Читать книгу Gasoline - Quim Monzo - Страница 10

Since neither of them feels like going to a restaurant, as soon as Hug arrives Heribert begins to prepare the shrimp. Now, sitting face to face, across a table set with a white tablecloth, Heribert and Hug are devouring them. As he peels one, Heribert thinks that the shell of a shrimp isn’t all that different from the shell of a cockroach. He opens another bottle of white wine.

“Kid,” says Hug, “I’m here to give you a good talking-to, but since you’re certainly old enough to know what you’re doing, I’ll just remind you that we could lose our shirts here. No temper tantrums, now, and no weird, outlandish games. All artists have creative crises (if that’s what you want to call them, even though I think it’s ridiculous), and all artists get over them, and even if they don’t, they pretend they do and keep on going. Maybe what you need is to have a little fun. Go out with some girls. You certainly don’t have to worry about Helena at this stage of the game, right? You don’t get out to clear the cobwebs enough. Not only that, you let all kinds of opportunities pass you by, and, believe me, you do have opportunities . . . You weren’t like this before; you were more lighthearted. Until a few months ago, you were always telling me about one affair or another. You’ve been slowing down, going out less and less. Or are you going out and just not telling me? I’d never forgive you for holding out on me. I’d be incredibly pissed at your lack of faith. And if I say you let opportunities pass you by, it’s because Hildegarda—whom you, of all people introduced me to—is a babe, and if you were interested . . . Well, she’s really into you. I’m sure of it, because five or six days ago we arranged to get together for a moment because she had been calling me ever since you introduced us, to show me her work, but since I thought it was odd, the way she looks at you, that you weren’t already involved, I kept putting her off, saying I was busy . . . Did you know she used to sing in the opera? She even sang at the Met. Did you already know that, or are you just not surprised? In the chorus, but she sang there, and not everyone gets that far, not even in the chorus. Stop laughing. Now it seems she’s decided to paint, and so she finally got me up to her house to show me her work. Her husband is in Europe, on a tour, since he’s an opera singer, and, listen, you can’t imagine how good it was. It’s been years since I met a woman who melted like butter at the first touch. With such soft, full lips . . . and those enormous eyes. I’m telling you this, so you’ll stop being a fool and go for it. And then, get down to work, because in two (two or three?), well, in two or three weeks we have to start hanging canvases. Call her. Really. I don’t mind. You know how we used to . . . remember the trouble we used to get into? Boy.”

Heribert is surprised not to be amazed. Then he is surprised at being surprised. Why should he have been amazed? What about Hildegarda, wouldn’t she figure out that he and Hug knew each other, and that it was more than likely they would talk about their affairs? He imagines this must be what she wants. Hug lifts his empty glass, and Heribert rushes to open a third bottle of white wine.

When Helena arrives they are eating chocolate cookies and drinking coffee and cognac. She’s arrived in a sweat, carrying two bags from a department store. She kisses each of them on the cheek. Hug helps her put one of the bags on the table, and quickly says goodbye and leaves.

Heribert goes up to the studio. He finds the morning’s colors all prepared, a little dry. He sits down. He stares at the painting. He dips the brush into the paint mechanically. The boredom that engulfs him is so great he messes up the application of the paint to the legs of the stool. If he keeps on painting, he’ll ruin it altogether. “If I can’t overcome this boredom,” he thinks, “I won’t be able to go on.” He continues painting and ruins the canvas beyond repair. “At least I’ve been . . .” He doesn’t know whether to finish the thought with the word sincere, or honest, or consistent. He hears Helena turn on the television. He goes on working despite the fact that each brushstroke wreaks new havoc on the painting.

A half hour later, he considers the painting to be an absolute disaster. He takes it off the easel, half resting it, half throwing it against the wall. He hears Helena turn off the television and tell him she’s leaving, she has to go to the gallery to see if they’ve picked up some lithographs, and if they haven’t, to make sure they do so immediately. As he hears the door close, Heribert places a new, bigger, canvas on another easel.

•

An hour later, he looks at the new painting, screws up his face into an expression of disgust, takes it off the easel, and throws it on top of the first one. He quickly cleans the brushes and paint and, in doing so, stains his pants. He wonders whether to shower and finally opts for the most passive route: not showering. He changes his pants, doesn’t change his t-shirt, puts a jacket on over it, then a coat and boots. He goes out into the street and into the subway. On the platform he decides to get off at the sixth stop. “Because six is an insignificant number, a petty number. It’s not brilliant like three, or pleasant like two, or magical like seven, or independent like one, or . . .” He boards the train. He closes his eyes. So he won’t see the next station and therefore won’t know which line he’s on (which would have made it impossible for him not to figure out what the sixth stop would be), he mentally hums an obsessive tune.

On the street, he buys three papers at the first newsstand he comes across. He walks down the avenue, never stepping on snow that has already been stepped on. This reminds him of when, as a child in Barcelona, he would walk down the street trying to step only on alternating paving stones, on the diagonal, like in a game of checkers, feeling that, if he missed, a tremendous curse would fall upon him. Every so often, he makes clouds with his breath. He sees a bar with a long window-front. It’s one of those bars he’s always disliked: too clean, quiet, unnecessarily expensive, and with an annoying tendency to be frequented by people favoring hot chocolate and lattes. He goes in and sits down. It’s hot. He takes off his coat and jacket. He picks up one of the newspapers, looks at the front page, and sees that none of the headlines interests him in the least. He looks over the room: it’s almost empty. There is just one couple, across the room, sitting very close and having espresso. From behind the bar a waiter is approaching, notebook in hand. Heribert understands his purpose. He feels terrified. He doesn’t know what to order.

“What should I have?”

The waiter’s expression shows that he thinks he’s either an obnoxious character who’s trying to give him a hard time or a snob who likes to be waited on down to the smallest detail. Nevertheless, with a smile on his face, he recites:

“A beer? An espresso? A scotch? A bourbon? Pernod? Fernet? Rum? Gin? Tequila? Vodka?”

Humbert orders tequila because the word makes him think of the sun, of a desert, of cactus. A woman with woolen earmuffs going down the street stops for a moment to look at a little Christmas tree, decorated with garlands and tiny balls, in a garbage can. The waiter is already back, serving him the tequila in a small glass. The label on the bottle reads josé cuervo. He also leaves him a saucer with a salt shaker and half a lemon, but the mere thought of going through the ritual of licking the salt and sucking on the lemon before drinking down the tequila irritates him beyond expression. He drinks it down and asks for more. The waiter brings another, in another glass, with another piece of lemon. If he asks for many more tequilas, the table will soon be full of half lemons. So why haven’t they brought him another salt shaker? He had not consumed the lemon, and they had brought him another. By the same token, he had not used the salt shaker, and they ought to have brought him another. Something is out of whack here, but the effort required to follow the thread of the argument is so tiring that he turns his attention to something that won’t require him to think so hard.

He looks at his glass and wonders if those little glasses have a special name. If only he had Hildegarda’s dictionary . . . If only, as before (a before whose border blurs in the distance between two and four weeks earlier), he had the energy to jot down on a scrap of paper “Look up synonyms for glass and find the one that corresponds to little glass . . .” He remembers the word “tankard” and finds it stunning. Each glass for each different drink ought to have a different name. Once, making small talk, a waiter had told him the names of a number of glasses: “up glasses,” for cocktails served without ice, straight up, like a Manhattan up, or a martini up . . . ; “rock glasses,” for cocktails served with ice or water, like whiskey sours, Manhattans, vodka tonics, scotch and water . . . ; “tall glasses,” in which Bloody Marys, piña coladas, Tom Collinses, fizzes, and beer must be served . . . ; “cordial glasses,” for Kahlua and Amaretto-type liqueurs; brandy snifters, for cognac; “sherry glasses,” for Harvey’s Bristol Cream . . . When he looks back down at his glass, he doesn’t want it any more. He can already predict how it will taste if he brings it to his lips. What a strange feeling, to be repelled by a familiar taste, when till now he had always been nauseated the first time he tried new foods whose taste was unfamiliar!

He looks at the first page of the other two newspapers and pushes them aside. He asks for the check, pays, and just as he is getting up, manages to snatch up the glass and gulp down what’s left. But this gesture seems absurdly tragic to him. He gathers up the papers, sticks them under his arm, and goes outside.

He walks under the tress in a square. All at once, just as he had felt, before going into the bar, that, despite its not appealing to him, it was relaxing for the place to be clean and quiet, now the neighborhood seems too bland, too pretty. It is a nice neighborhood, and he finds this very unpleasant. He throws the paper into the garbage can and breaks into a trot. If only his feelings would take a definite turn instead of this constant fluctuation, this swinging back and forth between desiring and despising . . .

He goes into the first train station he comes across and gets on the first train that comes along, without looking to see which part of the city it’s heading for; once inside, he shuts his eyes, trying not even to count the number of stations the train stops at.

•

Two policemen stand close to the turnstiles at the exit. He takes the stairs two at a time. On the street, he walks around among the pimps and the bums. One drunk, soaked with slushy water from the melting snow, is clinging to a parking meter. In a clothing store window all the mannequins are undressed and wigless; some of them are missing arms. A man on top of a ladder is taking down the Christmas lights and signs bearing wishes for a Happy New Year. He walks by two sex shops, tramples already-trampled snow, and slips and almost falls. At the third sex shop, he stops and looks in the window. At the movie theater next door, they’re showing Foxtrot, a movie they’re advertising with enormous billboards containing enlarged reproductions of favorable reviews taken from sex magazines. They include no pictures, suggesting that it has been impossible to choose a single still, as none of them could possibly be put on public display. He keeps on walking. Next door is another sex shop. He goes in.

He comes to a stop in the middle of the room. Only one of the walls is lined with sex toys: rubber vaginas and penises, fantasy condoms, whips, ben wa balls, inflatable boy and girl dolls . . . The other walls, painted yellow, are lined with rows and rows of magazines. On the ceiling there are three fluorescent panels, in one of which two of the tubes are flickering. He finds it odd that the two broken tubes should be precisely in the same panel when (by random chance) the probability of their being in different panels was much greater. This leads him to conclude that there is a defect in the fixture itself. Next to the door, on a platform, a bored elderly man with glasses and long sideburns is leaning on a counter as high as the tops of his clients’ heads, overseeing the room, apparently keeping everything under control. Heribert looks at the condoms: there are blue ones, pink ones, green ones, black ones, transparent ones, and red ones . . . They come with bumps, with filaments, one has a little hand with five fingers at the tip, several have protruding stars. The boxes say that these extras give the woman pleasure and make her go mad with delight. The penises are all different sizes, colors, and shapes. Some reproduce the texture, the veins, and the shape of the real thing, but others are perfectly cylindrical, or cylindrical with bumps at the tip, like porcupines . . . They look to him like orthopedic devices. He looks at the magazines. In the first one he opens there are pictures of a man with one woman. In the second, there are two men with one woman. In the third, there are two women. He opens a fourth: two women with one man. The fifth one he opens has two men with one woman again. He opens a sixth: there is a whole slew of people and part of the fun seems to consist of mixing whites, blacks, and Asians, and men and women. In the most general shot, Heribert counts four men and five women. He thinks it’s too convoluted to excite anyone.

Farther on is the teenage girl section, most of them unaccompanied, in positions of self-gratification, and in black and white. The magazines of men with men are all in another department, a bit farther on. One of the guys in charge of the store is busy attaching price tags to a pile of inflatable dolls, which, inside their clear plastic bags, look a lot like dead bodies.

The people in the store are mostly middle-aged men. When he entered, he thought he would find more teenagers. The men must be office workers, killing time after work (Heribert looks at his wristwatch; a little after 5:00 p.m.) before going home. There are old men, too, with that defeated look some retired people develop. A guy of about twenty-five is looking at a magazine that shows a woman and a Great Dane.

Heribert continues on, toward the back of the place, where the booths are located, announced by a large neon sign: peepshow. On the door of each booth hang two pictures and two titles, each of which, respectively, corresponds to one of the two films projected there. He looks at the doors to each of the booths and at each of the titles. By one of the walls next to the first booth there are two video games with Martians, and there’s a boy playing at one of them.

He gets change from a machine he spots in the back. He looks at all the doors once again. He has trouble deciding which picture to choose. He goes into the one whose protagonist’s face was the prettiest in the photograph.

The space he is enclosed in measures less than a square meter. Against one of the four walls there is a bench. He sits down on it. In front of him is a white surface. On the wall to the right, two machines with slots for coins labeled a and b. He sticks a coin into the slot labeled b. The light in the cabin goes out and the movie appears before his eyes, emerging from a projector (he stands up to get a better look) whose light flows out onto a tilted mirror located over the head of the seated spectator. From the mirror, the image is cast onto the white surface (he touches it: formica). On the screen, two girls (one blonde, one with light brown hair) and a boy (with dark brown hair) appear on a sofa. The boy is wearing a polo shirt (sky blue, with a Lacoste alligator); the girls (one of whom was white and the other black) are wearing stockings and garters (white stockings on the one with the white garters and gold on the one with the black garters) and high-heeled shoes (black for both of them). The boy is penetrating one of the girls, while the other goes from kissing the girl being penetrated, to kissing the boy, to kissing both of their genitals. Heribert quickly realizes that the booth is just isolated enough from the outside so that its occupant (aroused by the film) can masturbate in peace. He looks for traces on the walls, the surface of the screen, the floor set with shiny, irregular, multicolored tiles, the bench; it’s dark, though, so he doesn’t find any. When he looks up at the screen again (“What a jerk,” he thinks, “I’m missing the movie.”), the position of the officiants has shifted: the blond is performing fellatio on the boy as he performs cunnilingus on the brown-haired girl, who is sitting on top of him. At this point, the projection comes to a halt and the light in the booth goes on. Heribert inserts another coin. The action continues. Now the camera focuses, close up, on the activities of the blond girl, until the boy discharges all over her eyes, nose, and lips; she smiles contentedly. The boy and the brown-haired girl are also smiling contentedly. Then there is a brief pause (of only a few seconds), and the same girls appear, now sitting down, all dressed and demure, drinking from tall glasses. One of them moves her lips in silence, as if speaking, and the other nods in agreement as she runs her tongue over her upper lip. The blond girl picks up the receiver and dials a number. The brown-haired girl drinks her drink and smiles. The blonde sits down. A short while later they look at the door with a surprised expression on their faces (conveying the impression that someone has knocked). The brown-haired girl goes to open it and finds the same boy from before at the door, wearing the same polo shirt, but now with pants, carrying a cardboard box the size of a pizza. Gesturing and moving their lips, they invite him in. He comes in. He seems shy. The brown-haired girl takes out her handbag, gives him a five-dollar bill, and searches for change (obviously to give him a tip), but she only comes up with big bills. She looks surprised as the other girl searches through her handbag and also finds no change. Without missing a beat, they get out another glass for the boy, fill it for him, refill their own, and smile at him. He smiles, too, but shyly. The blond unbuttons two buttons on her blouse, gazing at the boy and bending down to flick the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray (suddenly they are smoking; had he not noticed until that moment, or has the cigarette appeared magically?), revealing a good expanse of breast. The brown-haired girl runs her tongue over her lower lip. The boy smiles broadly to indicate that he’s understood. He kisses the brown-haired girl, who runs her hand up the boy’s leg until she reaches his groin, in exaggerated evidence . . .

The projection breaks off again. He leaves. Another man is leaving another booth at the very same moment, staring at the ground, his face red as a beet. Heribert looks at the man’s shoes to see if he has splattered. He thinks he could have put a coin in slot a, to see what it was. He walks out into the street, wondering why he hasn’t had an erection the whole time, neither leafing through the magazines nor in the booth.

•

He goes into a state of rapture at a newsstand, looking at the magazine covers. He sees a magazine (Mademoiselle) displaying articles on clothing, beauty, health, and love, aimed especially at women and with Brooke Shields’s face on the cover. He remembers how, as a boy, he had only had fashion magazines to masturbate to. He buys it. He leafs through it. He feels a foggy twinge of arousal. He goes into the first bar he finds. He sits at the bar. He orders a whiskey. He pays up. He takes a drink. He leafs through the magazine. A woman with very red lips hides her face behind a veil, to promote Revlon lipsticks. A well-known TV actress, with a bottle of Max Factor perfume in her hand, says: “Part of the art of being a woman is knowing when not to be too much of a lady.” There is a striped bathing suit, with a tutu, from Saks Fifth Avenue. He finds the model absolutely beautiful. Cacharel, on the facing page, announces a perfume called Anaïs Anaïs (a reference to Anaïs Nin?). On a motorcycle rides a young man in a black jacket and a young woman in a slip, also black, both wearing Carrera glasses. A girl is jogging in Max Factor WaterProof. Dexatrim shows a photograph of Melody Mahoney of Warren (Indiana), who lost 105 pounds in thirty-six weeks by taking one Dexatrim capsule a day. There is also an interview with Michael Caine: “the man women love to love.” Another ad for a bathing suit with tutu, by Lakeside. Angie Dickinson reports that California avocadoes have only seventeen calories a slice (“If you take into account,” it says in one corner of the ad, “that there are sixteen slices to a medium-sized avocado.”) The headline for Sambuca Romana says, “If they try to tell you that Sambuca Romana is an after-dinner drink, tell them you weren’t born yesterday. You just look that way.” Chimère says: “Chimère perfume: From a distance, it’s discreet and elegant; from close up, it’s out of this world.” The page is split between two shots. On top, a woman at an office desk is surrounded by three men. Underneath, she’s embracing one man. (One of the three from the picture on the top? A new one?) He has another drink of whiskey. He heads toward the bathroom.

There is an article on how to stop biting your nails. A girl wrapped in a pink towel says, “I never felt like this until I tried Caress.” Caress is a soap. Many pages on how to sunbathe. A long article titled “The Elegant Art of Flirting.” A report on dressing in ecological colors. Two girls look out at him from an article titled “Love in the Afternoon,” which begins: “Don’t wait for the sun to set to put on a sexy dress. We have a series of new designs for you that can be worn all day long . . .” He unzips his pants and begins to fondle himself. What if he were to fall in love with one of those models with almond eyes who look out at him from the ads? Searching for them and finding out whether they were as seductive in the flesh as they are on paper would be a struggle . . . Even to have thought of falling in love with them makes him smile. And yet, he has fallen in love a few times: many years ago . . . Has he really been in love, though, or is it an illusion he half-remembers that doesn’t jibe with the dictionary definition of the word? It occurs to him that it must be an arduous task to write a dictionary, to have a precise knowledge of all sentiments and to define them, to know exactly what it is to fall in love, what passion is, where the line between good and evil and between pleasure and perversion falls, or between abundant, numerous, plethoric, overflowing, considerable . . .

He is thinking all of this as he stares at the tiles, the pictures in the magazine long forgotten. He is profoundly bored. He lets go. His erection goes limp and disappears at once. He leaves the magazine on top of the paper towel dispenser, goes back out to the bar, drinks up the third gulp of whiskey, and opens the door to the street.