Divorce Is in the Air (39 page)

On a clear day, that enormous living room must have been luminous; now, the recessed bulbs were turned up high. He sat down on a three-seater sofa and crossed his legs, directing me to a leather armchair; it was very fashionable, like the rest of the furniture (my eye is still just as sharp, perfectly suited to a different walk of life). Through an alcove I could see more stairs; three stories—upstairs must have been the bedroom or a studio.

He smiled at me as he pointed to the small table between our chairs: ham, spelt crackers, and a bottle of Evan Williams.

“Impressive place.”

“You like it? It still doesn't feel like mine. The upstairs is a disaster and downstairs needs a more modern touch. It's a modest neighborhood, but there are people who pay a fortune to live in a matchbox in the center of town.”

He'd straightened the hair that fell in abundant reddish locks. It wasn't just the implants, his entire body seemed polished from the inside: cheekbones, lips, back, the tendons of his neck, everything molded in a feminine register. It's true that what the rhinoplasty had left of his nose seemed a bit ridiculous, but Eloy—Eloise—compensated with an energy that hadn't come across in the photographs. A splendid specimen of a fully developed woman, thought out to the very last detail.

“Do you live alone?”

“I have the place to myself. I don't bring anyone here, either.”

And she said it flirtatiously while pouring the first glass, bourbon over crunchy ice with a slice of lime. Her eyes grew damp with the same hunger they'd shown when, as a teenager, Eloy had taken the
Star Wars
figures out of their box, a collection the rest of us could only dream of. They'd probably be worth a fortune now.

“I already heard you don't work where you used to work, doing that.”

“Did Pedro tell you?”

“I did my own research. He doesn't know I'm here.”

“Secrets between boys? I like it. What would become of our social lives if we didn't monitor what we say, and to whom? People are such schemers.”

“More like comedians. I've been thinking for a while that people are only worth what their secrets are. Show me your secrets and I can measure your quality. Of course, no one ever listens to what I say.”

“Do you like the drink?”

“It's a luxury I shouldn't allow myself anymore.”

“Aren't carrion fests lucrative these days?”

“Touché? I'm sure you're up to date on my separation, and my temporary ruin. I'm the favorite subject of my ‘best' friend's digital avatar, I lead a parallel life on his Facebook wall. But look at this place, the furniture, it's not cheap. Did you win the lottery? Inherit a fortune?”

“Let's say I did. It was a gift from a man I spent years with.”

“Will you introduce me? You never know.”

“He died.”

“Damn, I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. This is too dry for me, I'm going to get the wine.”

She got up slowly, emphasizing a very human bounce. I averted my eyes: an ashtray, a Nelson chair, and a Barceló worth much more than my little Miró, Dad, much more. And when she came back I wouldn't know what on earth to say to her, not even with the bourbon giving me courage. Why should the life of Eloy-with-tits matter to me? If she started flirting with me, would I dare jump out the window? The rubble of ice in my glass reflected the lines of my snout: a man growing old in a happy world, a disastrous man with disastrous plans.

“What do you think about when you look at me?”

“Sorry?”

“It's not easy for anyone. There are some things you just take for granted, things that won't be problematic. You know, like the oak is a tree, the rose is a flower, the deer an animal, Catalonia our nation, and death inevitable. Boys are boys and girls are girls. Some boys like each other and that's already an issue for some people, but they don't stop being men because of it. Most of you are petrified, blinded by your morals: a gender should be fixed, a reliable border. I've found the best way to get past that is to ask you guys what you think when you see me.”

“What did Pedro think?”

“He tried to kiss me.”

“That lizard.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“I'm stubborn, you should know that, we've played together a thousand times. On the court. Under those lights. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Do you ever think about that? Don't look at me that way. On the IPSI court, their homecoming, the gym was packed and cold enough to flay your knees. 79–78. Their defense was like a steel trap. I missed the shot because someone pushed me, and you came out of nowhere to grab the rebound and sink them with a slam dunk.”

“No old war stories. I'm begging you.”

“I'm going somewhere with this and you know it. We carried the game. The best was in the semifinals, ten points down, only five miserable minutes left. Antolín had fouled out and those smart-asses from Joventud were strutting around the court with the ACB logo. You and me on the bench, who knows why, but we couldn't give up, it was our home court and we were wearing the La Salle jersey.”

“Descarrega and Miró in the game.”

“A blizzard of three-pointers, a regular bombardment, Little Boy and Fat Man, Napalm. The three classes in our year cheering, the ref ignoring Jacobo's last foul to let the clock run down. A big win for our team and a kick in the ass for Penya, and that bunch of lanky chickens went back to the suburbs with their tails between their legs. Ha! The warm-ups, the tension in the eyes, everything floating on surges of adrenaline. With those tits you'd be hard pressed to run the counterattack over the center line, but you could probably still catch a rebound for the first time in your sorry career. Don't you miss it?”

“Sometimes. It was one of the good things. That day my dad almost knocked yours over when he jumped up to cheer.”

“And your parents? What do they see when they look at you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They're trapped in the past, with Eloy. What about your father? Mr. Miró-Puig, I can just picture him, here in my living room, always so thin and well turned out. Think he was batting for the other team?”

“If you stood over him he looked like a little bird. Remember?”

“Better than you know. I remember all of you.”

“He died. I cremated him. It was sudden and I had to take charge. So he's also there, trapped in the past, for more than fifteen years now.”

“You can't imagine how sorry I am.”

“The crematorium was at the end of a narrow white dirt road. It was all very well organized. They stuck the box, American pine, into an oven that in a few minutes can reach eight hundred degrees, it runs on diesel. They let me watch through the peephole. Glowing streaks started to open in the wood, which cracked before the thing turned red hot, until finally there was only black smoke billowing around cooling ashes.”

“How long did it take?”

“I don't know why I always assumed it would be quick. My dad was thin, so he took under two hours to burn, but the attendant told me that to get rid of a fat man completely it can take up to three hours. Once, they had a guy who didn't fit in any box, so they stuck him in as he was and in less than half an hour there was so much melted fat under the singed and crunchy skin they were worried about the oven.”

“What did your dad die of?”

“The guy handed me the urn with an expression that said ‘this is all we are'—but that's a lie. Bullshit, I hate that idea. Those cold ashes are everything we are not. He also told me to pray for my father, which seemed like good advice. It doesn't matter how he died, it's not important.”

“Don't think you're getting out of it. You owe me an answer. What do you see when you look at me?”

“You asked what I
think about
when I look at you. That's totally different, completely unrelated, because what I see is good, so congratulations. On the other hand, what I think isn't so nice. I wonder whether it scares you to consider what will happen when these looks of yours get old. The old transvestites I've come across aren't exactly attractive.”

“That's because you're looking at me sexually. How many sixty- or seventy-year-old women do you know who aren't sorry specimens in terms of attractiveness? Getting old is getting old.”

“That's one way of looking at it.”

“Why did you come here? Why did you look for me? What are you doing?”

“Fair question, Eloise. It's because of what we're talking about: I came because I'm getting old. Aging isn't like a diseased molar you can just yank out of the gum, it's something that happens to the whole organism, the only one I have. Also because I'm alone, because my life is absurd and my problems can't be solved like before, by running, or with my hands.”

“Another drink? I haven't thought about that much. I've been busy with other things.”

“They say that life starts to move faster, that everything goes by at top speed during your forties, while you're turning soft and gray-haired. Further on it slows down again, supposedly. I've heard that later, your memory opens up in all its splendor, and you can explore it top to bottom. Sounds nice, but the guys who talk like that don't have to live in my head, I don't want to live among the husks of days gone by. How long will I have left once I reach that serenity? There comes a time when the prostate can swell up and burst at any moment.”

“Do you have trouble sleeping?”

“I sleep like a baby—until I wake up at three or four. My biological alarm clock alerts me to the time for thinking about death, and my pores start gushing a cold liquid that can't be only sweat. You know what I'm talking about, it must happen to everyone.”

“It never happens to me.”

“I've studied it. I think within twenty years they'll be able to transplant a mature brain into a younger body, cultivated expressly in a nursery courtesy of your DNA. There'll be all kinds of protests, but if you have money no one can stop you. We'll move beyond the ultimate limitation, people will be born who will never know the final experience.”

“But if the brain gets sick, it will be horrible.”

“That's almost solved, too. The streets are full of people walking around with pig ventricles and aortas stapled to them. They'll do the same kind of thing with the brain, until they learn to grow brain cells resistant to aging.”

“And does it have to be from a pig?”

“Don't panic. That's just prejudice talking, and you should be familiar with that. Look at you. Thousands of people see a walking transgression where there's only a pretty girl living her life.”

“Thank you, Joan-Marc. But this is all good news, right? With your pig-human brain transplanted onto a freshly hatched body, there's no more aging, and—”

“Did you just use my name? No one does that.”

“I don't like abbreviations or nicknames. Things are confused enough already.”

“I'm afraid of the operating room. The gowns, the lights, the anesthesia sucking out your conscience. The body laid open, defenseless, a fleshy wound. And even if everything goes well, you'll still be left with flashes of memories from the pigsty floating around in there. Can I ask you a question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“How could you stand it? Everything you did to yourself?”

“You think I've transformed myself, but from my point of view this is my true body, and it's made its way out through the ridiculous and masculine and hairily filthy false skin I used to wear that fucked my life up. Don't you think I'm better now?”

“Much better. That scalpel was your fairy godmother.”

“It was a long process. Do you feel dizzy, too? Don't give me any more booze.”

“Have you ever told anyone about it?”

“No. A finger, pour me one finger.”

“Tell me, if you want.”

“It's a story with no beginning, or it began when I did, if you like. Since the very first sexual signs I've known they gave me a body with the wrong gender, that I was covered in the wrong skin. I denied it, I signed up for basketball, I tried to live like a gay boy. I dressed as a woman, in my mother's clothes, or things I'd buy and then throw in the trash—all it did was make me feel like a creature whose ideas were grotesque once put into practice. I didn't enjoy wearing dresses, or perfume, or imitating female gestures. I didn't want to disguise myself as a girl, I
was
a girl, and I was disgusted with my body. Your brain transplant would have been a good solution for me.

“I didn't start taking hormones until I was over twenty. I'd put in time researching what I could expect, and the messages were confusing. I started with a gentle hormone replacement therapy, I didn't want to rush my body or wear it out. The theory is that they block the male hormones and substitute them with estrogen. In practice it makes your voice soften, you grow breasts like little cones. You might get a little whitish fluid leaking from the tips of your nipples, but it's not milk, it's a warning that some hormonal reading has skyrocketed. I felt dizzy, I stopped studying, I couldn't stand the pressure of the questions or the sound of my own answers. I had to move. Even at the beginning the treatment is expensive, and then you go into a spiral: as the regimen demands more and more money to achieve your look, work possibilities diminish. I would have slit my wrists without the Internet, without the forums where girls talk about what they've gone through, what they're waiting for. I don't see any moral problem; I didn't ask to be stuck in a man's body. The Web put me in contact with girls from Madrid, from Valencia, but also from villages in León, bedroom communities. There was a Galician woman who got her skull split open with a stone—we'd been missing her for a week in the forums when we read about it in the papers. Luckily Barcelona is an open-minded city. You can laugh at that idea when you're straight and you have kids and an apartment in the Quadrat d'Or and a well-paid job, but you don't know how good it is here until you stumble and need some community support. Some of the girls made photo albums, recorded videos of the process. I promised myself I wouldn't leave a trace, I'd put it all behind me as soon as I could.