Thus Were Their Faces Read online

  “Are you making fun of me?” I asked her.

  She didn’t answer. Her lips closed: she never opened them again to say she loved me. I couldn’t cry. As if I were seeing her from the top of a mountain, I watched her, distant, defenseless, unassailable. Her madness was my only rival. I embraced her for the last time and it was like I was being raped. During her story, time had run backwards for me: twenty years less for her had meant twenty more for me. I gazed into the mirror, hoping that it would reflect creatures less afflicted, less demented than ourselves. I saw that my hair had turned white.

  THE PRAYER

  LAURA was in church, praying:

  Oh, my God, won’t You reward the good deeds of Your servant? I know that sometimes I wasn’t good. I’m impatient and deceitful. I lack charity, but I always try to merit Your forgiveness. Haven’t I spent hours kneeling on the floor of my room before the image of one of Your Virgins? This horrible child I’ve hidden in my house, to save him from those who wanted to lynch him, won’t he bring me any satisfaction? I have no children, I’m an orphan, I’m not in love with my husband: all this You know well. I don’t hide anything from You. My parents led me to marriage as one leads a girl to school or to the doctor. I obeyed them because I thought everything would turn out all right. I can’t hide it from You: love can’t be forced, and even if You Yourself had given me the command to love my husband, I wouldn’t be able to obey You unless You inspired the love in me that I need. When he embraces me I want to run away, to hide in a forest (ever since childhood I’ve imagined an enormous forest where even in distress I can’t hide because it’s covered with snow). He tells me, “You’re so cold . . . it’s like you were made of marble.”

  I much prefer the ugly box-office attendant who sometimes gives me tickets so I can see movies with my little sister, or the rather repulsive salesman in the shoe store who caresses my foot between his legs when I’m trying shoes on, or the blond bricklayer at the corner of Corrientes and 9 de Julio, next to the house where my favorite student lives, the one I like, the one with dark eyes who sits on the ground eating a steak sandwich, onions, and grapes, the one who asks me, “Are you married?” and then says, without waiting for an answer, “What a shame.”

  The one who made me navigate scaffolding to see the apartment soon to be occupied by newlyweds.

  Four times I visited the apartment under construction. The first time was in the morning—they were laying bricks for a partition. I sat on the pile of lumber. It was the house of my dreams. The bricklayer (whose name is Anselmo) took me to the highest part of the house so I could see the view. You know that Your servant had no desire to stay so long at the construction site and that it was only because she twisted her ankle that, without wanting to, she had to stay with the men for a long time, waiting for the pain to subside. The second time I arrived in the afternoon. They were installing the windows and I went to look for a change purse I had forgotten. Anselmo wanted me to see the terrace. It was six o’clock in the afternoon when we came down and all the other workers had left. While passing a wall I got whitewash on my arm and cheek. Anselmo, with his handkerchief, without asking my permission, rubbed off the spots. I saw that his eyes were blue and his mouth bright red. I looked at him, perhaps too hard, because he told me, “What eyes you have!”

  We climbed down through the scaffold holding hands. He asked me to return at eight o’clock the next night because one of his fellow workers was going to play the accordion and the wife of another was going to bring some wine. You know, oh my God, that I went not for my own sake but in order not to offend him. Anselmo’s co-worker was playing the accordion when I arrived. The others were gathered around some bottles by the light of a lantern. The woman had brought a basket full of bottles of wine, which we drank. I left before the party was over. Anselmo guided me with a lantern to the entrance. He wanted to accompany me for a few blocks. I didn’t let him.

  “Will you come back?” he said in parting. “You still haven’t seen the tile work.”

  “What tile work?” I asked, laughing.

  “In the bathroom,” he answered, as if kissing me. “Come back, tomorrow they’re coming.”

  “Who?”

  “The newlyweds. We can spy on them.”

  “I’m not used to spying.”

  “I’ll show you a neon sign, some shoes with wings. Have you ever seen them?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll show you them tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you come?”

  “Yes,” I answered, and then I left.

  The third time there wasn’t anyone in the building. Behind a wooden fence there was a fire burning; a pot rested on some stones.

  “Tonight I’m replacing the night watchman,” he told me when he saw me coming.

  “And the couple?”

  “They have already left. Shall we go up to see the neon sign?”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to hide my nervousness.

  Oh my God, I had no idea what awaited me on the seventh floor. We ascended. I thought my heart was beating because of having to climb so many stairs and not because I was alone in that building with that man. When we got to the top, I was happy to see the neon sign from the terrace. I was afraid. There was no railing and I retreated to the bedroom. Anselmo took me by the waist.

  “Don’t fall,” he said, adding, “Here’s where they’re going to put the bed. It must be beautiful to be married, to have a place.”

  As he said these words he sat down on the floor next to a little suitcase and a bundle of clothing.

  “Do you want to see some pictures? Sit down.”

  He put a newspaper on the floor so I could sit. I sat down. He opened the suitcase and from inside it he took out an envelope, and, oh my God, from inside the envelope some pictures.

  “This was my mother,” he said, pressing close to me. “You can see how beautiful she was,” addressing me now with the familiar form. “And this is my sister,” he said, blowing lightly on my face.

  He had me cornered and moved to embrace me, not even letting me breathe. Oh my God, You know I tried in vain to free myself from his arms. You know I pretended to be hurt in order to force him to come to his senses. You know I ran away crying. I hide nothing from You. I know I’m not virtuous, but do You know many virtuous women? I’m not one of those who wear tight pants and have half their breasts showing when they go to the riverside on Sunday. Of course my husband would be opposed to such things, but there are times I could take advantage of his distraction and let loose a little. I’m not to blame if men look at me: they look at me as if I were a little girl. I’m young, that’s true, but what they like about me isn’t that. They don’t even look at Rosaura or Clara when they walk down the street: they don’t get even one whistle during summer vacation, I’m sure of it. Not even indecent remarks, the kind which are so easy to get. I’m pretty: Is that really a sin? It’s worse to be embittered. Since marrying Alberto, I’ve lived on a dark street in Avellaneda. You know very well that it’s not paved and that at night I twist my ankles on the way home when I wear very high heels. Walking to work on rainy days, I wear rubber boots that are old now, and a raincoat that looks like a sack. Of course sacks are in fashion now. I’m a piano teacher and could have been a great pianist if it weren’t for my husband, who is against it, as well as my lack of vanity. Sometimes, when we have people over, he insists I play tangos or jazz. Mortified, I sit down at the piano and obey unwillingly, because I know he likes it. My life is joyless. Every day, at the same hour, save on Saturdays and holidays, I walk down España Street to the home of one of my students. About three weeks ago (a period that has seemed like eternity to me), on a lonely stretch of unpaved road (deeply rutted), I saw five boys playing. Absentmindedly I saw them in the mud, by a ditch, as though they were not real children. Two of them were fighting: one had taken the other’s blue and yellow kite and was grasping it firmly to his chest. The other took him by the neck (forcing him to fall i
nto the ditch) and pushed his head under water. They struggled for a few moments: one trying to make the other’s head stay under water, the other trying to pull it out. Some bubbles appeared in the muddy water, as when immersing an empty bottle in water and it goes glug glug glug. The boy didn’t release his head but firmly gripped his victim, who no longer had the strength to defend himself. Their companions clapped their hands. Sometimes minutes seem very long or very short. I watched the scene, as if in a movie theater, without thinking of intervening. When the boy finally released the head of his adversary, it sank into the silent mud. Then they scattered. The boys ran away. I discovered that I had watched a crime, a crime in the midst of what at first seemed an innocent game. Running to their respective homes, the boys announced that Amancio Aráoz had been murdered by Claudio Herrera. I pulled Amancio out of the ditch. It was then that the women and men in the neighborhood, armed with clubs and tools, wanted to lynch Claudio Herrera. Claudio’s mother, who was very fond of me, asked me while sobbing to hide him in my house, which I did willingly enough, after leaving the little corpse in the bed where they wrapped him in his shroud. My house was some distance from that of Amancio Aráoz’s parents and that made things easier. During the funeral people didn’t cry over Amancio but instead cursed Claudio. They carried the coffin around the block. They stopped by each doorway to yell insults about Claudio Herrera, so that people would know of the crime he had committed. They were so enraged they looked happy. On Amancio’s white coffin they had put bright flowers, which were constantly praised by the women. Various children who were not related to the dead boy followed the procession to amuse themselves; they made a commotion, laughing, dragging sticks along the cobblestones. I don’t think anyone cried—indignation requires no tears. Only one old lady, Miss Carmen, was sobbing, because she didn’t understand what had happened. Oh my God, how miserable, how lacking in ceremony the funeral was! Claudio Herrera is eight years old. It’s impossible to know to what extent he is conscious of the crime he has committed. I protect him like a mother. I can’t explain why exactly! I feel so happy. I turned my living room into a bedroom for him. In the back of the house, where the chicken coop used to be, I made him a swing and a hammock; I bought him a bucket and a shovel so he could make a little garden and amuse himself with the plants. Claudio loves me or at least behaves as if he loves me. He obeys me more than he does his mother. I forbid him from going out on the balconies or the flat roof of the house. I don’t allow him to answer the telephone. He never disobeys me. He helps me wash the dishes when we’re done eating. He washes and peels the vegetables, and sweeps the courtyard in the morning. I don’t have any reason to complain; nevertheless, perhaps under the influence of the neighbors’ opinion, I’ve begun to view him as a criminal. I’m sure, oh my God, that he has tried to kill my dog Jasmine in various different ways. First I noticed that he had put cockroach poison in the plate where we put Jasmine’s dinner; later, he tried to drown her under the faucet and in the pail we use to wash the courtyard. For the last few days I’m sure he didn’t give her any water; if he did, it was mixed with ink, because Jasmine rejected it immediately, barking profusely. I attribute her diarrhea to some devilish mixture he put in the meat we feed her. I consulted the doctor who always gives me advice. She knows that I have many medicines in my medicine cabinet, among them barbiturates. The last time I went to see her she told me, “My dear, lock your medicine cabinet. Children’s crimes are dangerous. Children use any means to reach their ends. They study dictionaries. Nothing gets by them. They know everything. He could poison your husband, whom he loathes, or so you’ve told me.”

  I replied, “For people to recover their goodness it’s necessary to have faith in them. If Claudio suspects that I don’t trust him, he’ll be capable of horrible things. I already explained the contents of every bottle to him and showed him the ones with red labels that have the word ‘Poison’ on them.”

  Oh my God, I didn’t lock the medicine cabinet, intentionally, so that Claudio can learn to repress his instincts, if it’s true he’s a criminal. The other night, during dinner, my husband sent him to the attic to get his toolbox. My husband enjoys carpentry. Since the boy didn’t come back quickly enough, he went up to the attic to spy on him. Claudio, according to my husband, was sitting on the floor, playing with the tools, drilling a hole in the cover of the shiny wooden box my husband prized so much. Furious, he gave him a beating right then and there. He dragged him by the ear down to the table. My husband has no imagination. When dealing with a boy we suspect is abnormal, how dared he inflict a punishment on him that would have even infuriated me? We continued our dinner in silence. Claudio, as usual, bid us good night, and when we were alone, my husband told me, “If that monster doesn’t leave this house soon, I’m going to die.”

  “How impatient you are,” I answered. “I’m doing this as an act of charity. You must recognize that.”

  And to impress him still more, I invoked Your name. Before going to bed, as both of us suffer from insomnia, we always take a sleeping pill: he, because he can’t sleep, rustles a book or a newspaper in bed, or lights a cigarette; and I, because I hear him and wait for him to fall asleep, and become more anxious about not falling asleep. He thought the same thing that the doctor recommended: that I should lock the medicine cabinet where we keep the sleeping pills. I didn’t pay any attention to him, as I insist that trust is the means to improving the situation. My husband doesn’t agree. For the past few days he has become apprehensive. He says that the coffee has a strange taste and that after he drinks it he feels dizzy, something that never happened to him before. To reassure him, I lock the medicine cabinet when he’s home. Then I open it again. Many of my friends no longer come over—I can’t let them visit, since I’ve told no one my secret, except for the doctor, and You, who know all. Nevertheless, I’m not sad. I know one day I’ll have my reward and that day I will be happy again, as I was when I was single and lived next to Palermo Park, in a little house that no longer exists except in my memory. Everything is so strange, oh my God, what’s happening to me now. I would prefer never to leave this church and I could almost say that I foresaw this is what I would feel, and so packed some candies in my purse in order not to faint from hunger. Lunchtime has already passed and I haven’t had a bite to eat since seven this morning. You’ll not be offended, oh my Lord, if I have one of the candies. I’m not gluttonous; You know I’m a bit anemic and that chocolate gives me courage. I don’t know why I am afraid that something has happened in my house: I have premonitions. Those ragged ladies with black hats and feathers, and the priest who disappeared into the confessional, serve as omens for me. Has anyone ever hidden in one of Your confessionals? It’s the ideal place for a child to hide. And don’t I resemble a child at a moment like this? When the priest and the ladies covered with feathers come out, I’ll open the little door of the confessional and hide inside. I will not confess to a priest but to You. And I will spend the whole night in Your company. Oh my God, I know You will reward the good deeds of Your servant.

  FRIENDS

  MANY MISFORTUNES happened in our village. A flood cut us off from the center of town. I remember that for two months we couldn’t go to school or to the drugstore. The currents of the river, overflowing its banks, made some of the walls of the school fall down. The next year an epidemic of typhoid fever killed my aunt, who was a very devout but severe woman, as well as the teacher and the parish priest, who was deeply respected by my parents. In three weeks thirty people died. Nearly the whole town was in mourning; the cemetery looked like a flower show, and the streets sounded like a bell-ringing contest.

  My friend Cornelio lived on the third floor of our house. We were seven years old. We were like brothers because our families were so close. We shared games, parents, aunts, meals. We went to school together. Cornelio learned any lesson easily, but he didn’t like studying. I learned with difficulty, but I liked studying. Cornelio hated the teacher; I liked her.

  “He
’ll be declared a saint,” Aunt Fermina said sadly.

  “It’s just a phase he’s going through,” said Aunt Claudia, who looked like an ostrich. “Don’t worry.”

  As an ostrich shakes its wings; she shook her shoulders when she spoke.

  “What’s wrong with being declared a saint?” my mother asked all of a sudden.

  “If it were your son, you wouldn’t like it much,” Cornelio’s mother answered.

  “Why not? Isn’t it beneficial to be on good terms with God?”

  “The hair shirt, the fasting, the retreats,” Cornelio’s mother said slowly with terror and at the same time with a kind of pleasure.

  “Would you prefer drinking, or women, or politics? Are you afraid that they’ll steal your son from you? God or the world will take him from you.”

  “God? That’s a more serious matter.”

  Our mothers smiled sadly, as if they had come to an agreement. I listened in silence. At odd hours, I had seen Cornelio in his white smock, a missal in hand, kneeling by the window in prayer. When I entered his room, he blushed and pretended to be studying a grammar or a history textbook, quickly hiding the missal under his chair or in a drawer so that I wouldn’t see it. I asked myself, Why is he ashamed of his piety? Does he think prayer is something like playing with dolls? He never confided in me or spoke about religious matters. Despite our youth, we acted like men and spoke frankly of girlfriends, sex, and marriage. It contradicted Cornelio’s withdrawn, mystical attitude.