Manuel Puig was born in 1932 in a small town in the Argentine pampas. He studied philosophy at the University of Buenos Aires, and in 1956 won a scholarship from the Italian Institute in Buenos Aires and chose to pursue studies in film direction at the Cinecitta in Rome. There he worked in films until 1962, where he began to write his first novel. Exiled from Argentina, he settled in New York City in 1963. Puig’s novels – Betrayed by Rita Hayworth, Heartbreak Tango, The Buenos Aires Affair, Kiss of the Spider Woman and Eternal Curse on the Reader of These Pages – have been translated into fourteen languages and secured his international reputation. He died in July 1990.
Sometimes they talk all night long. In the still darkness of their cell, Molina re-weaves the glittering and fragile stories of the film he loves, and the cynical Valentin listens. Valentin believes in the just cause which makes all suffering bearable; Molina believes in the magic of love which makes all else endurable. Each has always been alone, and always – especially now – in danger of betrayal. But in cell 7 each surrenders to the other something of himself that he has never surrendered before.
Betrayed by Rita Hayworth
Heartbreak Tango
The Buenos Aires Affair
Eternal Curse on the Reader of These Pages
—SOMETHING A LITTLE strange, that’s what you notice, that she’s not a woman like all the others. She looks fairly young, twenty-five, maybe a little more, petite face, a little catlike, small turned-up nose. The shape of her face, it’s . . . more roundish than oval, broad forehead, pronounced cheeks too but then they come down to a point, like with cats.
—What about her eyes?
—Clear, pretty sure they’re green, half-closed to focus better on the drawing. She looks at her subject: the black panther at the zoo, which was quiet at first, stretched out in its cage. But when the girl made a noise with her easel and chair, the panther spotted her and began pacing back and forth in its cage and to growl at the girl, who up to then was still having trouble with shading in the drawing.
—Couldn’t the animal smell her before that?
—No, there’s a big slab of meat in the cage, that’s all it can smell. The keeper drops the meat near the bars, and it blocks out any smell from outside, that’s the point, so the panther won’t get excited. And noticing the anger of the wild animal the girl begins to work more feverishly, with faster and faster strokes, and she draws the face of an animal that’s also a devil. And the panther watches her, a male panther, and it’s hard to tell if he’s watching to tear her to pieces and make a meal of her, or if he’s driven by some other, still uglier instinct.
—Nobody else at the zoo that day?
—No, almost nobody. It’s winter, it’s freezing. The trees are bare in the park. There’s a cold wind blowing. So the girl’s practically by herself, sitting there on the folding chair she brought out herself, along with the easel to clip her drawing paper to. A little further off, near the giraffe cage, there’s some boys with their schoolteacher, but they go away quickly, the cold’s too much for them.
—And she’s not cold?
—No, she’s not thinking about the cold, it’s as if she’s in some other world, all wrapped up in herself drawing the panther.
—If she’s wrapped up inside herself, she’s not in some other world. That’s a contradiction.
—Yes, that’s right, she’s all wrapped up in herself, lost in that world she carries inside her, that she’s just beginning to discover. She has her legs crossed, her shoes are black, thick high heels, open toed, with dark-polished toenails sticking out. Her stockings glitter, that kind they turned inside out when the sheen went out of style, her legs look flushed and silky, you can’t tell if it’s the stockings or her skin.
—Look, remember what I told you, no erotic descriptions. This isn’t the place for it.
—Whatever you want. Okay then, she’s wearing gloves, but to get on with her drawing she slips off the right one. Her fingernails are longish, they’re painted almost black, and the fingers are white, until the cold begins to turn them slightly blue. She stops working for a minute, puts one hand inside her coat to warm it. It’s a heavy coat, black plush, very padded in the shoulders, but thick plush, more like the coat of a Persian cat, no, a lot thicker. And who’s there behind her? Someone tries to light a cigarette, the wind blowing out the flame of the match.
—Who is it?
—Wait. She hears the striking of the match and it startles her, she spins around. It’s a guy, kind of good-looking, not a pretty boy, just a likable face, hat brim turned down and a baggy overcoat, full-cut trousers. He touches the brim of his hat by way of introduction and apologizes, tells her it’s sensational that drawing. She sees the guy’s okay, face gives him away, he’s the quiet, understanding type. With her fingers she touches up the hairdo a little, partly messed by the wind. It’s cut in bangs with curls, and down to the shoulders, that’s how they used to wear it, with little curls at the ends too, almost like a permanent wave.
—I picture her dark-looking, not too tall, really nice figure, and she moves like a cat. A real piece.
—Who didn’t want to get aroused?
—Go on.
—She answers that he didn’t frighten her. But with all this, and the business of fixing her hair, the page works loose and the wind blows it away. The fellow runs and catches it, he brings it back to the girl and offers an apology. She says it’s nothing, and by the accent he can tell she’s a foreigner. The girl explains to him she’s a refugee, she studied fine arts in Budapest, when the war broke out she left for New York. He asks her if she’s homesick for her city, and it’s as if a dark cloud passes over her eyes, the whole expression of her face darkens and she says she doesn’t come from a city, she’s from the mountains, way off in the Carpathians.
—Where Dracula comes from.
—Mmm-hmm, those mountains with dark forests, where wild beasts live who go mad with hunger in the wintertime and have to come down into the villages to kill. And people are scared to death, and hang sheep and other dead animals in their doorways and make vows, for protection. After all that, the fellow wants to see her again, and she tells him she’ll be back to draw again tomorrow afternoon, like almost every day recently, whenever there’s been sun. Then you see him in his studio, he’s an architect, the next afternoon with his architect colleagues and his assistant, a young woman, who’s an architect too. But when three o’clock comes and not much daylight’s left, he gets the urge to put away his compass and ruler and go over to the zoo, almost directly across the way in Central Park. The assistant asks him where he’s going, and why he’s so happy. He treats her like a friend but it’s obvious that deep down she’s in love with him, even though she hides it.
—She’s a dog?
—No, friendly face, chestnut hair, nothing out of this world, but nice enough. He leaves without giving her the pleasure of knowing where he’s going. It upsets her but she doesn’t let anybody see and buries herself in work so that she doesn’t get more depressed. At the zoo it still hasn’t begun to get dark yet, it’s been a day with very strange light for wintertime, everything seems to stand out more sharply than ever, the black bars, the white tile walls of the cages, the gravel looks white too, and the leafless trees gray with no leaves. And the blood-red eyes of the beasts. But the girl, whose name is Irena, isn’t there. Days go by and the architect can’t forget her, until one day walking down some fashionable avenue something in the window of an art gallery catches his attention. They’re showing works by an artist who draws nothing but panthers. The architect walks in, Irena’s there, getting congratulated from all sides. And I don’t know exactly what happens then.
—Try to remember.
—Wait a minute . . . I don’t know if this is when someone gives her a greeting that scares her . . . Anyway, then the architect congratulates her too and notices something different in Irena, something, like happiness, she’s got no dark look in her eyes like the first time. And he invites her to a restaurant and she walks out on all those critics, and they go off together. She looks as though she can walk down the street for the first time, like she’d been a prisoner, and now she’s free to go wherever she wants.
—But you said he takes her to a restaurant, not wherever she wants.
—Hey, don’t take me so literally. Anyhow, when he stops in front of some restaurant, Hungarian or Rumanian, something like that, she starts feeling funny again. He thought she’d enjoy being taken someplace like that, with her own kind of people, but it backfires on him. And he figures something’s going on and asks her. She lies and says something about memories of the war, which is still going strong at the time. Then he tells her they can go someplace else for lunch. But she realizes that he, the poor guy, doesn’t have much time, he’s on his lunch break and has to go back to the studio later. So she gets a grip on herself and walks into the restaurant, and everything’s fine, because the atmosphere’s relaxed and the food’s good, and she’s back to feeling how pleasant life is.
—And him?
—He’s happy, because he sees how to please him she got her complex under control, just the way he planned, to go there in the first place, to please her. The kind of thing when two people get to know each other and things start working. And he’s so swept off his feet by her he decides not to go back to work that afternoon. He tells her how he happened by the gallery by chance, that he was actually out on another errand to buy a present.
—For the other girl, the assistant.
—How did you know?
—Didn’t, just guessed it.
—You saw the film.
—No, I swear. Go on.
—And the girl, Irena I mean, says that then they can go do that errand. Well, right away, he wonders if he has enough cash to buy two identical presents, one for the assistant’s birthday and another for Irena, so he can win her over completely. On the way Irena says how this afternoon, oddly enough, it doesn’t make her sad to see it getting so dark already, when it’s only three in the afternoon. He asks her why the nightfall upsets her, is it because she’s afraid of the dark. She thinks about it and answers yes. And he stops in front of the store where they’re going and she stares at the window uncomfortably, it turns out to be a petshop that only sells birds, marvelous, in cages you can see from the window there are all kinds of birds happily flying from one perch to another, or swinging back and forth on swings, or pecking at little shreds of lettuce, or birdseed, or taking sips of cool water, freshly changed for them.
—Wait a minute . . . Is there any water in the bottle?
—Mmm-hmm, I refilled it when they let me out of the john.
—Oh, that’s all right then.
—You want a little? It’s nice and fresh.
—No, just so there’s no problem with tea in the morning. Go on.
—Don’t worry so much, we have enough for the whole day.
—But I’m getting into bad habits. I forgot to bring it along when they opened the door for showers, if it wasn’t for you remembering, we’d be stuck without water later on.
—There’s plenty, I’m telling you . . . But when the two of them walk into the petshop it’s as if who knows what walked in, the Devil himself. The birds go crazy, flying at the bars of their cages, blind with fear, beating their wings. The owner doesn’t know what to do. The little birds squawk with terror, but it’s like the squawking of vultures, not some little birdsong. She grabs the architect by the arm and pulls him outside. The birds calm down right away. She asks if he’d mind her leaving. They make a date and separate until the next night. He goes back into the petshop, the birds go on singing peacefully, he buys a little canary for the other one’s birthday. And afterwards . . . well, I don’t remember so clearly what comes next, guess I’m tired.
—Go on a little more.
—Just that I get sleepy and forget the film. What do you say we go on with it tomorrow?
—If you really don’t remember, better go on tomorrow.
—I’ll pick it up in the morning then.
—No, it’s better at night, during the day I don’t want to be thinking about such trivia. I’ve got more important things to think about.
— . . .
—If I’m not busy reading and I’m still keeping quiet, it’s just because I’m thinking. So don’t take it personally.
—No, it’s okay. I’m not going to disturb you, don’t worry.
—I knew you’d understand, I really appreciate it. Good night.
—Night. Sweet dreams of Irena.
—I prefer the assistant.
—I figured that already. Ciao.
—Good night.
—We left off where he went back into the petshop and the birds weren’t scared of him. It was her they were scared of.
—I didn’t say that, you thought that up yourself.
—All right, what happens?
—Well, they go on seeing one another and they fall in love. She fascinates him incredibly, because she’s so strange, on the one hand so openly affectionate, and always looking at him, caressing him, putting her arms around him, but as soon as he wants to hold her close and kiss her she slips away and barely lets his lips brush against her. She asks him not to kiss her, just to let her kiss him, very tender kisses, but like a baby’s, with her lips so soft and fleshy, but shut.
—Back then, there was no sex in movies.
—Wait and you’ll see. The thing is that one night he takes her out to that same restaurant again, which isn’t first-class but very quaint, with checkered tablecloths and everything in dark wood, or no, it must be stone, no, wait, now I know, inside it’s like being in a log cabin, with gaslight and just candles on the tables. And he lifts up his glass of wine, his goblet, and proposes a toast, because tonight a man who is very much in love is going to commit himself to marry if his chosen one will accept him. And her eyes fill up with tears, but from being so happy. They touch goblets and drink without saying another word, just holding hands. All of a sudden she lets go of his hand: she’s seen someone coming over to their table. It’s a woman, beautiful-looking at first sight, but a second later you notice something really strange about her face, something frightening and yet it’s hard to know what it is. Because it’s a woman’s face but it’s also the face of a cat. The eyes slant up, and so peculiar, I don’t know how to tell you, she has no whites to her eyes, her eyes are completely green in color, with black pupils at the center, and nothing else. And her skin very pale, as if she had a lot of powder on.
—But you told me she was pretty.
—Yes, she’s beautiful. And from the strange outfit it’s obvious she’s European, her hair fixed in a sausage roll.
—What’s a sausage roll?
—Like a . . . how can I explain it to you? a chignon . . . a coil of hair something like a tube that goes around the head, over the forehead and all the way around in back.
—Doesn’t matter, go on.
—But come to think of it maybe I’m wrong, I think she had more of a braid around her head, that’s more like that part of the world. And a long dress down to the floor, and a fox stole over her shoulders. And she comes to the table and looks at Irena as if with hatred, or not quite, more the way a hypnotist looks, but an evil look in every way. And she speaks to Irena in an incredibly strange language, pausing there by the table. And he, being a gentleman, gets up from his chair at the approach of a lady, but this minx doesn’t even look at him and says something else to Irena. Irena answers her in that same dialect, but very frightened. He can’t understand one word of what they’re saying. Then, so he’ll understand too, the woman says to Irena: “I recognized you instantly, but you know why. Be seeing you . . .” And she walks away, without having so much as looked at the guy. Irena is petrified, her eyes are filled with tears, but dark tears, looking like filthy water from a puddle. She gets up without a word and wraps a long scarf, a white one, over her head, he drops some money on the table and walks out with her, taking her by the arm. They don’t say anything to each other, he sees that she’s frightened. Looking over at Central Park, it’s snowing lightly, the snow deadens every sound and noise, the cars almost slide down the street, very quietly, the streetlamp lights up the pure white snowflakes that are falling, and it’s as though way off somewhere the cries of wild animals can be heard. And that’s not so unlikely, because just a little distance from there is the city zoo, in that same park. She can’t seem to go on, she begs him to hold her close. He holds her in his arms. She’s shivering, from cold or from fear, although the distant cries seemed to have died down. She tells him, almost in a whisper, that she’s afraid to go home and spend the night alone. A taxi comes by, he signals it to pull over and the two of them get in without saying a word. They go to his apartment, not talking the whole way there. His building, it’s one of those old apartment houses, very well kept up, carpets, very high-beamed ceiling, dark wooden staircases all hand-carved, and there in the entranceway by the foot of the stairs a giant palm set into a magnificent urn. It must have had Chinese motifs. The palm is reflected in a tall mirror with a very elaborate frame, also carved like the staircase. She looks at herself in the mirror, examines her face, as if searching for something in her own features. There’s no elevator, he lives on the first floor. Their footsteps can barely be heard on the carpet, like out in the snow. Apartment’s huge, with everything turn-of-the-century, very proper, the fellow’s mother had it first.
—And him, what’s he do?
—Nothing, he knows there’s something going on inside the girl that’s torturing her. He offers her a drink, a cup of coffee, whatever she’d like. She doesn’t want anything, she asks him to sit down please, she has something to say to him. He lights up his pipe and gives her the warm look he has all the time. She can’t get herself to look him in the eyes, she sits resting her head on his knees. Then she begins to tell how there was some terrible legend back in her mountain village, that always terrified her, even as a kid. And this part I don’t remember too well how it goes, something to do with the Middle Ages, something about villages that once were cut off for months and months by the snow, and they were starving to death, and all the men had gone off to the wars, something like that, and the starving wild beasts of the forest came right up to the people’s houses, I don’t remember exactly, and the Devil appeared and said a woman had to come outside if they wanted any food from him, and one woman, the bravest, went out to him, and at his side the Devil had a ravenously hungry black panther, and the woman made a pact with the Devil, so as not to die, and I don’t know what happened but the woman had a daughter with the face of a cat. And when the Crusaders returned from the Holy Wars, the soldier who was married to this same woman came home, and when he tried to kiss his wife she tore him to pieces, as if a panther had done it.
—I don’t really get it, it’s very confusing the way you tell it.
—I can’t remember right now, that’s all. But it doesn’t matter. What Irena tells that I do remember is that they were still giving birth to panther women in those mountains. Anyway, by that time the soldier was dead but a fellow Crusader figured out it was the wife who murdered him and set out to follow her, and meantime she escaped through the snow and at first the tracks she left behind were a woman’s footsteps until close to the forest they turned into a panther’s, and the Crusader followed them and struck deep into the forest where it was already night, and in that darkness he saw two bright green eyes of someone lying in wait for him, and with his sword and dagger he made the sign of the cross and the panther lay still and turned back into a woman, lying there half asleep, as if hypnotized, and the Crusader backed away because he heard other roaring coming near, the wild beasts aroused by the woman’s smell and coming to eat her. The Crusader made it back to the village more dead than alive and told them everything. And the legend is that the race of panther women never died out and remains hidden in some corner of the world, and they all seem like normal women, but if a man happens to kiss any of them, the woman can turn into a savage beast.
—And she’s one of those panther women?
—All she knows is that the stories frightened her terribly when she was a girl, and she’s always lived with that fear of being a descendant of such women.
—And the one back in the restaurant, what’d she have to say?
—That’s just what the architect asks her. And Irena throws herself into his arms, crying, and says the woman was only saying hello to her. But then no, she gets up her courage and tells him how in the dialect of her own village she told her to remember who she was, that the sight of her face alone was enough to make it obvious they’re sisters. And that she’d better watch out for men. The architect bursts out laughing. “Don’t you realize,” he says to her, “she saw you were from the same part of the world because people from the same country always recognize each other. If I see an American in China I go out of my way to say hello. And because she’s a woman and maybe a little old-fashioned, she tells you to watch out, don’t you see?” That’s what he says, and it’s enough to calm her down. And she feels so peaceful now, she begins to fall asleep in his arms, and he lifts her onto the sofa that’s right there, fixes a pillow under her head, and brings a blanket from his bed for her. She’s fast asleep. Then he goes to his room and the scene ends with him in his pajamas and robe, good but not too expensive-looking, a solid color, and he’s watching her from the doorway, the way she’s sleeping, and he lights up his pipe, standing there pensive. The fireplace is lit, no, I can’t remember, light must be coming from the lamp on the night table, in his room. When she finally wakes up, the fire’s gone out, hardly any embers left. Dawn already breaking.
—The cold wakes her up, just like us.
—No, that’s not what wakes her up, I knew you’d say something like that. The canary singing in the cage wakes her. Irena’s afraid to go near it at first, but she hears how happy the little bird seems to be and that gives her the courage to go up close. She looks at it carefully, breathes a deep sigh of relief, satisfied because the little creature isn’t afraid of her. She goes to the kitchen and makes toast with butter, and that crunchy cereal they have up there and . . .
—Don’t talk about food.
—And pancakes . . .
—Really, I’m serious about it. No food and no naked girls.
—Okay, so she wakes him up and he’s happy to see her so comfortable in his home and he asks her if she wants to stay and live there forever.
—He’s still in bed?
—Mmm-hmm, she brought him his breakfast in bed.
—Me, I never liked to have breakfast right away, the first thing I have to do is brush my teeth. Sorry, go ahead.
—Okay, so then he wants to kiss her. And she won’t let him get close.
—He must have bad breath, he didn’t brush his teeth yet.
—If you’re going to make fun, there’s no reason to tell you anything more.
—No, please, I’m listening.
—He asks her again if she wants to marry him. She answers yes she wants to with all her heart, and she doesn’t want to ever have to leave that house again, she feels so at home there, and she looks all around and the drapes are dark velvet to block the light out, and so to let the light in she draws them open and behind them there’s another set of lacy curtains. Then you get to see the whole turn-of-the-century decor. She asks who picked out all the lovely things and I think he tells her how much his mother had to do with all that, every piece of furniture, how she was such a good mother and how much she would have loved Irena, like her own daughter. Irena goes over to him and kisses him almost with adoration, the way one kisses a holy saint, you know? On the forehead. And she begs him please never to leave her, she wants to be together with him always, all she could ever ask for is to wake up each morning to see him again, always by her side . . . But, to become a real wife to him, she asks him to give her a little time, until all those fears have a chance to subside . . .
—You get what’s going on, don’t you?
—That she’s afraid she’ll turn into a panther.
—Well, I think she’s frigid, she’s afraid of men, either that or she has some idea about sex that’s really violent, and so she invents things.
—Wait, will you? He says okay, and they marry. And when the wedding night comes, she sleeps in the bed, and he’s on the sofa.
—Keeping an eye on his mother’s furniture.
—If you’re going to laugh I won’t go on, I’m telling you this in all seriousness, because I really like it. And besides there’s something else I can’t tell you, that makes me really like this film a lot.
—Tell me what, what is it?
—No, I was about to bring it up but now I see you’re laughing, and, to tell you the truth, it makes me angry.
—No, I like the picture, but you have the fun of telling it and I just want to chime in once in a while too, see what I mean? I’m not the type who knows how to sit around and just listen all the time, you get what I mean? And all of a sudden I have to sit quiet listening to you for hours on end.
—I thought it helped you pass the time, and fall asleep.
—Yeah, that’s true, absolutely, it does both things, it passes time and puts me to sleep.
—Well?
—Only, if it doesn’t rub you the wrong way, I’d like us to discuss the thing a little, as you go on with it, so I get a chance now and then to rap about something. Doesn’t that seem fair to you?
—If it’s so you can crack jokes about a picture I happen to be fond of, then the answer is no.
—No, look, it could be just a simple discussion. Like for example: I personally would like to ask you how you picture the guy’s mother.
—If you’re not going to laugh anymore.
—I promise.
—Let’s see . . . I don’t know, a really good person. A lovely lady, who gave her husband every happiness and her children too, always managing everything perfectly.
—Do you picture her doing housework?
—No, I see her as impeccably attired, a dress with a high collar, edged in lace to cover the wrinkles on her neck. She has that marvelous thing of certain respectable ladies, which is that little touch of coquettishness, beneath all the properness, on account of her age, but what you notice about them is the way they go on being women and wanting to please.
—Yes, always impeccable. Perfect. She has her servants, she exploits people who can’t do anything else but serve her, for a few pennies. And clearly, she felt very happy with her husband, who in turn exploited her, forced her to do whatever he wanted, keeping her cooped up in a house like a slave, waiting for him—
—Listen . . .
—waiting for him every night, until he got back from his law firm, or from his doctor’s office. And she was in perfect agreement with the whole system, and she didn’t rebel, and she fed her own son the same crap and now the son runs smack into the panther woman. Good luck with that one.
—But tell the truth, wouldn’t you like to have a mother like that? Full of affection, always carefully dressed . . . Come on now, no kidding . . .
—No, and I’ll tell you why, if you didn’t follow me.
—Look, I’m tired, and it makes me angry the way you brought all this up, because until you brought it up I was feeling fabulous, I’d forgotten all about this filthy cell, and all the rest, just telling you about the film.
—I forgot all the rest, too.
—Well? Why break the illusion for me, and for yourself too? What kind of trick is that to pull?
—I guess I have to draw you a map, because you sure don’t get the idea.
—Here in the dark he starts drawing things for me, well that’s just wonderful.
—Let me explain.
—Sure, but tomorrow, because right now I’m up to here with it, so skip it till tomorrow . . . Why couldn’t I have the luck to get the panther woman’s boyfriend to keep me company, instead of you?
—Oh, now that’s another story, and I’m not interested.
—Afraid to talk about such things?
—No, not afraid. Just not my bag. I already know all about yours, even if you didn’t tell me a thing.
—Well I told you what I’m in for, corruption of minors, and that tells it all, so don’t start playing the psychologist now.
—Come on, admit it, you like him because he smokes a pipe.
—No, because he’s the gentle type, and understanding.
—His mother castrated him, plain and simple.
—I like him and that’s enough for me. And you, you like the assistant, some urban guerrilla that one!
—I like her, sure, more than the panther woman.
—Ciao, you tell me why tomorrow. Let me get some sleep.
—Ciao.
—We were just where she’s going to marry the pipe-smoker. I’m all ears.
—What’s the little sneer for?
—Nothing, tell it to me, go ahead, Molina.
—No, you go ahead, you tell me about the pipe-smoker, since you know him so much better than me, I only saw the film.
—The pipe-smoker’s no good for you.
—Why not?
—Because what you have in mind’s not strictly platonic, right? Admit it.
—Obviously.
—Okay, the reason he likes Irena is because she’s frigid and he doesn’t have to make her, that’s why he looks after her and takes her home where the mother’s all over the place. Even if she’s dead she’s there, in every stick of furniture, and the curtains and all that junk, didn’t you say so yourself?
—Go on.
—If he’s left all his mother’s stuff in the house just the way it was, it’s because he still wants to be a little boy, back in his mama’s house, and what he brings home with him isn’t a woman, it’s a little playmate.
—But that’s all your own concoction. How do I know if the house was the mother’s? I told you that because I liked the apartment a lot, and since it was decorated with antiques I said it could be the mother’s, but that’s all. Maybe he rents the place furnished.
—Then you’re inventing half the picture.
—No, I’m not inventing, I swear, but some things, to round them out for you, so you can see them the way I’m seeing them . . . well, to some extent I have to embroider a little. Like with the house, for example.
—Admit that it’s the house you’d like to live in yourself.
—Yes, obviously. And now I have to put up with you while you tell me the same old thing everybody tells me.
—Is that so . . . What is it exactly I’m supposed to tell you?
—You’re all alike, always coming to me with the same business, always!
—What?
—How they spoiled me too much as a kid, and that’s why I’m the way I am, how I was tied to my mother’s apron strings and now I’m this way, and how a person can always straighten out though, and what I really need is a woman, because a woman’s the best there is.
—That’s what they tell you?
—Yes, and my answer is this . . . great! I agree! And since a woman’s the best there is . . . I want to be one. That way I save listening to all kinds of advice, because I know what the score is myself and I’ve got it all clear in my head.
—I don’t see it so clear, at least not the way you just worked it out.
—Okay, I don’t need you to clear up anything for me, and now if you want I’ll go on with the film for you, and if you don’t, so much the better, I’ll tell it to myself in a whisper, and saluti tanti, arrivederci, Sparafucile.
—Sparafucile?
—Obviously you don’t know anything about opera. He’s the villain in Rigoletto.
—Tell me the picture and then ciao, because now I want to know what happens.
—Where were we?
—The wedding night. When he doesn’t touch her.
—That’s right, he’s sleeping on the living-room sofa, and oh, what I didn’t tell you is they’ve arranged, they’ve come to an agreement, that she’ll go see a psychiatrist. And she starts going, and she gets there the first time and finds that the guy’s incredibly good-looking, a fantastic flirt.
—What’s your definition of incredibly good-looking? I’d like to hear.
—Well, he’s tall, dark, wears a mustache, very distinguished-looking, broad forehead, but with a pencil-line mustache a little bit like a pimp’s . . . I don’t know if I’m making it very clear . . . a wise-guy’s mustache, which gives him away. Anyhow, since we’re on the subject, the guy who plays the psychiatrist’s definitely not my type.
—What actor was it?
—I don’t remember, just a supporting role. He’s good-looking but too thin for my taste, if you want to know the truth, the type that looks good in a double-breasted suit, or if it’s a regular suit they have to wear a vest. He’s the type women find attractive. But with this little hotshot something shows, I don’t know, how he’s so positive women find him attractive. But the minute he comes on . . . you have to dislike him. And so does Irena, who’s over on the couch beginning to talk about her problems, but she doesn’t feel comfortable, doesn’t feel like she’s with a doctor, but with some guy, and she’s afraid.
—This picture’s really something.
—Really what? Silly?
—No, coherent, it’s fantastic, go on. But don’t get so uptight.
—She begins to talk about how afraid she is of not being a good wife and they decide next time she ought to tell him something about her dreams, or nightmares, and how in one dream she turned into a panther. So that’s okay, they end the session at that point, but the next time she has her appointment she doesn’t show up, she lies to her husband, and instead of going to the doctor she goes to the zoo, to look at the panther. And she stands there as if she’s fascinated, she’s wearing that thick plush coat, it’s black but glistens almost iridescent in the light, and the panther’s fur is iridescent black too. The panther is pacing back and forth in the huge cage, never taking his eyes off the girl. And here the keeper comes along, and opens the door on one side of the cage . . . opens it for just a second, tosses the meat in and shuts it again, only he’s so busy with the hook the meat was slung on, he forgets and leaves the key in the lock of the cage. Irena sees all that, keeps quiet, the keeper picks up a broom and sets to work sweeping up the scraps of paper and cigarette butts strewn all over the place near the cages. Irena moves a little closer, stealthily, toward the lock. She removes the key and looks at it, a large key, covered with rust, she stands there pensively, a few seconds go by . . .
—What’s she going to do?
— . . . but she goes over to the keeper and hands him the key. The old man, who seems like a good-natured guy, thanks her for it. Irena returns home, waits there for her husband to arrive, it’s already the time when he usually gets back from the office. And I forgot to add to all this how every morning she tenderly feeds the canary, and always changes the water, and the canary sings to her. And finally the husband arrives and she hugs him and almost kisses him, she has such a strong desire to kiss him, on the mouth, and he gets all excited, and he thinks maybe the psychoanalytic treatment is doing some good, and the moment’s finally approaching to really become husband and wife. But he makes the mistake of asking her how the session went that afternoon. That makes her feel really bad, since she didn’t even go, and really guilty, so she slips out of his arms and lies to him, that she went and everything was fine. But she’s already slipped away and there’s nothing more to do about it. He just has to grin and bear it. And another day he’s back once more at work with the other architects. And the assistant, who’s always looking at him, because she still cares for him, sees he’s troubled and asks him to go have a drink after work, it’ll lift up his spirits, and he says no, he has a lot to do, he’ll probably work overtime and finally the assistant who’s never cared for anyone but him says she can stay and help him out for a while.
—I go for that chick. It’s the strangest thing, you haven’t said anything about her but she strikes me as okay. Funny thing, imagination.
—She stays late with him, but it’s not that she’s on the make or anything, she’s already given him up for lost after the marriage, but she wants to help him as friend now. And there they are working away after hours. It’s a big studio, with different tables to work at, to draw on, each architect has his own, but now they’ve all gone home and everything is swallowed up in darkness, except his table, which has a glass top, with light coming from underneath the glass, so their faces catch the light from below, and their bodies cast a rather sinister shadow on the walls, gigantic-looking, and the drawing rule looks more like a sword whenever he or the assistant picks it up for a minute to draw a line. But they work silently. She peeks at him now and then, and even though she’s dying to know, she never asks what’s bothering him.
—She’s okay. Considerate, discreet. Maybe that’s why I like her.
—Meanwhile, Irena is waiting and waiting and finally she decides to call his office. The assistant answers and hands the phone to him. Irena is jealous, she tries to hide it. He tells her he called earlier to let her know but she wasn’t in then. Obviously, she’d been to the zoo again. So since he catches her in the wrong she has to keep quiet, she can’t object about him. And from then on he begins to come home late, because something makes him put off going home.
—It’s all so logical, it’s fantastic.
—Then you’re contradicting yourself . . . You can see he’s normal, he just wants to sleep with her, that’s all.
—No, listen. Before, he went home willingly because he knew she wasn’t about to sleep with him, but now with analysis there’s a chance, and that upsets him. As long as she was just a baby, like at first, they didn’t do anything more than play around a little, like kids. And maybe by playing around that way they began to get somewhere sexually.
—Playing around like kids, God, how insipid!
—Doesn’t sound wrong to me, see, as far as your architect goes. Sorry if it sounds like I’m contradicting myself.
—What doesn’t sound wrong to you?
—That they began by playing around, without all the usual fireworks.
—Okay, so back to the film. But one thing—why’s he so willing to stay out with the assistant?
—Well, because he figures being married, nothing can happen. The assistant’s no sexual possibility anymore, because the wife’s apparently got him all served up already.
—That’s all in your head.
—If you embroider, why can’t I too?
—Just let me go on. One night Irena has dinner all prepared, and he doesn’t come home. Table’s all set, with the candles lit. She doesn’t know one thing though, that since it’s their wedding anniversary he’d left early that afternoon to pick her up outside her psychiatrist’s, and obviously, he doesn’t meet her because she never goes anymore. And he finds out how long it’s been since she’s been there and telephones Irena, who’s not at home, of course, she’s gone out like every other afternoon, drawn irresistibly toward the zoo. So then he goes back to his office in desperation, he needs to tell the whole thing to the assistant. And they go off to a nearby bar for a drink together, but it’s not so much a drink they want, but a chance to talk privately, away from the studio. When she sees it’s getting so late, Irena begins to pace back and forth in the room like a caged animal, and she calls up the office. No one answers. She tries to do something to pass the time, she’s terribly nervous, she goes over to the canary’s cage and notices how the canary flutters desperately, sensing her nearness, and blindly flits from one side of its little cage to the other, smashing its little wings. She doesn’t resist the impulse to open the cage and stick her hand in. The bird drops dead, as if struck down, sensing the closeness of her hand. Now Irena is desperate. All her hallucinations come back to her, she runs out, going off in search of her husband, he’s the only one she can ask to help her, the only person who’s going to understand her. But heading toward the office she unavoidably passes the bar and spots them. She stands still, she can’t take another step, she’s trembling with rage, with jealousy. The couple get up to leave, Irena hides behind a tree. She watches them say goodbye and separate.
—How do they say goodbye?
—He gives her a kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing an elegant hat with the brim pulled down. Irena isn’t wearing any hat, her curly hair shines under the street lights along the deserted street, because she’s following the other one. The other one takes the direct route home, which means cutting through the park, Central Park, which is across from the office building, and by a street that sometimes is like a tunnel, because the park’s got like little hills, and the road’s straight, and at times it’s cut right through the hills, it’s like a regular street, with traffic but not much, like a shortcut, and a bus that cuts across there. And sometimes the assistant takes the bus so as not to walk so far, and other times she walks, because the bus only runs once in a while. And this time she decides to walk it, to air her thoughts a little, because her head is pounding after her talk with the guy. He’s told her everything, about how Irena doesn’t sleep with him, about the nightmares she keeps having of panther women. And the poor thing, who’s so in love with the guy, she really feels all confused, because she’s already resigned herself to losing him, and now, well, she’s hopeful again. And on the one hand she feels glad, now that all’s not lost, and on the other she’s afraid of deluding herself all over again and having to suffer for it later, coming out empty-handed every time. And she goes on thinking about all this, walking a little faster because it’s getting so cold. No one’s around, the park’s lost in shadows off to the side of the road, no wind, not a leaf stirring, so the only thing you hear is footsteps behind the assistant, a woman’s high heels clicking. The assistant turns around and sees a silhouette, but at some distance, and with so little light she can’t make out who’s there. But by now the clicking can be heard getting faster. So she begins to get alarmed, because you know how it is when you’ve been talking about something scary, like about corpses or a crime, you’re more impressionable, and you jump at every little thing, and this woman’s got her mind on panther women and all that and begins to panic and starts to hurry, but she’s just halfway through, with like about four blocks to go, where some buildings begin because the park comes to an end. So she almost begins to run, which is worse.
—Can I interrupt, Molina?
—Mmm-hmm, but there’s not much more to go now, for tonight I mean.
—Only one question, which intrigues me a little.
—What?
—You won’t get annoyed?
—Depends.
—It’d be interesting to know. And afterwards you ask me if you want.
—Let’s have it then.
—Who do you identify with? Irena or the other one?
—With Irena, what do you think? She’s the heroine, dummy. Always with the heroine.
—Okay, go on.
—And you, Valentin, with who? You’re in trouble because the architect seems like a moron to you.
—Go ahead and laugh. With the psychiatrist. But no making jokes now, I respected your choice, with no remarks. Go on.
—We can discuss it later if you want, or tomorrow.
—Okay, but go on a little more.
—A little bit, no more, I like to leave you hanging, that way you enjoy the film more. You have to do it that way with the public, otherwise they’re not satisfied. On the radio they always used to do that to you. And now on the TV soaps.
—Come on.
—Okay, we were just where this poor girl doesn’t know whether to break into a run or not, when at this point the footsteps almost can’t be heard anymore, the high heels on the other one I mean, because the steps sound different, almost inaudible. The ones the assistant hears now sound like the tread of a cat, or something worse. And she spins around and doesn’t see the woman—how could she disappear so suddenly? But she thinks she sees some other shadow, it slips by and immediately disappears too. And what she hears now is the sound of feet trampling the bushes in the park, the sound of an animal, approaching.
—And?
—Tomorrow we’ll go on. Ciao, sleep tight.
—You’ll pay for this.
—See you in the morning.
—Ciao.
—YOU’RE A GOOD cook.
—Thank you, Valentin.
—But you’re getting me into bad habits. That could hurt me.
—You’re crazy, live for the moment! Enjoy life a little! Are you going to spoil our dinner thinking about what’s going to happen tomorrow?
—I don’t believe in that business of living for the moment, Molina, nobody lives for the moment. That’s Garden of Eden stuff.
—You believe in Heaven and Hell?
—Wait a minute, Molina, if we’re going to discuss things let’s have some ground rules, because if we don’t stick to the point it’s just kid stuff, strictly sophomoric.
—I’m sticking to the point.
—Great, then let me state my position first, so you’ll have some idea of it.
—I’m listening.
—There’s no way I can live for the moment, because my life is dedicated to political struggle, or, you know, political action, let’s call it. Follow me? I can put up with everything in here, which is quite a lot . . . but it’s nothing if you think about torture . . . because you have no idea what that’s like . . .
—But I can imagine.
—No, you can’t imagine . . . Anyway, I put up with all of it . . . because there’s a purpose behind it. Social revolution, that’s what’s important, and gratifying the senses is only secondary. While the struggle goes on, and it’ll probably go on for the rest of my life, it’s not right for me to cultivate any kind of sensual gratification, do you get my point? because, really, that takes second place for me. The great pleasure’s something else, it’s knowing I’ve put myself in the service of what’s truly noble, I mean . . . well . . . a certain ideology . . .
—What do you mean, a certain ideology?
—My ideals . . . Marxism, if you want me to spell it out in only one word. And I can get that pleasure anywhere, right here in this cell, and even in torture. And that’s my real strength.
—And your girl?
—That’s also secondary. I’m secondary to her, too, because she also knows what’s most important.
—You taught her that?
—No, I think the two of us actually discovered it together. Make any sense, what I just explained to you?
—Mmm-hmm . . .
—You don’t sound too convinced, Molina.
—No, don’t pay any attention to me. And now I think I’ll just get some sleep.
—You’ve got to be kidding! And the panther woman? You left me hanging in suspense last night.
—Tomorrow, okay?
—Come on, what’s up?
—Nothing . . .
—Say something . . .
—No, I’m being silly, that’s all.
—Give me some idea, at least.
—Look, it’s just the way I am, I’m easily hurt by some things. And I cooked you this dinner, with my own provisions, and worst of all, mad as I am about avocados I gave you half, when I could just as easily have had the other half for myself tomorrow. And for what? . . . For you to throw it right back in my face about how I’m teaching you bad habits.
—But don’t act like that, you’re oversensitive . . .
—So what am I supposed to do about it? That’s how I am, very sentimental.
—I’ll say. It sounds just like a . . .
—What are you stopping for?
—Nothing.
—Say it, I know what you were going to say, Valentin.
—Don’t be silly.
—Say it, like a woman, that’s what you were going to say.
—Yes.
—And what’s so bad about being soft like a woman? Why is it men or whoever, some poor bastard, some queen, can’t be sensitive, too, if he’s got a mind to?
—I don’t know, but sometimes that kind of behavior can get in a man’s way.
—When? When it comes to torturing?
—No, when it comes to being finished with the torturers.
—But if men acted like women there wouldn’t be any more torturers.
—And you, what would you do without men?
—You’re right. They’re mostly brutes, but I like them.
—Molina . . . But you did say if they all acted like women then there wouldn’t be any torturers. You’ve got a point there, a flimsy one, but still, it’s a point.
—Nice of you to say so.
—What do you mean nice?
—Nice and uppity: “Still, it’s a point.”