Zig Zag (51 page)

Maybe
there's a psychological explanation. Some sort of trauma we're
suffering, after everything that happened on the island. Stop
worrying so much.

A
row
of brightly colored birds was painted onto the orange ceramic tiles
in the shower stall. Nadja examined them in an attempt to distract
herself, as she aimed the shower nozzle at her back.

Stop
worrying so much. You really ought to...

The
lights went out so quietly, so unexpectedly that she could almost
still see those brightly colored birds, even after the darkness
engulfed her.

THOUGH
she
had almost reached the Moncloa neighborhood, her anxiety had
increased. She wanted to honk the horn, scream at everyone to let her
through, jam her foot down on the accelerator. She suddenly felt
anguished.

It
might seem unbelievable, but she had the strange feeling—no,
the
certainty
—that
it was absolutely vital that she hurry up and get there.

Seeing
that the building looked fine, she breathed a sigh of relief. But
even the normalcy of it worried her. She found a parking spot, walked
in through the building's front door, and rushed up the stairs,
convinced that something terrible had happened.

But
Nadja herself opened the door, smiling. The chilling apprehension
that had been gnawing at her the whole way over suddenly evaporated
with the warmth of her greeting. Giving her friend a bear hug, she
couldn't help but start to cry. Then she held her at arm's length and
looked at her.

"What
the hell did you do to your hair?"

"Dyed
it."

She
wore full makeup and looked elegant, gorgeous even. The scent of
perfume trailed behind her. She asked Elisa to come into the bright,
cozy living room, where a brightly lit Christmas tree stood in one
corner. Nadja asked her if she wanted something to drink before they
left for dinner, and she said she'd love a beer. Out came her friend
carrying a tray with two chilled glasses that had just the right
amount of froth. She set the tray down on the table, sat down
opposite Elisa, and said, "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I
really shouldn't have called. It was silly."

"It's
no trouble, really. I wanted to see you."

"Well,
here I am!" Nadja crossed her legs, a black garter belt showing
through the slit of her miniskirt. She looked very sexy. Elisa
realized that her Spanish was perfect; she had no accent. She was
going to mention it when her friend added, "Honestly, I thought
I was forcing you."

"How
could you think that?"

"Well,
you haven't tried to get in touch with me for the past six years. And
it wouldn't have been that hard. You knew I lived in Paris ... maybe
you just didn't care."

"You
didn't call me, either," she said defensively.

"You're
right. I'm sorry, don't pay any attention to me. I've just been so
lonely." Her voice took on an edge. "So lonely. Always
worried about pleasing
him.
Dressing
up for
him,
looking
pretty for
him.
You
know how much he likes that..."

"Yeah,
I know."

That
last sentence had done it. She couldn't be angry at her friend's
thinly veiled reproaches. She's right: I
left
home without waiting for him, like I should have.
She
got up, nervous, and paced the room as she spoke.

"I'm
really sorry, Nadja. I would have liked to keep in contact, but I was
scared. And I know that he
wants
me
to be scared. He takes pleasure in my fear. So I do it for him. I
don't think there's anything wrong with that. I still have a job, I
teach my classes, try to forget, and then I get ready for him, to
welcome him. I do the best I can for him. It's just that I feel like
I'm stuck somewhere, waiting ... But I don't know what for. And it's
that expectant feeling that I can't stand. Does that make any sense
to you?" She turned to Nadja. "Don't you have the same—"

Nadja
wasn't on the sofa anymore. Or anywhere else in sight. Elisa didn't
hear her get up.

Suddenly,
all the lights went out, even the lights that hung on the Christmas
tree. She tried not to worry. Probably just blew a fuse. Her eyes
adjusted to the darkness. She felt her way across the room and
thought she could see the hallway. In the dark panic that filled the
silent room, Elisa knew that something had shifted. The pleasantries
of the previous minutes were no longer relevant. She knew he was
there.

She
called Nadja and felt sick when the echo of her own voice was the
only response. She took a few more steps. Suddenly, her shoe crunched
on something. Glass. A shattered crystal ball? Her own future,
shattered? She looked up and thought she saw a mangled black mass
where the chandelier should be. That explained the power cut.

Calmer
now, she kept walking down the dark hall until she reached a sort of
crossroads: an open door to the left and a closed, frosted-glass door
to the right. Maybe that led to the kitchen. She turned left and then
froze.

The
door wasn't
open;
it
had been torn down. The hinges, covered in dust or ash, jutted out
from the frame like twisted screws. Beyond that it was pitch black:
total darkness. She walked in.

"Nadja?"

She
heard nothing but her own footsteps. At one point, the blunt edge of
something banged her stomach. A sink. She was in the bathroom. She
kept walking. It was gigantic.

All
of a sudden, she realized it wasn't a bathroom at all. It wasn't even
a house. The floor was a thick layer of what might have been mud. She
reached a hand out and touched a wall that seemed to be covered in
mold. She tripped on something, heard a squelching noise, and
crouched down. It was white, a piece of something, maybe a broken
sofa. Now, all around her, she could make out what looked like broken
furniture. It was freezing cold and there was almost no odor. Just
one subtle yet persistent scent, a mixture of cave and body, flesh
and cavern, mixed together.

This
was the place. Here. She'd arrived.

She
kept walking through this forlorn devastation and tripped over
another piece of furniture.

And
then it dawned on her.

It
wasn't furniture.

Before
she could stop it, a trickle ran down her thighs and formed a puddle
at her feet. She wanted to throw up, too, but the knot in her throat
left no room for vomit or even words. She felt dizzy, nauseous.
Reaching out a hand to steady herself, she realized that what she'd
taken to be mold was the same thick sludge on the floor. It was
everywhere, filling every crack, every space, every gap. It hung from
the ceiling like a giant cobweb.

Another
wall blocked her way, and she was surprised to find she could climb
it. But no, it was actually the floor. She had fallen. She got up,
kneeled, and rubbed her arms, which were bare. At some point she must
have taken off all her clothes, though she couldn't imagine why.
Maybe she hadn't wanted to get them dirty in all that filth.

Then
she looked up and saw her.

Despite
the darkness she had no trouble recognizing Nadja. She could make out
her white curls (though she thought she remembered her hair had been
black just a minute ago) and the shape of her body. Right away,
though, she saw that something strange was happening to her friend.

Still
kneeling (she didn't want to get up; she knew
he
was
watching), she reached out her hands. No trace of movement in those
marble legs, but she didn't seem to be paralyzed, either. Her skin
was still warm. It was as if Nadja had no ability to move whatsoever.

All
of a sudden, what seemed like a handful of sand fell into her eyes.
She looked down and rubbed them. Something touched her hair. She
looked up again and a lump of something fell onto her mouth, making
her cough.

She
became aware of the sickening reality: Nadja's body was crumbling
before her, like powdered sugar disintegrating, an avalanche to her
touch. Her cheeks, eyes, hair, breasts ... everything was flashing
off, sounding like wind sweeping through a snowy bark.

She
wanted to wipe that chunk of Nadja's flesh off of her face but found
she couldn't. The avalanche was burying her alive, it was an
onslaught, she was going to suffocate...

And
then, from behind the collapsing body,
he
rose.

"HEY,
lady!"

"She
looks like she's on drugs..."

"Has
anybody called the police?"

"Lady,
you OK?"

"Christ,
would you move your car already, please? You're blocking traffic!"

People's
faces and voices blurred together. Elisa was mostly concentrating on
the man whose face took up two-thirds of her car window and the young
woman blocking the remaining portion of the glass. The only other
thing she could see was the windshield, where tiny raindrops had
begun to fall in the night.

In
a flash, she saw what had happened. She was stopped at a red light,
though God only knew how many greens and yellows had gone by before
she came to. She thought she must have fallen asleep in her car and
dreamed that she was visiting Nadja and all the rest of it, including
(thank God this wasn't true) the macabre discovery of her body. But
no, she hadn't fallen asleep. She realized she felt her pant leg all
wet with the smell of sour urine. She'd had one of her "disconnects,"
one of her "waking dreams." It had happened before, though
this was the first time she hadn't been home (and the first time
she'd peed in her pants).

"I'm
sorry," she mumbled, dazed. "I'm really sorry."

She
waved her hand by way of apology; the man and woman looked satisfied
and moved on. The rearview mirror showed a row of irate drivers in
their cars, trying desperately to overcome the obstacle in their way
(Elisa). She quickly put the car in gear and accelerated.
Just
in time,
she
said to herself, catching glimpse of a phosphorescent vest over a
dark jacket in her side-view mirror. The last thing she needed right
now was a run-in with the police.

She'd
reached Moncloa, but the traffic on that chaotic night in the run-up
to Christmas and her own rush to get there as soon as possible seemed
to have joined forces to make it take as long as possible. Soon she
was stopped again, in the middle of a two-way street. People honked
furiously, far-off sirens howling in the night. It was drizzling,
too, which didn't help matters. She turned her Peugeot toward the
curb, despite the fact that there were no free spaces. Elisa
double-parked, got out, and began running down the street, clutching
her purse by the strap as though it were the leash of a toy dog.