The Heart and Other Viscera Read online

  PRAISE FROM THE PRESS IN SPAIN FOR FÉLIX J. PALMA’S SHORT STORIES

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  “Palma’s love of fantasy is no mere exercise in escapism nor a clever game of mirrors, but a way of intuiting the world by freeing oneself from rationalism. His stories demonstrate a perfect tension between poetry, tenderness, and humor.”

  —El Mundo

  “[Palma’s] works are infused with gifted ideas, unforgettable imagery, and reflections that haunt you long after you’ve finished the last page. An author of deliciously disquieting short stories.”

  —La Razón

  “An amalgam of perfect style, astonishing imagery, and unsettling narrative to chart a disturbing world.”

  —ABC Cultural

  “Meticulous, disconcerting, and inspired, Palma exemplifies the very best of short fiction being written in Spanish today.”

  —Muface

  PRAISE FOR The Map of Time

  “The Map of Time recalls the science fiction of Wells and Verne, and then turns the early masters on their heads. A brilliant and breathtaking trip through metafictional time.”

  —Scott Westerfeld, New York Times bestselling author

  “The Map of Time is a singularly inventive, luscious story with a core of pure, unsettling weirdness. With unnerving grace and disturbing fantasy, it effortlessly straddles that impossible line between being decidedly familiar and yet absolutely new.”

  —Cherie Priest, award-winning author of Boneshaker

  “Strange and wonderful. Magical and smart. Félix J. Palma has done more than written a wonderful novel, he’s concocted a supernatural tour de force. Time travel, tragic love, murder, and mystery all combine in what is nothing short of a surprising, satisfying, and mesmerizing read.”

  —M.J. Rose, New York Times bestselling author

  “A big, genre-bending delight.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Palma uses the basic ingredients of steampunk—fantasy, mystery, ripping adventure, and Victorian-era high-tech—to marvelous effect.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Palma makes his U.S. debut with the brilliant first in a trilogy, an intriguing thriller that explores the ramifications of time travel in three intersecting narratives.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Readers who embark on the journey . . . will be richly rewarded.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Lyrical storytelling and a rich attention to detail make this prize-winning novel an enthralling read.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Palma is a master of ingenious plotting.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

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  Roses against the Wind

  Even though I visited him almost every day since I began working two blocks from his home, I knew very little about my grandfather apart from the fact that he loved trains and hated rats.

  “You didn’t see any rats on the way up, did you?” he would ask me as soon as he opened his eyes and discovered me sitting opposite him on a chair I had dragged in from the kitchen.

  His concern about a possible invasion by these sinister vermin was fully justified. My grandfather still lived in the home where he was born, in one of those old-fashioned apartments with high ceilings, huge windows, and doors that folded like accordions. Those walls had seen him be born, totter along its corridors, smoke surreptitiously, write love poems. They had seen him, as it were, prepare himself to face an unimaginable future that noiselessly fell apart at the seams into the present so that now, full of damp patches and as weary as he was, the walls seemed to be contemplating him with unexpected affection as he dozed in his armchair. In this old apartment, where daylight seemed to drag itself in because of the tall modern buildings that had sprung up around it, my grandfather survived on a miserable pension. My father had left him to his own devices a long time ago, as a result of an insult the old man had perpetrated on his wedding day that my father saw as the culmination of the many years of paternal ostracism he had been forced to bear. And yet, my grandfather did not seem at all concerned by his precarious economic situation. If my father had washed his hands of him, he seemed to have washed his hands of the world. A social worker came to clean the apartment and fill his fridge, but I’m not sure if he was even aware of this plump guardian angel assigned to watch over him every Wednesday, as he spent most of the day dozing in his armchair, sleeping with his eyes gently closed and a complicit smile on his lips, as if he knew a secret that was forbidden to the rest of us. Maybe it was the secret of how to escape death, because my grandfather was just over one hundred years old.

  If everything around us spoke of the forlorn abandonment of things not even glanced at, the adjacent room was dominated by a huge table that almost entirely filled it. On the table lay the only thing that still captured my grandfather’s attention: a gigantic model railway. He’d built it with his own two hands more than half a century ago, and still, even though his fingers had lost much of their dexterity, he continued lovingly adding details: tiny figures or unnecessary trees. It was as if he was reluctant to complete it, perhaps convinced that finishing the model ran parallel with his life, the two things he did not know how to resolve. The entire model was made of wood. A steam engine, the faithful reproduction of a German Adler, plowed tirelessly across a rectangular landscape filled with hills and valleys. Among them, after rummaging in travel books and encyclopedias, my grandfather had dotted the best-known monuments and marvels on the planet. On his model, the world was stripped of all sense of distance and appeared crammed together in an effort at neighborliness that seemed monstrous if one considered the sudden mingling of disparate climes and cultures. With its gleaming dark carriages and red piston rods, the Adler proudly explored an impossible world made up of remnants torn from here and there in the reality that inspired it, as if my grandfather was dreaming of a world that could be seen in its entirety in a single day, at a glance. In his model railway, amid fairy-tale trees and picturesque bridges, the Palace of Versailles rubbed shoulders with Machu Picchu, the Eiffel Tower cast its shadow across the gleaming white expanse of the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China folded the Christ statue of Rio de Janeiro in its maternal embrace, Vesuvius strutted in the center of the Red Square, and like gunmen from the Far West, the giants of Easter Island stared their challenge to the buddhas of Angkor Wat.

  In a corner of the same room, beneath a window that must have once offered a panorama of the horizon but now revealed only a backstreet choked with garbage, among which every so often a rat’s filthy brushstroke could be spotted, was a small table on which my grandfather had laid out his tools. There, nestled among coils of wood shavings, were small pots of paint, knives, and paintbrushes. In the center, like a half-plucked goose, was a book always open to some new monument that would soon make its appearance in a corner of the model. Whenever I saw those extraordinary miniatures, I felt like running to examine my grandfather’s hands, hoping to discover there some sign—a phosphorescent aura or something similar—that might help explain how those fingers could imitate reality with such precision. I was always slightly disappointed to see poking out from the worn cuffs of his dressing gown a pair of perfectly ordinary hands shrouded with age, the
fingers crooked, the nails yellow. Hands that fit the rest of him: a skinny body, chipped like an old knife, and a cerulean, angular face dominated by a pair of gray eyes that constantly darted about as if they found it impossible to settle on anything.

  During my visits, I rarely saw him contemplating his model railway, still less studying it with the smile of satisfaction that I considered more or less obligatory. It would seem my grandfather preferred to sleep, lulled by the purring of the engine on its interminable journey, as it steamed through the motley landscape created by his imagination. At first, I was surprised by this lack of enthusiasm. Then, I realized my grandfather must have every last detail of his creation engraved in his mind, where all the novelties must have appeared several days before they became reality, so that all he had to do was close his eyes to see them. Simply knowing it was there in the next room, indefinitely unfinished, eternally awaiting his additions, my grandfather would smile contentedly, surrounded by an apartment falling to pieces.

  “Are you happy with your life, Alberto?” he asked me one afternoon when he came around from his lethargy.

  I could scarcely believe my grandfather was capable of asking such an intimate question, the answer to which bordered on the abstract. Or that he might be worried by anything other than the presence of the rats, still less by the life of a grandson whose existence he appeared to summon and dismiss with a blink of his eyes. All I could think as a reply was to shrug my shoulders, as if the whole thing was completely without interest for me. Although, in fact, for several minutes afterward, shielded by the darkness in the room, I tried to come up with an answer to his question. I had just turned thirty-four, and had been working for the same company for the last six years; first, in its old premises and now, for four months, in its new offices on a grand avenue, only ten minutes away from my grandfather’s apartment. As a result, for a long while now, my days had been uneventful, tranquil, and monotonous: mornings in the office like an insipid overture that led into lazy evenings of crosswords and coffees, and nights that found me leaning over the balcony with a chilled cocktail and enveloped by the tortured piano music of Tchaikovsky, feeling that there was not much more I needed, except perhaps to be in the arms of a girl that I had caught sight of on the street, or another one that I had glimpsed on the bus. I had no idea what might make other people happy, but I was sure that the gentle to-and-fro of my days was close to my idea of happiness. Would I really be happier doing other things, leading a life different from this peaceful, secure existence I had unintentionally created for myself? I didn’t think I was made for anything else: after all, socializing with my colleagues at the local bar was proof enough that everyone leads similar lives, that the shroud of night covers all these familiar existences, that they are only distinguished by the body wearing a cucumber mask on the far side of the mattress, the urgent sobs of a child, or even sometimes only by a stamp collection or necktie patterns.

  And yet, there must have been some kind of dissatisfaction behind the fact that I visited my grandfather every afternoon. Maybe I did so in the secret hope that he would do or say something that would make that day stand out from all the rest. Perhaps I wanted to hear him talk of some battle or other that I knew of only from history books, or for him to plunge me, as befits every grandfather, into an ocean of atrocities and hardships from which I would emerge frozen stiff but ready to reassess my own anodyne existence. Or it might have been to prove what I already suspected, that it made no difference how one lived, because in the end, when our achievements are all behind us, the result is always the same: we are all just trying to fill the empty hours as we wait for death.

  The following afternoon, I found my grandfather bent over his worktable. This was a scene I had almost forgotten. The weak evening light dusted his absorbed profile as he busied himself with heaven knows what.

  “Come over here,” he called out when he heard me arrive.

  I walked around the model and stood beside him, expecting to see his knife poised over the carving of yet another monument to add to his scaled-down world. But what I found when my grandfather withdrew his bony hands with a magician’s theatrical gesture wasn’t a monument but the tiny figure of a gray-suited man carrying a leather briefcase. I studied it in astonishment, admiring every detail: the folds of his suit, the buckles on the briefcase, the twisted knot on the necktie, even the infinite humanity with which in four brushstrokes he had managed to capture the expression of tedium on his face. A shiver ran down my spine when I realized that the little figure I had been examining for almost a minute was me.

  Once I recovered from the shock, the shame of seeing myself portrayed so exactly in this diminutive copy, from my gray suit to my briefcase and my constantly twisted tie, made my cheeks burn. Was the image I had of myself so different that it took me a whole minute to recognize myself? I was face-to-face with the sad reality, the uninspiring image that my grandfather, and with him probably the rest of the world, had of me. This was me, an insignificant little man with an eternally resigned expression, no more than a speck of dust in a universe that belonged to others.

  The placid smile on my grandfather’s lips contradicted any sense of judgment. This was not a criticism, even if when I recognized myself in the figurine I had felt that treacherous thrust of a knife in my back. No, it was a gift. A gift my grandfather had decided to offer me without my being able to guess the reason why. Still smiling with an expression that gave his mouth a frail look, like a sweet made by nuns, my grandfather picked up the figure and went over to the model railway. He halted the Adler, lifted the roof off of one of the carriages, and very carefully sat me inside it.

  As he did so, I could not help but recall my father and see, as though I had been there in person, his wedding day, when, drunk on wine, he had risen from his chair and accused my grandfather of not bringing any gift, in reality seeking to reproach him for many other things he had neither the wish nor the strength to list. He himself had told me hundreds of times how, in the silence caused by his outburst, my grandfather had replied that if he wanted to see his gift, all he had to do was go home with him. My father had immediately taken him at his word and, not giving a damn about disrupting the reception, had almost dragged my mother and most of the guests with him to come and stand in this very room, in front of what in those days was a much less cluttered model railway, still demanding his gift like an insistent, spoiled child. My grandfather pointed to one of the train carriages. Inside, my astonished parents could see two painted wooden figures, perfect copies of themselves. My father took this as an insult, one more in the long list of veiled offenses that had marred the relationship between father and son. This was the worst one of all, as it seemed aimed not only at him, but also at the woman he loved.

  My father had stoically put up with my grandfather’s numerous outrages, his lack of interest and affection toward him, his exclusive dedication to that dratted model railway, where now, in a clumsy joke only he could understand, he found himself included. But on this occasion, my grandfather had gone too far. It took my father several minutes to react, as if he was somehow taking stock, taking his time to draw out from within himself all the hatred that had been accumulating for years. When he was ready, he stopped the locomotive with a furious swipe of his hand and picked up the insulting figures. Staggering with wine and rage, the tails of his morning coat giving him the air of a swallow in flight, he rushed into the bathroom and threw them down the toilet. The watery roar of the cistern seemed to go on for hours, engulfing the dumbstruck guests in a horror show. That gesture from my father caused the frail thread that still united him and his father to snap. It was as if from that moment on they turned their backs on each other, as in a duel for their honor, so that they paced through life refusing to acknowledge the tug of the blood bond that they shared.

  My father repeated the story many times over the years. In time, it began to lose much of its dramatic effect, so that in the end it seemed to me no more than a misunderstanding p
layed out in front of too big an audience; a stupid argument between two people who were too different to understand each other. There was no asking my father to reconsider and make peace with my grandfather, despite the fact that his life was drawing to a close. Perhaps that was why I went to see him every afternoon, thinking I was keeping his loneliness at bay, when in reality I was trying to scare mine away. That was also why I put on my best smile when the locomotive moved off again, taking me with it in its bowels.

  That night, while waiting for sleep to overcome me, I thought about my grandfather’s strange gift, that curious way of his of making a globetrotter out of a grandson who had never left his own neighborhood. I thought it was amusing to be traveling around the world while lying in my bed. I imagined myself taking the place of my tiny replica, speeding through a toy reality that would transform the moment I decided to suspend my disbelief and accept the laws of the model railway. I saw myself seated in that old-fashioned carriage, imagining the gentle rocking of the Adler in my bones and trying to visualize the landscapes and monuments parading nonstop before my eyes. The Champs-Élysées, the Süleymaniye Mosque, the Atomium. I fell asleep, fantasizing of those remote places I had only ever seen in photographs, and went on doing so in my dreams. Upon awakening, I could sense the afterglow of exotic visions, the nebulous recollection of things I had never seen.

  I reached the office brandishing a radiant smile. I knew that I had only traveled in my dreams, but it had seemed so lifelike, so real, that it was not hard to fool myself into thinking I had really been in all those places, the memories of which still fluttered in my mind like extremely fragile butterflies. All morning, I couldn’t get the image of the little figure out of my mind. I was overwhelmed by an odd nostalgia that occasionally seemed like envy, imagining him traveling tirelessly around and around the model railway, seeing things I never would, even if it was only a make-believe world.