Juan Vásquez - The Sound of Things Falling

She wasn’t talking to me, that was clear: she was thinking out loud. And I couldn’t help but remember another comment identical in spirit and even in form that I had heard a long time ago, when the world, or at least my world, was a very different one, when I still felt in charge of my life.

‘Ricardo said the same thing,’ I told Maya. ‘That’s how I met him, when he commented how sorry he felt for the animals from the zoo.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Maya. ‘He worried about animals.’

‘He said they weren’t to blame for anything.’

‘And it’s true,’ said Maya. ‘It’s one of the few, very few, real memories I have. My dad looking after the horses. My dad stroking my mom’s dog. My dad telling me off for not feeding my armadillo. The only real memories. The rest are invented, Antonio, false memories, made-up memories. The saddest thing that can happen to a person is to find out their memories are lies.’

Her voice was twanging, but that could have been due to the change in temperature. There were tears in her eyes, or maybe it was rainwater running down her cheeks, around her lips. ‘Maya,’ I asked then, ‘why was he killed? I know this piece of the puzzle is missing, but what do you think?’ The Nissan was on the move again and we were travelling the kilometres that separated us from the entrance gate, Maya’s hand closed over the black knob of the gear lever, water ran down her face and neck. I insisted: ‘Why, Maya?’ Without looking at me, without taking her eyes off the drenched panorama, Maya said those five words I’d heard from so many mouths, ‘He must have done something.’ But this time they seemed unworthy of what Maya knew. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what? Maybe you don’t want to know.’ Maya looked at me with pity. I tried to add something but she cut me off. ‘Look, I don’t want to talk any more.’ The black blades moved across the windscreen and swept the water and leaves away. ‘I want us to stay quiet for a while, I’m tired of talking. Do you understand, Antonio? We’ve talked too much. I’m sick of talking. I want to be silent for a while.’

So in silence we arrived at the gate and passed beneath the white and blue Piper, and in silence we turned left and headed for La Dorada. In silence we drove along the part where the trees met over the top of the road, keeping the light from passing through and on rainy days lessening the difficulties drivers faced. In silence we came back out into the bad weather, in silence we saw the yellow railings of the bridge over the Magdalena, in silence we crossed it. The surface of the river bristled under the downpour, it wasn’t smooth like the hippopotamus’s hide but rough like that of a gigantic sleeping alligator, and on one of the little islands a white boat was getting wet with its motor pulled up. Maya was sad: her sadness filled the Nissan like the smell of our wet clothes, and I could have said something to her, but I didn’t. I kept silent: she wanted to be in silence. And so, in the middle of that obliging silence, accompanied only by the thundering of the rain on the jeep’s metal roof, we went through the toll booth and headed south through the cattle ranches. Two long hours in which the sky gradually darkened, not due to the dense rain clouds but because night fell halfway there. By the time the Nissan lit up the white façade of the house, it was completely dark. The last thing we saw were the eyes of the German shepherd gleaming in the beam of the headlights.

‘Nobody’s home,’ I said.

‘Of course not,’ said Maya. ‘It’s Sunday.’

‘Thanks for the outing.’

But Maya didn’t say anything. She walked in and took off her wet clothes as she went, skirting around the furniture without turning on any lights, voluntarily blind. I followed her, or followed her shadow, and realized that she wanted me to follow her. The world was blue and black, made not of figures but of outlines; one of them was Maya’s silhouette. In my memory it was her hand that reached for mine, not the other way around, and then Maya said these words: I’m tired of sleeping alone . I think she also said something simple and very understandable: Tonight I don’t want to be so alone . I don’t remember having walked to Maya’s bed, but I see myself perfectly sitting on the edge of it, beside a bedside table with three drawers. Maya turned down the sheets and her spectral silhouette stood out against the wall, in front of the mirror on the wardrobe, and it seemed like she was looking in the mirror and as she did so her reflection was looking at me. While I was attending to this parallel reality, that fleeting scene that elapsed in my absence, I got into her bed, and I didn’t resist when Maya got in beside me and her hands undid my clothes, her hands tainted by the sun acted as naturally and deftly as my own hands. She kissed me and I felt her breath at once fresh and fatigued, an end-of-the-day breath, and I thought (a ridiculous thought and also indemonstrable) that this woman hadn’t kissed anyone for a long time. And then she stopped kissing me. Maya touched me futilely, took me futilely in her mouth, her futile tongue ran over my body without a sound, and then her resigned mouth returned to my mouth and only then did I realize she was naked. In the semi-darkness her nipples were a violet tone, a dark violet like the red scuba divers see at the bottom of the sea. Have you been underwater in the sea, Maya? I asked her or think I asked her. Way down deep in the sea, deep enough for colours to change? She lay down beside me, face up, and at that moment I was overcome by the absurd idea that Maya was cold. Are you cold? I asked. But she didn’t answer. Do you want me to go? She didn’t answer this question either, but it was a pointless question, because Maya didn’t want to be alone and she’d already settled that. I didn’t want to be alone at that moment either: Maya’s company had become indispensable to me, just as the disappearance of her sadness had become urgent. I thought how the two of us were alone in this room and in this house, but alone with a shared solitude, each of us alone with our own pain deep in our flesh but mitigating it at the same time by the strange arts of nakedness. And then Maya did something that only one person in the world had ever done before: her hand rested on my belly and found my scar and caressed it as if she were painting with one finger, as if she’d dipped her finger in tempera and were trying to make a strange and symmetrical design on my skin. I kissed her, in order to close my eyes more than to kiss her, and then my hand moved over her breasts and Maya took it in hers, took my hand in hers and put it between her legs and my hand touched her smooth straight hair, and then her soft inner thighs, and then her sex. My fingers under her fingers penetrated her and her body tensed and her legs opened like wings. I’m tired of sleeping alone , she’d told me, this woman who was now looking at me with wide-open eyes in the darkness of her room, wrinkling her brow like someone who’s on the verge of understanding something.

Maya Fritts did not sleep alone that night, I wouldn’t have let her. I don’t know when her well-being began to matter so much to me, I don’t know when I began to regret that there could be no possible life together for us, that our common past did not necessarily imply a common future. We’d had the same life and nevertheless had very different lives, or at least I did, a life with people who were waiting for me on the other side of the Cordillera, four hours from Las Acacias, 2,600 metres above sea level. . In the darkness of the bedroom I thought of that, although thinking in the darkness is not advisable: things seem bigger or more serious in the darkness, illnesses more destructive, the presence of evil closer, indifference more intense, solitude more profound. That’s why we like to have someone to sleep with, and that’s why I wouldn’t have left her alone that night for anything in the world. I could have got dressed and left in silence, carrying my shoes and leaving the doors ajar, like a thief. But I didn’t: I saw her fall into a deep sleep, undoubtedly because she was so tired both from all the driving and from all the emotions. Remembering tires a person out, this is something they don’t teach us, exercising one’s memory is an exhausting activity, it drains our energy and wears down our muscles. So I watched Maya sleep on her side, facing me, and I watched her hand slide under her pillow once she was asleep and hug it or cling to it, and it happened again: I saw her as she’d been as a girl. I didn’t have the slightest doubt that this gesture contained or embodied the little girl she’d once been, and I loved her in some imprecise and absurd way. And then I fell asleep too.