Читать книгу Blue Label - Eduardo Sánchez Rugeles - Страница 7

BITS AND PIECES FROM THE BACK PAGE

(ENGLISH, PSYCHOLOGY, EARTH SCIENCES NOTEBOOKS, ETC.)

1

The plan at first sight seems simple: if I can prove that I’m a third-generation descendant of a French family, I might be able to save myself. I need to find someone I’ve never met. All I know is that his name is Laurent, and what’s more, he’s my grandfather.

2

Eugenia — my mom — thwarted my expectations of her usual dramatics. There were no attacks of hypoglycemia or labyrinthitis. “I need to talk to Dad. Can you give me his phone number?” I asked bluntly. I thought she wouldn’t speak to me for weeks after that. I imagined various scenarios: clonazepam, dizziness, asthma, or any of her other performances. She turned around and went into her bedroom. When she returned to the living room, she handed me a copy of the Sunday newspaper supplement. She’d jotted down the number in the margin. “Why do you want to talk to him?” she asked calmly, without hysterics. “I need to talk to him about something.” I pretended to read the supplement. “If you’re going to see Alfonso, make sure it’s somewhere well lit, in public. Don’t give him your phone number. Don’t tell him where we live. You know that your father isn’t well.” Eugenia has always been a tactful woman, far too polite.

3

Jorge has the body of a child. He’ll never be able to grow a beard or mustache. At best, every three days, six or seven evenly spaced hairs sprout on his chin. Little by little, I’ve stopped liking him. He bores me. He’s corny and sentimental. I’d prefer it if he were frank and direct, more open and spontaneous, less considered. I’d like to be able to talk to Jorge, to tell him that I can’t stand the same routine day after day, that I miss Daniel, that I hate my house, tell him about my father’s disasters, or my crazy plan to find my grandfather, Laurent. We don’t talk much in our relationship. Our feelings often get in the way.

I don’t like smoking. Jorge smokes. He’s proud of the fact that he started when he was twelve. His mouth tastes like an ashtray. A slimy film with a bitter taste coats his tongue. His saliva tastes like soy sauce. He says he wants to see me. I know he’s lying. He just wants to paw me and undress me with the pent-up frustration of someone who’s autistic. Jorge’s intelligent. However, my body drives him crazy. His mind latches onto it, and he ends up behaving like an animal. I hate him. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t ask questions. He just leers at me. I really liked Jorge — once. He’s the only boy I’ve ever kissed. I revealed my breasts to him without a trace of anxiety or shame. We were — we still are — awkward lovers. Sex, rather than being a pleasure, is just a distraction. The flesh experiences pleasure or pain regardless. The internet is the best school of anatomy. Natalia regularly sends me videos or photos of hunks. Jorge’s quite plain. He’s no great beauty. Eroticism on the web is air-brushed. Reality — with its textures, smells, and sounds — is a lot cruder. Besides which, daily life doesn’t come with a soundtrack.

4

I don’t like my house. In my literature textbook, I came across a poem by a man called García who expresses a similar hang-up: “I am not I, nor is my house now my house,” or something like that. My mom worships and defends a family that doesn’t exist. She talks too much. She thinks she knows me because we eat lunch together, and sometimes, dinner. Eugenia stopped living one day in April when Beto and Daniel — each in his own way — decided to leave home. She never says it, but I know that my mom utterly deplores my silence. She thinks I’ve been indifferent to our tragedy. I can’t stand her public displays of grief or her policy of exhibiting her misery. Common courtesy between us has broken down. She asks obvious questions: “Did you do your homework, Eugenia?”— my mom and I have the same name —“Are you hungry, Eugenia? Do you want anything from the supermarket, Eugenia?” My communication with her is limited to the exchange of forced smiles, simple questions, and flat monosyllables.

5

“Alfonso. It’s me, Eugenia. I want to talk to you. Call me. It’s important.” He responds with a text message: Bar Juan Sebastian in El Rosal. Eight o’clock. Around six, under a gray, stormy sky, I grab a cab. I once thought that Alfonso was someone important. In primary school, I had a certain pride in telling my classmates and my teachers that my father was an artist. Alfonso Blanc was some kind of actor or casting director in the nineties. When I was a kid, I went to the Venevisión TV studio with him several times. The heavens open up: a torrential downpour begins. As always, Avenida Libertador is inundated. The cabdriver stares at me with a sadistic expression and suggests shortcuts down dark alleys. Jorge sends me a corny message. The memory of Alfonso dredges up fuel smells. The stench makes me dizzy. I constantly curse the crassness of memory. Alfonso had a VHS tape on the living room table. My father liked to tell everyone that he was a professional singer. Whenever we had company, after the second drink, he’d turn on the TV and play that tape. It was totally embarrassing. Daniel would cover his ears and hide in his room. Alfonso would force his guests to watch his appearance on a talent show called How Much Is the Show Worth? At the end of his performance, some bald man — supposedly an expert — told him that the timbre of his voice was good but that he should work on his modulation. Also, an old woman with red hair complimented him on his “knockout” shirt and, after a sarcastic laugh, offered him a sum of money. It was awful. I know that my mom felt really bad. The guests didn’t know how to respond. Feigning praise was impossible. Later, after the divorce, Alfonso would call me at home, faking tenderness in a moronic voice: “Eugenia, it’s your daddy.” (I’ve always loathed his use of diminutives.) “Listen, the day after tomorrow I’m going to appear in a sketch on a program called Viviana at Midnight. I’m calling to make sure that you watch me. You know, your father’s an artist.” The worst thing about those days was having to go to school. I was convinced I was a real laughingstock.

“I want to escape from this shit. I can’t stand the absurdities of these military goons. I’ve been checking out the French Embassy website. If I can find Grandpa Laurent, they might grant me French citizenship. I have to find him. I want to talk to him. Tell me where he is.” I can tell he feels intimidated. My false nerve has worked. What a dive! The place looks like a venue for bachelorette parties. A giant banner announces the evening concert: “Boleros with Elba Escobar.” God! “How are you?” he stammers eventually. He’s thinner than ever before, as thin as a rake. Although he’s a young man, his complexion is sallow. He looks like a stray dog, one of those three-legged ones that roam the streets. He has lank, dirty hair and looks like a bum. What’s more, the stench of the Guaire River follows him around. His forehead and his hands glisten with sweat. “You’ve grown, Eugenia. You’re a woman now.” His double chin sags. It’s gross. I get the impression that, when he said the word “woman,” he was staring at my boobs. “How’s your mother?” he enquires sadly. “Do me a favor, Alfonso — just tell me about Laurent. Where can I find him?” He lights a cigarette and offers me one. I refuse. “I don’t know where he is, Eugenia. The last time I heard from him was after the incident with Daniel. He called to —” “I don’t want to talk about Daniel.” Elba Escobar greets her fans and begins singing a bolero called “Delirium.” Alfonso takes his time before replying: “Laurent lived in a small town in Barinas or Mérida, I’m not sure which, somewhere over there. The place is called Altamira de Cáceres. I probably have an address or number at home. But I think you’re wasting your time. You know that your grandfather’s a strange man.” The same old stories I’ve heard before. My grandfather’s name, for some unknown reason, has always been shrouded in dark legends. “I think he lived in the house of a woman by the name of Herminia. I’ll get the details and text them to you. Are you going to look for him?” “I might. I’m not sure.” “How’s school?” “Fine.” “When do you graduate?” “Now, in July.” “What will you do? What will you study?” “I’m not sure. I still don’t know.” “Can I do anything else for you?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Eugenia.” “What!” Elba Escobar’s wailing ends. She thanks the audience and makes a crude joke. The geriatric crowd applauds. “Nothing, dear. Nothing.” Text message: Jorge (corny as always) says he misses me. Alfonso Blanc makes me want to puke. Around him, everything smells like gasoline.

6

One idea that produces a morbid curiosity in me is suicide. I like to fill my backpack with imaginary explosives and picture my body, laced with nitroglycerin, blown to bits in the school’s corridors. If I had to choose the best place to kill myself, I think it would be Natalia’s house: seventeenth floor, Santa Fe Sur. The balcony of her parents’ bedroom overlooks the Eastern Freeway. The idea of free fall appeals to me. I wonder what there is to think about in mid-air, in the final flight before the fall, before some housewife — who’s speaking on her cell phone — lets out a bloodcurdling scream at witnessing a human form crash onto the roof of a car out front, splattering the windshield with formless extremities. Dr. Fragachán says it’s normal at my age to have violent fantasies. I enjoy pulling his leg. Every week I exaggerate my phobias and manias. Sometimes I feel sorry for him. He gets all nervous. I think he likes me. Natalia reckons he does. After Daniel’s death, everyone agreed that “loco” Eugenia needed therapy. It was meant to help me get things off my chest, talk, cry, scream, and if necessary, take drugs. When Dr. Fragachán told me I could talk about anything I wanted, I told him something that, even today, still makes me crack up. Natalia told everyone, and now, sadly, it’s become a widely recounted anecdote: “My only problem, doctor, is that I masturbate every day. Other than that, it’s all good.”

School is a real drag. Mathematics, Literature, Biology, or History: it’s all the same. During breaks, I escape to the end of the yard to make out with Jorge or to just watch Natalia smoke. The boring routine of school suggests that life is and always will be the same. The future is far off, the past and present are just snapshots of school dress code: white shirt for primary and middle school, blue for junior high, and beige for senior high. School is the only universe I know. My mother has always said that Caracas is a dangerous place, and for that reason, my urban geography is quite limited. I’m not familiar with downtown, nor am I interested in getting to know it. I’ve never been to Mount Ávila. Now, like most of my classmates, Jorge talks about preparatory courses and university entrance exams. I don’t want to study anything. I don’t want to do anything. Daniel used to say that, far away from Caracas, the world might be a different place. I’d like to believe him. If the whole world were like here, then God would have to be credited as being no more than a mediocre architect. Cristian, the history teacher, always browbeats us with patriotic speeches. He says you have to fight and stand up and be counted. He enjoys delivering terrible harangues. “Democracy” is his favorite word. My classmates generally watch him with thoughtful expressions — or so it seems — while he urges us to follow the examples of dead heroes. Cristian’s final “lecture” was different. Not because of anything he said: he always repeated the same things. The difference was the reaction of the new boy, Luis Tévez: “Fight, my ass! What fight are you talking about? Hulk Hogan — now there’s someone who fought.” The snickers started after that. The teacher, however, wasn’t laughing. “Yokozuna fought.” Cristian stared at him dumbfounded. “Evander Holyfield fought. Why would anyone around here fight? Venezuelans have always been cowards. Roberto ‘Hands of Stone’ Durán fought too.” The whole class was drowning in laughter at those comments. Cristian called for order, and then, just like in a bad movie, we were saved by the bell announcing recess.

7

Everybody’s talking about the approaching Easter break. Natalia has invited us to her house in Chichiriviche. Then the cycle begins over again: pool, barbecue, sex, beer, spaced-out stoners, and nothing else. I don’t feel like going to Chichiriviche. The truth is — I don’t want to be with Jorge. Jorge says that that house is special, because it was there we made love for the first time. He never says the word “sex,” and instead of “tits,” he says “breasts.” I don’t know why he uses euphemisms to talk about sexual matters: for example, “a blow job” is “fellatio.” When he’s with his friends, he’s foulmouthed and vulgar. In that environment, he calls things by their real name. But dating, bizarrely, imposes a certain amount of modesty on him. Natalia told me the same happens with Gonzalo sometimes. “The thing is they have ‘sex’ with whores, while with us — their girlfriends — they ‘make love.’”

Luis Tévez arrived in January. He was a sort of dropout. From last year’s graduating class — or something like that. I don’t know why he had to go to Brussels. Apparently he did some type of course in Europe that would be recognized in Caracas and would allow him to get his high school diploma without any difficulty. The Ministry complicated matters, so he was forced to repeat the second half of the final year. Luis was much bigger than us — more adult, more grown-up. His beard looked real. In the beginning, he appeared to me to be somewhat pudgy and out of proportion. His small head contrasted with his broad shoulders. He was neither fat nor skinny, short but not a dwarf. (Jorge was much taller.) What he did have, in contrast to my “little friends,” was the look of a man. His arrival gave rise to various myths about him. Rumor had it that Luis Tévez was well versed in alternative sexual practices and hardcore drugs. In reality, he was shy. He spoke to no one. He had a scar on his left shoulder, apparently the result of a bullet wound. Natalia fell in love with him at first sight. “Man, he’s so nice, I adore him!” she’d say while trying to do yoga. Luis was indifferent toward us. The boys held conflicting attitudes: some admired him, while others hated him. Jorge belonged to the first group. Luis Tévez inadvertently became a role model. Everyone wanted to dress like him, listen to the same music that he listened to, use the same aftershave, smoke the same brand of cigarettes. Luis had the habit of wearing his shirt only half tucked in. This insignificant detail became, all of a sudden, the standard uniform. I never spoke to him. He never spoke to me. The day when he told the history teacher, Cristian, that a group of unknown boxers were the true fighters of history, he was different. I saw, perhaps, the most beautiful eyes — although I hate the word “beautiful”— that I’ve ever seen. They were a kind of sad chestnut, a melancholy russet, a homesick brown. (Colored pencils have these kinds of ridiculous names.) I never imagined that Luis Tévez would be the person who would help me find my grandfather, Laurent, or that I would go with him to the University of the Andes to interview a reactionary poet. Usual routine suggested that this Easter, like all previous ones, I would spend at Natalia’s beach house, going through the same old rituals. My encounter with Luis Tévez would change everything. When, at the insistence of my mother and Natalia, I enrolled in the John Doe Preparatory Course — or some other gringo name such as that — I thought I’d signed up for countless days of boredom and a waste of time. That course was awful. However, it was there, by chance, that something different happened.

8

Once again we were conned: the preparatory course was a sham. The teacher, Susana, blinded us with false advertising. She coordinated a training course that was held on weekends. The classes would supposedly be delivered by a group of trained education specialists. Those “qualified experts” ended up being Susana’s younger brother, a student of mathematics at the Institute of Industrial Technology, and a cousin from Barquisimeto, who was studying the second semester of literature at Libertador Experimental Pedagogical University. Eugenia, who fretted over my future, forced me to enroll. Natalia, Jorge, and the others did the course out of boredom. Every Saturday morning Susana handed us a stack of photocopies: exercises taken from the internet, lists of synonyms, difficult equations, etcetera. Susana’s brother, whose name I’ve forgotten, was a real character. The class put him on edge. Natalia, in particular, unnerved him. She liked to wear short skirts and make him feel uncomfortable with suggestive movements. Those were the most useless mornings of my life. Luckily, I had my iPod. Luis Tévez enrolled at the end of January. An interesting shake-up in routine occurred then.

The building where the preparatory course was held was really run-down. It was an old house that had been converted to accommodate a few stores, a bakery, and in the evening, a sort of gay disco, or as Natalia said, a venue with “ambience.” The John Doe Preparatory Course was taught in what appeared to be a storeroom at the end of a hallway. That hall stank of marijuana, vomit, and piss. The Friday drunks from the disco would invariably be leaving to go home as we entered to improve our communication and numeracy skills. Susana’s brother often delayed the start of class, borrowing a mop to clean up the mess on the floor. Next to the disco on the second floor was a sex shop called Kamasutra. Natalia was keen to check it out, but the invisible weight of eleven years of Catholic education had given rise to uncomfortable feelings of shame and embarrassment in us — we were seventeen years old and inexperienced. We’d stand in front of the window and go into fits of laughter. That shop was managed by a gorgeous-looking guy. He had long, unwashed, curly black hair. He was around twenty years old. Natalia and I often saw him in the bakery.

Luis Tévez’s arrival at the preparatory course was an event. He made an unforgettable impression when he showed up on a motorbike one morning. The usual adoring crowd surrounded the hero’s wheels and uttered expressions of awe and amazement. Luis removed a bright-colored helmet. Jorge joined the welcoming committee. Everyone adored Luis. Even those who said they despised him were captivated by his involuntary charm. “What’s up, dude!” called out a voice I didn’t recognize. Natalia grabbed my shoulder: it was the manager of Kamasutra. They slapped each other’s backs. A bunch of idiots surrounded them, looking on at them as if they were gods from some far-off galaxy. Luis’s friend was called Mel Camacho.

The following week, at morning break, we decided to go in. “Act like you’re experienced, and don’t get shocked by anything. Don’t laugh,” I said. When we entered the shop, Luis Tévez and Mel Camacho were talking at the counter. We didn’t know that Luis was there. Natalia grabbed me around the waist and dragged me over to a wall display with a range of huge dildos. There were some enormous objects, formless prosthetic devices, extremely large artificial genitalia. Although I was supposed to be the introvert and the impressionable one, Natalia was the one who got intimidated. Generally she exuded an air of sexual confidence. She enjoyed being crude and vulgar. She had a great talent for uttering obscenities and making lewd remarks. But, after copping an eyeful of hardcore images being shown on a TV, and walking around a stand filled with lubricants and “intradiegetic” pleasure pearls, her open-mindedness failed her. Mel and Luis weren’t even looking at us. Natalia wanted to get their attention. She grabbed a huge tub of banana-flavored gel — or something like that — and steered me toward the counter. “Hi. I want to take this.” I’m certain that, for the first time, Luis Tévez took notice of me. Mel Camacho took the product, scanned it, and put it into a plain, dark bag. Then he gave me some unexpected advice: “Some customers have complained about this type of gel. Apparently, it can cause allergies. I recommend you use it with a condom. You can take these, if you want.” Without giving it a thought, he placed a packet of Durex inside the bag. “Will you take them?” “Yes,” I said, a little dazed. “You’re in my class, aren’t you?” Luis Tévez asked. I nodded. “You’re Jorge Ferrer’s girlfriend, right?” I said I was. I felt stupid. “This is my friend, Natalia.” Natalia approached and introduced herself with the blank stare of a lobotomy patient. “Anything else?” Mel interrupted. “Some lube, a film? We’ve just got in some new stuff.” “Anything with Belladonna in it?” I improvised, but with convincing assurance. He took out a box from a safe and placed it on the counter. Natalia continued standing there with an inexpressive face. Luis lit a cigarette and offered us one. I declined. Natalia accepted. “Did you know that Belladonna set up her own company called Evil Angel?” said Mel. “We’ve got some great stuff. I recommend No Warning. It’s got the works: gang bangs, bukkake, lesbians, squirt.” I pretended to be interested in a cover full of softcore images displaying a kind of conventional eroticism, but I’d never seen anything like it before. Natalia picked up the cover and looked at the photos on the other side, screwing up her face: “This girl’s a slut,” she said with disgust. Luis and Mel let out a few chuckles like canned laughter from an eighties sitcom. “Do you like lasagna?” asked Mel. I had the impression — almost the certainty — that Natalia and I looked to them like a pair of idiots. But to my surprise, they invited us out to lunch.

9

Inevitable melodrama: I don’t want to go to Chichiriviche. Jorge — a mediocre actor — plays the role of the offended lover. Party night. Gonzalo’s parents are away on a trip. The house is filled with smoke and puddles of spilled beer. Loud, piercing sounds of reggaeton. Natalia is grinding. Everybody’s grinding. Some jerks from Class B are playing cards, trading insults with macho enthusiasm. A headache forces me to go outside. There, in the garden, intoxicated teenagers attempt to seduce one another without success. Jorge wants to talk. I hate it when he wants to talk. Wanting to talk inevitably means arguing. I know that he’ll just reel off a list of insults and grievances. “You’re acting strange, Eugenia.” That’s how it usually starts. My silence softens him. After that he generally makes a pathetic appeal: “Don’t you love me anymore, Eugenia?” “Yes, of course I love you, Jorge.” I’m on automatic, a necessary mechanical response. The script is the same as always. But this time, before reaching an interim agreement sealed with kisses, I tell him I have no desire to go to Chichiriviche. Stunned silence followed by questions. Tension. Then, when I don’t supply a reason, he yells at me. I yell back at him. He tells me to go to hell. I tell him to go to hell. In his simple and one-dimensional universe, he tries to hurt me by making me jealous: he dances a stupid slow dance, a bachata, with a dumbass, private-school bimbo, who at one time — in kindergarten or in primary school — had been his girlfriend. It’s true it hurt me. I always get hurt. Not by him. What hurts, I suppose, is my pride, someone making a play for my personal property. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to grab her by the hair, drag her along the ground, and spit on her. The stuff of cultural upbringing and genes . . . I suppose.

Luis Tévez came at midnight. Three drunken clowns chanted earnest greetings to him. He parked his motorbike in front of the house and walked toward the entrance. The soundtrack of bachatas stopped him in his tracks, and he pulled a face. His state of “shock” made me laugh. I couldn’t help it. He looked at me and said: “What crap.” Every party I’d ever been to was the same: the same music, the same volume, the same stories, the same drunks. “Yeah,” I said, for something to say, “it’s awful.” It was cold. Even though I don’t like smoking, I accepted the cigarette he offered me. Luis took his black Zippo lighter from the pocket of his jacket and brought his hands to my face. We smoked in silence. He stared at me with a childish expression. I remembered our lunch, with him and Mel. That was a strange day. We didn’t talk about anything. Mel Camacho spent the entire meal talking about porno films and giving blow-by-blow accounts of repulsive storylines. Luis had seemed to me to be trying to impress Natalia with entertaining anecdotes. Natalia is prettier than me; I know that, and it pisses me off. Natalia’s tits are much nicer than mine; I know that, and it pisses me off. However, I also know that she’s superficial and predictable. I’m convinced that, at second glance, I must appear more interesting. A reggaeton song called “They Talk Bad about Me” began to play. Luis turned abruptly and swore loudly. “This shit’s gonna give me an earache,” he said. He walked over to his motorbike. He grabbed his helmet, jumped on, and started up the motor. “Are you coming?” he asked. “Where to?” “I have to go by my place to get something. Then, I don’t know, around somewhere.” I glanced through the half-open door. The pathetic bimbo was batting her eyes at Jorge. Natalia and Gonzalo were arguing in the background. I didn’t give it much thought. Suddenly, a cold breeze hit my face with an unexpected and violent fury.