Читать книгу Crocodile Tears - Mercedes Rosende - Страница 6

17

II

Many years earlier

She’s just a hungry, frightened girl, just a little girl standing in the darkest part of the corridor, her back pressed against the wall, her eyes closed, frozen. Her forehead, neck and hairline are beaded with sweat, her breathing is agitated, like when she runs or when she jumps rope at school, and her hands are trembling slightly. She’s just a girl and it isn’t an easy decision but she’s hungry, she’s always hungry. Finally she moves, she bends down, she noiselessly removes her patent leather shoes with their silver buckles; very slowly she places them on the floor and advances in silence, her white socks sliding across the waxed parquet, a little further, then she hesitates, stops in front of the door, listens, carefully pushes open the swing door and peers round.

From the threshold she observes the familiar space, the large cheerful room, the sun filtering between the curtains, light bouncing off the oak table; she runs her eyes over the cupboards, the spice jars, the fridge. She looks at the fridge. She imagines what’s inside and her mouth waters. But she is also alert, she knows the housekeeper is taking a siesta in the servant’s bedroom, next to the kitchen. She listens to the woman’s rasping, deepening snores.

18She’s a hungry girl but her fear is powerful, she hesitates before deciding to desecrate the comfortable domestic order of the kitchen, to enter the forbidden territory, the dangerous geography, to enter a world that at once beckons her in and shuts her out, a world watched over by the housekeeper, the white-aproned woman who is asleep in the next room.

She thinks about food day and night, when she wakes up and when she falls asleep, before sitting at the table, as she eats what the housekeeper or her father has put on her plate, and while she finishes the small portions and gets up, her cravings scarcely dented, still thinking about food. She thinks about it while she’s at school, while she’s watching television, while she and her sister, Luz, are playing with their dolls. Luz is thin and is allowed to eat as much as she likes, but she barely even touches what she is served. Her sister is thin and her father says she’s beautiful, just like her mother. But as he says this he looks not at Luz but at her, and she feels right then that her body occupies too much space.

She pushes a little more and enters, she’s afraid but she’s also so hungry, she hears the deep snoring and takes courage, takes one step and then another, then halts, alert to the loud, regular breathing; she decides, her stomach instructs her brain, she crosses the kitchen in slow steps, her toes resting gently, lightly on the floor, first one foot and then the other; two more steps and she’s standing in front of the fridge, her hand moves of its own accord, reaches out, approaches the handle, touches it indecisively, her gaze vigilant, she looks to either side again and again, her small hand covers the cold metal, grips it, presses, pulls. She is very hungry.

She opens the door.

19She takes out a piece of chicken and raises it to her mouth, her teeth bite into it, rip it, tear at the meat, she swallows, bites again, one mouthful, two; she looks at the jar of jam, takes a piece of cheese and rolls it up in a slice of ham that she uses to push down the chicken; she chews, gulps, looks at the door, opens the jar of mayonnaise, inserts a finger and slurps with lips and tongue; she takes a chunk of potato and dips it in the mayonnaise, swallows, looks behind her, smears two fingers with dulce de leche; she smacks her lips, takes a meatball, some sauce, devours it, rice, another meatball, more sauce, mayonnaise, lips, teeth, the finger in the jam, sucking, slurping, tongue, fingers; she’s in a hurry and pushes it down, she looks behind her, at the door; another piece of chicken, which she swallows almost without chewing; something’s wrong, she eats faster, swallows more, plunges all her fingers into the sauce; palate, lips, teeth; slurps, swallows, again and again. This explosion of sensory and tactile sensations suddenly freezes, her fingers are paralysed, her tongue turns to stone, her lips are open. There is a discordant element, a sound; she hears footsteps in the corridor, approaching. She recognizes them, those footsteps.

She listens. And trembles.

She turns her head. The kitchen door opens smoothly. The man stands in the doorway and looks at the girl.

“Ursula.”

“No, Daddy.”

Her fingers descend and rub sauce on her dress, her sleeve tries to wipe her mouth free of mayonnaise, of jam, of gravy, of dulce de leche; she closes the fridge door with her body and leans against it, wishing she could sink and disappear forever into its misty white cold interior.

“No, Daddy. I won’t ever do it again.”

20The man is tall and thin, wearing a dark suit and tie, his black shoes glinting fiercely. He holds a golden cigarette lighter in his right hand and has a steely gaze.

“Come here, Ursula.”

“I promise, Daddy.”

She looks at the man, blinks, closes her eyes, tries to hold back the tears that slide down between the grease, the gravy, the sugar. She is familiar with the ritual of punishment and her fear erupts again, takes her by storm, overwhelms her. She takes a step, avoids looking at him, bites her lips until they blanch. Her room, her bed; her head is spinning. The kitchen is a bright cheerful place, the sun bouncing off the big oak table, around which are six chairs with red-and-white-checked cushions that match the curtains. She looks at the squares, one red, one white, one red.

“No, Daddy, please,” she whispers into thin air.

She knows what will happen and she begins to sweat, the fear assailing her, paralysing her. She will hear the sounds she already knows, the slow creak of the soles on the floor; she will see the shiny black leather, he will take her by the shoulder and push her forward a few steps, walking around his daughter; she will hear the altered breathing, observe him make two, three turns. Daddy will take her by the chin, forcing her to raise her head; she knows he will cough to clear his throat. He will play with the lighter, the flame will appear and disappear, each time a little faster. She imagines, and her teeth chatter.

Then he will say: It’s for your own good.

“It’s for your own good, Ursula. I have to correct your weaknesses.”

The tears run down her cheeks, slide over the grease and fall on the dress stained with jam, with meat, with saliva. Her 21father stops playing with the lighter for a moment, delicately takes her arm, draws her close, raises her chin again, gently forcing her to look him in the eye. She raises her gaze no higher than his chest, then trembles and looks back down at the floor, at those shoes like black mirrors. Fear attacks her, pins her down.

“Crocodile tears, darling.”

“No, Daddy.”

She begs but she knows it’s pointless, that all the pleading in the world won’t shake him. He isn’t listening to her; he pushes her lightly, leading her to the kitchen door, down the passage to her room, to the bed with the pink chenille quilt and the teddy bear and the dolls, which he carefully sets aside. Ursula looks at the shadows that invade the room as her father closes the blinds and the shutters, bars them, draws the curtains with their pictures of fairies, seals every chink through which light might enter. Now all that remains – for just a few moments, she knows – is the triangle of light that sneaks through the gap in the doorway.

“Okay, darling.”

She lies down on the bed and trembles, she curls up into a ball. She tries to remember the prayers she used to recite with her mother, which only come to her mind when she is afraid, with that fear that invades her, occupies her, possesses her. Fear of what is about to come.

“Please. I won’t do it again, Daddy.”

She sobs. Through the tears she sees her father’s serious face, the lighter flame once again burning bright and then going out, clicking and exploding, his furrowed brow, the narrow, tense lips, his tall thin body, the black shoes that now, without the light, are just dark, opaque. She sobs, afraid 22of what is about to come, and amid the tears a bitter taste gradually forms in her mouth, the start of a sticky resentment that makes her tremble more violently.

She hears other steps approaching from the kitchen, sees the silhouette of the cook in her white apron against the small triangle of light. Ursula can’t see the face but she hears the panting breath and closes her eyes, anticipating the woman’s smile before she opens her eyes again and watches the shadow disappear. She trembles, she tosses and turns, fear and rage turning her saliva bitter, burning it, dissolving it.

Her father, who on this sunny afternoon is still alive, removes the key from the lock, stops for a few moments, perhaps wavering; perhaps he might forgive her, Ursula thinks in a final glimmer of optimism, perhaps he’ll open the windows, let the light in and allow her to leave. Yes, she watches him hesitate at the door; Daddy is good and she doesn’t hate him, she’s just a bit afraid of him when she sees how tall and thin he is, the tallest, thinnest man in the world.

“One day of punishment, Ursula; no light and no food. The darkness will make you strong, fasting will cleanse your body.” The black shoes, no longer shiny, creak on the wooden floor. The flickering flame of the lighter only illuminates his steely eyes.

“Alicia will come before night to bring you water and take you to the bathroom. I’ll see you at eight o’clock in the morning. Your punishment finishes at eight o’clock on the dot.”

Her father closes the door and shuts out the last fragment of this sunny day. Ursula hears the key turn, once and then once more. She still doesn’t want to look at the shadows 23that surround her; she curls up into a ball, sinks her face deeper into the pillow that is damp with her tears, and a voice whispers to her that one day somebody will have to pay for all this weeping.