Seven Empty Houses, page 3
“My kids aren’t here,” says Marga, “my kids aren’t here,” and she points to the shorts dangling from my hand.
“Who is this man?” asks one of the cops. “Are you the husband?” they ask Charly.
We try to explain ourselves. Contrary to my first impression, neither Marga nor Charly seems to blame me. They just plead for the kids.
“My children are lost and they’re with two crazy people,” says Marga.
But the cops only want to know why we were fighting. Charly’s chest starts to swell, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to go after the cops. I let my hands fall in resignation the way Marga had done with me earlier, but the second cop’s eyes just follow the movement of the shorts in alarm.
“What are you looking at?” asks Charly.
“What?” says the cop.
“You’ve been looking at those shorts since you got out of the car. You want to let someone know there are two missing kids?”
“My kids,” repeats Marga. She stands firmly in front of one of the policemen and repeats it many times; she wants the cop to focus on what’s important. “My kids, my kids, my kids.”
“When did you see them last?” the other cop finally asks.
“They’re not in the house,” says Marga. “They took them.”
“Who took them, ma’am?”
I shake my head and try to interrupt, but the police beat me to it.
“Are you talking about a kidnapping?”
“They could be with their grandparents,” I say.
“They’re with two naked old people,” says Marga.
“And whose clothing is that, ma’am?”
“It’s my kids’.”
“Are you telling me that there are children and adults naked and together?”
“Please,” says Marga’s now-broken voice.
For the first time I wonder how dangerous it really is for your kids to be going around naked with your parents.
“They could be hiding,” I say. “We can’t rule that out yet.”
“And who are you?” asks one cop, while the other is already radioing the station.
“I’m the husband,” I say.
So the officer looks at Charly now. Marga faces him down again, and I’m afraid she’s going to refute my words, but she says:
“Please: my children, my children.”
The first cop leaves the radio and comes over:
“Parents in the car, and the gentleman”—indicating Charly—“stays here in case the kids come back to the house.”
We stand looking at him.
“Get in, let’s go, we have to move fast.”
“No way,” says Marga.
“Ma’am, please, we have to be sure they’re not going toward the highway.”
Charly pushes Marga toward the patrol car and I follow her. We get in and I close my door with the car already moving. Charly is standing, looking at us, and I wonder if those three hundred kilometers of exciting driving had been done with my kids in the car. The cruiser backs up a little and we pull away and head toward the highway, fast. Just then I turn around to look at the house. I see them, all four of them: behind Charly, past the front yard, my parents and my children, naked and soaking wet in the living room’s picture window. My mother is rubbing her tits against the glass and Lina does it, too, staring at her in fascination. Simon imitates the two of them with his ass cheeks. They’re shouting with joy, but no one hears. Someone yanks the shorts from my hand and I hear Marga curse the cops. There is noise from the radio. The police are shouting to the station, and they say the words “adults and minors” twice, “kidnapping” once, and “naked” three times, while my ex-wife punches her fists into the back of the driver’s seat. So I tell myself, Don’t open your mouth, and Not a peep, because I see my father looking at me: his old torso tanned by the sun, his soft sex between his legs. He’s smiling triumphantly and he seems to recognize me. He hugs my mother and my children, slowly, warmly, without pulling anyone away from the glass.
It Happens All the Time in This House
Mr. Weimer is knocking at the door of my house. I recognize the sound of his heavy fist, his cautious, repetitive raps. So I leave the dishes in the sink and look out into the yard: there they are again, all those clothes scattered over the grass. I think about how things always happen in the same order, even the most extraordinary things, and I think it as if out loud, in an orderly way that requires a search for each word. These kinds of reflections come to me when I’m washing the dishes; all I have to do is turn on the faucet for the disjointed ideas to finally fall into place. It’s just a flash of illumination, and if I turn off the water to really take note, the words disappear. Mr. Weimer’s fists knock again, harder now, but he isn’t a violent man; he’s a poor neighbor whose wife torments him, a man who doesn’t know how to go on with his life but doesn’t let that keep him from trying. A man who, when he lost his son and I went to the wake to give my condolences, gave me a stiff, cold hug, and spent a few minutes talking with other guests before coming back and whispering into my ear, “I’ve just found out which kids are always knocking over the garbage cans. We won’t have to worry about that anymore.” That kind of man. When his wife throws their dead son’s clothes into my yard, he knocks at the door to collect them all. My son, who in the practical sense would be the man of the house, says the whole thing is nutso, and he gets furious every time the Weimers start up with this mess, about every two weeks. We have to let him in, help collect the clothes, give the guy some pats on the back, nod along when he says the matter is nearly resolved, that none of this is all that terrible, and then, some five minutes after he’s left, listen to her yelling again. My son thinks she shouts when she opens the closet and finds the boy’s clothes there again. “Are you fucking with me?” says my son every time this happens. “Next time I’m burning all the clothes.” I unbolt the door and there is Weimer with his right palm on his forehead, almost covering his eyes, waiting for me to appear before he lowers his arm tiredly and apologizes with an “I don’t want to bother you, but.” I open the door and he comes in; he knows the way to the yard by now. There’s fresh lemonade in the fridge, and I pour two glasses as he walks outside. Through the kitchen window I see him poke around in the grass and circle the geraniums, the area where the clothes usually land. When I go out I let the screen door slam to alert him, because there’s something intimate about this act of collecting that I don’t like to interrupt. I approach slowly. He straightens up with a sweater in his hand. There are more clothes draped over his other arm; he seems to have them all. “Who pruned the pines?” he asks. “My son,” I say. “They look real good.” He nods, gazing at them. They are three miniature trees, and my son tried to form cylindrical shapes, a little artificial, but original, it must be said. “Have some lemonade,” I say. He drapes all the clothes over just one arm, and I hand him the glass. The sun isn’t beating down yet, it’s still early. I look sidelong at the bench we have a little farther on; it’s made of concrete, and at this hour it’s nice and warm, almost a panacea. “Weimer,” I say, because I think it’s friendlier than “Mr. Weimer.” And I think, Listen to me, throw those clothes away. That’s all your wife wants. But maybe he’s the one who throws the clothes out the window and then regrets it, and it’s the poor woman who’s tormented every time she sees him carry them back in. Maybe they already tried to throw it all away in a big garbage bag, and the garbageman rang their doorbell to return it, same as what happened to us with my son’s old clothes: “Ma’am, why don’t you donate it. If I put this in the truck, it’ll be no good to anyone.” And there that bag is, still sitting in the laundry room; we definitely have to take it somewhere this week, I don’t know where. Weimer is waiting, waiting for me. The light illuminates the sparse hair on his head, long and white, the silvery beard drawn faintly on his jaw, his eyes light but opaque, very small for the size of his face. I don’t say anything, but I think Weimer guesses my thoughts. He lowers his eyes a moment. He sips more lemonade, looking now at his house, past the privet hedge that separates our yards. I search for something useful to say, something to confirm that I recognize his effort and to suggest some kind of solution, optimistic and imprecise. He looks back at me. He seems to intuit where this conversation that we haven’t started is going, and he seems to gird himself to understand. “When something doesn’t find its place . . .” I say, letting the final sounds hang in the air. Weimer nods once and waits. My god, I think, we’re in sync. I’m in sync with this man who ten years ago returned my son’s soccer balls deflated, this man who cut the flowers on my azaleas if they crossed the imaginary line that divided our properties. “When something doesn’t find its place,” I pick up again, looking at his clothes. “Tell me, please,” says Weimer. “I don’t know, but we have to move other things.” We have to make room, I think, that’s why it would be such a help to me if someone would take the bag I have in the laundry room. “Yes,” says Weimer, clearly meaning “Go on.” I hear the front door, a sound that means nothing to Weimer, but indicates to me that my son is home, safe and hungry. I take a long step toward the bench and sit down. I think that the warm concrete of the bench will also be a blessing for him, and I make room for him to join me. “Put down the clothes,” I tell him. He doesn’t seem to have any problem with this. He looks to either side for a place to leave them, and I think, Weimer can do it, of course he can. “Where?” he asks. “Leave them on the trees,” I say, indicating the little pine trees, pruned into cylinders. Weimer obeys. He puts the clothes down and brushes the grass from his hands. “Have a seat.” He sits. What do I do with this old man now? But there is something about him that encourages me to keep going. Something like having my hands under the running water, a calm that allows me to think of the words, organize the facts, consider things that always happen in the same order. Weimer’s expectation seems to grow; one might almost say he was waiting for an instruction from me. It’s a power and a responsibility and I can’t figure out what to do with it. His light eyes grow damp: the final confirmation of this extraordinary synchronization. I look at him unabashedly, not leaving him any room for privacy, because I can’t believe this is happening, and neither can I bear the weight it’s exerting on me. I sit Weimer down and now I want to say something that will resolve this problem. I drink all of my lemonade and try to think of some sonorous and practical spell, a charm that would benefit us all, like “Buy my son as many balls as you deflated and everything will be fine,” “If you cry without setting down your lemonade, she will stop throwing out the clothes,” or “Leave the clothes on the pines for one night, and if the morning is clear, it means the problem will disappear.” God, I could throw them out myself in the early morning hours while I’m smoking my last cigarette of the day. I’d have to mix them in with the trash so the garbageman wouldn’t bring them back, and that’s exactly what I should do with my son’s clothes, it’s got to be done this week. Say something to solve this problem, I repeat to myself so I don’t lose focus. I’ve said things many times, and once uttered, the words brought about their effect. They kept my son with me, they ran my husband off, they arranged themselves divinely in my head every time I washed the dishes. In my yard, Weimer drinks the last drops from his glass and his eyes fill with tears, as if it were an effect of the lemon, and I think maybe it’s too bitter for him, that maybe there’s a moment when the effect no longer depends on our words, or when the impossible thing is their utterance. “Yes,” Weimer said some long seconds ago, a yes that was a “go on,” a “please,” and now we are anchored together, the two empty glasses on the concrete bench, and on the bench our bodies. Then I have a vision, a wish: My son opens the screen door and walks toward us. His feet are bare, they step fast, they’re young and strong over the grass. He is indignant with us, with the house, with everything that always happens in this house, always in the same way. His body grows toward us with a powerful energy that Weimer and I await without fear, almost eagerly. His enormous body that at times reminds me of my husband’s and forces me to close my eyes. He’s only a few meters away, now almost on top of us. But he doesn’t touch us. I look again at my son and he veers off toward the small pines. He gathers the clothes furiously, wads them up in a ball and goes back the way he came, his body now distant and small, a silhouette. “Yes,” says Weimer, and he sighs, and it’s not the same yes as before. This is a more open, almost dreamy yes.
Breath from the Depths
The list was part of a plan: Lola suspected that her life had been too long, so simple and light that now it lacked the weight needed to disappear. After studying the experiences of some acquaintances, she had concluded that even in old age, death needed a final push. An emotional nudge, or a physical one. And she couldn’t give that to her body. She wanted to die, but every morning, inevitably, she woke up again. What she could do, on the other hand, was arrange everything in that direction, attenuate her own life, reduce its space until she eliminated it completely. That’s what the list was about; that, and remaining focused on what was important. She turned to it when her attention wandered, when something upset or distracted her and she forgot what it was she was doing. It was a short list:
Classify everything.
Donate what is expendable.
Wrap what is important.
Concentrate on death.
If he meddles, ignore him.
The list helped her deal with her head, but she’d found no solution for the deplorable state of her body. She could no longer bear more than five minutes on her feet, and it wasn’t just the problems with her spine she was struggling with. Sometimes her breathing changed and she needed to take in more air than normal. When that happened, she inhaled as much as she could, then exhaled with a rough, deep sound, so strange that she could never quite comprehend that it came from her. If she walked in the dark at night, from the bed to the bathroom and the bathroom to the bed, the sound was like an ancient being breathing on her neck. It was born in the depths of her lungs and came from an inexorable physical need. To mask it, Lola added a nostalgic whistle to the exhalation, a melody somewhere between bitter and resigned that had been taking root within her little by little. The list is what’s important, she told herself every time the lethargy immobilized her. She couldn’t care less about all the rest.
* * *
They ate breakfast in silence. He prepared everything, and he did it just the way Lola liked. Sliced wheat bread, two different fruits chopped into little pieces, mixed together, and divided again into a portion for each of them. In the center of the table were the sugar and the white cheese; beside her coffee mug, the low-calorie orange marmalade; next to his coffee mug, the candied sweet potato and the yogurt. The newspaper was his, but the sections on health and wellness were for her, and they were folded and placed beside her napkin for when she finished breakfast. If she looked at him with her butter knife in hand, he passed her the bread plate. If she stared off at a spot on the tablecloth, he let her be, because he knew that something more was happening, something he couldn’t meddle in. She watched him chew, sip his coffee, turn the newspaper pages. She looked at his hands—so unmasculine now, white and fine with carefully filed nails—and the little hair left on his head. She didn’t reach any great conclusion or make any decisions in that regard. She just looked at him and reminded herself of concrete facts that she never analyzed: Fifty-seven years now, I’ve been married to this man. This is my life now. When they finished breakfast, they carried the things to the sink. He brought the stool over, and she washed the dishes while sitting down. The stool allowed her to rest her elbows on the edge of the sink, so she hardly had to bend over. He would have gladly taken care of the dishes, but she didn’t want to owe him anything, and he let her do it. Lola washed slowly, thinking about the TV schedule for that day, and about her list. She carried it twice-folded in the pocket of her apron. If it was unfolded, a white cross appeared in the center of the paper. She knew it would start to tear soon. Sometimes, on days like this one, Lola needed more time; she finished doing the dishes but didn’t feel ready to continue with the rest of the day, so she spent a while scrubbing at the grime that had accumulated between the metal and the plastic of the small spoons, the rocks of damp sugar on the lid of the sugar bowl, the rusty base of the kettle, the limescale around the faucet.
Sometimes, too, Lola cooked. He brought the stool to the kitchen and set out everything she asked for. It’s not that she couldn’t move, she could if something important warranted it, but since her spine and her breathing made everything so difficult, she saved her strength for when he couldn’t help her. He took care of the taxes, the garden, the shopping, and everything that went on outside the house. She made a list—another list, a shopping list—and he stuck to it. If he missed something, he had to go back out, and if there was something extra, she asked what it was and how much it had cost.
Sometimes he bought cocoa that came in a powder to mix with milk, like her son used to drink before he got sick. The son they’d had together had not grown any taller than the kitchen cabinets. He had died long before. In spite of everything that can be given and lost for a child, in spite of the world and all there is on the world’s surface, in spite of her having thrown the crystal glasses from the cabinets to the floor and stepped on them barefoot and bloodied everything on the way to the bathroom, and from the bathroom to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the bathroom, and so on until he arrived and managed to calm her. Since then, he’s bought the smallest box of hot cocoa, the one with two hundred and fifty grams, the one that comes in a cardboard container, even though it’s not the thriftiest option. It wasn’t on her lists, but it was the only item she made no comment on. She just placed the box in the upper cabinet, behind the salt and the spices. And that was when she discovered that the box she had placed there a month earlier was gone. She never saw him use the powdered cocoa, really, she didn’t know how it ever ran out, but it was a subject she preferred not to ask about.
