The Seamstress and the Wind (3 page)

7

DELIA SIFFONI WAS
already crazy, and the disappearance of her only son drove her crazy again. She went into a frenzy. Prodigious spectacle, perennial postcard, transcendental cinema, scene of scenes: to see a madwoman go mad. It’s like seeing God.
Th
e history of the last decades has made this occasion stranger and stranger. Although I was a witness, I would not dare attempt a description. I defer to the judgment of the neighborhood, where the members of the same sex as the defendant always got the last word.
Th
e men were in charge of the men, the women of the women. My mother was an enthusiastic supporter of desperation when it came to children. According to her, there was nothing to do but howl, lose your head, make scenes. Luckily she never had to: she had German blood, she was discreet and reserved in the extreme, and I don’t know how she would have managed it. Anything less was equivalent to being “calm,” which in her allusive but very precise language meant not loving your offspring. Beyond desperation she saw nothing. Later she did see, she saw too much, when our happiness fell apart, but at that time she was very strict: the scene, the curtain of screaming — and beyond it nothing.
Th
e fact was, neither she nor any woman she knew had ever had to go mad with anguish; life was not very novelistic then . . .
Th
e madness of a mother could only be unleashed, hypothetically, by some horrendous accident to her children. And everything happened to us — we were free, savage children — but not the definitively horrendous. We didn’t get lost, we didn’t disappear . . . How could we get lost in a town where everyone knew each other, and almost everyone was more or less related? A child could only be lost in labyrinths and they didn’t exist among us. Even so, it did exist if only as a fear, the accident existed: an invisible force dragged the accident toward reality, and kept dragging at it even there, giving it the most capricious forms, reordering over and over its details and circumstances, creating it, annihilating it, with all the unmatched power of fiction.
Th
ere lay the happiness of Pringles, and there it must still lie.

It can’t seem strange, then, that in the midst of that ordeal Delia saw herself before the abyss, before the magnetic field of the abyss, and she rushed forward. What else could she do?

8

THE ABYSS THAT
opened before Delia Siffoni had (and still has) a name: Patagonia. When I tell the French I come from there (barely lying) they open their mouths with admiration, almost with incredulity.
Th
ere are a lot of people all over the world who dream of traveling some day to Patagonia, that extreme end of the planet, a beautiful and inexpressible desert, where any adventure might happen.
Th
ey’re all more or less resigned to never getting that far, and I have to admit they’re right. What would they go there to do? And how would they get there, anyway? All the seas and cities are in the way, all the time, all the adventures. It’s true that tour companies simplify trips quite a bit these days, but for some reason I keep thinking that going to Patagonia is not so easy. I see it as something quite different from any other trip. My life was carried to Patagonia on a gust of wind, in a moment, that day in my childhood, and it stayed there. I don’t think traveling is worth the trouble if you don’t bring your life along with you. It’s something I’m confirming at my own expense during these melancholy days in Paris. It’s paradoxical, but a journey is bearable only if it’s insignificant, if it doesn’t count, if it doesn’t leave a mark. A person travels, goes to the other side of the world, but leaves his life packed away at home, ready to be recovered on his return. But when he’s far away he wonders if perhaps he might have brought his life with him by accident, and left nothing at home.
Th
e doubt is enough to create an atrocious fear, unbearable above all because it is a baseless fear, a melancholy.

Th
ere’s always a reason given for rushing into things.
Th
at’s what reasons are for.
Th
e one Delia used was not only correct in itself but also appropriate for what had happened, along general lines, leaving some details aside.
Th
at day at noon, just when we were playing in the street, Chiquito had set out in his truck for Comodoro Rivadavia, carrying I don’t know what, probably wool. My Aunt Alicia, who rented him a room in her house, had seen him leave, after an early lunch she’d prepared for him. He’d filled the tank in the morning to prepare for the crossing and then climbed into the truck after lunch, started the engine and left in a hurry. What could be more natural than that a boy playing in the empty box might be imprisoned by the movement, fail to make himself heard, and be carried by accident to who-knew-where — a perfectly involuntary kidnapping? It was unlikely the truck driver would stop before nightfall, and by then he would already be past the Río Negro, well into Patagonia. Chiquito’s endurance was formidable, he was a bull, and in this case he’d even made some comment (and if he hadn’t made it, Alicia could well have invented it) about how urgently they were waiting for that shipment and how convenient it was to leave after a good lunch and make a long haul all at once, etc.

Several hours had already passed, and the whole neighborhood was on tenterhooks over the case of the lost boy. Mr. Siffoni had taken the matter in hand, although it might have been only to diminish his wife’s hysteria. As soon as the boy went missing a crisis was set off by the supposition of a forced departure in the truck’s cab or trailer, which was not entirely unreasonable. It was almost too obvious.
Th
e neighbor women were a little guilty of presenting it that way to Delia. Next they did something absolutely unheard-of: they called a taxi, so as not to lose another minute going after the truck. In Pringles there were two taxis, and they were only used for going to the Roca train station. One of them, Zaralegui’s, had to be called by phone. He must not really have understood the matter at hand, or he wouldn’t have undertaken the trip. It was absurd, since his 1930s Chrysler could never reach the cruising speed of a truck a quarter of a century more modern. But they didn’t think it was strange for the pursuer to be slower than the pursued. On the contrary, it seemed that by the logic of the long term it would have to catch up — what else could happen?

In the rush of departure, Delia, who was acting like a lunatic, snatched up her sewing kit and the wedding dress she was working on, thinking she could keep working during the journey, because the job was so urgent. Now, if that was the case, if the work was urgent, the neighbors might wonder, why didn’t she work, instead of spending the day keeping up with everything in the street? She was out of her mind at that critical moment: an enormous wedding dress with a vaporous white train and a volume exceeding her own (which was pretty meager) was the most awkward thing she could have chosen to bring. (I want to make a note here of an idea that may be useful later on: the only appropriate mannequin I can think of for a wedding dress is a snowman.) Besides, sewing a wedding dress in the back of a taxi, bouncing along those dirt roads that go south . . . Where would her famous meticulousness end?

And she left, like a crazy woman . . .
Th
e neighbors saw her go and stayed where they were, commenting and awaiting her return:
Th
e situation was so irrational they really thought she would be back at any minute. She hadn’t even locked up the house, she hadn’t even let her husband know . . .
Th
at was enough to justify the neighbor women staying there on the sidewalk in a circle, gossiping and waiting for Ramon Siffoni so they could tell him his wife had left, desperate, crazy (like a good mother), and still wasn’t back . . .

All this may seem very surreal, but that’s not my fault. I realize it seems like an accumulation of absurd elements, in keeping with the surrealist method, a way of attaining a scene of pure invention without the work of inventing it. Breton and his friends brought elements together from anywhere, from the most distant places; in fact they preferred them as far flung as possible, so that the surprise would be greater, the effect more effective. It’s interesting to observe that in their search for the distant they went — for example, in the “exquisite corpses” — only to what was closest at hand: the colleague, the friend, the wife. For my part, I don’t go near or far, because I’m not looking for anything. It’s as if everything had already happened. And, in fact, it did all happen; but at the same time it’s as if it hadn’t happened, as if it were happening now. Which is to say, as if nothing had happened.

9

DURING THE TAXI
ride Delia didn’t sew a stitch or open her mouth. She rode along stiffly in the back seat with her gaze fixed on the road, hoping against hope that she would see the truck. Zaralegui didn’t say anything either, but his silence had a different density, because it was the last afternoon of his life. He could have said his last words, but he kept them to himself. He concentrated on driving; though the traffic on the road didn’t demand much attention (there was none), the potholes did. He was a good professional. He must have been intrigued, or at least confused, by what was happening. No one had ever taken him on such an inexplicable trajectory before, and he must have been wondering how far, how long . . .. He wouldn’t wonder much longer, poor man, because very soon he was going to die.

What happened was that, many hours down the road, an enormous truck suddenly hurled itself into them, into Zaralegui at the wheel, in front. Except that the truck was smashed not in front, but behind. Or rather they were the ones who hurled themselves into the truck, and at full speed, at the multiplied speed that only occurs when two vehicles collide head-on. Who knows how it could have happened, since they were both going in the same direction. Maybe the truck had reduced its speed a little, a very little, and this was equivalent to a fantastic acceleration on the part of the car coming up from behind. (To explain this episode to myself, as with so many others, I am assuming, not very realistically, enormous speeds.) What’s certain is that the Chrysler was smashed against the back of the tractor trailer in the most savage manner — was destroyed, reduced to a shell of crushed tin. And not only that: it stuck there, like a meteorite that had collided with a planet, and it continued its travels, suspended.
Th
e truck driver, ninety feet ahead, didn’t even notice.
Th
ose trucks really were like planets. Anyone driving one would never know what was happening at its unreachable extremities — especially pulling a trailer, like another planet rolling along behind.

Zaralegui died instantly; he had no time to think anything. Delia, who was riding in the back, busy attaching a bodice with her miniscule stitches, was unscathed. But the crash, the jolt, the adhesion to the planet, and Zaralegui’s backwards leap, which brought him to rest in her arms like a baby, already dead, in a rosebud of tulle, produced a considerable shock. She lost consciousness and continued the journey asleep, without seeing the landscape. It was more of an hysterical coma than sleep, and she emerged from it a different woman, gone crazy for the third time. She never knew it, but the truck driver had parked on the side of the road and slept all night in his bunk bed, the little compartment those trucks have behind the cab, and then resumed the trip at dawn and didn’t stop the whole next day.

When Delia awoke, the sun was setting over the province of Santa Cruz.

10

PATAGONIA . . .
the end of the world . . . yes, agreed; but the end of the world is still the world.
Th
e whole pink sky, like the petal of a colossal flower, the blue earth, an immobile disk with no other end but the horizon . . .
Th
at was the world, then.
Th
at was the whole world, that place where Delia had been taken by accident, by the mad force of events, and from which it seemed entirely unthinkable that she would ever escape. At first she felt like a child on a carousel, riding on the back of a beetle made of black glass. She even thought she heard music; and she did, actually, but it was the whistling of the wind.

Th
en, all at once, the horrible circumstances of which she was victim and protagonist became clear to her. She let out a scream and waved her arms in terror, at which Zaralegui’s corpse abandoned her lap and flew out of the car. A pothole must have helped: she wasn’t that strong.

And in addition to the potholes, in all certainty, the maelstrom of wind — at full speed the truck displaced a mass of air the volume and weight of a mountain.
Th
e mountains missing from that infinite plateau were created by the air. But there was also wind, and more than a little: Patagonia is the land of wind. In fact there were various winds, which competed for the dust raised by the truck and fought fiercely with the vehicle’s own wind, packed and wrapped by speed.
Th
ey unwrapped this package a thousand times a second with a sound like paper in the air, they untied the ribbons of gravity, they tore up in their hurry, like children driven by the sight of toys, both its rigid and fluid folds.

Zaralegui gave two half-somersaults twelve feet in the air; no acrobat in the world could have imitated his pirouettes with the broken spine that he had.
Th
en he went flying off to one side. Since his arms were moving, agitated by the same force that carried him, he seemed alive. What a spectacle! But the conjunction of the pothole and the whirlwind must have made a catapult, because Zaralegui wasn’t the only one who flew: he was followed by the dress, Delia, and the car, in that order. When the dress opened the enormous white wings of its train and rose, at a supersonic velocity, up and away, Delia felt dispossessed. It was her work that was going, and she was left out, useless. She thought she’d never get it back. And then when Delia herself took flight, all her feelings contracted into terror. It was the first time she flew.

Th
e earth dropped away, the truck too — (the last she saw of it was the back wall of the trailer, from which the black cocoon that had been the Chrysler was coming loose, to take its turn at flying) — the sky approached vertiginously. She closed her eyes and after an instant opened them again.

Th
e sun, which had already set on the surface, appeared again at the end of the world; it was the first time she’d seen the sun after it had set. It was as red as a red rubber ball slick with luminous oil. And it was in a strange place: although visible, it stayed below the line of the horizon, in a niche. It was the nighttime sun, which no one had ever seen.

And it’s not as if Delia lingered in contemplation of the sun. It couldn’t even be said that she looked at it. She wasn’t even thinking, and thinking always comes before looking. Flying was an absorbing activity for her — so much so, and so absorbing of life, that she was absolutely convinced she would not survive. And how could she?
Th
e contradictory currents of the wind had carried her, in two or three somersaults, to a height of more than a hundred yards.
Th
e circle of the horizon changed position as if the compass had fallen into the hands of a lunatic.
Th
e winds seemed to be shouting berserkly: “You take her! . . . Give her here!” — amid uncanny bursts of laughter. Delia was thrown back and forth, vibrating, vibrating, like a heart in the heights and depths of love, or in space.

“
Th
ese are my last moments,” she screamed to herself without moving her lips.
Th
e last seconds of her life, and afterward there would be only the black night of death . . . Her anguish was unspeakable. Talking in terms of seconds was rhetoric, but it was also a great truth.
Th
e mad winds seemed bold enough to turn the seconds into minutes, and even hours, and if they felt like it, it would not be out of place to say days. But even so they would be seconds, because anguish compresses time, whatever interval of time, to the painful dimensions of seconds.

I should at least take advantage of this experience, she managed to say to herself, since there won’t be another one to follow it.

But that was, from any point of view, impossible. Enjoyment is impossible when everything is impossible; what’s more, there was no point of view; the show she was putting on didn’t have a point of view, since there was no one to see it.
Th
ere in the limpid heights of twilight, she spun around so many times at a speed greater than sound, that she no longer had relative positions. She was a collage, a figure cut out and moved by a capricious artist, filmed in fast-forward against the pinkest and smoothest backdrop in the world (or in the sky) and illuminated by a red spotlight. No one enjoys the experience immediately before death, ever. Although, of course, with death, the quintessentially unexpected, no experience can be called the last.
Th
ere’s always the possibility that it’s the next-to-last.
Th
is was an error on Delia’s part (her last moments!), the first of a strange series that would carry her very far.

Some things seem eternal, and still they pass anyway. Death itself does that. Delia had lost sight of the earth a little while before, and she no longer knew if she was moving forward or backward, falling or rising, following the vertical or the horizontal . . . What did it matter, at that point?
Th
ere was always a new wind to take hold of her and play yo-yo with her. Where did they come from, those winds?
Th
e torrent seemed to come from a hole in the sky — the hole was invisible.

But, as I say, suddenly it was over. Delia found herself on the earth again, and walking. She really didn’t know how it happened. But, there she was walking on her two legs, on the flat, clean-swept earth. She didn’t see a tree, a hill, anything. She forgot immediately the danger of death she had just faced.

Delia loved to play the committed fatalist, the lady of death — every afternoon she felt prepared to spend the night at a wake; her conversations were full of cancer, blindness, paralysis, comas, heart attacks, widows, orphans. She had embodied this character with so much enthusiasm that it was now her theme, her position. It was an inclination she had chosen, because the safe and protected life she’d led, the cocoon of the small town middle class, placed her on the margin of any serious test in which her survival could be at stake. Her desire to live was exempt from any corroboration. And this also formed a part of her definitive being. While she flew, with no time to think or react (which are the same thing), she had clung to her old philosophy. Yet now that she was walking, safe and sound, time was opening up beneath her feet; her legs were the scissors that cut the translucent stalk of time and continuously opened and unfolded it. And because of this she saw before her the urgent necessity to give way to certain ideas about reality and to renounce momentarily that “what does it matter, I’m dead already anyway” that constituted her elegance.

She didn’t know where she was or where she was headed — or even what time it was. To start with, how was it possible that it was daytime? It was night, she felt that in her body and her mind. And yet, it was day. What insane zone had she fallen into?

Th
en this is Patagonia? she said to herself, perplexed. And if this is Patagonia, then what am I?