I

THE CITY FILLED WITH TINY, GLIMMERING LIGHTS: IT’S late, I said to myself. In summer, it gets dark around eight thirty. But Lara still isn’t here. No call, no sign of life. Why was she late? I wondered what could’ve happened. I tried to convince myself that it was just some stupid holdup, the bus hadn’t come, the subway had broken down, a protest had blocked the streets and stopped traffic. I was a little afraid. Lara hates when people show up late, and she’s usually the first to arrive. She hates wasting time. What’s more, when we have to travel, she usually takes a couple of hours to pack. Tomás was waiting for us at the airport. The plane was leaving in four hours. I began to imagine things, all sorts of things. My mind was racing a mile a minute, and I couldn’t stop thinking that something bad had happened to Lara. I tried to calm down. For some reason we always dream up tragedies, accidents, or someone’s sorrow. I’m not worried, I repeated silently. Perhaps she’d told me something I didn’t hear when she was leaving and I was brushing my teeth. I tried to remember everything we had said to each other before we said goodbye. I found no hole in the conversation; no word floating alone in space dropped down to explain everything else that was happening. My anxiety was growing, and I didn’t have enough fingers or lungs to handle so many cigarettes. I looked at the wall and questioned the gigantic white mass that enveloped the entire room. I looked at the baseboards, at the papers piled behind the door, at the passport, at the lamps, at the wooden chairs. But neither the wall, nor the baseboards, nor the papers piled behind the door, nor the passport, nor the wooden chairs were in any condition to answer me. I didn’t find a single answer, not one fucking answer in the whole house. I sat on the wooden chair trying to smash the seat with my body, and then I decided to wait until Lara felt like she was good enough to show up. I would wait until I grew tired of waiting. Then I’d grow bored and open some book while from far away I’d hear an uncertain rock band as they rehearsed and made all sorts of mistakes. I’d open the fridge, and it would be empty: only three bottles of beer that had been my only concern when I went to the store and a can of Pringles, Sour Cream & Onion, the ones I liked so much. I’d open one of the bottles and pour the beer into my Winnie-the-Pooh mug that one of my brothers brought me from Disney when he went on his honeymoon with that woman who he says is his wife but to me is a big fat zero. I’d take a long drink of beer and lick my lips with a sigh of great satisfaction because the beer would be really cold and I’d be really thirsty. After drinking and drinking for a while, I’d feel happy or strange. I’d begin to sing really loudly and dance in the middle of the room, because some artificial happiness would overcome me in this sporadic, alcoholic stupor. I’d think about how artificial and ephemeral everything was, definitely, but it wouldn’t matter too much: I’d continue on with my feet in the air and my mind on Mars. When I got the sensation that my feet were screaming at me for a little rest, I’d listen to them with great affection and special care, and I’d lie down on the old unwaxed hardwood floor, with my eyes on the ceiling and my mouth like someone who had died. I’d change the CD because the Beatles would begin to get old, although The White Album is probably one of my favorites, and I’d listen to Foxy Lady, Hey Joe, and a bit more of that Hendrix Anthology that Lara once bought in a tiny record shop in the Moreno neighborhood because she didn’t have anything to listen to in her portable disk player, or something like that. After that, I’d switch to Ziggy Stardust and Space Oddity and China Girl and Jean Genie. That would get old, and I’d change Bowie for the Velvet Underground. After a while I’d get up off the floor, worried about Lara, who was like a sister to me and who would call me desperate from a public phone in Buenos Aires to tell me that the cops had shown up at Tomás’s mother’s and if he called I should tell him to come here, that she was already on her way, that she was going to try to get back the stash she had left at his house, but that if she couldn’t, she’d come right away. Really, she didn’t tell me all that, in that way, on the phone: she halfway told me, and in code, but I deduced the rest thanks to my experience deciphering this special coded language that, really, everyone understands today. But worried as I’d be, I’d run circles around the table, I’d walk to the old Siam refrigerator and with my half-trembling hands grab another bottle of really cold beer that I’d immediately open with a plastic bottle opener that had Carlos Gardel’s face on it. I’d serve myself in my inseparable Winnie-the-Pooh mug that one of my brothers brought me from Disney when he went to that strangest of places with that strangest of women who he said was his wife and who, to me, was nothing but a big fat zero. Then I’d pour that piss-colored liquid into the enormous belly of Winnie-the-Pooh, and I’d notice that the alcohol, in some way, had had an effect on me. As I noticed it, I’d go over to the CD player and change the disk because I was fed up with Santana, and I’d play Miles Davis’s CD or, at best, B. B. King’s: the CD I gave to Lucio, another one of my brothers, for his birthday, knowing ahead of time that he was not going to like it. I bought that CD for myself in an indirect way because this dear brother of mine ran out of time to exchange it, and he ended up giving it to me. Bah, really he said he’d loan it to me, but what’s the difference? For quite some time I’d decided not to return anything that anyone lent me, to steal and not pay for any ticket, book, or pair of panties unless it was essential. Anyway, Lara was taking care of that. But now she wasn’t coming and I’d think that after pressing the little square button on the CD player, where in the center you could read the little letters play, I would go to that square attached to the wall that some people would use as a bookshelf but Lara and I used as a dresser, paper catcher, cupboard, chest of drawers, knick-knack cabinet and wine rack, and I’d look for, among that inhospitable heap of objects, an enormous cardboard box where I kept all the pictures. So, little by little, while Miles Davis fine-tuned the sounds that grabbed on to the night, I’d slowly lift the lid of the cardboard box, and I’d be afraid all over again. I would feel that my heart was paralyzed because ever since I was little, nothing had scared me more than memories. So I’d close my eyes and fill my mug with beer. I’d look very seriously at Winnie-the-Pooh’s little eyes, and I’d gulp it all down to boost my courage. But before that, I’d worry a little more about Lara, and also about Tomás. I’d make sure the front door, the only one of course, was closed tightly, and I’d look out the window to the street, just in case there was a patrol car or some suspicious vehicle or some cop camouflaged as a volunteer fireman. Certain that everything was under control, I’d go back to the box, but not without first taking another swig of my beer. I’d be ready to sit down, once again, on the wood floor, when I’d notice that my belly had swollen so much that it would keep me from sitting down. I’d decide to go to the bathroom because if I did anything else my bladder would burst into a thousand pieces. I’d get to the bathroom door and clumsily turn on the light, since the alcohol would suddenly show me that it could have some kind of effect on me, but I would laugh. After finding the light switch, I’d hurt my elbow on the doorlatch, because I wouldn’t be paying much attention, and I’d bump up against it. After rubbing my elbow a little and laughing, I’d think, like my cousin Gonzalo, that hitting my elbow would bring good luck. Then I’d forget, since my bladder would push me to the toilet. First, I’d raise the toilet seat, because if I didn’t it would be a filthy mess, and once the seat was steady and leaning against the wall, I’d sit on the edge of the toilet and take a piss. I’d take a piss so long that it would soon start to scare me. It would scare me to think that this piss might never end and I’d remain condemned to live forever in this little two-by-two bathroom that smelled like a sewer. Tomás, Lara, and I had still not agreed on when the plumber and the workers could come and everyone together could start ripping things apart and unclogging the pipes that would have filled up with hair and toilet paper for five months. While my piss kept coming, I’d regret not having a magazine at my fingertips. I’d want with all my soul to have a cooking magazine handy. So that as my piss continued, I could make the best of it and learn how to cook a delicious dish of, for example, Valencian-style seafood with rice to entertain all my friends. Nevertheless, in the middle of that clamorous piss, the telephone would ring. Then, something like desperation would grip me, since the piss would still not have stopped and on the other end of the telephone it could be Lara, or Tomás, or the cops. I’d think that the police never call you before they arrive, nor do they knock twice on any door. Then I’d know for sure it had to do with Lara. I’d hurry to get rid of the rest of the piss that I’d suppose still floated inside me, and I’d quickly stretch my long arm, very quickly, to grab a piece of toilet paper with my right hand. I’d notice, not without a certain amount of amazement, that there was no more toilet paper; then I’d look around for any miserable roll I could find, while the phone kept on ringing and the piss didn’t end. When I found it, my clumsiness would once again trip over itself, proving my inability to undo the very end of the paper from the rest of the roll. I’d pull it out in the midst of an attack of exasperated irritation, without ceasing to insult the ringing telephone that would begin to hammer at the back of my head. Once I had dried the cavity that some call cunt with the piece of toilet paper, although it still dripped slightly and continued to wet the wood floor with the piss, never ending and yellow like the beer, I’d throw myself toward the telephone that would still be shaking on top of a little three-legged Japanese table. When I got there, the telephone would stop ringing, but even so, and with everything that was happening, I’d lift up the receiver to note that on the other end they had already hung up. I’d utter phrases like sons of bitches, fools, imbeciles, idiots, or expressions of that sort, and I’d go back to the bathroom to turn out the light and flush the toilet by pulling the chain that really isn’t a chain, but a button. When I got there, the phone would start ringing again, and I’d run so fast that I’d almost slip and crash into the wall because of some drops of piss that had splattered on the floor during my first urinary marathon. Agitated, I’d lift up the receiver, with my voice somewhere between trembling and drunk, as if I’d seen an extraterrestrial. I’d think about that, at least for two seconds, and then I’d hear: Were you asleep? I would remain paralyzed for a brief instant, since I wouldn’t be able to believe that such a dumbass was the cause of such a mess. I’d ask, to make sure: Did you just call? And I wouldn’t give credit to the voice that answered yes. I’d let myself fall to the floor, but in a minute’s time I’d get up to turn up the volume on the CD player and pour myself a little more beer. I would speak without speaking to such a dumbass, and then, without knowing it, I’d hang up. I’d have, suddenly, a strange premonition, and I’d go over to the window. I’d look all around, in all possible directions, and I’d calm down when I confirmed that in the street just as anywhere around there wasn’t anyone or anything suspicious. Anyway, I would worry more and more about Lara and Tomás, who didn’t arrive or send me any signals. I’d begin to remember them as if I’d already lost them: Lara’s face in school would come up again and again, it would filter through the chords of her xylophone, and it would bring back a past filled with different smells and frozen images, just like the Super 8 projection that became a ritual every Sunday at Moni and Beba’s. In reality, a less miserable past or one with fewer explanations for each misfortune. I’d think a lot about the time we spent and about all things past, and I’d be glad they had passed, and I’d even feel happy about no longer being the same person, because before, when I was quite young, I felt alone and stupid. In fact, I’d remember the way Lara rescued me from stupidity and my cocoon when I, in school, was the target of all that teasing. Lara’s face, as it grew closer and asked me what I was writing, would expand and then explode into raucous laughter. I would reflect for an instant, and I’d realize that if for some reason I had been able to mix myself with all of those memories, I would also be able to open the box with photos that I’d left halfway between the telephone and the piss. I’d take one last drink of beer, and I’d note that there was almost nothing left in the bottle. I’d bring my lips to the rim, and I’d kill the rest. Immediately, I’d crawl to the Siam refrigerator one more time and, too lazy to stand up, I’d get another beer. I’d regret that there were no more beers in the fridge, but not too much. In a way, I wouldn’t feel like wasting the feeling of regret on something so stupid. My regret for Lara and Tomás would be enough without adding or subtracting any other regret. It would calm me to know that in the end, if I wanted to drink more beer later, I could go down with one or two empty returnable bottles and buy whichever kind I wanted at the all-night kiosk around the corner. I’d convince myself that it would be very bad luck if in that brief space of five minutes Lara called. I’d answer myself that we did not decide in vain to connect the answering machine we had taken from Lara’s father’s house because Lara, unlike Tomás and me, had a father. Tomás’s father had committed suicide five years ago, and mine had left the house four years after my mother had me, the youngest of seven, all the others boys. According to my mom, he was an immature man who didn’t know how or even try to be responsible for his actions. According to my dad, though based only on what Iván and Ezequiel could reconstruct after so many lies and rectifications, my mom had always been a whore who slept around with everyone. In fact, that had been the reason, again according to my dad, that there were so many of us, one right after the other and each of us very different from the last. But according to my older brothers, Iván and Ezequiel, there’s enough truth to go around: my mom loved to sleep with everyone, but my dad was a son of a bitch who hit her and forced her to do the most perverse things. One day my mom, motivated by the words of a neighbor named Leonor, who advised her to file a complaint at I don’t know what organization for the defense of abused women, took a deep breath and dialed the numbers that appeared quite large in the phone book. She talked and talked. For hours she talked with someone who supposedly listened to her on the other end of the line. She couldn’t stop crying and shaking, as if her words were advancing through the silence of the room, spilling over the cold floor tiles until they wrapped around every angle, into every dark corner, just like broken puzzle pieces, until they disappeared, and the air escaped through the thin slots of the lowered blinds. Afterward, she looked like she was about to faint. But the complaint was already filed, and the police would arrive in around an hour. Nonetheless, before the police came, there was one last fight. My dad found out when he heard my mom telling everything to the neighbor named Leonor. When she finished talking and sighed with her eyes raised almost to the ceiling, my dad went toward her, slowly, his steps deliberate and heavy like those of a wildcat, grabbed her hair, lowered her neck until it bent, and then threw her through the air with a blow that sounded like a piano had fallen. He began to kick her in the stomach that was then protecting child number nine, who never arrived. My mother had hidden it for fear of my father’s fury, but it was no use, since for some reason or another, my dad ended up hitting her so much that they had to put my mom in the hospital. That was when he found out that she was pregnant. I had just gotten home from preschool, and at that moment it was my brother, Aníbal, the fourth oldest, who took care of me. My dad left before they could take him, even though no one—not the police, nor the court, nor any relative—worried much about searching for him. That’s why, to me, he almost doesn’t exist. Since I’ve seen him so very few times, and I could never find out anything more than tales tinged with intrigue and anger. Later on, I’d remember him from the enormous family photo my aunt Susi, his first cousin, had in an alpaca picture frame on the windowsill of her house. The rest I found out through what my youngest brothers, Marcos and Herman, could tell me, despite the fact that it was somewhat vague or indefinite. They never bothered to think about him and, with time, almost none of us could remember him. Marcos is only one year older than I, and Herman is ten months older than Marcos. Anyway, what I know is that that story didn’t interest us much either: In fact, a great silence rose around us until it turned into an enormous compact mass that scarcely shook with mom’s death. She was sick for some time, but worry and sadness distanced her more and more from reality, and one day she detached herself forever. However, since the age of seven, I have preserved her image as that of a fragile and old woman, although it wasn’t true. She was forty-two when she died. Of a heart attack. They say she was tired. Then they distributed me and my brothers out to different houses, apartments, and homes in the country among family members and distant relatives that overnight began to have something more than a name: a mole on their skin, a hunched-over or straight body, a voice, and a smell. The mothball smell of the family, the smell of soup or noodles, the smell of a car when they used to take Marcos,