A Juvenal Acosta
y Andrei Codrescu
Is
that not why ghosts return:
to drink the blood of the living?
-J. M. Coetzee
El apocalipsis
era para él cuesti-n de todos los d'as. As' lo demostraba la
luz que cada mañana, en cuanto sus párpados se abr'an
como una esclusa para derramar el agua de los sueños sobre
el orbe, le punzaba las pupilas con miles de alfileres desprendidos
de una muda explosi-n at-mica. El dolor era tan súbito, tan
brutal, que lo obligaba a cerrar los ojos nuevamente y a hurgar a
tientas en la mesa de noche en busca de los lentes oscuros mientras
el pulso se le desbocaba y las sienes le lat'an en un feroz preludio
de jaqueca. Una vez con las gafas encajadas en su sitio -entonces,
s-lo hasta entonces- se atrev'a a parpadear, a desenredar la luminosa
madeja de informaci-n que la vigilia le lanzaba. Jadeante, con una
máscara de sudor sobre el rostro, en tanto los fosfenos se
reintegraban con pesadez de zancudos a la penumbra sangu'nea de la
que hab'an surgido, empezaba con su labor de reconocimiento: all'
sus piernas unidas en una suerte de cordillera que alzaba las sábanas
revueltas y declinaba al pie del lecho y más allá el
perfil de una silla, el polvo debutando como una compañ'a de
danza en una diagonal de sol, part'culas de materia concentrándose
rápidamente alrededor de formas que terminar'an siendo la puerta
del baño, las cortinas que no alcanzaban a cubrir la única
ventana, las manchas -su olfato, de una fineza felina, registraba
lo mismo semen que licor- legadas por antiguos huéspedes a
la alfombra. Poco a poco, conforme su vista descifraba ese caos fulgurante
para convertirlo en un c-digo legible, comprend'a que la explosi-n
at-mica era una simple jugarreta mental, parte de un sueño
recurrente que d'a tras d'a intentaba reconstruir en vano. Poco a
poco el sentido de apocalipsis irrump'a con su inútil carga
en el mundo; los augurios difundidos por la prensa y la televisi-n
no eran nada comparados con la hecatombe ocular a la que hab'a sido
condenado por toda la eternidad -la eternidad, pensaba mientras una
sonrisa le torc'a la boca, otra palabreja para el gran diccionario
de vaguedades humanas. ¿Qué era la eternidad sino el
peso del sol sobre los ojos desnudos, los segundos que tardaba en
dar con los lentes sobre la mesa de noche, el lapso necesario para
la desaparici-n de los fosfenos? Hablemos de eternidad, pensaba, dirigiéndose
a un interlocutor invisible; hablemos de la ceguera instantánea
que me veo forzado a erradicar desde tiempos inmemoriales. Hablemos
de lo frustrante que resulta no poder recordar cuándo fue la
última vez que uno despert- sin miedo al dolor y del pánico
a la luz, del terror primitivo tra'do por las primeras flechas solares
que horadan los párpados. Hablemos de la sombra, esa luz invertida
donde los ojos maduran como otoños en primavera.
Esa mañana,
sin embargo, despert- con la sensaci-n -trocada muy pronto en certidumbre-
de que algo hab'a pasado con la luz. Al principio fue una intuici-n
sutil, un cambio en la periferia del campo visual que invitaba a elucubraciones
oscuras, cierta parsimonia en el polvo atra'do por el rayo de sol
que se filtraba por la ventana. Una vez con los lentes puestos y el
aliento bajo control, inhal- con fuerza hasta que crey- que sus pulmones
estallar'an; su olfato, pudo comprobarlo de nuevo, era un aliado confiable:
el aire estaba cargado de una tensi-n eléctrica que s-lo hab'a
percibido en los atardeceres de verano justo antes de que se desatara
el diluvio. Una ins-lita densidad se hab'a colado como un enjambre
de insectos a la atm-sfera; de hecho era fácil captar un zumbido
remoto, un rumor semejante al de un generador que hac'a pensar en
miles de élitros remontando la lejan'a. Aguz- el o'do. Ah'
estaban, diáfanos y puntuales como siempre -como cada mañana,
como cada noche-, los sonidos que poblaban su universo auditivo: el
correteo de las cucarachas por los rincones más hondos del
hotel, el susurro casi imperceptible de las arañas al tejer
su tela, el chillido ocasional de las ratas en busca de alimento -¿cuántas
veces, pens-, el ansia lo hab'a empujado a nutrirse de ellas?-, el
canto transparente del mosquito, el roce de una mariposa contra un
cristal, la incansable letan'a de las termitas. Algo, no obstante,
hac'a falta en ese orbe secreto: pájaros. Las aves hab'an enmudecido
para contribuir a la extrañeza que saturaba el ambiente. Y
las moscas, también las moscas parec'an haberse esfumado en
pos de nuevas podredumbres. Y el olor: una mezcla de acecho y vac'o,
de fermentos geol-gicos y asfalto virgen. Y la luz: una tinta espesa,
de matiz grisáceo, que se escurr'a entre las cortinas y empapaba
la alfombra. Y el rumor, los élitros remotos de la ausencia.
De un
salto dej- la cama, los sentidos más atentos que de costumbre.
Un veloz vistazo a las revistas y peri-dicos acumulados en el piso
al cabo de dos semanas de reclusi-n le ratific- algo que los espectros
de la noche hab'an relegado a un segundo plano: el tren del siglo
corr'a -y seguir'a corriendo, hasta donde lo permitieran los rieles-
hacia el abismo al que lo conduc'a una desbocada humanidad. Según
denunciaban encabezados y portadas, casi todos los vagones de ese
tren hab'an sido reservados para acarrear un equipaje tan ominoso
como absurdo: glosas y previsiones b'blicas, shows meteorol-gicos
jamás reseñados, alza en el 'ndice de suicidios, boom
de las sectas religiosas, man'a colectiva. En Inglaterra, una mujer
hab'a disfrazado de ángeles a sus hijos antes de hacerlos ingerir
un veneno del que no se ten'a noticia desde el siglo XIX. En Irán,
un grupo de muchachos hab'a prendido fuego a una mezquita como parte
de un complot para borrar todo rastro del credo musulmán. En
Australia, un maremoto conocido como la Última Ola hab'a dejado
un saldo de decenas de miles de muertos. En Egipto, un anciano se
hab'a ahorcado en su tienda frente a la pirámide de Keops con
un mensaje "para la humanidad" oculto en su túnica. En un pequeño
pueblo de Estados Unidos, las organizaciones en pro de la pureza aria
se reun'an para urdir la avanzada que anular'a "para siempre" a las
minor'as raciales. En la ciudad a cuyas afueras él se hospedaba,
un contador hab'a matado en algún momento a su jefe inmediato
encajándole un lápiz en un ojo. La eternidad, pens-,
los apocalipsis de bolsillo: el hombre no ha aprendido la lecci-n
de la historia, sigue siendo el estudiante lego que consignaba su
descontrol en las cuevas de Altamira -s-lo que las cuevas se han vuelto
tabloides. Los toscos dibujos de bisontes y aves y siluetas famélicas
y solitarias son ya fotograf'as de una muchedumbre confundida.
Mientras
se dirig'a al baño, sinti- claramente que el aire se agitaba
a su alrededor como si fuera un ropaje: tan enrarecido estaba, tan
denso era. Cerr- la puerta tras él y, una vez instalado en
la penumbra, se quit- los lentes, acercándose al espejo. Qué
mejor luz que la sombra para enfrentar la mirada enrojecida de todas
las mañanas, los efectos del sol reducidos a un lagrimeo constante.
Tom- uno de los cientos de envases de colirio regados por doquier
-sobre el lavabo y el inodoro, en el suelo y la ducha- y se entreg-
al ritual balsámico de cada d'a: una catarata para sus ojos
enfermos, recomendaci-n de un oftalm-logo muerto hac'a un par de meses.
Luego del masaje prescrito, de parpadear con fuerza durante varios
minutos, se afeit-, se lav- la cara, se enjabon- ingles, axilas y
cuello y se enjuag-. Se visti- con lentitud, gozando el roce oscuro
de la ropa que guardaba en el baño para evitar el encuentro
con la luz matinal -años atrás hab'a decidido que los
cl-sets eran territorio de las alimañas-, silbando el jingle
de uno de sus anuncios favoritos, algo que ten'a que ver con gotas
para los ojos o quizá con donaciones de sangre. Se pein-, se
puso desodorante, un poco de loci-n y los lentes y sali-, dispuesto
a desafiar el fulgor diurno.
Descorri-
las cortinas y, aunque ya lo hab'a intuido, el espectáculo
que ofrec'a la ventana alcanz- a sorprenderlo: era el espectáculo
de la ausencia. Hab'a coches vac'os, las puertas de par en par, en
el estacionamiento y a mitad de la carretera que pasaba frente al
hotel; los escasos pájaros -cuervos sobre todo, según
not-- permanec'an inm-viles, petrificados, en los cables de la luz
y el teléfono; las moscas parec'an imitarlos, imperturbables
en la grava y los vidrios como f-siles de una especie extinta. El
cielo era ahora una suerte de hospital para vientres nubosos, cargados
de lluvia, que se arrastraban con pereza y a duras penas permit'an
la pálida irrupci-n del sol. La eternidad, pens-, a ver qué
opinan de esta eternidad. Una ráfaga húmeda le revolvi-
el pelo al abandonar el cuarto, obligándolo a esbozar una sonrisa
y a cerrar los ojos mientras aspiraba profundamente; hac'a años,
décadas quizá que no se rend'a al olfateo de la desolaci-n
con tal placer, con tanta indolencia. Ech- a andar por el estacionamiento,
oyendo con amplificada nitidez el crujido de la grava y el traj'n
de las hormigas, revisando los autom-viles uno por uno. Vio cajuelas
que exhib'an su contenido sin ningún pudor, maletas y neceseres
y bolsos con las huellas aún frescas de la fuga, ropa diseminada
en el piso que remit'a a las instalaciones de ciertos artistas contemporáneos.
La idea lo hizo soltar una risotada. ¿Quién hubiera
cre'do, apenas un siglo atrás, que algo tan común, tan
an-nimo como la ropa, ser'a elevado a objeto art'stico; por qué
ese afán moderno de ensalzar lo desechable, lo perecedero?
Antes, pens-, el arte se reduc'a a un lienzo y un pincel, a fijar
la lucha perenne entre la luz y la sombra. Antes el cuerpo era inmortalizado
con sus accidentes; hoy pesaba más la envoltura, tanto que
el cuerpo hab'a desaparecido. Quedaba, claro, el cuerpo de ese delito:
camisas y pantalones, blusas y faldas, zapatos y tenis -un cadáver
hueco. Antes, pens-, la inmortalidad se vest'a de otro modo.
Caminaba
en medio de la carretera, deteniéndose de vez en vez junto
a algún autom-vil vac'o, dejándose acariciar por el
viento de la sierra que se precipitaba hacia el sur, cuando una imagen
revolote- en su memoria. Era el recuerdo -vago, entretejido en las
hebras de un sueño casi impasible- de una madrugada ajetreada,
distinta, llena de voces y pasos provenientes de todas direcciones,
de motores y cláxones y puertas que se abr'an bruscamente -los
sonidos de la huida, la música del exilio involuntario. A este
recuerdo se sum- otro que, quizá por inocuo, le sembr- una
nueva sonrisa en la boca: los maratones de pornograf'a por cable a
los que le gustaba someterse desde hac'a varios años. Lejos
de transportarlo a la -rbita del onanismo -la frase era de alguien
que hab'a conocido en uno de los bares que frecuentaba antes de consagrar
sus noches al reposo-, la pornograf'a lo divert'a a tal extremo que
hab'a llegado a considerarla el mejor escaparate para atestiguar el
rid'culo desfile humano; nada más c-modo que entrar a un cuarto
de hotel -¿en cuántos se habr'a hospedado en los últimos
meses?, ya hab'a perdido la cuenta-, recostarse en la cama, alcanzar
el control de la televisi-n y desplegar el festejo de la carne frágil,
transitoria, entregada a un frenes' a todas luces impostado. ¿Frenes'?,
pens-; frenes' el de la sangre que trepa por venas y arterias, el
de los ojos que rehuyen el sol. Frenes' el de la carne que se rinde
a la sombra y al manoseo de la eternidad. La estampa de tres o cuatro
cuerpos moviéndose como pistones de una máquina primaria
lo acompañ- hasta las casetas de peaje que, alineadas perpendicularmente
a la carretera, marcaban el l'mite de la ciudad que lo acog'a desde
junio, y que se hab'a desvanecido kil-metros atrás para ceder
el paso a un paisaje campestre, montañoso -el fin de la civilizaci-n.
El aire pagaba su cuota en forma de un silbido persistente; las garitas
-ya lo hab'a olfateado- estaban desiertas. Las revis-, no obstante,
una tras otra. Vio un calendario con la efigie de una mujer desnuda
coronada por un gorro de Santa Claus, una revista de fisicoculturismo
con las páginas rotas, una cafetera llena hasta el tope, un
radio que transmit'a s-lo estática y que decidi- dejar encendido;
pens- en lo hermoso que ser'a o'r el desgaste de las bater'as conforme
el d'a declinara y se lament- de no poder atenderlo. De pie en medio
de la carretera, el coraz-n y los pulmones hinchados de júbilo,
absorbi- el páramo plomizo de la mañana y sinti- que
por primera vez en mucho tiempo pod'a comerse -no, beberse el mundo
a grandes tragos. Luego fue exhalando un suspiro que pronto devino
grito de celebraci-n, un bramido que reverber- en la lejan'a donde
despuntaba la ciudad.
Como
en respuesta al eco que qued- colgando en la atm-sfera, un rayo de
sol logr- perforar las nubes y cay- de golpe sobre una gasolinera
ubicada más allá de las casetas, rodeándola de
un halo brumoso -una presencia reveladora en los confines del vac'o.
Asombrado, su mente vuelta el museo donde alguna tarde hab'a visto
una exposici-n de Edward Hopper, se dej- imantar por la luz que parec'a
fluir de uno de los cuadros más desoladores del pintor: Gas,
si la memoria no le fallaba, con su plácida estaci-n de servicio
atendida por un hombre de chaleco que esperaba con paciencia un coche
que lo salvara de la parálisis. Sigue esperando, pens-, y mir-
a su alrededor; quizá algún d'a te rescate uno de estos
fantasmas automovil'sticos, al fin y al cabo la inmortalidad también
necesita combustible. Pasos apresurados -la primera señal humana
en varias horas- lo hicieron voltear hacia la gasolinera justo cuando
tres j-venes sal'an de la tienda anexa cargando latas y cajas de cereal.
Supo que se trataba de un robo por la forma en que arrojaron los paquetes
a la cajuela del carro que los aguardaba con el motor encendido -tras
el volante hab'a una cuarta figura-, por la mirada de espanto que
uno de ellos le dirigi- antes de gritar una advertencia a sus compañeros,
por el dedo obsceno que brot- de una ventanilla mientras el coche
enfilaba hacia el sur con un aparatoso patinar de llantas. Lástima,
se dijo, y sacudi- la cabeza al recordar al hombre del cuadro de Hopper;
quizá haya suerte la pr-xima vez. Al llegar a la gasolinera,
pate- con aire distra'do una caja de Corn Flakes y sinti- c-mo el
rayo de sol languidec'a gradualmente, c-mo la penumbra ganaba terreno;
luego, canturreando el tema de una vieja pel'cula, se dedic- a pasear
entre las bombas. Las vio como el legado id-neo de la humanidad: monolitos
para un futuro sin gasolina ni coches, los vestigios totémicos
de una cultura que hab'a fraguado su propio eclipse. El carro de los
fugitivos se fund'a en un horizonte que recuperaba con rapidez su
marchita consistencia.
Lo primero
que le sorprendi- al entrar a la tienda de autoservicio fue la pulcritud,
el ambiente casi profiláctico que reinaba en el interior. Los
estantes de metal, relucientes bajo lámparas que zumbaban -su
olfato le asegur- que el polvo hab'a sido erradicado por completo-,
exhib'an sus productos con un orden que rayaba en la monoman'a y que
lo hizo pensar en comerciales, en el set de un anuncio a punto de
ser filmado; de un momento a otro, sonriendo de oreja a oreja, podr'a
irrumpir un hombre de chaleco hopperiano y voz aguda que soltar'a
una retah'la de descuentos y promociones. Deambulaba entre los anaqueles,
buscando en vano alguna huella de los fugitivos -apenas una lata de
sopa Campbell's que levant- y puso en su lugar-, cuando su o'do recogi-
un rumor que hab'a pasado por alto: el roce inconfundible de una tela
contra una superficie metálica. Cruz- el laberinto de conservas
y descubri- que su imaginaci-n no lo hab'a engañado esta vez;
a la entrada del local, de pie junto a la caja registradora, un hombre
maduro, de chaleco y pelo escaso, limpiaba el mostrador obsesivamente,
absorto en la jerga que trazaba c'rculos concéntricos y en
las manchas invisibles que raspaba con una uña que luego se
chupaba para reanudar su labor. C'rculos y uña, pausa, c'rculos
y uña -y as' hasta el infinito, el inexorable ritual del aseo.
En la luz de quir-fano de la tienda, el dependiente brillaba como
si lo acabaran de pintar, como recién salido de un -leo húmedo.
¿Quién, pens- él, lo habrá obligado a
limpiar por los siglos de los siglos bajo estas lámparas quirúrgicas?
Imagin- el cuadro de Hopper, el vac'o dejado por el personaje pr-fugo,
el desconcierto en el rostro del espectador que har'a el hallazgo,
los encabezados period'sticos: "Fuga en el mundo del arte", "Huye
criatura hopperiana". ¿Quién llenar'a ese hueco, cuál
ser'a la recompensa por denunciar el paradero del personaje? Carraspe-
y se dirigi- al dependiente con voz conciliadora:
-Qué
tal... Buenos d'as.
En el
prolongado silencio que sigui-, el roce de la jerga se le antoj- casi
un escándalo. C'rculos y uña, pausa, c'rculos y uña.
La sangre del hombre flu'a con pasmosa tranquilidad, inmutable. Sangre
fr'a, pens-, la sangre de la espera. Nada que ver con la calidez del
miedo.
-Qué
tal -repiti--. ¿C-mo va todo?... Vi que unos muchachos...
Se interrumpi-
al notar por primera vez el rev-lver que descansaba en el mostrador,
semioculto por la caja registradora, y que el hombre movi- s-lo para
continuar limpiando. C'rculos y uña. Pausa. C'rculos y uña.
-Oiga
-insisti--. ¿Se siente bien?
Sin alzar
la vista ni suspender su tarea, el hombre habl- por fin. Su voz, tal
como la hab'a imaginado, era aguda -una uña trazando c'rculos
en un cristal.
Mas...
|
in
English by Jen Hofer
For
Juvenal Acosta
and Andrei Codrescu
Is
that not why ghosts return:
to drink the blood of the living?
-J.M. Coetzee
The apocalypse,
for him, was an everyday concern - corroborated each morning by the
light which pierced his pupils with thousands of pins shot out from
a mute atomic explosion the moment his eyelids opened like floodgates
to scatter the water of his dreams over the globe. The pain was so
sudden, so brutal, that it forced him to close his eyes again and
grope for his dark glasses on the bedside table, his pulse at a gallop
and his temples pounding fiercely in prelude to a headache. Once the
shades were settled-then, only then-he ventured to blink, to untangle
the luminous skein of information which his vigil cast before him.
Panting, his face a mask of sweat, while the phosphenes readapted
themselves to the blood-red gloom out of which they had blossomed
like sluggish mosquitoes, he began the work of reacquaintance: there
were his legs, joined in a sort of mountain range tangling the sheets
into peaks which angled down towards the foot of the bed, and beyond
that was the profile of a chair, the dust like a dance troupe making
its debut in a diagonal of sun, particles of matter concentrating
rapidly around forms which would end up being the bathroom door, the
curtains which did not quite cover the only window, the stains on
the rug-his sense of smell, with feline keenness, detected equal parts
of semen and liquor-left as a legacy by former guests. Little by little,
as his eye deciphered that resplendent chaos, converting it into a
legible code, he understood that the atomic explosion was simply his
mind's dirty trick, part of a recurrent dream which day after day
he tried in vain to reconstruct. Little by little, the sense of apocalypse
was bursting into the world with its useless cargo; the omens disseminated
in the press and on television were nothing compared to the ocular
catastrophe to which he had been condemned for all eternity-eternity,
he thought, a smile twisting his mouth, another useless word for the
great dictionary of human vaguenesses. What was eternity if not the
weight of the sun on his naked eyes, the seconds it took him to find
his glasses on the night table, the lapse that was necessary before
the phosphenes would disappear? Let's talk about eternity, he thought,
addressing an invisible interlocutor; let's talk about the instantaneous
blindness I seem forced to eradicate since time immemorial. Let's
talk about how frustrating it is not to be able to recall the last
time one awoke without fear of pain and panic about the light, without
the primitive terror brought on by the first solar arrows boring through
one's eyelids. Let's talk about the dark, that inverse light where
our eyes ripen like autumns in spring.
That
morning, however, he awoke with the sensation-which rapidly turned
into certainty-that something had happened to the light. At first
it was a subtle intuition, a change in the periphery of his visual
field inducing dark ruminations, a certain parsimony in the dust attracted
by the ray of sun filtering in through the window. Once he had his
glasses on and his breath under control, he inhaled vigorously until
he thought his lungs would explode; his sense of smell, once again
he could confirm it, was a reliable ally: the air was charged with
an electric tension which he had only sensed on late afternoons in
summer just before a deluge broke. A strange density had slipped into
the atmosphere like a swarm of insects; it was, in fact, easy to hear
a remote buzzing, a generator-like murmur reminiscent of thousands
of elytrons soaring into the distance. He pricked up his ears. There
they were, diaphanous and punctual as ever-as every morning, as every
night-the sounds which populated his auditory universe: cockroaches
scurrying in the deepest corners of the hotel, the almost imperceptible
whisper of spiders weaving their webs, the occasional screech of rats
looking for food-how many times, he thought, had his hunger impelled
him to feed on them?-the mosquito's transparent song, a butterfly's
rubbing against the glass, the termites' tireless litany. Something,
however, was missing in this secret world: birds. The birds had hushed,
contributing to the strangeness which saturated the air. And the flies,
the flies also seemed to have disappeared in pursuit of new decay.
And the smell: a mixture of ambush and emptiness, of geologic fermentations
and virgin asphalt. And the light: a thick grayish ink that oozed
between the curtains and drenched the rug. And the murmur, the remote
elytrons of absence.
He leapt
out of bed, his senses sharper than usual. A quick glance at the magazines
and newspapers accumulated on the floor after a two-week confinement
confirmed something that the specters of the night had relegated to
the background: the train of the century was running-and would continue
running, as far as the rails would allow-towards the abyss to which
a humanity run awry was driving it. As headlines and magazine covers
were reporting, almost all the cars of that train had been reserved
to transport baggage which was both ominous and absurd: biblical commentaries
and forecasts, unrehearsed meteorological shows, an increase in the
number of suicides, a boom in religious sects, a collective mania.
In England, a woman had dressed her children as angels before making
them swallow a poison which hadn't been heard of since the nineteenth
century. In Iran, a group of young men had set a mosque on fire as
part of a plot to eliminate any trace of the Muslim creed. In Australia,
a tsunami known as the Last Wave had left tens of thousands dead.
In Egypt, an elderly man had hung himself in his tent across from
the pyramid of Cheops with a message 'for humankind hidden in his
tunic. In a small American town, organizations for Aryan purity were
scheming to get rid of racial minorities 'forever.' In the city on
the outskirts of which he was staying, an accountant had killed his
immediate superior by stabbing him in the eye with a pencil. Eternity,
he thought, pocket apocalypses: man has not learned the lessons of
history, he is still the ignorant student who recorded his confusion
in the caves of Altamira-it's just that the caves have become tabloids.
The crude drawings of bison and birds and solitary, emaciated silhouettes
are now the photographs of a perplexed crowd.
As he
went into the bathroom, he clearly felt the air stirring around him
as if it were a robe: it was that rarefied, it was that dense. He
closed the door behind himself, and once he was safely in the semi-dark,
he took off his glasses, leaning into the mirror. What better light
than shadow in which to face the reddened gaze of his mornings, the
effects of the sun reduced to a constant trickle of tears. He grabbed
one of the hundreds of bottles of eye drops strewn about-on the sink
and on the toilet, on the floor and in the shower-and dedicated himself
to his daily balsam ritual: a cataract for his sick eyes, recommended
by an ophthalmologist who had died a couple months earlier. After
his prescribed rubdown, after blinking violently for several minutes,
he shaved, washed his face, soaped his groin, armpits and neck, and
then rinsed himself. He dressed slowly, enjoying the dark friction
of his clothes, which he kept in the bathroom so he could avoid encountering
the morning light-years before he had decided that closets were the
realm of insect-whistling the jingle from one of his favorite commercials,
something about eye drops or maybe blood donations. He combed his
hair, put on deodorant, a bit of lotion and his glasses, and he left,
ready to challenge the brightness of the day.
He drew
the curtains, and the spectacle afforded by the window, though he
had intuited it already, still managed to surprise him: it was the
spectacle of absence. There were empty cars, doors wide open, in the
parking lot and in the middle of the highway which passed in front
of the hotel; the few birds-mostly crows, as far as he could see-remained
motionless on the electrical and telephone wires; the flies seemed
to imitate them, petrified on the gravel and the glass like fossils
of an extinct species. The sky was now a kind of hospital for cloudy
stomachs, heavy with rain, which crept along lazily and allowed the
sun's pale invasion only with great difficulty. Eternity, he thought,
let's see what their opinion of this eternity is. A humid gust of
wind ruffled his hair as he left the room, making him smile slightly
and close his eyes while he breathed deeply; it had been years, maybe
decades since he had given himself over to the smell of desolation
with such pleasure, such indolence. He began to walk through the parking
lot, hearing with amplified clarity the crunch of the gravel and the
hustle and bustle of the ants, examining the cars one by one. He saw
trunks exhibiting their contents with no modesty whatsoever, suitcases
and bags and toiletries with the still-fresh prints of escape, clothes
scattered on the floor which recalled the installations of certain
contemporary artists. He laughed at the idea. Who would have believed,
only a century ago, that something so common, so anonymous as clothing,
would be elevated to the status of an art object; why that modern
zeal to glorify the disposable, the perishable? Before, he thought,
art had boiled down to a canvas and a brush, to establishing the perennial
battle between light and shadow. Before, the body in all its irregularity
was immortalized; today the wrapping counted much more, so much more
that the body had disappeared. It was still there, of course, the
corpus delectus: shirts and pants, blouses and skirts, shoes and sneakers-a
hollow corpse. Before, he thought, immortality dressed differently.
He walked
down the middle of the highway, stopping from time to time next to
an empty car, letting himself be caressed by the mountain wind which
hurried towards the south, when an image whirled into his mind. It
was the memory-vague, intertwined with the strands of an almost impassive
dream-of a bustling dawn, distinct, filled with voices and steps coming
from all directions, motors and honking horns and doors opening brusquely-the
sounds of flight, the music of involuntary exile. This memory was
joined by another which, perhaps because it was so innocuous, planted
a new smile on his lips: the cable TV pornography marathons to which
he had enjoyed subjecting himself for the past few years. Far from
transporting him to the orbit of onanism-the phrase belonged to someone
he had met in one of the bars he used to frequent before he began
to devote his nights to repose-pornography amused him so much that
he had come to think of it as the display which best attested to the
ridiculous human parade; nothing was more comfortable than to enter
a hotel room-how many had he stayed in these past months? by now he
had lost count-lie back on the bed, find the remote control and spread
out the banquet of fragile, transitory flesh given over to an obviously
fake frenzy. Frenzy?, he thought; frenzy the blood which clambers
through veins and arteries, the eyes which shrink from the sun. Frenzy
the flesh which surrenders itself to the dark, to the manhandling
of eternity. The vision of three or four bodies moving like pistons
in some primary machine accompanied him all the way to the tollbooths
lined up perpendicular to the highway, marking the limits of the city
which had sheltered him since June, and which had vanished miles ago
to make way for a mountainous rural landscape-the end of civilization.
The air paid his toll with its persistent whistle; the booths=he had
already smelled it-were deserted. He inspected them, however, one
after the other. He saw a calendar with the image of a naked woman
crowned with a Santa Claus cap, a bodybuilding magazine with its pages
ripped, a coffeepot filled to the brim, a radio playing only static,
which he decided to leave on; he thought of how lovely it would be
to hear the batteries draining as the day declined and he regretted
that he could not wait while it happened. Standing in the middle of
the highway, his heart and lungs swollen with joy, he immersed himself
in the morning's leaded plateau and felt, for the first time in a
long while, that he could eat up-no, drink down the world in great
gulps. He then exhaled a sigh which soon became a shout of celebration,
a bellow which reverberated in the distance where the city shimmered.
As if
in response to the echo which remained hanging in the air, a ray of
sunlight pierced the clouds and landed suddenly on a gas station located
beyond the tollbooths, encircling it with a misty halo-a revelation
in the confines of empty space. Dazzled, his mind become the museum
where he had seen an Edward Hopper exhibit one afternoon, he let himself
be drawn like a magnet towards the light which seemed to flow from
one of the painter's most desolate canvases: 'Gas,' if his memory
didn't fail him, with its placid service station attended by a man
in a vest, waiting patiently for a car which might save him from paralysis.
Keep waiting, he thought as he looked around, maybe someday one of
those ghost cars will rescue you. After all, even immortality needs
fuel. Hurried steps-the first sign of human life in several hours-made
him turn towards the gas station just as three young men were leaving
the attached store carrying cans and cereal boxes. He realized that
he was watching a robbery by the way they flung the packages into
the trunk of the car which was waiting for them with its motor running-behind
the wheel there was a fourth figure, by the look of terror that one
of them gave him before shouting a warning at his companions, by the
obscene finger that shot from one of the windows as the car sped towards
the south with a loud screeching of tires. What a shame, he said to
himself, and shook his head as he remembered the man in Hopper's painting;
maybe he'd get lucky the next time. When he arrived at the gas station,
he distractedly kicked a box of Corn Flakes and noticed how the ray
of sunlight gradually languished, how the darkness gained territory;
then, humming the theme song to an old movie, he began to stroll among
the pumps. He saw them as an apt legacy of humanity: monoliths for
a future with neither gasoline nor cars, totemic vestiges of a culture
which had forged its own eclipse. The fugitives' car merged into the
horizon which quickly regained its faded consistency.
The first
thing that surprised him when he walked into the self-service store
was its tidiness, the almost prophylactic atmosphere which reigned
inside. The metal shelves, gleaming beneath buzzing lamps (his sense
of smell assured him that all dust had been completely eradicated)
displayed their products with an order bordering on monomania, making
him think of ads, of the set for a commercial about to be filmed;
from one moment to the next a man might burst in, smiling from ear
to ear, with a Hopperesque vest and a sharp voice, unleashing a string
of discounts and promotions. He wandered between the shelves, searching
in vain for some trace of the fugitives-barely even a can of Campbell's
soup, which he picked up and put back in its place-when his ear detected
a rustling he had previously overlooked: the unmistakable rubbing
of fabric against a metallic surface. He crossed the labyrinth of
canned goods and discovered that his imagination had not deceived
him this time; standing next to the cash register at the entrance
to the store, an aging man with scant hair, wearing a vest, was obsessively
cleaning the counter, absorbed in the coarse cloth which traced concentric
circles, the invisible stains which he scraped at with a fingernail
he then sucked, only to resume his labor. Circles and fingernail,
pause, circles and fingernail-and so on until infinity, the inexorable
ritual of cleanliness. In the operating-room light of the store, the
clerk shone as if they had just finished painting him, as if he had
only recently emerged from a fresh canvas. Who, he thought, could
have forced the man to clean forever and ever under these surgical
lamps? He imagined Hopper's painting, the empty space the escaped
figure would leave, the bewilderment on the face of the spectator
who would make the discovery, the newspaper headlines: 'Escape in
the Art World,Ó 'Hopperesque Creature Flees.' Who would fill that
hole, what would the reward be for reporting the figure's whereabouts?
He cleared his throat and spoke to the clerk in a conciliatory voice:
How are
you-Good morning.
In the
prolonged silence that followed, the rubbing of the cloth seemed almost
scandalous. Circles and fingernail, pause, circles and fingernail.
The man's blood flowed with astonishing calm, immutable. Cold blood,
he thought, the blood of waiting. No relation whatsoever to the warmth
of fear.
How are
you, he repeated. How's everything going?-I saw that some guys-
He stopped
himself when he noticed, for the first time, the gun resting on the
counter, half-hidden by the cash register, and that the man moved
only to continue cleaning. Circles and fingernail. Pause. Circles
and fingernail.
Excuse
me, he insisted. Are you all right?
Without
looking up or interrupting his work, the man finally spoke. His voice
was, in fact, sharp-a fingernail tracing circles on glass.
Take
whatever you need, he said, I only ask that you don't make any mess.
He paused and added: Those fellows did as they were told, and they
had knives. I told them that it had taken me hours to arrange the
store, that they should take whatever they wanted. Even in shelters
you have to eat, they said. I know that, I said, why? We don't have
anything to pay with, they said. I know that, I said, I don't give
a damn, take what you want and get the hell out of here. You aren't
coming with us? they said. I can't, I said, I haven't finished cleaning.
Another pause while he brought a fingernail to his mouth and then,
between his teeth: I'll never finish-There's so much dirt-
And what
do you want that for? he said, pointing to the gun, approaching the
counter slowly.
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