Arturo Fontaine - La Vida Doble

At some point I cried and Josefina cradled me and Josefa licked my tears, and I cried some more and the three of us cried in each other’s arms, each one hiding in the other. And later we started laughing and nothing existed apart from the three of us laughing, intertwined on that waterbed. Until the kisses returned, and a slow loving. Then I focused on Josefina and Josefa’s eyes, their serene and emptied gaze.

A person is not a “lesbian” or “fag” or “sadist” or “straight” or “masochist” or “loyal” or “deceitful” or “hero” or “villain.” We must break through language in order to touch life. A person simply does certain things. We never step into the same river twice. There, in that house of Dionysian lights and shadows, I encountered phalluses that were big and long, others that were narrow and short, and straight ones and curved ones — the thousand and one shapes those little devils can possibly take. That man, Phoebus’s, was pointed. I remember another one with a fold covering it, so thick and noticeable. Every phallus is different, you know, and it has a personality of its own, expressive and individual like the nose on a face.

Energized by amphetamines or seeing, thanks to the amyl, the violent power of the light and the palpitations of my heart beating full speed, I could endure all, embrace all, accept all, desire all, and the skin of my soul, of the omnivorous beast that we usually suppress, was captivated and threw itself headlong into the frenzy. It was the night of the great “Yes.” Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Because we are disguised barbarians; that’s what we are. Why do I say “barbarians”? The Scythians, says Herodotus (wasn’t it Herodotus?), shared their women and fornicated in public like animals. That’s why they were barbaric. Let me correct myself, then: we are carnivorous animals, badly disguised and without innocence. That’s what we lost with Paradise: animal innocence. We looked at ourselves naked and shame was born. Hell is a mirror that we can’t look away from.

I got a call from Central. I was summoned to appear in Macha’s office right away. Indio Galdámez greets me, in his sleeveless shirt, sweaty and foul smelling, that shows off his cretin’s muscles with their green boa. I sit on the brown plastic imitation leather sofa in the waiting room. He goes back to his game of foosball with Chico Marín, who, wide as a cube, waits for him scratching his shaved head. Over the chessboard, Iris is motionless. Across from her, Mono Lepe. He’s lost three pawns and a knight. He looks on, alarmed, and leans down until he’s almost touching one of his rooks with his crooked, sunken nose. Pancha is watching TV. She knows very well she’s looking good in that black shirt. An everyday, coarse woman, but with the kind of good tits that make the men like her. There are several chairs scattered about, a table in the middle of the room with two copper ashtrays, the butts twisted inside them, and a vase holding artificial flowers. I hear Macha’s voice. He’s barking into the phone.

“I repeat: this is fucked. No,” he bellows after a silence. “To blow the operation now doesn’t make sense.” Silence. “No. I don’t want to throw away a tracking operation that’s taken months.” Silence. Angrily: “And what did you want me to do? Sit on my ass and wait for the order? Sure! And now it’s all fine and dandy and you want to come in and take advantage of the situation.” Long silence. “And why did you go in person to abort the arrest?” Silence. “Of course! Are you threatening me? What? I was shitting all over procedure? Oh, please. .” Silence. “The situation has changed. That’s why. Now it would be premature. We’re getting very valuable intelligence, Flaco. We’re on the verge of. .” Silence. More calmly: “I repeat: it would really fuck things up. They’re getting to the bottom.” Silence. “Yes. That’s not the point. We’re ready. I’ve just called my people in. .” Silence. “Then I’m receiving an order. It’s definitive. An order.” Silence. “All right.” Silence. “Yes. I’ll go. Fine. The order will be carried out immediately.” Silence. “Yes. All right. Let me say one thing: you all upstairs, you’re some bloodsucking bastards. But the mission will be carried out immediately.”

Indio Galdámez ushers me into the office. Behind his desk, Macha greets me indifferently. The room is small, and the grayish linoleum floor smells of wax. A single neon tube lights the room. I sit down. His desk is between us. I look around for any personal object. There’s no photo, no picture or paperweight, nothing that would tell me anything about him. The ink pen I see in the desk is an everyday yellow Bic that rests on a block notebook. To one side, a coat hanger holding no coats and a metal shelf with some file folders. Behind him, the radio and a solid safe built into the wall. Over the corner of the safe are his shoulder holster and his service weapon, his 9mm CZ Parabellum, and a magazine with no clips in it.

“I need you,” he says in that grave voice of his. “We’re going to blow the tracking operation we’ve been doing on the ‘Prince of Wales’ and ‘Viollier.’ Orders from above. We can’t make any mistakes. I need you there. I repeat: we can’t make any mistakes. I want them alive. Are you willing?”

“Of course,” I say. “Of course. When?”

He looks at his Rolex.

“It’s eleven thirty. We leave within ten minutes. Go have them disguise you. You have your weapon with you, right?”

“Yes,” I say, pointing to my purse.

And as I’m about to open the door:

“Did you tell Flaco or Gato that we had a tail on the ‘Prince of Wales’?”

I shake my head.

“I believe you,” he tells me somberly. “But it doesn’t matter now. Don’t talk to anyone. We’ll meet in the parking lot in ten minutes. Clear?”

In the hallway I ran into Gato. He was walking with his head down as always, moving with slow and heavy steps. I noticed his worn-out gray pants, his old tennis shoes that he wore without socks. Chico Marín passed next to me and tugged my hair, laughing with his jumpy eyes, and walked on as if he didn’t see Gato. When I could smell his garlic stench, he looked at me, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me up against the wall.

“Where you headed, Malinche?”

“To Makeup.”

“And? Why? Are they taking you on a mission?”

I smiled enigmatically.

“I don’t like it one bit. It’s dangerous. Your place is here, with me. Anyone can do that other thing. Macha’s bringing you, right?”

I smiled.

“Are you sure the operation is authorized?”

I nodded. He made a sudden, unexpectedly quick movement. Now I didn’t have my purse and my arm hurt terribly, twisted behind my back. He manipulated it from my wrist that was bent painfully. He did it all with an agility and skill that were unthinkable in such a fat man.

“You’re coming with me,” he whispered. “You belong to my department. Let’s go. Let’s see if this order really exists.” And he let out a laugh.

My wrist doesn’t slacken, but the pain does. We go down to the basement. I can smell the bleach from the floor. They must have mopped recently. He turns on the light and makes me sit down. He puts my purse away in the drawer of his desk, tosses an empty Pepsi can and a sandwich wrapper into the garbage, and lets himself fall puffing onto his chair. Finally, he makes an internal call.

“We’re just going to make sure,” he says. “And don’t look at me with that put-upon little face of yours. . I’m protecting you, Cubanita.”