Carlos Fuentes - Constancia and Other Stories for Virgins

— Did you go along with him, Don Francisco?

— No. I said no, and I began a painting, a picture of angels, moreover, in the poor, secret corner of the church where she was now so private, Elisia. The mobs stepped over my paint jars, making a rainbow to death and an obscene gesture at me.

— And then?

— They exhumed her right then and there.

— And then?

— When they opened the coffin, they saw that nothing remained of the body of the beautiful Elisia.

— She had risen!

— Pray for her!

— Nothing was left but the worm-eaten bun crowning the actress’s skull. La Privada was bone and dust.

— Caramba!

— But then from that dust a butterfly flew out and I laughed, I stopped painting, put on my cape and hat, and left, laughing like crazy.

— Her bun by her buns.

— The butterfly in her cunt!

— Who would believe it!

— Until death!

— What did you do, Don Francisco!

— I followed the butterfly.

— Touch my fingers, sweetie, my balcony faces yours and I’m so cold, in the middle of August.

— Our streets are so narrow!

— Our sea is so vast!

— Cádiz, little silver teacup.

— Cádiz, the balcony of Spain facing America.

— Cádiz, the double: American shores, Andalusian lanes.

— Reach out your window to touch my hand.

— You, nothin’.

— I gave you everythin’, and you, nothin’.

— Nobody marries a woman who is not a virgin.

— Don’t shave after eating.

— The noble Spaniard and his dog tremble with cold after dining.

— Let death find me in Spain, so it will be late in coming.

— Titian: one hundred years.

— Elisia Rodríguez: thirty.

— Pedro Romero: eighty.

— Francisco de Goya y Lucientes: eighty-two.

— Rubén Oliva, Rubén Oliva, Rubén Oliva.

— Six bulls, six.

— When?

— Tomorrow, Sunday, at exactly 6 p.m.

— Where?

— In the royal grounds at Ronda.

— Are you going to go?

— I always go to see Oliva.

— Why? He’s a disaster.

— You just never saw him when he wasn’t.

— When?

— Sixteen years ago, at least.

— Where?

— Also in Ronda.

— And what happened?

— Nothing, except nobody alive has seen a performance that could compare, except Manuel Rodríguez. There was never anything like it, since Manolete. That fellow stood in the center of the plaza like a statue, without moving, violating all the rules of the fight. Letting the horned beast do what it wanted with him. Exposing himself to death every minute. Not raising a hand to the bull. Refusing to fight, exposing himself to death. As if he wanted to embrace the bull. Closing his eyes when it came near, almost enticing it: Oh, bull, don’t leave me, let’s perform the ceremony together. And that’s how the fight went: with love for the bull, Rubén Oliva inviting it to his domain as he had always entered the bull’s, refusing to cargar la suerte, to control the bull with his cape, refusing to trade the steel for the aluminum blade, fighting with steel the whole time. That first bull of Rubén Oliva’s did not have time, gentlemen, to orient itself, to back off, to find a middle ground, to paw the ground. Rubén Oliva didn’t let it, and when the bull asked for death, Rubén Oliva gave it to it. It was madness.

— But he never repeated the deed.

— Correction: he hasn’t repeated it yet.

— You’re still waiting, eh?

— Maestro, when you’ve seen the best fight of your life, you can die in peace. The bad thing is that this bullfighter neither retires nor dies.

— It seems to me that this Rubén Oliva has conned you all and lives on the fame of his first fight, knowing he’ll never repeat it.

— May his fame endure!

— Well, if the fellow wants to live on that …

— Look: this is what makes bullfighting bad: a bullfighter keeps coming back for years and years even though he’s terrible, because, from one fight to the next, hope is reborn, and the final disillusionment is sometimes years in coming. Rubén Oliva is a scoundrel, he was good only once. We’ll see if he can ever repeat that day.

— Twenty years, for Rubén Oliva.

— And you’re going to Ronda to see him fight.

— Yes, who knows, maybe tomorrow he’ll surprise us.

— Tomorrow Rubén Oliva will be forty.

— The same age as Pedro Romero when he retired from the ring.

— Well, let’s wish him luck.

— That he won’t get pelted with pillows!

— Poor Rubén Oliva!

— You know him, Paco?

— Nobody knows him.

— Look, Paco. Here’s his photo in Diario 16.

— But this can’t be the man you’ve been talking about!

— This isn’t Rubén Oliva? Well then, even his own mother was mistaken, but you, Don Francisco, you dare to…?

— This is not Rubén Oliva …

— Who is it, then?

— This is the portrait without an artist that Elisia Rodríguez showed me one day, saying: If you paint me, I’ll let you see me naked, I’ll faint in your arms, I’ll …

— You told me, Paco: a witch gave it to her and told her, Elisia, find a painter who can put a name to this portrait …

— Which is not a portrait but a photograph …

— In my time, we didn’t have those …

— Rubén Oliva.

— It’s not a portrait, it’s the man himself, reduced to this frozen, imprisoned condition …

— It’s the man-portrait.

— Rubén Oliva …

— I followed the butterfly through the night, I found it in the arms of this man, fainting. I took La Privada’s face, painted it and unpainted it, made it and destroyed it, that is my power, but this man, this man I couldn’t touch, because he’s identical to his portrait, there’s nothing to paint, there’s nothing to add, it drove me crazy!

— Nobody knows him.

— Don Francisco.

— Headless.

— Y Lost Sentiments.

— Try to sleep, Auntie Mezuca.

— Boys, in this heat you can’t even talk.

— Silver teacup.

— Balcony of Andalusia.

— Vast sea.

— Narrow streets.

— Touch hands from window to window.

— Nobody knows himself.

Sunday

It seemed that the afternoon darkened.

— García Lorca, Mariana Pineda

1

He was dressed in the Palace of Salvatierra, by Sparky, his sword handler, watched gravely by an old friend, Perico of Ronda, who had served him fifteen years before. His suit was on a chair waiting for him when he entered the large stone-and-stucco room whose balcony faced the steep gorge dividing the city.

The clothes set out on the chair were the ghost of fame. Rubén Oliva stripped and looked out at the city of Ronda, trying to define it, to explain it. Swallows, those birds that never rested, flew overhead, and with the fluidity of an unforgettable song they seemed to recall some distant words to Rubén’s ear, which until then had been as naked as the rest of him. My village. A deep wound. A body like an open scar. Contemplating its own wound from a watchtower of whitewashed houses: Ronda, where our vision soars higher than the eagle.

Sparky helped him put on his long white underpants, and although Perico was watching them, Rubén Oliva felt that he was alone. The sense of absence persisted while he was helped into the stockings held up by garters under the knee. Sparky fastened the three symmetrical hooks and eyes on the legs as Rubén looked for something he failed to find outside the balcony. The attendant helped him put on his shirt, his braces, his cummerbund, and his tie. Perico went out to see if the car was ready, and Sparky began to help Rubén put on his vest and one-piece coat. But he didn’t want any more help. Sparky discreetly withdrew and the bullfighter fastened his vest and adjusted its fit.