The Heart and Other Viscera Page 4
However, when we stood up from the table and moved into the tiny living room to begin the third act, I was assailed by an even greater doubt. The fact that the letter was still inside the book might seem to be an oversight, and yet it could equally mean that the person it was addressed to didn’t know it was there. What if the author had merely returned the book, trusting that its owner would flick through it before putting it away, perhaps to reread a couple of passages they might have talked about? I looked at my in-laws, sitting far apart, waiting for Eva to finish serving the coffee. There couldn’t have been two people more unalike. I wondered if they hadn’t stayed together simply because one of them didn’t know about the existence of the letter offering them the chance to change their life. If so, what was I supposed to do? Was it my duty to tell them about my discovery?
I contemplated the shelf next to the television, which my father-in-law had just switched on and would now gaze at indifferently until he was allowed to return to his workshop. Anna Karenina stood out amid the tattered volumes and porcelain figurines as if it were daubed with luminous paint. I reckoned that two steps would be enough for me to seize it. I took a sip of coffee with exaggerated gusto, as if it was some potion that would give me the courage I needed. I rose from the sofa without any specific idea in mind but driven by the conviction that I must shake up this scene that threatened to perpetuate itself from one Sunday to the next, like a colored print from which we would disappear one by one, in age order or possibly at random, leaving a dramatic gap on the sofa like an extracted molar. I needed to find out who the letter belonged to, to confirm that at least one of my in-laws was a person of the world, full of emotional turmoil.
I stood in front of the shelf, pretending to read the titles, listening to Eva and her family chatting behind me. I noticed my hand quaking, my palm moist with sweat as, one by one, I began to run my fingers over the spines of the books—El estudiante de Salamanca, El burlador de Sevilla, poems by Federico García Lorca, a guide to the Thyssen museum, an essay on oncology—as I neared my objective. Were my in-laws following my movements? By the time my fingers paused at the battered volume by Tolstoy, my heart was in my throat. I plucked the book from the shelf with an excessively brusque gesture, like a would-be thief, and swung around, presenting the book to my audience as if it was all part of the same choreographed movement. “This is one of my favorite novels,” I declared.
An awkward silence ensued. They turned to look at me as one, more startled by my raised voice than by my confession. My father-in-law glanced at the book in a dismissive way that was soon extended to me before he went back to watching the television. For her part, Angeline simply stared at it, as though unsure what I was holding. The person I least expected to respond exclaimed with girlish enthusiasm: “Oh, but that’s Anna Karenina!” Eva rose from the sofa and came over to where I was standing, a look of bewilderment on my face. With a reverential gesture, she took the book from me, caressing its tattered cover as if it was a sparrow fallen from the nest. “This is my favorite book too,” she said, “I used to read it every summer in the village. Do you remember, Mama? I even persuaded cousin Enrique to read it.” Angeline nodded wistfully. Enrique, her cousin from the village? I thought to myself, increasingly alarmed. Had he written the letter? Eva continued to finger the cover, a blissful smile on her lips. I suspected she wasn’t so much recalling passages from the book as her sexual encounters with her cousin, and I couldn’t help thinking of him too: Queque, that burly, balding fellow, with his smiling red face, the owner of a company that sold GM foods, who would come for Christmas dinner each year bearing basketfuls of grotesque vegetables. And now that I thought about it, his whirlwind visits invariably left Eva with an air of melancholy. Didn’t she appear distracted whenever she prepared a salad, mesmerized by those tomatoes the size of small boulders, those peppers with turned-up ends like Moorish slippers? And what about their behavior toward each other? More than once, I had felt a twinge of jealousy when I noticed their lingering embraces, or when I saw Enrique stroke her hair, or massage her shoulders while we were watching television, sharing an intimacy whose origins I only now understood. Had he not once called her “Karenina,” smiling inscrutably while the rest of us raised our eyebrows? “If you like it so much, take it,” Jacob said suddenly, his eyes still fixed on the screen. Eva appeared to consider the possibility for an instant. “No,” she said at last, “I shan’t be reading it again.” And she returned it to the shelf with a solemn gesture, which to me seemed bristling with symbolic meaning.
Soon after, the Sunday visit came to an end. We pulled on our coats, said goodbye, and walked back to the car. I drove home, making no attempt to break Eva’s silence, as she observed the streets with a placid smile etched on her lips. I knew we were both thinking about the same thing, although I was visualizing it while she was remembering it: a younger Eva, almost a girl, running her hands over her cousin’s body. That body that, summer after summer, had turned into a David, slowly emerging from the marble’s depths. That strong, youthful body, the closeness of which had begun to produce butterflies in her stomach. That smooth, supple body she threw her arms around in the pool as they tried to duck each other, the grown-ups laughing, oblivious to the desire fermenting between them—that dark fire that there was only one way to quench. I had no idea what might have gone on between them afterward, when that awkward game started to resemble love, forcing her cousin to write the letter I had read, although it wasn’t difficult to imagine. Clearly, my wife hadn’t gone to the rendezvous; or perhaps she had, but only to persuade her cousin, who was older than her, that this was a youthful whim. I don’t know whether she succeeded or not, but obviously, as time went by, they had resigned themselves to building separate lives, perhaps with someone who resembled their first love, but without the impediment of being a blood relative. That was why, whenever they met, they looked at each other with the complicity of people who share a secret that is stronger than any bond they might establish with someone else. In a strange way, I envied them. I glanced at Eva, wondering whether I could go on living with her now that I knew her secret. Who doesn’t have secrets? I thought to myself. I had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t. In my life, there was nothing interesting to conceal, only monotony and vacuousness. It was then that I realized there was something far more terrible than having a secret: not having any. And so I took a symbolic deep breath and prepared to confront the rest of my life with Eva and her nice cousin Queque from the village. Queque, to whom, if at Christmas I saw him vanish with my wife only to reappear a few minutes later disheveled and euphoric, as if they had locked themselves in the bathroom for old times’ sake, while my mother-in-law was slicing the turkey in the dining room, I might feel obliged to recommend a book chosen at random from the shelf.
“Alfred was a fan of Tolstoy too,” Eva said suddenly, “although I never saw him read a book.” She spoke with an air of surprise, as if she had glimpsed a strange coincidence in all this. Except I could imagine Alfred pacing around my in-laws’ living room, randomly picking out Tolstoy’s book, his eyes opening wide as he saw a small piece of yellowing paper fall at his feet.
Snow Globe
Alberto had not realized how much he longed to be held by someone until that strange old lady flung herself at him with the obvious intention of wrapping him in her arms. How long had it been since he had been able to indulge in such a gesture of affection? It was impossible at his workplace, and for a long time now his feelings for his father were reduced to the almost religious kiss he planted on his forehead every night. As for Cristina, tired of casual employment, she had decided to immerse herself in preparing for the civil service exams, so that their encounters were reduced to awkward exchanges on the gloomy landing of a rickety stairwell while her mother spied on them through a crack in the door, pretending to be busy in the kitchen. Hungry for human contact, Alberto returned the old lady’s gesture without thinking, almost as a reflex: he folded his arms round her,
careful not to crush her bones, which felt as fragile as a wafer, inhaling the smell of her wrinkled skin, and surrendering to the godsend of this unexpected contact. Methodical and appreciative, he held her firmly, replenishing himself as from a pitcher, aware that this couldn’t last, and that soon the old lady would look him in the face and realize that the darkness of the corridor had led her to mistake the encyclopedia salesman for one of her nearest and dearest.
However, when at last they disentangled themselves and stood gazing at one another, the old lady’s lips were curved in a broad smile.
“José Luis, my son,” she exclaimed, her voice cracking with emotion. “I knew that you’d come, that you wouldn’t forget your mother on her birthday.”
Startled, Alberto blinked as he thought he detected the cloudiness of cataracts in the old lady’s eyes. This, added to the dim light from the naked bulb in the corridor, would explain her mistake. He was about to correct her when the old lady began to propel him along the tomb-like passageway that gave way to a tiny room crammed with antique furniture, most of it buried beneath a litter of crocheted cloths. Lining the shelves were an array of tasteless ornaments and kitschy trinkets that seemed to have proliferated in the semidarkness of the room like nocturnal creatures. The only hint of color was a birthday cake bristling with candles on the table.
“Sit down, son, and let’s cut the cake. You must be starving,” the old lady said, handing him a paper hat, similar to the one she proceeded to place on her own gray locks.
Motionless in the center of the room, Alberto stared dumbfounded at the old lady as she sat expectantly at the table, her face softened by the glow from the candles, the tilt of her hat redeeming her frail figure. Well, why not? he thought to himself. He had spent all day traipsing around the outskirts of the city, his overcoat buttoned up to the neck, hunched ever lower against the icy winter wind that, if one was to heed those occasional premonitions brought on by rheumatism, indicated that snow was on the way for the first time in twelve years. Viewed from this perspective, the table beneath whose skirts a small heater must be alight seemed to him like a refuge, a mother’s womb, a trench from which to listen in safety to the roar of shells. It cost him nothing to stand in for the ungrateful José Luis and offer his aging mother a few crumbs of happiness.
His mind made up, he set his briefcase down on the floor, took a seat in the rocking chair, and with the deliberate gestures of a practiced surgeon, picked up the cake knife. Emphasizing his assumed relaxed air by humming a tune, he cut the cake, all the while casting sidelong glances at the old lady, who in turn watched him with a contented smile. After serving, they each tucked into their slice amid a convent-like silence, broken only by the sighs of pleasure they gave in praise of the baker’s expertise.
While they were devouring the confection, Alberto noticed two photographs hanging on one of the walls. One was of a dark-haired woman with pale skin and dreamy eyes, doubtless the old lady’s daughter. The other was of a skinny individual with a plain face and aquiline nose, who must have been José Luis. Alberto had to admit there was a vague resemblance between him and the man he was substituting, although the person in the photograph had a determined look that he himself hadn’t been lucky enough to be born with. Clearly José Luis belonged to that group of people who see life as an exciting challenge, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him rushing about with rolled-up charts under his arm, or delving confidently into a surgery wearing latex gloves, or giving orders to a team of encyclopedia salesmen made up of those who had just enough blood in their veins to keep them alive. In any event, it was sad that he had something apparently more important to do than accompany his mother on her birthday. As sad as it was that he himself had nothing better to do somewhere else.
“Where’s my present?” the old lady suddenly asked.
Her question startled Alberto. He peered at his hostess, not knowing what to say, until he remembered the gift he had bought for Cristina that very afternoon while wandering around a shopping center. He had gone this far, why not go the whole hog? he thought, fumbling in his case. He took out the gift, unwrapped it, and showed it to the old lady. She looked skeptically at the glass sphere sitting in Alberto’s cupped hand.
“It’s a snow globe,” he explained.
He gave it a brusque shake, and snow instantly began to fall on the quaint little village enclosed inside. The old lady’s face lit up when she saw the snowflakes appear as if from nowhere. She took it from Alberto with awe and, after a brief hesitation, ventured to shake it herself, conjuring once more the snow that fell on the miniature scene. Then, putting it to one side, as though wishing to save the pleasure for when she was alone, she smiled contentedly at her bogus son.
“It’s a toy world that obeys its own laws,” said Alberto, raising his eyebrows toward the globe. “Everything inside it works differently.”
The old lady nodded gravely, although she couldn’t possibly have understood what he was talking about. Alberto immediately chided himself for having responded to the old lady’s kindly disposition with his impressions of the snow globe in the form of that private, stupid thought, but it was too late. Then he recalled how he’d ventured into that store in the shopping center for no other reason than to muster the courage to go back outside to face the cold. He had wandered around the aisles, looking at the cheap trinkets as a feeling of hopelessness crept up on him. Would he fritter away the future with this same feeling of apathy, wasting his time hanging around in bars and stores like a beggar who doesn’t even have the solace of wine to disguise his useless existence? What was he supposed to do if he wasn’t even strong enough to face the elements, and couldn’t even find a dream to pursue, a desire he could devote himself to attaining, if only to show some mettle? Sometimes he would examine his life, weighing and measuring his day, and find only a small change: the rush of pleasure when he sold an encyclopedia, the triumph of stealing a kiss or caress from Cristina—scant gratification for his perseverance in the landing’s silent gloom—and he would go to bed defeated, terrified at the prospect that this world was immutable, that for things to change he would need willpower. Lost in these morbid thoughts, his eyes had fallen upon the snow globe standing on a shelf. Inside it, the maker had enclosed a fairy-tale village, made up of four or five log cabins and a few fir trees. Without knowing why, Alberto imagined he was living in one of the cabins in the globe, surrounded by neighbors who, like him, had abandoned a hostile existence, and who were determined to make this imaginary life work. Finally, compelled by the shop assistant’s increasingly suspicious looks, he had purchased the snow globe, that world within a world, subject to the laws of a god who only had the power to sprinkle them with a bit of harmless snow from time to time.
“Your sister should be calling soon,” the old lady suddenly declared, waking Alberto from his reverie. Thrown for an instant, Alberto fixed his eyes on the photograph of the woman on the wall, not without a measure of alarm. “She never used to call, you know. But since the day I took her to task, she hasn’t forgotten once.”
At that moment, as if the old lady’s words were a spell, the phone rang. Alberto started and glanced about for the device making that harsh, impertinent noise. He discovered it on a nearby side table, hidden under a pile of junk. The old woman rose laboriously, went over to the apparatus, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, my dear,” she said, visibly moved. “How are you? Is it cold in Brussels?”
Touched, Alberto watched the old lady as she stood next to the table swaying lightly as if the weight of the earpiece was upsetting her balance. As he listened to her talking, he admired her wizened frame, the accumulation of years that lay before him, and he couldn’t help feeling slightly dizzy as he became conscious that the old lady had lived in a different time from him, that she had been alive when he was nothing more than a remote possibility, a hypothesis made reality by the stubbornness of a cobbler who wouldn’t give up until the daughter of his best customer agreed to accompany hi
m to the Christmas dance. He observed the forlorn creature with infinite tenderness, marveling at all the experiences her eyes must have stored up and regretting it was a legacy that had no heir, one that would be washed down the drain when death finally decided to pull the plug on her. What kind of life had fate allotted her? he wondered. Judging from the lowly hovel where she spent her days, she must have led the thankless and anonymous life of a worker bee, the kind that always seems to take place alongside real life, whatever that might be. Together with a husband, who doubtless had died a few years ago and about whom Alberto could fathom nothing, the woman had courageously raised two children, for whom no sacrifice was too great, and now she doubtless considered the few years she had left as idle time, which she had no idea how to employ. At that point in life, thought Alberto, having fulfilled all our duties, all we can do is sit down and preserve our energy, enjoy the love of our nearest and dearest and the satisfaction of knowing that we are the hidden creators of their achievements, that we have brought into the world someone who by their actions shows us our efforts were worthwhile. Although it was obvious that her children had denied her the pleasure of seeing them build their lives. At any rate, the daughter was calling from far-off Brussels. This fellow José Luis, who apparently had remained in the city, couldn’t even be bothered to do that. Saddened, Alberto carried on eating his piece of cake as he listened to their conversation, slightly concerned where it might lead. He became alarmed when, after a few minutes of simply nodding at the chatter coming from the other end of the telephone, the old lady said: