Саманта Швеблин - Mouthful of Birds

“I’m looking for Dr. Corrales.”

“He’s having breakfast,” says one of the women.

Benavides looks back for a moment toward the empty hallways, then turns back to the kitchen.

“Where?”

“He’s having breakfast,” repeats the woman. “We don’t know where.”

Benavides turns back to the hallway. Dr. Corrales is there behind him, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a half-finished piece of cheese bread.

“You arrived last night in very poor condition, Benavides. A lot of alcohol. I stored your suitcase in the garage. Shall I call a car for you?”

“You don’t understand. There was an incident last night, a problem, at my house, you see…”

“I understand, Benavides. You know that you don’t have to explain anything here, you just take it easy and be on your way,” says Corrales, offering a piece of cheese bread to Benavides.

“No, thank you,” says Benavides. “It’s about my wife.”

“Yes, I know, it’s almost always about that, but what can we do…”

“No, you don’t understand, my wife is dead.”

“Why do you keep repeating that, Benavides? I tell you, I do understand… Mine has been dead since the day we got married. Every once in a while she speaks: she insists that I’m fat, that we have to do something about my mother, and then there’s the matter of the environment… but you mustn’t concern yourself with them…”

“No, look, give me my suitcase and I’ll show you.”

“In the garage, Benavides. I’ll leave you to it now because I have patients waiting.”

“No, listen…”

“Go home: have yourself a shower, and before you go to bed, take these pills for me, and you’ll just see how well you sleep.”

Benavides refuses the pills.

“Come with me, I beg you. I need to show you what I have in the suitcase.”

Corrales finishes his bread. He sighs and nods, looking at his empty mug.

They go out the front door and cross the garden. As they walk, a tingling feeling intensifies Benavides’s nerves. They enter through the front of the garage. Inside, it’s dark. Corrales turns on the light and everything is illuminated: tool benches, boxes of old files, broken appliances, and the suitcase, alone and upright in the middle of the garage.

“Show me, Benavides.”

Benavides walks over to the suitcase and rolls it slowly. He moves it with the intention of laying it down; he has the hope he will feel the light weight of an empty valise. Then it would all be a mistake, as Corrales himself explained last night when Benavides had shown up—drunk, as Corrales said just now. I’m sorry, Corrales, I swear this won’t happen again, he will have to say. Or maybe, on opening the suitcase and finding it empty, his eyes would meet Corrales’s complicit gaze; maybe Corrales would say, It’s over, Benavides, you don’t owe me anything. But when he takes the handle, the weight of a body much like his wife’s reminds him that actions have consequences. His face goes pale, he feels weak, and the suitcase falls onto its side with a thud and stains the floor with a dark, thick liquid.

“Do you feel all right, Benavides?”

Benavides replies, “Yes, of course.” He can’t think of anything but the twisted-up body. The suitcase gives off a smell of putrefaction.

“What’s in it, Benavides?”

Then Benavides discovers his error: trusting Dr. Corrales, having faith in the doctor. As if a man dedicated to health in life could ever contend with death. So he says, “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

“I mean, don’t worry about it. You go see your patients now and I’ll manage here.”

“Is this a joke?”

Corrales approaches. Benavides bends down and holds on to the buckles so Corrales can’t open them, but the doctor kneels down next to him and says, “Let me see, come now, move.” And with a simple shove, Benavides falls over. Corrales struggles with the buckles but can’t open them: pushed to their limit by the suitcase’s excess load, they resist.

“Help me,” orders Corrales.

“No, look here…”

“I’m telling you to help me, Benavides. Stop this nonsense,” says Corrales, indicating Benavides should sit on the suitcase. Benavides finds the most opportune spot on the irregular leather surface, and puts the weight of his body on top of his wife’s. Corrales is strong, and together they finally manage to unbuckle the clasps.

Benavides stands up and moves away from the suitcase that, though now unbuckled, has still not been opened. He doesn’t want to see. Rapid pulses squeeze his heart. Corrales studies the scene. He knows, thinks Benavides when he sees the doctor stand up and walk toward him. Corrales stops beside him and looks at the suitcase. In a low voice, almost hypnotized, he orders Benavides:

“Open it.”

Benavides stays where he is. Maybe he thinks that this is the end, or maybe he’s not thinking about anything, but ultimately he obeys and walks over to the suitcase. When he opens it, he forgets Corrales for a moment: his wife is curled up like a fetus, her head bent inward, her knees and elbows forced into the rigid, leather-lined box, her fat filling up all the empty space. What a thing, nostalgia, Benavides says to himself. All those years just to see her like this.

Threads of blood trickle toward him over the floor. Corrales’s voice returns him to reality:

“Benavides…” And the doctor’s cracked voice betrays his anguish.

“Benavides…” Corrales, walking slowly, approaches the suitcase without taking his eyes from its contents. His eyes, full of tears, finally turn to meet Benavides’s gaze. “Benavides… This is drastic. It’s… It’s… wonderful,” he concludes.

Benavides, dubious, stays silent. He looks back at the suitcase but what he sees is what is there: his wife, purple, coiled like a worm in tomato sauce.

“Wonderful,” repeats Corrales, shaking his head. He looks at the suitcase for a moment, then at Benavides, as if he can’t understand how Benavides has been able to do such a thing for himself. “You are a genius. And to think that I underestimated you, Benavides. A genius. Let’s see. Let me clear my head—it’s no small thing you’re proposing with this…” He rests his arm around Benavides’s shoulders with friendly enthusiasm. “Well, let me offer you a drink. Believe it or not, I know just the person you need.”

Corrales lets go of Benavides and heads toward the garage exit.

“Genius, truly beautiful,” he repeats in a low voice as he walks away. Benavides takes a moment to react, but as soon as he understands that he’s about to be left alone, he looks at his suitcase one last time and runs after the doctor.

Olives, sliced cheese and salami, potato chips, little cheese-flavored crackers, onion and ham. Everything neatly arranged on a large wooden tray on the coffee table in the main living room, along with three fine crystal glasses into which Corrales pours white wine.

“Donorio, this is my friend Benavides, the man I’ve told you so much about.”

Donorio curiously studies Benavides’s small body and finally puts out his hand. Corrales smiles, pours more wine, and invites the men to eat something.

“Donorio, you have no idea what you’re about to see,” says Corrales. “Now, I don’t want to sound arrogant, I know you have experience with great artists. But even so, I don’t think you can imagine what we’ve got prepared for you. Isn’t that right, Benavides?”

Benavides finishes off his wine in one gulp.

“I want to see it,” says Donorio.