Kiss of the Spider Woman Page 11

  —Don’t thank me.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  —I swore I wouldn’t tell you any more films. Now I’ll go to hell for breaking my word.

  —You don’t know how it hurts. Like a terrible stabbing pain.

  —Just what happened to me the day before yesterday.

  —But they’re getting stronger and stronger, Molina.

  —Well then you should go to the infirmary.

  —Don’t be so stupid, please. I already said no.

  —A little seconal won’t do you any harm.

  —Yes it will, you get habituated. You just don’t know about it, so it’s easy for you to talk.

  —Okay, then I’ll tell you a film . . . But what don’t I know about seconal?

  —Never mind . . .

  —Come on, tell me, don’t be that way. Besides, I can’t exactly go telling anyone else.

  —It’s one of those things I can’t talk about because I took an oath, everyone does in the movement.

  —But just about the seconal, nothing else, so I can protect myself too, Valentin.

  —Promise not to tell anyone.

  —I promise.

  —It happened to one of our comrades, they got him hooked on it, and that softened him up and completely broke his willpower. A political prisoner can’t afford to end up in an infirmary, ever, you understand? Not ever. In your case it wouldn’t do any harm. But with us our resistance would eventually break down until finally, when interrogated, we could be made to say anything . . . Agh, aghhh . . . See what I meant before . . . the pains become so sharp . . . as if they were punching holes in me . . . It’s like having nails hammered right into my stomach . . .

  —Well, let me tell you the film, to distract you a little and take your mind off the pain.

  —What one are you going to tell?

  —One I’m positive you’ll really like.

  —Aghhh . . . what a bitch . . .

  — . . .

  —Just begin, don’t pay any attention if I complain, go right on with it.

  —Okay, well it starts out, where was that place now? Because it moves around to a lot of different places . . . But first I should explain something: it’s not my kind of film.

  —And so?

  —It’s one of those films men usually go for, that’s why I picked it . . . for you, since you don’t feel so well.

  —Thanks.

  —Now how does it start? . . . Wait, oh right, at that auto racetrack, I don’t remember the name of it, the one in the south of France.

  —LeMans.

  —How do men always remember all about auto races? Anyway, this South American kid is racing there, very rich, a playboy son of one of those wealthy landowners with the big banana plantations, and it’s during the qualifying heats at LeMans. He’s explaining to another driver how he doesn’t race for any manufacturer’s make of automobile because those companies all exploit the masses. So he races in an auto built with his own two hands, because he’s that kind of guy, with a mind of his own. And it’s the qualifying heats and they decide to have a soda while waiting their turn for the trials, and he’s incredibly confident because, according to every calculation, he’s going to qualify fantastically well—at least, that’s what everyone is saying who has seen his machine perform on that same track during pretrials, and obviously, it’s going to be a terrible blow to the famous makes of automobiles when this fellow wipes the floor with them. Anyway, while they’re busy having their drink, you see someone go up to his auto; one of the marshals by the stand is watching the whole thing but plays dumb because they’re all in on it together. So the one who goes up to the racing car, his face like a real s.o.b., he fools around with the motor somehow, loosening something, and then splits. The kid comes back and climbs into the shell and moves out to the starting line. He takes off like a shot, but on the third lap the motor catches fire and he barely manages to escape. He’s safe and sound, but . . .

  —Aghhh . . . fuck them . . . these fucking pains.

  — . . . but the car’s completely wrecked. He gets together with the team and says it’s all over, there’s no money left to even start building another racer, and so he goes off to Monte Carlo, nearby, where his father hangs out on a yacht with a chick; she’s a lot younger, stunning-looking. Actually the father gets a call from his son while he’s on the yacht, then they meet out on the terrace of the father’s suite at the hotel where he’s staying. But the girlfriend isn’t there because the father has a certain amount of scruples with his son; you can tell how much he likes the kid because he was so happy when he got the telephone call. As for the son, he’s thinking of asking his father for more money, but he can’t make up his mind, he’s ashamed at being such a no-good loafer, yet when he meets with his father the old man embraces him so affectionately and tells him not to worry about the car being wrecked, he’s already figured out what to do so his son can manage to get another one, even though it upsets him to see him racing and risking his neck like that. Then the son says they’ve been over all this before, and obviously, knowing it was the kid’s one great passion, the father had pushed him into auto racing so he would drift away from those hotbeds of political activity among the leftist students, because the kid was studying political philosophies in Paris.

  —Political science.

  —That’s it. And then the father asks him why he doesn’t drive for some known make of automobile, hoping to steer his son back on the right track with something more secure for himself. But the son just gets pissed and tells his father, wasn’t it enough that you kept me out of Paris all that time, because while he was involved in building his own racing car he’d forgotten about everything else, but to put himself to work for any of those international corporate bloodsuckers, never! Then the father says he’s sorry he even brought it up, not to mention that whenever he hears him ranting on like that, all infuriated, it reminds him of his ex-wife, the kid’s own mother. She was passionate and idealistic too, and all for what . . . to end up the way she did . . . Then his son half turns to go, and so the father, feeling remorse, tells him to wait, he’ll give him whatever’s needed to build a new car, and I forget what else, but the son, who you can see has a special weakness for the mother, he just keeps going, slamming the door behind him. Then the father stands there lost in thought, all upset, staring from his terrace at the divine harbor of Monte Carlo with all those yachts lit up, each one of them outlined with tiny lights on the masts and sails, like a vision. But at this point the phone rings and it’s the young chick, and the old man apologizes and says he won’t be going to the casino tonight, because a serious problem has come up and he wants to take care of it. So anyway, just as the kid is walking out of the hotel, he bumps into some old friends who drag him off to a party. And the kid is so depressed at the party that what he does is carry off a bottle of cognac with him to some remote room, only what I didn’t say is that the scene is situated in this dreamy villa, on the outskirts of Monte Carlo, you know those houses along the Riviera, all incredibly luxurious, this one with sprawling stone steps out onto the gardens, and for decoration on the balustrades and on the steps, too, some huge stone pots, like urns, or giant vases, with a beautiful plant growing in each pot, and it’s usually a gigantic cactus—you know what a century plant looks like?

  —Yes.

  —Well, like that. And the kid’s made himself at home in some room off from the party, a library, and he’s all alone there getting totally drunk. Suddenly he notices someone coming into the room, a woman, already in her forties but elegant-looking and kind of imperious, and with a bottle in her hand, too. But since he’s in the dark—the only light comes from an open window—she doesn’t see him right away and she sits down and pours a drink, but at this point fireworks suddenly illuminate the Bay of Monte Carlo, it’s some national holiday, and he takes the opportunity to say cheers. She’s caught by surprise, but when with a movement he shows her how they’ve both done the same thing, carryin
g off a bottle of Napoleon brandy to forget about the world, there’s nothing left for her but to smile. He asks her what she’s trying to forget, and she suggests he tell her first, then she’ll do the same.

  —I feel like I have to go to the bathroom again . . .

  —Should I call the guard to open up?

  —No, I’ll try to stand it . . .

  —You’ll only make yourself worse.

  —But they’ll see how sick I am.

  —Listen, they won’t stick you into the infirmary because of a little diarrhea . . .

  —Who knows, it’s already the fourth time today, wait and see if I can stand it . . .

  —You’re white, it’s more than just diarrhea. If I were you I’d go to the infirmary . . .

  —Shut up, please.

  —I’ll go on with the film, but listen . . . stomach problems can’t be contagious, right? because it seems like the same problem I had, exactly . . . You won’t blame me, will you?

  —It must be something to do with the food, for both of us to get sick . . . You turned white, the same way. But it’s starting to subside now, so go on with the film . . .

  —With me, how long did it last? . . . Two days, more or less.

  —No, it was just one night, by the next day you were already feeling better.

  —Then call the guard, because it won’t matter if you’re sick for just one night.

  —Go on with the film.

  —Sure. We were where he meets an elegant woman. I told you she was kind of middle-aged, a society type.

  —But, physically, what was she like?

  —Not too tall, some French actress, really stacked, but at the same time very slender, with a tiny waist, wearing a very fitted evening dress, really low-cut, and strapless, with those reinforced cups, you remember them . . .

  —No.

  —Sure you do, they used to look like they were serving their tits on a tray.

  —Don’t make me laugh, please.

  —The undercups were really stiff, reinforced with wire on the inside of the fabric. And as casual as you please: would you care for a tit, sir?

  —Come on, don’t make me laugh.

  —But that way you’ll forget about the pain, silly.

  —It’s just that I’m afraid of going in my pants.

  —No, please, or we’ll die in this cell. I’ll go on. So anyway, it ends up he’s the one who is supposed to tell first why he wants to drink himself into oblivion. And he gets very serious and says that he’s doing it to forget everything, absolutely everything. She asks him doesn’t he have anything he wants to remember, and he says he’d like his life to begin at this very moment, starting when she walked into the room, the library. Then it was her turn to tell, and I imagined she was going to say the same thing too, that she wanted to forget everything. But not at all, she says how she’s been given a lot of things in life, and she’s very grateful for them, because she’s the editor of a successful fashion magazine, and she’s crazy about her work, and she has a couple of adorable children, not to mention her family inheritance, because it turns out she’s the owner of that unbelievably beautiful villa, which looks just like a palace, but obviously, she has something to forget: the rough time men have given her. The kid tells her he envies her luck, whereas, on the other hand, he’s had zero. Obviously the guy doesn’t want to talk to her about his problem with the mother, because he’s like obsessed by his parents’ divorce, and he feels guilty about having abandoned his mother, who even though she was always very rich and still lives on a divine coffee plantation, after his father left her she went and married another guy, or was about to get married, and the kid thinks it was just her way of escaping her loneliness. Ah, yes, now I remember, the mother always writes saying exactly that, that she’s going to marry someone, without loving him, because she’s afraid of being left all alone. And the kid, he feels very bad about having left his country, where the workers are so mistreated, and he’s got revolutionary ideas but it’s just he’s the son of a multimillionaire and no one wants to have anything to do with him, no one from the workers I mean. And he feels bad about having left his mother, too. And he tells all of that to this older woman. You know something . . . you never talk about your mother.

  —Of course I do, what do you mean?

  —I swear to God, never, never.

  —Well, maybe I have nothing to tell.

  —Thanks. I appreciate the trust.

  —Why the nasty tone?

  —Never mind, when you’re better we’ll talk about it.

  —Agh . . . aghhh . . . I’m sorry . . . Ugh, what am I doing? . . .

  —No no, don’t wipe yourself on the sheet, wait . . .

  —No, stop it, not your shirt . . .

  —Yes, take it, wipe yourself. Keep away from the sheet; you’ll need it so you don’t catch a chill.

  —But it’s your change of clothes, you won’t have any shirts left . . .

  —Take it, wait, lift yourself, not that way, that’s it, careful, wait, so it doesn’t get on the sheet.

  —It didn’t, did it?

  —No, just on your shorts. Come on, let’s go, off with them.

  —I feel embarrassed . . .

  —There you are, slowly, careful . . . perfect. Now the difficult part, wipe yourself with the shirt.

  —I’m ashamed . . .

  —Weren’t you the one who said you have to be a man? . . . So what’s this business of being embarrassed?

  —Roll them up good . . . the shorts, so it doesn’t smell.

  —Don’t you worry, I know how to take care of things. See, like this, all wrapped up inside the shirt, which is easier to wash than a sheet. Take some more paper.

  —No, that’s yours, you won’t have any left for yourself.

  —You don’t have any, come on, don’t be proud . . .

  —Thanks . . .

  —Forget it, come on now, finish wiping yourself and relax a little, you’re trembling.

  —I’m enraged. I’m so enraged I could cry, enraged at my fucking self.

  —Now, now, calm down, why do you have to keep picking on yourself, you’re crazy . . .

  —Yes, I’m crazy all right, with rage, for letting these bastards lock me up.

  —Try and relax.

  —Ah, that’s smart . . . The newspaper around the shirt so the smell won’t escape . . . right?

  —Good idea, isn’t it?

  —Uh-huh.

  —Try and relax, and keep yourself covered.

  —Mmm-hmm, tell me a little more now, about that film.

  —I can’t even remember where I was at.

  —You were just asking me about my mother.

  —Yes, but with the film I don’t remember where I stopped.

  —I don’t know why I never talked to you about my mother. I don’t know much about yours, but I can picture her somehow.

  —As for me, I can’t picture your mother one bit.

  —My mother is the kind of woman who’s very . . . very difficult, that’s why I don’t talk about her much. She’s never liked my ideas, she believes she’s entitled to everything she owns, her family has always had money, and a certain social position, you know what I mean?

  —Upper-crust like.

  —You might say that, not the very top, but upper-crust, yes. She eventually separated from my father, and now he died just two years ago.

  —A little like the film I’m telling you.

  —No . . . you’re crazy.

  —Well then, more or less.

  —Not at all. Aghhh . . . hurts so much . . .

  —You like the film?

  —I can’t concentrate. But go on, finish it quickly.

  —Then you don’t like it.

  —What happens finally? Tell me in a few words, the gist of it, how it ends.

  —Well, the kid latches onto this woman, a little older than him, and she thinks he’s just interested in her money, to make himself a new racer, and at this point suddenly he has
to return to his own country, because his father, who also went back himself in the meantime, has been kidnapped by guerrillas. And the kid makes contact with them, and convinces them how he’s for the same cause, and when she finds out he’s in real danger, the woman, the European one, goes to look for him, too, and they save the father in exchange for a lot of money, but when the moment arrives for the father to be freed, and the kid, too, because he’s taken his father’s place without the guerrillas realizing anything about it, anyway there’s a mixup and they’re about to kill the kid because they discover the trick, but the father intercedes and they kill the father. Then the kid prefers to remain there with the guerrillas, and the woman goes back all alone to her job in Paris, and the parting is really sad, because the two of them actually love one another, but each one belongs to a different world, and ciao, The End.

  —And what way does it seem the same?

  —The same as what?

  —As my situation. What you said about my mother.

  —Oh, nothing, just that the mother comes out very well dressed to meet him, when the kid returns home to where all those coffee plantations are, and she asks the kid to go back to Europe, oh, and I forgot to tell you how when at the end they free the father there’s a shootout with the cops, and the father is mortally wounded by them, and the mother reappears, and they end up together, the son and the mother I mean, because the other woman doesn’t stay, the one who loves him, she goes back to Paris.

  —You know something, I’m beginning to feel sleepy.

  —Then take advantage of it and get some sleep.

  —Yes, let me try to sleep a little.

  —And if you feel bad, no matter what time it is, wake me.

  —Thank you, you’ve had a lot of patience with me.

  —Nonsense, get some sleep. Forget it.

  —Nightmares, all night long.

  —What were you dreaming?

  —I don’t remember at all. It’s that my system is still messed up, but it’ll go away soon.

  —Hey, you’re eating too fast! On top of which you’re still not well at all.

  —I feel so ravenous, and my nerves are jumpy, too.