Constancia and Other Stories for Virgins (12 page)

The third guest, Teófilo Sánchez, was the school's professional bohemian: poet and painter, singer of traditional melodies. He must have seen old engravings or recent films, or simply have heard somewhere that the painter wears a floppy hat and a cape, and the poet long hair and florid neckwear. To be different, Teófilo chose to wear a railroad engineer's shirt without a tie, and a short jacket, and he went about with his head uncovered (in that age of the obligatory hat, his head appeared offensively naked, it was practically shaved, in a cut that at that time was associated with German schools or the lowest class of army recruits). His careless features, resembling a loaf of rye before it's put in the oven, his lively raisin eyes, the spontaneous abundance of his poetic language, seemed a commentary on Ventura's remark, which I had rewarded with a sour smile a moment before: Melodrama is comedy without humor.

Was that remark directed at me, since I was still writing little chronicles of the
fait-divers
of the capital and the minor poetry, unquestionably vulgar, of the popular dance hall, the tart, and the pimp, the couples of the barrio, jealousy and betrayal, abandoned gardens and sleepless nights? Don't overlook the classical statues in the gardens and the forgotten idols in the basements, Bernardo commented very seriously. Ventura laughed at Teófilo because Teófilo wanted to provoke laughter. Arturo saw Teófilo as what Teófilo was and would be: a youthful curiosity, but a disappointment as an older man.

What was the bard of bohemia going to do, once we each sat down with our cuba libres, but improvise some awful verses on the subject of our lady, sitting there wordlessly? We saw Arturo's grimace of disdain and Ventura took advantage of Teófilo's sigh to laugh good-naturedly and say that this
donna immobile
would be the best Tancredo at a bullfight. Too bad that woman, inventor of the art of bullfighting in Crete (who continued to delight circus audiences as
écuyère
), is not able to play the central role in the modern bullring. The man who plays the Tancredo—the fat, rosy-cheeked Ventura began his imitation, first licking his rosebud lips and then anointing a finger with saliva and dramatically running it over his eyebrows—is put in the center of the ring—so—and doesn't budge for anything—so—because his life depends on it. His future movement depends on his present immobility—he stood stock-still in front of La Desdichada—as the gate opens—so—and the bull—so—is released and seeks movement, the bull is attracted by the movement of the other, and there is Tancredo, unmoving, and the bull doesn't know what to do, he awaits a movement, an excuse to ape and attack it: Ventura del Castillo motionless before La Desdichada, who is sitting between Bernardo and me, Arturo standing, watching what is going on with the most correct cynicism, Teófilo confused, his words starting to burst out, his inspiration starting to perish: his hands in front of him, his pose and his speech suspended by Ventura's frozen act, the perfect Tancredo, rigid in the center of the ring, defying the fierce bull of the imagination.

Our friend had been converted into the mirror image of the wooden dummy. Bernardo was sitting on La Desdichada's right and I on the mannequin's left. Silence, immobility.

Then we heard a sigh and we all turned to look at her. Her head fell to the side, onto my shoulder. Bernardo stood up trembling, he looked at her huddled there, resting on my shoulder—so—and took her by the shoulders—so—so—and shook her, I didn't know what to do, Teófilo babbled something, and Ventura was true to his game. The bull was attacking and he, how could he move? It would be suicide, caramba!

I defended La Desdichada, I told Bernardo to calm down.

—You're hurting her, you prick!

Arturo Ogarrio let his arms drop and said: Let's go, I think we are intruding on the private lives of these people.

—Good night, madam, he said to La Desdichada, who was being held up with one arm supported by Bernardo, the other by me. —Thank you for your exquisite hospitality. I hope to repay it one of these days.

Toño and Bernardo

How would you prefer to die? Do you see yourself crucified? Tell me if you would like to die like Him. Would you dare? Would you ask for a death like His?

Bernardo

I watched La Desdichada for hours, taking advantage of the heavy sleep Toño fell into after dinner.

She had returned, still in her Chinese dressing gown, to her place at the head of the table; I studied her in silence.

Her sculptor had given her a face of classic features, a straight nose and nicely spaced eyes, not as round as those of most mannequins of the time, who looked like caricatures, especially since they were usually given fan-shaped eyelashes. The black eyes of La Desdichada, on the other hand, were melancholy: the lengthened lids, like a lizard's, gave her that quality. In contrast, the mannequin's mouth, tiny, tight, and painted to look like a ribbon, could be that of any store-window dummy. Her chin, again, was different, a little prognathous, like that of a Spanish princess. She also had a long neck, perfect for those old garments that buttoned to the ear, as the poet López Velarde wrote. La Desdichada had, in fact, a neck for all ages: childish nakedness, then silk mufflers, finally pearl chokers.

I say “her sculptor,” knowing that this face is neither artistic nor human because it is a mold, repeated a thousand times and distributed in shops all over the world. They say that store mannequins are the same in Mexico and Japan, in black Africa and the Arab world. The model is Occidental and everyone accepts it. Nobody had seen, in 1936, a Chinese or black mannequin. While they always stay within the classic mold, there are differences: some mannequins laugh and others don't. La Desdichada does not smile; her wooden face is an enigma. But that is only because I am disposed to see it that way, I admit. I see what I want to see and I want to see it because I am reading and translating a poem by Gérard de Nerval in which grief and joy are like fugitive statues, words whose perfection is in the immobility of the statue and the awareness that such paralysis is ultimately also its imperfection: its undoing. La Desdichada is not perfect: she lacks a finger and I don't know if it was cut off purposely or if it was an accident. Mannequins do not move, but are moved rather carelessly.

Bernardo and Toño

He throws me a challenge: Do you dare take her out on the street, on your arm? Take her to dine at Sanborns, how about that? Test your social status, let them see you in a theater, a church, a reception, with La Desdichada at your side, mute, her gaze fixed, without even a smile, what would they say of you? Expose yourself to ridicule for her. I wouldn't count on it, friend: you wouldn't do anything of the sort. You only want to keep her here at home, for you alone if possible (do you think that I don't know how to read your glances, your looks of violent impotence?); otherwise, the three of us together. Whereas I will take her out. I'll take her out for a stroll. You'll see. As soon as she recovers from your abuse, I'll show her off everywhere, she is so alive, I mean, she seems alive, just look, our friends were almost fooled, they greeted her, they said goodbye to her. Is it only a game? Then let the game continue, because if enough people play it, it will cease to be one, and then, then maybe everyone will see her as a living woman, and then, then, what if the miracle occurs and she really comes to life? Let me give that chance to this … to our woman, that's right,
our
woman. I'm going to give her that chance. I think then she can be mine alone. What if she comes to life and says: I prefer you, because you had faith in me, and not the other, you took me out and he was embarrassed, you took me to a party and he was afraid of being laughed at.

Toño

She whispered in my ear, in a rasping tone: How would you like to die? Do you see yourself with a crown of thorns? Don't cover your ears. Do you long to possess me and are you unable to think of a death that will make me adore you? Then I will tell you what I will do with you, Toño, tony Toño!

Bernardo

La Desdichada had a very bad night. She groaned dreadfully. I had to watch her closely.

Toño

I see my face in the mirror, on waking. It is scratched. I rush to look at her. We spent the night together, I explored her minutely, like a real lover. I didn't leave a centimeter of her body unexamined. But when I saw my own wound I went back for another look, to discover what I saw last night and then forgot. La Desdichada has two invisible furrows in her painted cheeks. No tears flow over these hidden wounds, repaired rather carelessly by the mannequin maker. But something flowed down that surface once.

Bernardo

I remembered that I didn't ask him to buy her or bring her here, I only asked him to look at her, that was all, it wasn't my idea to bring her here, it was his, but that doesn't mean you have the right of possession, I saw her first, I don't know what I'm saying, it doesn't matter, she must prefer me to my friend, she has to prefer me, I'm better-looking than you, I'm a better writer than you, I'm … Don't threaten me, you bastard! Don't raise your hand to me! I know how to defend myself, don't forget that, you know that perfectly well, asshole! I'm not maimed, I'm not wooden, I'm not …

—You're a child, Bernardo. But your perversity is part of your poetic charm. Beware of old age! To be puerile and senile at the same time: avoid that! Try to age gracefully—if you can.

—And what about you, asshole?

—Don't worry. I'll die before you do.

Bernardo and Toño

When I was carrying her, she whispered to me secretly: Look at me. Think of me, naked. Think of all the clothes I have left behind, every place I've lived. A shawl here, a skirt there, combs and pins, brooches and crinolines, gorgets and gloves, satin slippers, evening dresses of taffeta and lamé, daytime clothes of silk and linen, riding boots, straw hats and felt hats, fur stoles and lizard-skin belts, pearl and emerald teardrops, diamonds strung on white gold, perfumes of sandalwood and lavender, eyebrow pencils, lipstick, baptismal clothes, wedding gowns, mourning clothes: be capable of dressing me, my love, cover my naked body, chipped, broken: I want nine rings of moonstone, Bernardo (you said to me in your most secret voice); will you bring them to me? you won't let me die of cold, will you be able to steal these things?, she laughed suddenly, because you don't have a dime, right, you're just a poor poet without a pot to piss in, she laughed like crazy and I dropped her, Toño ran over to us furious, you're hopeless, he said, you're an ass, even though she's only a mannequin, why did you have me get her if you're going to mistreat her this way? You're a hopeless bastard, a shithead forever, how could anyone put up with you, much less make any sense of you!

—She wants to dress luxuriously.

—Find her a millionaire to keep her and take her on his yacht.

Toño

We haven't spoken for several days. We have allowed the tension of the other night to solidify, turn bitter, because we don't want to say the word:
jealousy.
I am a coward. There is something more important than our ridiculous passions. I should have had the courage to tell you, Bernardo, she is a very delicate woman and she can't be treated that way. I have had to put her down in my bed and the shaking of her hands is awful. She can't live and sleep standing up, like a horse. Quick. I've fixed her some chicken soup and rice. She thanks me with her ancient look. How ashamed you must be of your reaction the day of the party. Your tantrums are pretty ridiculous. Now you leave us alone all the time and sometimes don't come home to sleep. Then she and I hear the music of a mariachi in the distance, coming through the open window. We can't tell where the sounds are coming from. But perhaps the most mysterious activity of Mexico City is playing the guitar alone the whole night long. La Desdichada sleeps, sleeps by my side.

Bernardo

My mother told me that if I ever needed the warmth of a home, I could visit my Spanish cousin Fernandita, who had a nice little house in Colonia del Valle. I would have to be discreet, Mother said. Cousin Fernandita is small and sweet, but her husband is a terror who takes revenge at home for his twelve hours a day behind a counter of imported wines, olive oil, and La Mancha cheeses. The house smells of it, though cleaner: when you walk in, you feel as if someone just ran water, soap, and a broom over every corner of that pastel-colored stucco Mediterranean villa set in a grove of pines in the Valley of Anáhuac.

There is a game of croquet set up on the lawn and my second cousin Sonsoles can be found there any hour of the afternoon, bent over, with a mallet in her hand, and looking out of the corner of her eye, between the arm and the axilla, which form a sort of arch for her thoughtful gaze, at the unwary masculine visitor who appears in the harsh afternoon light. I'm sure my cousin Sonsoles is going to end up with sciatica: she must keep up that bent-over croquet pose for hours at a time. It lets her turn her ass toward the entrance of the garden and wiggle it provocatively: it shows off her figure and makes it stand out better, stuffed into a tight dress of rose-colored satin. That was the style in the thirties; cousin Sonsoles had also seen it on Jean Harlow in
China Seas.

I need a space between Toño and me and our wooden guest. Wooden, I repeat to myself walking along the new Avenida Nuevo León almost to the pasture that separates the Colonia Hipódromo from Insurgentes, walking across that field of prickly heather until I reach the leafy avenue and from there cross over to the Colonia del Valle: La Desdichada is wooden. I'm not going to compensate for that fact with a Waikiki whore, as Toño would, or would like to, cynically. But if I go on believing that Sonsoles is going to compensate me for anything, I know that I am making a mistake. The tiresome girl stops playing croquet and invites me into the living room. She asks me if I would care for some tea and I answer yes, amused by the British afternoon invented by my cousin. She skips off coquettishly and in a little while comes back with a tray, teapot, and teacups. Such speed. She hardly gave me time to sneer at the Romero de Torres-style kitsch of this pseudo-gypsy room, full of silk shawls on black pianos, glass cases, with open fans, wooden statues of Don Quixote, and furniture carved with scenes from the fall of Granada. It is hard to sit and take tea with your head leaning against a carving of the tearful Moorish king Boabdil and his stern mother, while my cousin Sonsoles sits under a column portraying Isabel la Católica in the encampment of Santa Fe, about to have a last swing at the infidel. —Will the gentleman take a little tea? the silly little thing asks.