Читать книгу Blue Label - Eduardo Sánchez Rugeles - Страница 8

NIGHT

1

All nights are the same: the ceiling and Mount Ávila. My mother had imposed a totalitarian regime dictating how late we could stay out. Sanctions for breaking the rules involved a series of chores. I know all about the curse of insomnia. First comes the darkness, then the battle. During sleepless nights as a kid, I had to listen to the fights between Eugenia and Alfonso. I was a silent witness to freakish sideshows. Frightened by the noise, Daniel would climb into my bed and pull me close against his chest. I knew then that Eugenia “mother” was a whore and that Alfonso Blanc was a moron: in between half-formed sentences, they dished out the same insults to one another repeatedly. Daniel cried. He was always timid. His weakness forced me to put on a show of strength, which everyone assumes I have, even though I don’t. Natalia says that nothing affects me. I’ve often thought I don’t know how to be happy or sad. It’s true, I’m inexpressive. Jorge says that I’m a cold fish, that sometimes, when he kisses me, it feels like he’s kissing a dead person. Insomnia makes it easy to brood over pointless things. Sometimes I have a chat with Natalia or the odd acquaintance, but lately all human interaction bores me.

Even before he left home, Alfonso was scared of me. I learned how to freeze him with a look, to insult him the same way my mother did, to make fun of his pathetic wishes, his trivial aspirations. Not because I took Eugenia’s side. She was of use to me: a vending machine dispensing food and cash. In the small hours of the night, during my childhood, after the cessation of hostilities — which, appallingly, ended with noisy sex — I concocted all kinds of tragic ends for the both of them. Alfonso I humiliated and did away with in all possible ways: I had him running down the highway in his underwear, wearing a Dipsy mask — the green Teletubby. Eugenia I bashed and violated with blunt objects. At the time, I wasn’t quite sure what a “violation” actually was, but the brutality of the word served as a useful tool for my violent fantasies.

The nights during my adolescence were similar. Alfonso disappeared. His place was taken by Roberto — Beto. Our home life improved. Beto was a quiet, simple, easygoing guy. Nothing ever bothered him. He never raised his voice, and he never tried to buy us off with false praise. One April, Beto’s patience finally ran out. I remember he stood by the front door, calm and unruffled, and said: “Eugenia, you’re crazy. You and your kids would be better off in a madhouse.” Then he shut the door and left. After that, the house went back to being a hellhole. Later, Daniel started “acting out,” and Eugenia totally lost connection to the real world.

One night, during my latest bout of insomnia, I heard the name of my grandfather, Laurent, being whispered. Another night, a huge map of the world appeared before me. Another all-nighter carried me into Daniel’s bedroom, and, in the middle of all his things — his unmade bed, his Harry Potter books — I decided that I wanted to get the hell out of Venezuela. The small hours — a time of sad reflection, more than bitterness — were all alike: from the balcony — a view of Mount Ávila; from the mattress — the ceiling. One of the strangest nights of my life was the one in which I took off with Luis Tévez. It was different, exciting, unusual, full of strange characters and colorful scenes. When Luis parked the motorbike, I called Eugenia and told her not to worry, that I’d be staying at Natalia’s place. It was 12:52 a.m.

We stopped at an arepa stand. “Tell you what we’ll do: first, we’ll swing by my place. I have to get my camera. After that, we’ll go to Titina’s house. I think they’re having a reading today. And at 5:00 a.m., I have to be at Floyd’s house to finalize an installation. Is that OK with you?” I nodded. Luis Tévez spoke through his nose, barely changing the tone of his voice, accompanying his words with brusque gestures. His hands — whenever there wasn’t a cigarette stuck between his fingers — shook in a form of early Parkinson’s disease. We shared a cachapa and a Coke. We talked about everything and said nothing. During our conversation, Luis’s eyes appeared to be following the flight of an insect. My cell phone was filled with missed calls and messages: four from Jorge, three from Natalia. Call me, bitch. Natalia. I decided to turn off my phone.

2

All parents are the same. The lessons in life are plain and simple: perfect marriages, dysfunctional cohabitation, traumatic divorces, gender-based, interracial, and intergenerational violence. Beyond the formal differences, what these couples all have in common is the myth of the happy home: they all want to appear as one big happy family. Luis’s family, although somewhat atypical, was no exception to this manufactured idea. We crossed the Eastern Freeway: Santa Fe, Santa Inés, Los Samanes, entered a mountain pass, and after that, I lost my bearings. We stopped at a tall building. Luis lived on the twenty-second floor.

When the doors of the lift opened, I saw an old man holding a stringed instrument. Luis’s mom placed her index finger to her lips. Everyone at the party — about a dozen people — threw us dirty looks. Luis walked on tiptoes. A group of old people stared with bored devotion at the virtuoso mandolin player. A flan, some canapés, a vanilla custard slice, and a bowl of Doritos were on a table. The noise of our shoes on the parquet floor caused Luis’s mom to reprimand us. The mandolin player was chewing the inside of his cheek and had the expression of someone experiencing a solo orgasm. In the middle of the room were some bottles of whisky, imported beers, a four-stringed cuatro, maracas, and a guitar. Two high notes announced the end of the piece. Applause, acclaim, cheers, exclamations. I don’t know why, but I found the player disagreeable. He had a smooth, freckled bald spot that was sunburned. His horrible mustache covered his lips, and saliva foamed at the corners of his mouth. He put the mandolin down and requested a whisky. Then he hurled a few curses into the air and enthusiastically shouted a few rounds of “Hell, yeah!” Luis’s mom referred to him as the “Maestro.” Luis told me that the Maestro was a member of an important group. I’m not sure what it was called: Serenata Guayanesa, Ensemble Gurrufío, El Terceto, El Cuarteto — something like that. They were fellow choir members of whichever group Luis’s mom belonged to. They were celebrating someone’s birthday that day. “Luis, greet the Maestro,” the strange-looking woman said, rather anxiously. Multiple cosmetic procedures had ruined her face. Her skin looked like one big scar. Her hair had red tones. She shook my hand with indifference, not even glancing at me. She was awed by the Maestro. “What’s up, Enrico!” Luis said with a barely disguised suggestiveness. The mandolin player called him “juvenile delinquent,” while embracing him lewdly and cursing at him. The fans reached a consensus and requested another song. The Maestro allowed himself to be cajoled and, after a few lame jokes and obnoxious pleas, said that he’d play a piece by some Aldemaro Romero or other. Luis asked me to wait for him in the living room, apologizing for subjecting me to that circus of horrors. He said he’d grab his camera and that we’d head over to Titina’s place straightaway. The Maestro played a pretty piece. Even so, because of his disgusting mustache and his bald spot, I just couldn’t appreciate it. Besides, the faces of the other clowns who were listening reminded me of the expressions of the mental patients at the Altamira Sanatorium, where for three months, I’d had to do work experience.

Fortunately, Luis returned quickly. A huge camera dangled from his neck. “Ready,” he said. “Let’s go.” Señora Aurora — his mom — told us we couldn’t leave until the cake was cut. Luis made some feeble excuses. The group stood up and approached the big table. The lights were turned off. What a disgrace! I said to myself. I hate the “Happy Birthday” song. It’s the stupidest song in the whole wide world. Some dwarf grabbed a cuatro and plucked a few chords. The birthday boy was a cross-eyed fatso, whom Luis suspected of being a hermaphrodite. Luis touched my shoulder, and we snuck out surreptitiously. They sang “Happy Birthday” in its Creole entirety: “Oh what a wonderful night, / It’s the night of your birthday . . .” It was horrible. Before we left, I saw the Maestro place his hand on Señora Aurora’s ass. I grabbed Luis around the waist, and the bike roared into life. Speed — I discovered that day — ignites a certain type of passion.

3

High schools abound in mythical figures: the history of every school is filled with stories of legendary characters. Like the famed student (the son of a deputy principal), who — along with three anonymous companions — once urinated in the cafeteria. Also famous is the legend surrounding Longo, the immortal Longo, who, supposedly aggrieved at having failed Graphic Design — a situation that couldn’t be redressed — slashed the teacher’s face with a utility knife. There are always rumors spreading around about non-existent people, rebellious desires, wild antics, and heroes with absurd glories. It took me a while to figure out that we were going to Titina Barca’s house. She was famous throughout all the schools in East Caracas. She was older than me, having repeated a few years. They threw her out of our school in eighth grade. After changing between various schools in the city — both public and private — Titina ended up studying in a popular dive known as the Open Classroom. The story that made her famous is a bit gross, so I’ll just be direct: last year — or the one before that, I don’t remember exactly when — the rumor got around that, during recess, they’d found some chick sucking the PE teacher’s cock in one of the rooms at the Open Classroom. It was Titina Barca. It was also said that Titina wrote erotic poetry and that she’d won several literary competitions. Although I’d heard a lot about her, I’d never actually seen her. We went to a house in La Floresta. Luis asked them to open the garage, as he didn’t want to leave his motorbike out on the street. The gate was opened by a guy with a familiar head of hair: Mel Camacho.

I couldn’t believe it. Everything was totally different. Here were all the elite of the rumor mill. Besides Titina Barca, there was the black girl, Nairobi, and the guy with slick hair, Pelolindo Roque — Andreína Vargas’s former boyfriend, who’d bashed some guy’s head in from Class B. There were some unusual people, unique in their diverse assortment. A really cute girl, pale and slim, approached me and greeted me. She introduced me to a fat guy called José Miguel, and thanks to her, I was also able to shake hands with the black girl, Nairobi, a cult figure at all the school proms and the local cinema’s matinee screenings. Luis said he’d go up to Titina’s bedroom to dump his camera. Before he went, he suggested I be careful with Claire, my enthusiastic guide, as she was a lesbian and a radical feminist. I’d never met a lesbian before. That was something alien: a topic for discussion at school, but absent from real life. One time, I think, while playing Spin the Bottle, Natalia had to give Claudia Gutiérrez a peck, but that was just random. And once, on the internet, we saw a video of a couple of private-school girls kissing each other in a bathtub, but, beyond that, we knew nothing. We were quite naive.

Titina Barca lived up to her reputation: she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She greeted Luis with a kiss on the lips and told him that he’d arrived in time for the reading of peomas — dirty poems. Pelolindo Roque and Nairobi had read theirs already, but in fifteen minutes the fat boy José Miguel’s presentation would begin. Claire gave me some rum and invited me to sit down beside her. Luis and Mel were arguing about something, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Titina Barca began to dance alone to a song that really appealed to me: “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon.” I made out as if I knew it, given that everyone said it was from the soundtrack to a famous film from the nineties. After Titina’s performance — which everyone applauded wildly — Nairobi took the stage. She announced the reading of José Miguel’s peomas. However, a sharp and repetitive ringing at the doorbell interrupted the bard before he could begin. “It’s Vadier,” they all said. “Vadier’s arrived,” Luis said to me in whispers. I knew then that the myth was true: Vadier Hernández existed.

One of my brother’s school friends, Antonio Suárez — a real nerdy type, slim, sporty, had the highest grades, a math champion, etcetera — had told him about this weird guy called Vadier, who was in his class. Vadier had been thrown out of school in ninth or tenth grade. For their end-of-class celebration in final year, everyone got together at Antonio’s place. It was one of those model homes. The señores Aurelio and Lidia Suárez were your typical idle parents, lacking in all vices, who organized lunches, meetings, and provided a moral compass for the ailing society of parents. Vadier showed up at that party at midnight. Antonio Suárez had a hunch that something wasn’t right when Vadier asked him his parents’ names. “Lidia and Aurelio,” he said, without giving their titles. A bad feeling is generally a sign of inevitable misfortune. Apparently, Vadier approached the table at which the señores Suárez were seated, chatting with another group of parents, and — coinciding exactly with the end of a song — calmly and evenly said: “Señor Aurelio, Señora Lidia! Would either of you mind if I smoked a joint in your house?” Señora Lidia, who suffered from a heart complaint, fainted. I recalled this story when Vadier entered Titina’s house. He barged in, heading straight toward the bathroom. Just as José Miguel began to deliver his peoma, Vadier called out: “Titi, can you tell me where the kitchen is, please?”

“Five Against One, or An Ode to Onanism” was the name of José Miguel’s peoma. Dead silence. The group improvised a semicircle. Claire grabbed hold of my right hand but didn’t apply any pressure to it. Her skin had a soft texture, and despite Luis’s warning, her nearness didn’t turn me off. I liked her. I didn’t pay any attention to the first few verses. I was drunk on circumstances. I hadn’t had much to drink. My intoxication resulted from the dissimilarity, from the contrasting behaviors, from the audiovisual clash between Natalia dancing reggaeton, Jorge playing dominoes, the usual idiots talking about soccer, and the irreverent group that I had joined that night. I panned happily over the faces of the strangers: Luis, Mel, Pelolindo Roque, Titina, plus the black girl, Nairobi. Incredible. Profound verses struck the impassive listeners. At the high point of the reading, I managed to pay attention: “Five against one, I fantasize / And my pubes are your pubes / And my balls are your breasts / And a small sheet of toilet paper / Is your mouth where I come.” José Miguel began to cry. Nairobi stood up and called for an enthusiastic ovation. But the applause and cheers were interrupted by a foul smell. I covered my nose. “Christ, it’s Vadier!” someone said. Titina ran to the kitchen. Prompted by Claire, I got up and followed the direction of the crowd. On reaching a long countertop, I could see Luis and Mel rolling around on the floor in fits of laughter. The overhead kitchen cupboards were all open. On the table were arranged various condiments and spices: marinade, curry powder, oregano, cinnamon, bay leaves, pepper, a stock cube, and some cumin. Vadier Hernández had been preparing a type of cooked joint. By the time we went back to the living room, the rumor that would later become legend had already been brewed: Vadier had smoked a curry joint. Life is weird: I never imagined that this freak would end up becoming one of my best friends. In that moment, he seemed to me like a retard, a buffoon, a cartoonlike character — from one of those second-rate Ecuadorian imitations of manga. “We’ll leave at 4:00 a.m.,” Luis said to me. “I’ve got to be at Floyd’s place by 5:00 a.m. at the latest.”

I’d never heard of Floyd. Luis told Mel that he planned to do the installation that morning. “Does Floyd have the stuff?” “Yeah, he managed to get twenty pounds,” replied Luis. “What’ll you do at Easter?” asked Mel. “I’m not sure yet.” “Nairobi’s cousin’s got a place in San Carlos. They want to organize a ‘happening.’” I decided to wander around the living room and listen in on various conversations. Claire told me I had the most beautiful nose she’d ever seen and said that she’d like to kiss it. “What — my nose?” “Yes, your nose.” The expression on my face scared her off. My reaction was more one of surprise than disgust. Pelolindo Roque was telling José Miguel and some of the newcomers about how he’d scratched the car of an old actor by the name of Carrillo. “Carrillo — who’s that?” I asked in a low voice. Pelolindo replied without glancing at me: “A two-bit actor from the eighties, who wanders around in a state of confusion with his army buddies. Samuel thought it’d be a good idea to screw him over.” They toasted one another and laughed. Samuel — I wondered in silence — who could that be? Someone blew in my ear. It tickled. It was Luis: “How are you?” “Good,” I replied. “Do you like the party?” “Yeah, it’s good. It’s much better than Gonzo’s.” “I’m sorry for taking you to my place. I forgot it was the birthday of one of my mother’s boyfriends.” “Don’t worry about it. That party was better than Gonzo’s as well.” “You’re not like them.” “Like who?” I got nervous. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I picked up a plastic cup filled with rum and pretended to stir the ice in it with my fingers. “Our classmates,” he said. “They’re just a bunch of kids. I’m not saying that we’re not pains in the ass. My theory is that we’re all assholes, only they’re bigger assholes.” “Bigger assholes?” I felt like a fool responding with a question, but his way of speaking left me with no option. “Yeah, it’s the truth, although there’s one small difference: we’re assholes and we know it. Take Mel, for example. He knows he’s a loser who’s never studied anything and will never do anything and that the farthest he can go in life is to direct a porno film. He knows he’s a no-hoper. Your classmates, on the other hand — our classmates — are a bunch of assholes and they don’t even know it. It’s pretty sad to be an asshole and not realize it, don’t you think?” I said nothing. “Who’s Samuel?” I asked, looking for something new to say. “Samuel?” “Yeah,” I added, “I thought I heard you mention his name when you were talking with Mel, and then Roque told us about scratching some dude’s car, which Samuel had asked him to do.” Luis put his hands on my shoulders. He looked me in the eye and brought his face close up to mine. I thought he was going to kiss me, but the only thing he said was: “Samuel’s the real deal.”

4

Floyd lived in Los Dos Caminos. From his apartment on the third floor there was a clear view of the Metro station. It was approximately 5:15 a.m. The Metro, according to Floyd’s information, would open at 6:00 a.m. I’d never seen such a blob of a guy: a beer-bellied, sunburned, washed-out albino. When we arrived, he was inhaling a gaseous substance from a milk carton. On his balcony were a tripod, some huge camera lenses, and other photographic equipment. Floyd, who had an involuntary twitch, was looking out at the street with a pair of binoculars. “Everything’s in order, Luis. Pass me the camera. We can take various shots from this tripod, and others, by hand.” “Where’s the stuff?” Floyd exhaled from the milk carton and gestured with his chin. “There are three bags of shit in the bathroom,” he said.

“We’re organizing a ‘happening,’” explained Luis. “Do you follow me?” I nodded yes. Floyd appeared in the middle of the living room. He was holding three black bags. Luis explained to me that he was setting up a photographic experiment out of a desire to provoke reaction. He talked about the paradoxical relationship people have with excrement. His plan was to fill the entrance to the Metro full of shit. “It’s all organized,” he said in his enchanting nasal timbre. “When the doors open, from here we can see the passage that leads to the escalators. As soon as the barriers are raised, Floyd’ll go down and place lumps of shit on the floor, on the edges of the escalator, and on the handrails. When people start showing up, I’ll take photos of their reactions, and then next month we’ll display them in an experimental gallery in Las Palmas. What do you think of the idea?” he asked me while swallowing some gum. “It’s disgusting,” I said, without making a big thing of it. “Why?” he asked. “Christ, because it’s shit! And shit is disgusting.” “Eugenia,” he said in a teacherly manner, “people only know how to deal with their own crap. There’s nothing more intimate than shit. We want to share. We’re altruists, our aim is to share.” I’d never heard the word “altruist” before. A narrow strip of light appeared down below. Floyd set off with his cargo. Luis grabbed the camera and took a few snaps. The door to the Metro opened. It wasn’t until 6:30 or 6:45 a.m. that commuters started to appear. The first, a thirty-year-old man who looked gay, stopped short when he encountered the shadowy substance. Luis pressed the button on the camera, and in close up, the man’s face froze. He stood at the entrance to the subway, staring down incredulously at the sinuous pile of shit. He attempted to move forward, but immediately backed up. It seemed as though the repulsive stench were turning his stomach. Between one commuter and another, Luis told me many things. We talked a lot of nonsense. If I had to write down everything he said, those stories would lose their charm. Luis was fascinating to listen to because of the way he spoke, because of his furious gestures. One of the nicest series of photographs he took that morning was of a stray dog: nose to the ground, it began sniffing and turning in happy circles around the station. A little old lady made the sign of the cross and tried jumping onto the escalator. When she grabbed the handrails she gave a start, which nearly made her tumble over. The camera went click. The silhouette of the old lady — with a desolate expression on her face — vanished, descending into the bowels of the earth. The last photo showed a tragicomic image: a woman whose sandals were stuck in poo. When she realized what had happened, she sank to her knees and began to cry loudly and openly. Floyd fell asleep. Luis continued telling me stories. He talked to me about Brussels, France, and the Czech Republic. Stale and tired from being up all night, and somewhat drunk, I told him that I had a French grandfather who lived somewhere in the Andes. I told him about the embassy, the issue of being a third-generation descendant. “We’ll always have Paris,” I said, recalling the phrase from one of Daniel’s favorite films, a cheesy movie in black and white that he normally watched in the early hours of the morning. “Casablanca,” said Luis immediately. “What?” “Casablanca — the film. The phrase comes from that film.” Years later, Vadier would tell me that people tend to fall in love over these kinds of details, or, put less delicately, over saying this kind of shit.

At 8:00 a.m. he accompanied me to Avenida Rómulo Gallegos. He called a cabdriver-friend of his, and we waited on the corner. He gave me three kisses goodbye: one on either cheek, and one on the forehead. “I had a great time with you. See you on Monday at school.” “Yeah, me too. Bye.” From the Metro station, we heard the cleaners hurling curses at the anonymous terrorists. The cab began moving. Luis turned around and left quickly. With vague remorse, I turned on my cell phone. There were thirty-two missed calls from Jorge. The first few text messages showed a certain concern. After the sixth, he called me a whore. Bitch, call me whatever time it is. Jorge went crazy. Nata. I felt sleepy. I’d leave the melodrama for another time. When I arrived home, I went into my bedroom without brushing my teeth or taking off my clothes and threw myself on top of the bed.