I couldn’t sit and do nothing, though. Not only on account of my family (who seemed more burdened every day) but for another, more pressing reason: María Laura. I don’t know — I’ve often asked myself about the strange workings of love. From a logical point of view, there is no reason why a girl like María Laura (the very embodiment of joie de vivre) would feel attracted to a sick man. And yet there she was, as happy as could be and apparently oblivious to any problem.
I tried dropping hints but realised very quickly that I would never convince her of the truth. So the best solution (at the time it seemed like the best) was to go and speak to María Laura’s father. I wish I had never done that. The man received me very well, listening to me attentively and promising to do everything I asked but afterwards — I don’t know — something came over him. María Laura, perhaps: that girl never liked me. Anyway, the fact is that the man not only allowed Juan Luis to keep going out with his daughter but then he did something even more hare-brained: he told Juan Luis about my visit. No, I’m not imagining it. I know it seems crazy that a serious person would put such a dangerous weapon in the hands of a lunatic but that’s how it was. That same night, as soon as Juan Luis came home, I knew what had happened. I could tell just from the way he looked at me. As if he wanted to overpower my very spirit. For a long time he stood watching me, then finally he shook his head. I don’t know what he intended by this gesture but it chilled me to the core. I felt that never in my life would I know a minute’s peace. You think I’m exaggerating? Not at all. From that day on he began to persecute me. Especially in the way he looked at me. I couldn’t take a single step without feeling his eyes fixed on some part of my body. And his words were almost as unbearable as his looks. Every time he alluded to me it was with the purpose of humiliating me. Nothing too obvious, nothing that would make the others think: Juan Luis is a bully. They were subtle attacks, straight to the point. It made me suspect that there was a plan: He was doing precisely the things that most vexed me. His plan then was to make me lose control, so that the household’s attention fell entirely on me. He wanted to deceive them, to my detriment.
The other evening my suspicion was confirmed.
For a long time Juan Luis had been pressing me to let him do a portrait of me; to start with I didn’t want to submit to his purposes, but in the end Adelaida persuaded me to go along with the idea; besides, I was interested to know what he was after with all this. When I saw the finished portrait I finally understood. No — it was nothing to do with the painting itself: it was a good portrait. Too much ochre, perhaps. But there was something that powerfully caught my eye: an unjustifiably yellow mark between the cheekbone and the right temple. What did that mean? To start with, I wasn’t entirely sure, but when I looked up my suspicions were confirmed: Juan Luis was laughing. I could hardly believe what was happening. ‘My brother,’ I thought, ‘my own brother capable of such cynicism.’ Blinded by rage, I wanted to hit him but instead I smashed the painting into a thousand pieces. I remember what I was thinking: what else might this maniac do if he is capable of working for two weeks with the sole aim of hurting his brother? What will he not stop at, now that his game has been discovered?
From that day onwards I tried to avoid his presence, but that simply exasperated him. He stalked me, monitoring all my movements. And although I did everything I could to stop him watching me (in these conditions even breathing becomes difficult) I suppose that he had found a way to control me without my realising it. The truth is that every time I tried to do some important work, I would hear Juan Luis’ voice coming from the most unexpected places, and I had to get away.
It wasn’t so much for myself that I minded, but for my family. For days now, Mama’s eyes have been swollen from crying so much, and Adelaida has developed a kind of rash that makes her look terrible. Perhaps it’s better for everyone that things ended as they have. I don’t know. I have a strange feeling, even though I shouldn’t be surprised. What he was going to do was foreseeable. It should have been enough just to see the way he smiled at supper time — the obsequious way he offered me the breast of the chicken — to know that he was embarking on another of his crises. And that this time it would continue to its ultimate conclusion.
But it wasn’t at the dinner table that I knew for sure, it was at midnight, when I was lying in bed, still thinking it over. How was I so certain? I don’t know. I suppose it was something like animal instinct: rats abandoning a sinking ship. All I know is that I was going over what had happened in the last few days, and what Juan Luis had said at dinner and suddenly I realised that he was planning to kill me that very night. Initially, I admit, I was paralysed with terror but some inner voice urged me to fight for my life. I got up and, barefoot, so as not to make any noise, I went to Juan Luis’ bedroom. He didn’t move, but I could tell that he wasn’t asleep. A fearful thought struck me: what do I do if he attacks me? (Juan Luis was always stronger than I was). Although the thought of using a weapon against my brother was repugnant, I knew that my very survival was at stake. I went to the storage room to get an axe. Then, feeling calmer, I returned to his bedroom. From the door I watched the white rectangle of his bed; there was no discernible movement, but he couldn’t deceive me any longer. Quietly I approached the bed, and confirming my suspicions, he sat up.
I don’t know how far things might have gone if he hadn’t seen the axe. Even having seen it, he launched himself at me. Remembering that a person in his state of mind never abandons the course to which he is committed, I defended myself as best I could until Papa and Adelaida arrived and managed to free me.
I must have lost consciousness after that. This morning, when I woke up, I could barely recall the incident. I was trying to work out why my wrist hurt so much when, through the door, I heard my father talking on the telephone. ‘As soon as possible,’ I heard, ‘last night he tried to kill his brother.’ Shivers ran down my spine when I heard that. But this is for the best. I can’t spend my life hiding away. It’s terrible not to feel the sun on my skin. I want to be happy.
. . .
My God, I think I must have fallen asleep. I can hear his voice outside. Perhaps they’ve come to get him. I think I’m afraid.
. . .
Papa isn’t standing at the window any more. I called him and he shouted that he was coming, that I should keep calm. I have to speak to him. I have to explain. I had a dream. No, it’s not that. It’s a feeling I have, that an injustice is about to be perpetrated — that’s it. That he grew up with us, or don’t they remember that any more? He liked sunny mornings and Prince Valiant. And perhaps, even though we think that everything suddenly changed for him, perhaps within his soul there is still a beautiful and hidden part that nobody yet knows. That nobody will ever know, now. I hear the voices outside. They’ve come to get him. They are going to encircle him with walls through which the sun shall never enter.