Chapters (8)
Poor Mauricio, I can’t fail to take care of him. I’ll tell him, “It’s the three of us, with Mamá, just like always. Are you happy now?” And he’ll nod in agreement.
It’s after eight, and yesterday the boss was looking for me.
Marcela doesn’t come in, no doubt she’s making the coffee and toast we like to have.
I slip my feet into slippers and wrap myself in the sheet. I’ll tell her, “I’m a Greek, from long ago,” and see her smile.
I find her in the living room. She’s lying on the sofa and she’s dead.
I make certain of that, then have to go back into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed. After a time, I get up and lower the blinds, it’s better like that, in semidarkness.
•
I go back to where Marcela still is.
The head is thrown back, the eyelids half open. I can see the eyes but she’s lost her gaze.
No somber pleasure alters the shape of her mouth; it only looks as if she were wanting water, still feeling that thirst, even now.
I make an effort to remember her dream about the mountain, the supernatural game, and what I told her: that it meant salvation from fear, obviously.
I sit down in front of her, bow my head, and weep.
Then I realize the tightness is already gone.
From below, from the inner courtyard, rises a little girl’s voice. She sings an innocent song and I listen, captivated. She stops singing and the seduction of the moment slowly dissolves.
I reread the paper that Marcela left the bottle of pills on top of, like a paperweight, and that I’ve been clutching in my fist. “Don’t do it, I beg you.”
I read it again. Then another time, and another.
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.
I have to report this, which will be troublesome.
I have to put some clothes on because I’m naked.
Utterly naked.
That’s how we’re born.