Читать книгу The Wonder Singer - George Rabasa - Страница 16

Perla confided to Lockwood that sometimes, especially toward the end of the week, after six twelve-hour days taking care of the Señora, she felt she could hardly breathe. The thermostat, in response to the mild fluctua-tions of the weather, was set either too cold or too warm. The air inside the apartment grew close and heavy.

Occasionally the Señora complained that smells of burning beans and ripening garbage and soiled clothes were seeping in from neighboring apartments. She guessed that the source blowing in through the air conditioning was most likely the wealthy young couple with babies in 1409 or the incontinent old German in 1807 who tried to court her. At such times she ordered the vent flaps to be shut and the air conditioning turned off. She attempted to mask smells that only she was aware of with essential oils combined in therapeutic aromas and simmering in a little electric diffuser.

Nothing was allowed to express its own smell. Linens were laundered in “fresh-scented” Cheer, the kitchen counters had to be wiped daily with lemon Fantastik, the bathroom fixtures with Formula 409, a special carpet deodorizer was sprinkled after vacuuming, containers of round blue pellets hung inside toilet bowls.

Other times the Señora feared that she might be the one exuding a not very pleasant body odor. So she soaked in hot, scented baths and squirted on Giorgio or Givenchy or Joy. These gave Perla headaches and made her nose itch.

“God, I need a breath of air,” Perla exclaimed when the Señora seemed to have dozed off. She actually craved a cigarette. Lockwood did not tease her about her brand of fresh air because he had been trying to ingratiate himself with her for weeks.

She left Lockwood in charge and went for a walk along the beach. He would have offered to accompany her, but the Señora would be upset to awaken and not find either of them at their posts.

Lockwood listened for signs that the Señora was awaking from her chair by the window. It was only two in the afternoon, and their schedule called for him to be working on the autobiography through a six-hour day, plus evenings at home sorting out his thoughts and reviewing the recordings. The material was richest when she groped for the significant event and brought up instead a small telling moment.

The Señora’s pleasures were simple. She took long baths, she listened to recordings of her past performances spinning out endlessly, sometimes loudly, at other times faintly in the background. At four P.M. chatting stopped so she could watch her favorite Mexican soap opera—María la del Barrio—about a domestic worker who was employed by a rich family and ended up marrying the young heir to the ancestral fortune.

“These are wonderful stories of poor girls blessed by the fates, against all odds, to gain true love and unimaginable wealth,” she said to him. “Do you know that Mexican telenovelas are watched in Russia, in Turkey, in many other countries around the world? These stories hold a moral lesson.”

Lockwood laughed. “Even if you are sunk in poverty, you can still be saved by dumb luck.”

“You’re being obtuse. One is saved by goodness.”

“It’s not a fair world.” Lockwood shrugged unhappily.

“Fairness is not the issue. Understanding is. If your understanding is warped, you suffer the consequences.”

“People screw up all the time.”

“Because they don’t know any better. You’re bored in your marriage, so you feel you’re entitled to fun in your middle age and therefore you want Perla. It’s not a question of morality. You figure you’re entitled to the thrills that Perla might provide. The consequences will come regardless of what you feel your rights are. Perla will end up humiliating you. You will lose your wife’s love. Your dog will snarl. And you will be so racked with guilt you’ll never write a true word again.”

“A raw nerve up for the hitting.” Lockwood forced a smile.

The Señora fell silent, suddenly distracted. She gazed out the window at the massive gray clouds that were gathering. At intervals they blocked out the sun, and their shadow on the water gave the sea a metallic cast. She waited until the wind seemed to tear through the thinning edges of a slow-moving, bloated nimbus, splitting the light into brilliant spikes.

She turned toward him with a sparkle of optimism. “On the other hand, you and Perla will perhaps find great pleasure in each other. Maybe you will conduct yourselves with dignity. You and your wife will separate amicably, which is something you should have done years ago. Your dog will continue to sleep at your feet. And you will be so liberated that every word you write from then on will be true and wonderful and beautiful. Because you will once again have a story to tell.”

“You’re playing with my head, Señora. That’s a side of you I had not yet seen.”

“Where is Perla, anyway?” she said impatiently. “It’s time she made tea.”

“She went out for a walk while you were napping.”

“For a cigarette.”

“Yes, that, too.”

“What are you going to say to her when she comes back?”

“Nothing,” he said after a long pause, certain that, for now, coming on to Perla was something best enjoyed as an unrealized idea.

“Nothing is not an option, silly.” She laughed, apparently delighting in the turmoil she had sown in his mind. “You’ll have to say something to her. Eventually.”

He added weakly, “I love my wife.”

“Good for you!”

“We need to get back to your story.”

“Where was I?”

“Start anywhere.”

Months after that conversation, Lockwood is poised at the keyboard; he listens to the recording and lets the Señora speak through him. He types the title page, stark, pristine, full of promise. The title, her name, his name. He begins to write.