounded young man, dragging him between the front wheels and hurling him several meters into the air like a string of raw sausages.

  The people murmured all kinds of exclamations and profanities when the police sirens arrived to disperse the crowd. As just another spectator, I could not believe what my eyes were seeing.

  In an unconscious act, I took note of the León’s license plate on my cell phone, which darted toward the square burning its tires like a drag racer.

  The young man — whose face was partially lying on the floor after being dragged on the asphalt — got up unaided. That was not normal, let alone human.

  He stumbled to the traffic light, looked around, leaned against a lamppost, and walked along the crosswalk, drawing the gazes of everyone around onto himself. When the ambulance arrived, a paramedic ran after him to assist him. Without any regard whatsoever, the man pulled a knife out of his pocket and punched two stab wounds into the health professional. Swish, swish!

  All the present heard a bellowing — a lament that the breeze took away — and then the deafening blast of a gunshot.

  The cartridge casings clanged against the ground, then that young man’s body plummeted against the asphalt.

  In the distance, a local policeman held a pistol in his hands.

  “Nobody move!” he yelled.

  Bit I did not oblige.

  I approached the body as much as I could to inspect it up close.

  Everything was very strange and seemed to have a sinister connection to the conversation I overheard on the police patrol. I began wondering what was going on, what I had missed during my stay in Mallorca.