He went back to the tenement with his hand hanging at his side, dead. He sat in his doorway and stayed there, mute, not even communicating with his children. Fremberg continued to send Bertita, one of his lovers, a woman of forty with whiskers and the backside of a mare, to cook for the children. They would arrive like famished shadows, eat, and then go back out on the street. Alejandro, in another world, gave nothing, asked for nothing. When it began to grow dark, he would light a candle and, with a nimble movement of his left hand, catch nocturnal moths in order to devour them. One morning, they found the doorway empty. No one in the tenement could imagine where he’d gone. He returned after midday and sat down again, but something had changed in his eyes. A vehement fire was burning in his pupils. On the back of his paralyzed hand, he’d had the machine tattoo a heart and inside it the name Teresa.
The first people to realize that Alejandro could work miracles were the homeless children. One fell at his feet, twisted in pain after eating garbage. Alejandro put his dead hand on the child’s stomach, and the pain disappeared. A few days later, a boy with mange on his legs appeared. The dead hand cured him too. The rumor began to spread. A little girl brought her cat, crushed by an automobile. The cat revived. A boy showed him his face covered with pimples dripping pus. After five minutes of the cold contact, he walked off with clear skin.
Adults began coming. They submitted to his paralyzed hand tumors, fevers, impotence, all kinds of physical disorders. With a sweet smile and with fire in his eyes, always mute, Alejandro would slowly raise his right hand, kiss the tattooed heart, and place it with a profound, humble delicacy on the sick parts, which always healed. A fetus, condemned to be born feet first, he made turn around and emerge headfirst.
He accepted no payment, no money, objects, flowers, or food. Hearing the words “thank you” made him close his eyes and turn pale. His love for Teresa had overflowed the dikes and spread now toward all of humanity. Because he understood better than anyone what emotional pain was, he also managed to calm depression, jealousy, rage, and hatred. A mere touch of his hand to a martyred chest and that person left with new hope. There on that miserable threshold Alejandro stayed for two years, curing without interruption every sick person who asked for help.
The Rabbi had nothing to do with those miracles. His journey had brought him to sainthood. Out of discretion, the Rabbi left him alone during that time, but now he had to deliver sad news: “Good Alejandro, the final moment has come. Your heart has deteriorated completely. You are going to die.”
“I’m ready. I’ve lived all I had to live because God taught me to love. For great evils we need great remedies. I was a man of stone; He made me feel pain. I am infinitely grateful.”
After breaking his silence, he asked that the design machine be removed, that his bed be brought into what had been the Happy Heart Bar, and that they place a big barrel of wine next to him. He went to bed and entered into a placid dying. The worker girls and their companions began to arrive and drink in a block, as in the old days. The Anarchist, who had been in hiding, suddenly appeared wearing dark glasses to hide his missing eye. He said nothing, but on his knees alongside Alejandro’s cot, he kissed the dead hand.
The bar began to fill up with wildflowers. They forced their way through tiny cracks in the cement and covered the grayness with a multicolored blanket. Benjamín, Lola, Fanny, and Jaime, accompanied by Fremberg and his four girlfriends, entered, nicely combed, clean, and sad. Alejandro smiled. The Rabbi told him, “At the end everything returns.” Alejandro smiled again. The crowd parted slowly in order not to trample the flowers. A slim silhouette hesitated at the door. The children shouted “Mama!” and ran to clutch her in their avid arms. Teresa’s head was shaved, she was skin and bones, dressed as a man, and wearing no makeup. She did not cry, but tears ran ceaselessly down her torpid face, a face you’d say was paralyzed.
Alejandro extended his right hand, and his inert hand came to life. The white fingers recovered the color of living flesh and, losing their cold, moved slowly to call Teresa. The woman approached without separating herself from the children and, on her knees, placed her face in the revived hand. Alejandro touched her devotedly, trying to give the hollow of his hand the sweetness of a cradle. He whispered:
“I’m not going to forgive you, because there is nothing evil to forgive. You obeyed life. Everything natural is good. Your soul is pure light. I thank you for existing. Don’t tell me why you’ve returned. There’s no more time. You’ve come, and that’s enough. I am going to die for you, not because of you. You became my teacher. The only thing I did well in this world was to learn to love you. I depart satisfied. Don’t put my name on my grave. I want a simple stone with a six-pointed star. In the center of the two interlaced triangles have inscribed: I Am Yours And You Are Mine.”
Teresa kissed his forehead. My grandfather smiled again and began to give up his soul. The Rabbi, nervous, shouted to him, “Wait! Hold out a little longer! You want to go, but I want to stay here. The eternal nothingness is not for me. Pass me on!”
“Pass you on?”
“That’s right! I am your best inheritance: tradition. Give me to one of your children.”
“To which one?”
“The way things are going, your twin girls will never be mothers, and Benjamín will die chaste. The only one who will be able to pass me on to one of his children is Jaime.”
Alejandro signed to Jaime that he should come close. Jaime was not moved. A dull resentment kept him from suffering. He’d often tried to approach his father, always crashing against a barrier of incomprehension. They were different, and that was that. Jaime had the right to not want to be a just man. In a society of thieves and exploiters, egoism was not only allowed but it was also the only intelligent thing a person could do. Nevertheless, once, to please his father, Jaime took on the task of making a pair of boots. For three months, in secret, he dedicated himself to that painful work. The result was not unworthy of Alejandro himself. Proud of himself, he showed his father his work and expected that after the congratulations he would keep the boots in a dresser as a souvenir. That did not happen. The next day, his father sold them to a poor client for an absurdly low price.
“Good shoes should be on feet and not in a dresser. We don’t make them to exalt ourselves but to serve. Remember, son, serving is the greatest human value.”
Jaime never forgave him. He felt that Alejandro held his work in contempt, that he refused to give him the recognition he deserved. He swore he’d never again make a shoe, never again serve anyone.
“Come here, my son.”
He’s going to give me a farewell kiss, but what good is it to me now when he never did it before. I would have preferred kisses that began something, not kisses that end things. “I’m coming, father.”
He pressed his lips together and brought his face close to that of the dying man. Alejandro, with his resuscitated hand, took hold of Jaime’s nape and immobilized his head. Following the Rabbi’s instructions, he fastened his mouth around Jaime’s nose and breathed, a final, long, interminable breath. The Rabbi entered through Jaime’s nostrils into his spirit. Alejandro died. Jaime fell to the floor, writhing in rage and screaming: “I don’t want your madness! No! I don’t want it! Get out of me, you shitty ghost!”