Twenty-five
AM OUTSIDE, COMING? Eloísa writes like that, in capital letters, as if shouting to me from the street, at half six on the dot, when I’m already in the changing room getting ready to leave. I catch sight of her from a distance, very small, she doesn’t see me, she’s acting as though she doesn’t see me. She’s standing at the entrance with a giant bag of popcorn, sunglasses, flowery blouse and denim shorts, in between the pony and a purple dragon, or is it a dinosaur, handing out balloons with its snout. As I approach, now that she’s waving at me with her free hand, I remember the last time I saw her. At the end of the party, lying in the deckchair, awake but gone, exhausted from always having to be the same. So theatrical. And yet again, as in the past, as with her adventures in the country, my attention is grabbed by that capacity of hers to re-emerge as though nothing has happened, burying everything, without blame or remorse, like an animal. The difference is that now, while the attitude is the same, behind her eyes, in her teeth, underneath her skin, you can tell that eternity is gradually wearing her down.
She embraces me and grabs a hand which she pulls to her pocket for me to feel it. I brought you a surprise, she says as we walk in front of the creature, I still can’t work out what it’s meant to be, and Eloísa sticks her tongue out at it as we pass, just for the sake of it, she can’t help herself. I’m a bit embarrassed. Whoever’s sweating inside the costume must be cursing her and overheating even more. We cross the road diagonally, heading for the plaza in front of a building made of mirrored glass with a large American flag flying high.
We sit at the top of a slope, at the foot of the pergola. Very tall banana trees, a weeping willow and a string of paradise trees border the avenue. Canetti’s right, I’m beginning to hate them. Ta dah, says Eloísa and brings out a joint, thick as a fat finger. Flowers from the best garden. It takes a while to light it because a wind gets up, not strong but whirling, which plays with the flame of the lighter. A moment of calm and then another gust. In the sky there are white and translucent surface clouds, speeding northwards; others, higher up, are towers of grey foam that move slowly from the river towards us. Rain or refreshment, you get the feeling that something’s going to happen. It’s been like this all day, heavy and indefinite.
We smoke in silence, two draws each, it feels like it’s never going to end. The rain doesn’t come, instead we feel an unexpected relief on our skin. Eloísa speaks again, she can’t bear the void. Did you have a good time the other night? she asks but she doesn’t allow me to answer, she continues alone: Did you see what ugly bastards Axel’s friends are, every single one. And work, how’s it going? It’s fine, I say, I don’t mind it. She pauses to take a drag and I’m about to tell her about the iguana but I change my mind. I tell her about Simón, about the poison beads, the night in the hospital, What a bummer, she says but deep down she doesn’t hear me at all, out of jealousy, because her mind’s on something else or she’s scared of children.
I wonder what it would be like if she kissed me now or if later on she felt like stroking a breast and started sucking it. I’d certainly let her do it. When she’s in front of me, she reveals everything, unbridled, like at the party, telling me about her orgies and fantasies, it’s as though I’m seeing her through glass, on a screen. Something similar must happen to how she sees me. She doesn’t come on to me nor does she provoke me, and I don’t look for it either. It’s true that I haven’t really been turned on for a while now, not even by Iris, who became more of a curiosity than anything else. I masturbate once in a while, so as not to lose the habit, in the same way I scratch my neck or cross and uncross my fingers when I don’t know where to put my hands.
The high clouds pass by, the ones that looked like they were bringing rain, and the sky clears, tinged orange where the sun is setting. Far from the city. Sliding down the grass, we reach the flat ground and lie down on our backs, the joint goes out thanks to the humidity floating in the air. We stay like that for a while until one of us, her, me, I’m not sure, points out a group of women doing gymnastics. They form a circle around a boy in sports gear and dark glasses with a lifeguard’s body who’s giving them instructions about the exercises, providing an example of every movement. They imitate him as best they can, some skilfully, others struggling. Leapfrogs, flexes, abdominals and a quick jog to the pergola and back. From where we are lying, we see them come and go, heads where the feet should be, feet in place of heads. A silent film, hilarious. Sequences that are more than just clumsy, they’re spastic, trainers, legs, arms, armpits and hips coordinating like endless marionette parts. But the thing that kills us is the arses. Sad, baggy, arses like faces, tight, chubby, with drooping jaws, chatty or circumspect, arses in action. Our laughter ends up choking us.
I could eat a couple of horses, says Eloísa, recovering her breath. We hoist ourselves up hand in hand. We skirt the group of gymnasts and Eloísa can’t help mocking, releasing a forced, unnatural cackle, which I accompany with a discreet smile and increase my pace. To cross the road, Eloísa grabs my arm tightly as if she were wobbling and about to fall. A game, another game. Climbing onto the pavement again, feeling me cold and unenthusiastic, she gives a wink of disappointment.
The plaza is a mess, the traffic lights don’t work, which everyone is using as an excuse for exasperation. Further over, Garibaldi rides on high. Undertaking a certain amount of risk, we dodge cars, motorbikes and buses and enter a luminous pizzeria without consulting each other. I go first, Eloísa follows behind, and as soon as she sets foot in the place she spits out another cackle. I turn round, she covers her mouth with a hand, with the other she points to my back. My T-shirt is sprouting grass, my hair too, as are hers. Before we sit down, as we shake our clothes in spite of the censorious looks, Eloísa, her voice choked, says: It looks like we’ve been rolling about like lezzers.
I go to the toilet, I pee a lot and carry on removing grass from my hair in front of the mirror. There’s always a bit more. My face is red, my cheeks hot, as if I’d been running. I return to the table, Eloísa is flicking through the menu. I’ve got cash, she says, order what you want, Axel gave it to me to buy him some medicine I couldn’t get, I’ll tell him I spent it on the taxi and that’s that. We are served by a very well-spruced waiter, as Eloísa would say: fake tan, fully waxed arms and highlighted hair. A boy who punctuates every phrase he utters with a movement of the shoulder, the left, the right, it depends, on the defensive, as if saying: What do I care. A local faggot, that’s how Eloísa defines him as we watch him move away with our order: a pitcher of beer, here they call it a double jug, and a mozzarella pizza with anchovies. A real one, explains Eloísa so that there’s no doubt and I understand the allusion to Axel, who is the fake faggot.
Let’s go for a couple of quick puffs before the pizza comes, says Eloísa, nodding towards the bathroom. She wears me out. Imagine if one of them comes in. I’m referring to the old lady in a pearl necklace, chewing with loose dentures, the young woman with inflated tits and a television face or the girl at the next table who’s giving us a dirty look, God knows why. Imagine, I insist, and now the two of us, as we did a while ago, lying on the slope watching the upside-down aerobics class, explode into laughter, which makes us the centre of attention once more, Eloísa beating her palm on the table, which sounds just like a drum roll, me, drinking beer to try to hide it. In fact, one of the waiters, not ours, who is reprimanding us with signals from his raised shoulder, allows himself to be infected and gives a hint of a smile which he aborts as soon as the man at the till points out an unattended table.