The tail stayed on him day and night for more than two months. They put him “to bed” at night and “woke him” in the morning. They used three cars and nine agents in rotation. He never left their sight. This allowed them to sketch a complete web of contacts. They followed a person who once, at a “meet,” arrived last and placed himself in the most protected spot, revealing his superiority to the “Prince of Wales”; he went into an apartment on Calle Viollier. In the photo of “Viollier” I recognized Max: his small eyes, his dark, wiry hair. Twice, the “Prince of Wales” lost them, both times in the Vega market on the way to a “meet.” He got away from them among so many people and fruit and vegetable stands. But they found him again in the same market. It was a tail Macha organized behind Flaco Artaza’s back.
FORTY-ONE
In the meantime, Clementina had a book published that compiled her reviews and catalog copy. She was invited to Paris to give a series of lectures. I thought of Giuseppe. I bought him a gift — a book of photographs of Patagonia — and I wrote him a card. Clementina happily agreed to deliver it. When I went to say good-bye to her, I brought the gift in my bag. At the last minute I thought better of it, and I didn’t want to give it to her. I chickened out. Clementina’s lectures were a roaring success. One publisher was interested in putting out a book of her articles. When she got back, we got together with three other girlfriends to celebrate and talk about her trip, her triumph. I felt uncomfortable having lunch with them. I was used to pretending, but that day, as I raised my glass with them, it was difficult, it hurt, I felt sorry for myself. I was sad when I left them.
That night — another of the many nights in Malloco when I lost sight of Flaco — I felt sad again, and I found myself dancing, pretty drunk, with two women I’d never seen and who I thought were pretty. My “mixed race,” you know — my “hybridity,” as Clementina would say — was born of the original sin of violence. And they moved gracefully, and we laughed together and embraced and I think we kissed a little. My memory is cloudy. Then we went up to a private room — the novelty of the house — and laughing and touching each other tenderly, we fell onto a waterbed. “I’m Josefina,” one told me; “I’m Josefa,” the other said. “I’m María José,” I said. We were all lying.
One of us closed the door, and we floated there in the sweetness and the thickness, and in the darkness we were touching each other the way you palpate a chirimoya or a pear to see if it’s ripe. Our movements were slow and persistent; we were enveloped in a net of tenderness and silence. A high-heeled shoe or a stocking that had captivated me while we were dancing now became a barrier, a wall to climb over. Each bit of bared skin was a discovery, as if that profile, those breasts, that waist were the silent starting point of a piece of music being played for the first time. It was the hour of my beauty, my very own, and I was proud of having taken it for myself.
It’s easy to kiss a woman; the hand can imagine with such ease a shoulder or a thigh that turns into her shoulder or thigh, and the hand protects it, as if the permanence of her skin depended on my hands moving over it, as if, without the soft and insistent touch of another’s skin, she would wither and fall to pieces. And it was as if the constant caress of those hands were reconstituting an invisible shell, an egg that incubated a metamorphosing body. We felt each other, letting ourselves go without hurry, purpose, or fear. The next moment trembled like the flame of a candle in darkness, and all was anticipation and surprise.
At some point I cried and Josefina cradled me and Josefa licked my tears, and I cried some more and the three of us cried in each other’s arms, each one hiding in the other. And later we started laughing and nothing existed apart from the three of us laughing, intertwined on that waterbed. Until the kisses returned, and a slow loving. Then I focused on Josefina and Josefa’s eyes, their serene and emptied gaze.
A person is not a “lesbian” or “fag” or “sadist” or “straight” or “masochist” or “loyal” or “deceitful” or “hero” or “villain.” We must break through language in order to touch life. A person simply does certain things. We never step into the same river twice. There, in that house of Dionysian lights and shadows, I encountered phalluses that were big and long, others that were narrow and short, and straight ones and curved ones — the thousand and one shapes those little devils can possibly take. That man, Phoebus’s, was pointed. I remember another one with a fold covering it, so thick and noticeable. Every phallus is different, you know, and it has a personality of its own, expressive and individual like the nose on a face.
Energized by amphetamines or seeing, thanks to the amyl, the violent power of the light and the palpitations of my heart beating full speed, I could endure all, embrace all, accept all, desire all, and the skin of my soul, of the omnivorous beast that we usually suppress, was captivated and threw itself headlong into the frenzy. It was the night of the great “Yes.” Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Because we are disguised barbarians; that’s what we are. Why do I say “barbarians”? The Scythians, says Herodotus (wasn’t it Herodotus?), shared their women and fornicated in public like animals. That’s why they were barbaric. Let me correct myself, then: we are carnivorous animals, badly disguised and without innocence. That’s what we lost with Paradise: animal innocence. We looked at ourselves naked and shame was born. Hell is a mirror that we can’t look away from.
FORTY-TWO
I got a call from Central. I was summoned to appear in Macha’s office right away. Indio Galdámez greets me, in his sleeveless shirt, sweaty and foul smelling, that shows off his cretin’s muscles with their green boa. I sit on the brown plastic imitation leather sofa in the waiting room. He goes back to his game of foosball with Chico Marín, who, wide as a cube, waits for him scratching his shaved head. Over the chessboard, Iris is motionless. Across from her, Mono Lepe. He’s lost three pawns and a knight. He looks on, alarmed, and leans down until he’s almost touching one of his rooks with his crooked, sunken nose. Pancha is watching TV. She knows very well she’s looking good in that black shirt. An everyday, coarse woman, but with the kind of good tits that make the men like her. There are several chairs scattered about, a table in the middle of the room with two copper ashtrays, the butts twisted inside them, and a vase holding artificial flowers. I hear Macha’s voice. He’s barking into the phone.
“I repeat: this is fucked. No,” he bellows after a silence. “To blow the operation now doesn’t make sense.” Silence. “No. I don’t want to throw away a tracking operation that’s taken months.” Silence. Angrily: “And what did you want me to do? Sit on my ass and wait for the order? Sure! And now it’s all fine and dandy and you want to come in and take advantage of the situation.” Long silence. “And why did you go in person to abort the arrest?” Silence. “Of course! Are you threatening me? What? I was shitting all over procedure? Oh, please. .” Silence. “The situation has changed. That’s why. Now it would be premature. We’re getting very valuable intelligence, Flaco. We’re on the verge of. .” Silence. More calmly: “I repeat: it would really fuck things up. They’re getting to the bottom.” Silence. “Yes. That’s not the point. We’re ready. I’ve just called my people in. .” Silence. “Then I’m receiving an order. It’s definitive. An order.” Silence. “All right.” Silence. “Yes. I’ll go. Fine. The order will be carried out immediately.” Silence. “Yes. All right. Let me say one thing: you all upstairs, you’re some bloodsucking bastards. But the mission will be carried out immediately.”