Iosi Havilio - Open Door

‘As far as the lunatics’ regime is concerned, it consists of mild and abundant food, agreeable work and recreation, walks, games in the open air, indoor games, theatre, dances, cinema, etc.

‘All the lunatics work according to their capabilities and skills, provided they wish to do so. They are not forced to work. They may be encouraged, where possible, with the promise of a reward to their taste, for example tobacco. And indeed work is one of the principal elements of the cure. Some occupy themselves making brooms, others apply themselves to carpentry; bricklayers work at their trade. A French gardener, also a lunatic, creates flowerbeds in front of our eyes. Blacksmiths, locksmiths, carpenters, tailors and bakers work from morning to night, some single-mindedly, others dreaming, according to the temperament of each.’

It was my birthday yesterday and Jaime gave me a Walkman. I wasn’t going to tell him, but later it occurred to me that perhaps it would improve the relationship and make him forget about the incident with Eloísa. And so it was. We need to celebrate, he said, with the widest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. He called the hospital and told them that he wouldn’t be going in because his lawnmower was broken. We got into the truck, crossed the village and joined the main road.

‘I want to apologise for the other day,’ says Jaime, ‘the thing with the girl, it was nonsense, you’re right, she’s just a kid, she can’t be more than fifteen, right?’

He spoke without looking at me, his fingers interlaced at the top of the steering wheel, eyes glued to the tarmac. He took advantage of a short silence to overtake a tractor that was driving with two wheels on the verge and the other two on the road, and concluded:

‘You get these silly things in your head and you can waste your whole life on this stuff.’ Jaime drove on happily, proud of what he had just said.

We must have covered about 20 kilometres when, after passing a deserted level crossing, Jaime left the main road. He turned onto a gravel track that opened up without warning on the left and in less than a minute we were surrounded by countryside. Still silent, biting back an anxious smile, he accelerated as much as the engine would allow, using the rattling noises to keep the surprise he’d prepared for me under wraps. We paused for a few seconds at the foot of a slope the truck struggled to climb and when we arrived at the top, an immense lake appeared in front of us, filling the entire landscape. Jaime relaxed, and I thanked him for the present with a kiss on the cheek. We went on a few metres and stopped next to a brick hut, as precarious as it was unlikely. I’ll be right back, said Jaime and reappeared a few minutes later with a bottle in one hand, half a loaf of bread and an extremely long salami in the other.

‘Local wine, farmhouse bread and handmade salami,’ he said, holding up our lunch on the other side of the window.

We ate our picnic by the lake and I told myself again that, despite everything, he was a good man and if I wanted to I could still fall in love with him.

On the return trip, Jaime insisted on giving me a present.

‘I don’t know, I can’t think of anything,’ I said honestly.

‘There must be something, something you like or need.’

I indulged him and said that I wanted a Walkman.

‘To listen to music while I’m out walking,’ I explained.

For an instant, Jaime fell silent, as if I’d said something wrong, something offensive. But he quickly became himself again.

‘Let’s go to the shopping centre,’ he said, seriously, ‘they must have one there.’

After the shopping centre, we returned to the farm, made love and slept a long siesta that lasted until quarter to seven. I woke up suddenly, frightened. Jaime was sprawled across the bed, one foot imprisoning my right leg. The bedside lamp next to him was switched on. I extracted my leg carefully, trying not to wake him, and left the room with my sandals in my hand. On the kitchen table was a package that for a moment I didn’t recognise. It was the Walkman in its box, still wrapped and unused. It made me happy to think that it was still my birthday and that there was still time to visit Eloísa and tell her. She would surely suggest a toast, almost certainly with beer.

I’d had a nice day, better than I expected, especially since I hadn’t expected anything at all. I thought about the lake, the wine and the salami, the return journey, the trip to the shopping centre in search of my present, that fantastic hour spent comparing Walkmans, the cake and coffee in the food court, the cloud of dust raised by the truck as we passed the door of the shop, the afternoon of calm sex, Jaime’s expression, a smile on his face all day. I opened the box, discarding the instruction manual, and unrolled the headphone cables, connected it and switched it on. Nothing, not even a hum, utter silence. I pressed all the buttons without achieving anything. It took me a long minute to think of batteries. I checked in all the drawers. I found candles, rolls of tinfoil, red envelopes of rat poison, two identical lighters, a box with a few toothpicks, a load of corks, playing cards, bits of steel wool, screws, three loose cloves of garlic, a paintbrush, more poison and not a single battery. I was on the verge of giving up when I lifted my gaze and by chance saw a mini juicer, practically a toy, which Jaime had bought a few weeks ago for me to make orange juice. I dismantled it in seconds and took the batteries.

I turned the dial from one end to the other a couple of times until I found a station playing old favourites, themes from the sixties, seventies and eighties. All-time classics , the programme was called. I wrapped myself in the throw that covered the armchair and ventured out under the newly darkened skies. I had forgotten that sensation of cosmic plenitude that you get when you walk to your own music. I circled the house, stopped next to the mill and counted the first stars. It was one of those nights that you get only in the countryside. I felt peaceful.

I was suddenly distracted by something, a white, restless light, coming from the stable. The stable lights were yellow. And since the fire, Jaime hadn’t even switched them on. I moved back a few metres. I looked away for a second and when I turned my head again, the light had disappeared. The same thing happened again twice, a strange light, meaningless, appearing and disappearing. I approached fearlessly. The stable door was ajar, the chain hanging from one of the handles. Too close now, the light surprised me again. A reflex made me hide behind one of the stalls. The ring of light was moving more and more frenetically. I climbed onto a bale of straw and leaned towards an opening halfway between the stall and the floor.

Boca was standing right in front of me, one hand holding a flashlight, which shook ceaselessly, the other clinging to a post. With her back to me, crouching down, Eloísa’s head was jerking away at the level of the old man’s prick. I couldn’t tell who was abusing whom.

I masturbated furiously, along with the two of them. After they left, I waited a few minutes before climbing off the bale. Only now did I realise that the Walkman was still on and I’d been listening to music all this time. Unaware.

Aída’s ghost appeared to me in the middle of the night, right underneath the crucifix, her back against the wall, inoffensive. I didn’t attach any great importance to it, I put it down to tiredness, to the countryside and its inventions. She looked thin, not at her best, but underneath it all quite well.

It’s an incredible, sun-filled morning and all the colours are alive and vivid, it feels as though spring has taken a step forward. I return to the library to thank Brenda for the translation. It’s really just an excuse to see her again and try to unravel the intrigue that has begun to build around her. As soon as I open the door, I hear her voice. She’s speaking loquaciously and animatedly in a room at the side. I lean in and see her surrounded by three boys in school overalls, aged between eleven and thirteen, who are listening reasonably attentively. I spy on them. She’s talking to them about antiquity, about Athens, the Parthenon, the Roman Empire and she hands them a heavy, brown volume of an encyclopaedia, which they receive somewhat fearfully, warily. I retrace my steps to the entrance, I don’t want them to discover me. There are two books piled on Brenda’s desk, one in English, the other in Spanish: Billy Bathgate by E. L. Doctorow and Gods and Heroes by Gustav Schwab. The former has all the appearance of a bestseller. When Brenda sees me, she greets me with a smile that erases whatever might have happened the last time. There are no traces of the wounds on her ears.