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Fiction

Beyond this Darkness and this Silence

By Care Santos
Translated from Spanish by Christina MacSweeney

 

The world has become aware of its invisible
citizen. But no one knows you are here.
—H. G. Wells

I warned her in one of our first conversations, though she didn’t take me seriously: “I’m invisible.” Not that I reproached her for her skepticism. To be honest, I don’t usually talk about it; people aren’t prepared to face the extraordinary. Which, if you are a part of what is considered “extraordinary,” can be wearisome.

I knew almost everything about Gala. I knew about the desires she had never confessed to anyone, and about her boring years of marriage. I had a precise notion of how insupportable the last years had been, since she had expressed her wish to have a child and had met with her husband’s flat, nonnegotiable refusal.

“It’s as if he wanted to freeze time. As if he were happy, permanently installed in this unbearable present,” she said.

That night, Gala referred to her marital troubles with more sadness than on other occasions. She talked about sudden gulfs opening up between two people, chasms that can never be bridged. She spoke of weariness, resignation, silence:

“We’ve got nothing to say to each other any more. And it’s the same, day after day.”

I remembered that, as soon as I met her in the online chat room, she told me she was married, and asked if that was a problem. Of course, it wasn’t. Among other reasons, because she was a stranger then, someone who didn’t matter to me. I remembered those words at that precise moment, while I was feeling intense anger. I couldn’t understand what Gala was doing with a man incapable of understanding her true worth. I couldn’t bear the idea of her sleeping with another man, night after night, while I was longing for her. I had fallen in love.

Perhaps it was my rage that prompted me to speak. Or perhaps it was the four whiskies I’d drunk.

“Now we’ve got down to confidences,” I wrote in the chat bar, “I want to confess something too.”

That was when I told her about my invisibility.

She responded with a puzzled silence. Normally, it took her only a few seconds to type a reply. On that occasion, I guessed that she was sifting through words without finding the ones she wanted. I thought it best to expand on my pronouncement:

“I’m not talking figuratively. I really am invisible. It’s a rare genetic mutation that runs in the male line of my family. An awkward, incurable defect.”

As I had imagined, she was impressed. She wanted to know the technical details; she asked me how I’d managed to study, find a job, how I got dressed and had sex. I told her that getting dressed was never a problem, now that there are special fabrics for people like me. The same went for education. My medical diagnosis meant distance learning was the best option, and I had, in fact, a brilliant academic record. I admit that I was trying to impress her when I said I had been an outstanding student, top of my class from primary school to my PhD, which I’d obtained without the least difficulty. It was quite natural for me to go into research, as it was that I should become one of the most respected physicists in my field.

I explained that I’d never had to worry about finding a job or overcome the difficulties people in my condition usually experience, since no one seemed willing to employ a person when they couldn’t be absolutely certain where they were. Although there are signs. A keen observer will notice, for example, a slight surface indentation in the place where I’m sitting (barely visible in harder materials, but in the softer ones it can be quite startling for anyone unaccustomed to the phenomenon). It would be more difficult not to notice that in my workspace, the telephones move (“on their own” the uninitiated say, falling short of the truth), the pens practice their calligraphy on the paper and the keys on the computer keyboard go up and down at a brisk pace while, on the screen, the typographical symbols advance as if under the influence of a supernatural force.

Gala must have been very surprised. If I hadn’t had reason to think otherwise, I would have believed that she was on the phone or had simply left the chat room for some urgent need. It’s difficult to tell the difference between stupefaction and absence in an on-screen conversation.

“So there haven’t been many stumbling blocks in my professional life,” I said, before adding, “but I can’t say the same for love and sex. The endings always leave me devastated. Right now, I am, quite frankly, shattered.”

I had also thought that that phrase would act as bait. Gala was immediately interested. She wanted to know what kinds of difficulties I had encountered. I played hard to get, claiming that I didn’t like to talk about it (which is strictly true), but gave in when she persisted.

“The majority of women can’t bear the idea of sleeping with someone they can’t see,” I typed at my usual speed.

I was surprised by how quickly she responded.

“Not me.”

“Perhaps you’re just saying that because you haven’t met me in person.”

“No, I’m not. I’m saying it because I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time and because I’m not frightened by new things.”

In my experience, you can’t do better than to submit to a woman’s desires. 

***

I booked room 603 in the Ritz Hotel. The choice of number was not random: we met in the online chat room on June third, four months before our first date. Four months of several hours a day of conversation. I opted for the Ritz not only because I wanted to impress her, but also because a cousin of mine, my accomplice, worked there. I went to the room a good while before the hour of our date to arrange all the details. I asked my cousin to give the other room key to the woman who called herself Mrs. Wells—Wells was my chat room alias. While waiting for her arrival, I created the appropriate atmosphere: absolute absence of light, soft music, French Champagne freshly delivered by room service, and the bed not turned back. I didn’t want to appear impatient or give her a bad impression.

She arrived punctually, opened the door with her key, and stopped in the middle of the diminutive hallway.

“Hello?” she said.

I asked her to close her eyes and she immediately obeyed. I realized that she was smiling and was prettier than I had imagined.

I moved my lips close to her shoulder and slipped off her purse. I kissed her bare arms. The back of her hand. Her fingers; one by one. I sampled the taste of her skin, ran my lips along her forearm, stopped at the elbow. In a daring change of direction, I advanced toward her breasts. My strategy made her tremble. I thought the moment had come for my mouth to find hers. The kiss outlasted her confusion. Her fingers found my cheeks and touched me. Slowly, like a blind person, she ran her open hands over me. She combed her fingers through my hair, softly caressed my shoulders, kneaded my back, lingered on the nape of my neck and my eyebrows.

“Your blindness makes me visible,” I said.

“Your voice . . .” she replied.

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. I guided her slowly to the bed and she allowed herself to be led. We didn’t take the bedspread off.

I believe she did not talk again for two hours, when she said:

“I don’t want to open my eyes ever again.” 

***

For weeks, we met every Tuesday. Same day, same room, the same menu, the same ritual of caresses and blindness. I would wait for her inside the room, in the shadows, and she would find me, looking so lovely and excited. The second time, she surprised me by bringing a mask with her, the sort used for sleeping. She had it in her purse and, as soon as she had crossed the threshold, she put it over her eyes, let her purse drop to the floor, and announced:

“I’m ready.”

When the sex gave us an appetite, we called room service, and I would feed her with my own hands. She didn’t take off the mask even to eat. I would place the food in her mouth, and she licked my fingers to experience its taste to the full. She talked about her problems at work, about the conjugal life she felt to be her worst ever mistake, the interests she scarcely had time for. Sometimes, her words caused me a pang of sadness. Like when she said:

“When I’m with my husband, I feel like you.”

“Lucky?” I asked.

“No. Invisible.”

During one of those delectable conversations, I realized she had something to tell me. It was the way she frowned, her nervous movements, her hesitation in speaking, and also because, that day, she hardly mentioned her work or her husband. She spent the whole time talking about the old attic in her house. After many years, she had ventured up there and discovered a treasure trove of old junk. She confessed that, as a child, she used to spend hours up there, playing her solitary childish games without friends. She said she hadn’t set foot in the place since her marriage, in part through fear of what she would find, and also because she was frightened of confronting that child she had stopped being so long before. But she was pleased to have gone up there. The room, I noticed, seemed to interest her much more than its contents. She was thinking of doing it up. Cleaning it, throwing out the old things and converting it into a study, something she had longed for all her life. A space where she could cut herself off from the world, sleep from time to time—gazing at the stars through skylight, a space to dream in, live another life.

I was wondering why she was telling me all this when she suddenly said:

“Come and live there. It’s the perfect place for us.”

I was confused.

“I’ll do it up for you. We can be together. We won’t have to go on with these clandestine meetings once a week.”

It was crazy. I see it now as I did then. Absolute lunacy. But how many acts of madness have humans committed for love? Isn’t love, of all the possible reasons for letting oneself be dragged toward delirium, the best, the most irresistible? And wasn’t that a golden opportunity to hide myself, get away from that place in which, in a few short hours, it would be better for me not to be found?

She knew nothing about me. In fact, everything I was doing with her was dishonest: tricking her, seducing her, accepting her offer, seeing her proposal as my only hope.

Suddenly, I saw it all clearly: disappearance like that would give me the alibi I had been seeking for so long. If someone like me ever needed an alibi when it came to finding a dénouement. 

***

It didn’t happen straight off. I told her that I had some things to sort out before moving in. That a man couldn’t disappear just like that. I put my affairs in order, acted with professional speed, pretended I was traveling to distant parts, and vanished. Those who believe that an invisible person can’t vanish might be surprised by that turn of phrase. They are wrong: in this world in which it is our lot to live, no one is completely invisible. Not even me.

Five weeks after Gala’s proposition, I moved into the attic, newly converted into a study. The smell of varnish was still fresh, and everything had that air of newness so laden with hope. The best thing was that I never at any moment felt strange. The noises of the world scarcely reached up there. From time to time the peace was disturbed by some horn blast that seemed to come from another dimension. Otherwise, the only thing to be heard clearly was the sound of the birds which nested in the roof.

My hostess had included a large sofa for me, on which I spent the nights reading and the early hours making love with that woman who never came in without the mask placed squarely over her eyes. She seemed happy as a child. Her color improved, she always had a wide smile on her face, and her voice had a singsong quality that reminded me of those birds living up there at the top of the house with me.

“My husband doesn’t suspect a thing. He’s not even interested in seeing the improvements I’ve made here.”

I didn’t want to disillusion her by saying that he had been there. Luckily, the last stretch of the stairs creaked so much that it gave you the time to prepare yourself if someone was coming up. On the first occasion that happened, I stood still in the middle of the room, hoping he wasn’t one of those highly sensitive people who perceive everything happening around them, even if not confirmed by their senses. He wasn’t. He came in, scanned the room, closed the window I’d opened, seemed to approve of the changes his wife had made, and turned back to the door. Just before leaving, he retraced his steps. He had noticed the book I was reading—by José Manuel Caballero Bonald—and had left on the sofa. He inspected it, opened it at one of the central pages, as if gauging some specific aspect, and decided to take it with him.

I had no idea he was even interested in poetry.

When they were at home, the murmur of their domestic life reached me as if from another world: the clatter of plates, the muffled hum of electric motors, steps hurrying along passages, snatches of conversation and the slightly childish glee of the television, permanently switched on, as if neither of them were capable of tolerating the silence that threatened their lives when all the apparatuses were quiet. At night, the husband went to bed early and she would come up to the attic to read, she said.

It was stimulating to make love in absolute silence, making sure nothing disturbed the cuckold husband sleeping just one floor below. She used to bring me up a meal and stayed until nearly daybreak, chatting in whispers.

Five minutes before the alarm clock in her bedroom went off, she would go downstairs. Sometimes I could hear her excuses:

“Silly me, I fell asleep in the attic.”

Her husband would grumble, but immediately forget his reproaches in his haste to get ready. 

***

I only occasionally got the urge to leave my hiding place. When neither of them was at home, I liked to wander through the rooms, observe the lack of order, snack on something from the fridge, deadhead the flowers in the garden. I did that quite often during the first days, when I felt the need to watch the television news (nothing offers a closer notion of the importance of an event than seeing it recounted in a television news broadcast). Later, I became interested in the outside world. I knew where the keys were, and took them at will—with Gala’s permission. I would take a walk around the neighborhood, go in and out of various establishments and return before it got late. During one of those strolls I saw Miriam. It was completely unpremeditated, surprising. She looked in my direction and squinted, there was a strange glow in her eyes, and my heart began to beat more strongly than ever before.

As my strolls became more frequent, I found it increasingly difficult to sustain my passion for Gala. It wasn’t her fault but mine. She still gave herself completely to me. When her husband was away on business trips, we would hole up in the attic and forget the world. But it wasn’t as intense as formerly, a few weeks before, when her insistence found its twin between my arms. In that period of doubt, I did atrocious things: reacting to the creaking of the stairs which announced her visit with a newfound annoyance; holding my breath, squeezing up against the wall without moving a muscle and pretending I wasn’t there, observing her unhappiness and her supposed solitude.

I particularly remember one of those mornings when she came in blindfolded, a lovely smile on her face and her arms extended, searching in the darkness for me. When she saw that I didn’t respond to her call with the usual passion, she stopped, took off her mask and observed the apparently empty space. She made a slight sound, and stood there thoughtfully for a couple of seconds, watching the specks of dust falling slowly, golden in the sunlight. Then she went back downstairs.

I heard her making a phone call, arranging to meet a woman friend in a café. She came back up to the attic to make certain I wasn’t there. I held my breath, hoping again that she wouldn’t sense me, would believe I’d gone out. I noticed that she felt around the floor, the chairs, the curtains, in search of some, any, trace of my presence. She also suspected something. She was also beginning to realize that the deception could be something more than an intruder between us.

By that time, I no longer felt anything for Gala, apart from profound gratitude. Despite the fact that the attic was still the best possible hiding place, I began to miss my apartment, my street, my neighborhood full of men who are not willing to remain invisible and aspire to notoriety. A bit like me, but in a different way. They wanted money, status, power. I only aspired to doing something really important. Something great, that would be reported on the news. I know it’s not an ideal way to live, but it’s mine, and I wasn’t then ready to renounce it, nor am I now.

 

***

I give a lot of thought to the endings of things. Finishing, well or badly, is sometimes very tiring. I try to give it all the thought it deserves so my conscience doesn’t trouble me later, during sleepless nights. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself for giving Gala an ending that was unworthy of the intensity of our story. And for that reason I attempted to make our last night unforgettable. Time, among other things, had taught me that a beautiful memory is of no solace to a woman in the early days, but is later the only possible comfort: the comfort of believing she has had the chance to experience something unique. Thinking of Gala’s future memories, I made every attempt to love  her better than ever. I feigned a passion I didn’t feel, murmured even more clichéd and jaded phrases in her ear; I made love to her several times before nightfall, gently covering her mouth when she showed signs of crying out, so that her husband wouldn’t hear us. When dawn broke, she turned her head to me and said:

“Everything that happens beyond this darkness and this silence has ceased to interest me.”

I felt a stab of fear, but kept on with my plan. As I watched her leave, five minutes before the alarm clock made its shrill demands, I knew there wouldn’t be another time. 

***

I went back to my home. During my absence, no one had suspected anything. The doorman hadn’t mentioned me to the police while they were in the area. They had taken off the seal from the dead woman’s apartment, and there were only plumbers and painters left there. Adapt or perish, that’s the motto of our course toward oblivion.

I must confess that for a few seconds, that last time, I toyed with the idea of killing Gala, too. The final possession, the definitive moment. She would have thanked me, I’m sure. A sharp knife and a bare, white neck: the perfect combination. Then the blood. It needs care; fingerprints can give me away, as happened with my neighbor. Although I’m a master of my trade and should only have to preoccupy myself with endings, I also have to give thought to the details, so that nothing like that happens again.

I didn’t kill Gala. I thought it was better to leave her with her pain, her figurative death, and the later grandeur of her rising from the ashes. At the last moment, I confess, I wasn’t only thinking of her. I imagined her husband’s unhappiness, alone, burdened with suspicion for the rest of his life. He didn’t deserve that fate. Heck, I quite liked the poor guy.

Perhaps I also thought of myself. Of the sleepless nights after watching Gala die. Every choice is, essentially, an act of egoism.

If I never told Gala about Miriam, it was to spare her pain she would have been incapable of tolerating. She would have wanted to know what Miriam had that she couldn’t offer me. In fact, in terms of what really mattered, they weren’t so different. They were both passionate, pretty, and discreet. Neither of them asked questions. Miriam, however, has a very rare, strange form of color blindness, which allows her to see things others can’t.

Me, for instance.

Though none of this matters now. The only important thing is the ending. The ending of my neighbor, who was also passionate, but not discreet. The ending of my story with Gala; Miriam’s ending—about which I’m starting to think—in the time every good story needs.

It’s beautiful, or so it seems to me, to know that at the end of everything there is always invisibility. 

© Care Santos. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Christina MacSweeney. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

 

The world has become aware of its invisible
citizen. But no one knows you are here.
—H. G. Wells

I warned her in one of our first conversations, though she didn’t take me seriously: “I’m invisible.” Not that I reproached her for her skepticism. To be honest, I don’t usually talk about it; people aren’t prepared to face the extraordinary. Which, if you are a part of what is considered “extraordinary,” can be wearisome.

I knew almost everything about Gala. I knew about the desires she had never confessed to anyone, and about her boring years of marriage. I had a precise notion of how insupportable the last years had been, since she had expressed her wish to have a child and had met with her husband’s flat, nonnegotiable refusal.

“It’s as if he wanted to freeze time. As if he were happy, permanently installed in this unbearable present,” she said.

That night, Gala referred to her marital troubles with more sadness than on other occasions. She talked about sudden gulfs opening up between two people, chasms that can never be bridged. She spoke of weariness, resignation, silence:

“We’ve got nothing to say to each other any more. And it’s the same, day after day.”

I remembered that, as soon as I met her in the online chat room, she told me she was married, and asked if that was a problem. Of course, it wasn’t. Among other reasons, because she was a stranger then, someone who didn’t matter to me. I remembered those words at that precise moment, while I was feeling intense anger. I couldn’t understand what Gala was doing with a man incapable of understanding her true worth. I couldn’t bear the idea of her sleeping with another man, night after night, while I was longing for her. I had fallen in love.

Perhaps it was my rage that prompted me to speak. Or perhaps it was the four whiskies I’d drunk.

“Now we’ve got down to confidences,” I wrote in the chat bar, “I want to confess something too.”

That was when I told her about my invisibility.

She responded with a puzzled silence. Normally, it took her only a few seconds to type a reply. On that occasion, I guessed that she was sifting through words without finding the ones she wanted. I thought it best to expand on my pronouncement:

“I’m not talking figuratively. I really am invisible. It’s a rare genetic mutation that runs in the male line of my family. An awkward, incurable defect.”

As I had imagined, she was impressed. She wanted to know the technical details; she asked me how I’d managed to study, find a job, how I got dressed and had sex. I told her that getting dressed was never a problem, now that there are special fabrics for people like me. The same went for education. My medical diagnosis meant distance learning was the best option, and I had, in fact, a brilliant academic record. I admit that I was trying to impress her when I said I had been an outstanding student, top of my class from primary school to my PhD, which I’d obtained without the least difficulty. It was quite natural for me to go into research, as it was that I should become one of the most respected physicists in my field.

I explained that I’d never had to worry about finding a job or overcome the difficulties people in my condition usually experience, since no one seemed willing to employ a person when they couldn’t be absolutely certain where they were. Although there are signs. A keen observer will notice, for example, a slight surface indentation in the place where I’m sitting (barely visible in harder materials, but in the softer ones it can be quite startling for anyone unaccustomed to the phenomenon). It would be more difficult not to notice that in my workspace, the telephones move (“on their own” the uninitiated say, falling short of the truth), the pens practice their calligraphy on the paper and the keys on the computer keyboard go up and down at a brisk pace while, on the screen, the typographical symbols advance as if under the influence of a supernatural force.

Gala must have been very surprised. If I hadn’t had reason to think otherwise, I would have believed that she was on the phone or had simply left the chat room for some urgent need. It’s difficult to tell the difference between stupefaction and absence in an on-screen conversation.

“So there haven’t been many stumbling blocks in my professional life,” I said, before adding, “but I can’t say the same for love and sex. The endings always leave me devastated. Right now, I am, quite frankly, shattered.”

I had also thought that that phrase would act as bait. Gala was immediately interested. She wanted to know what kinds of difficulties I had encountered. I played hard to get, claiming that I didn’t like to talk about it (which is strictly true), but gave in when she persisted.

“The majority of women can’t bear the idea of sleeping with someone they can’t see,” I typed at my usual speed.

I was surprised by how quickly she responded.

“Not me.”

“Perhaps you’re just saying that because you haven’t met me in person.”

“No, I’m not. I’m saying it because I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time and because I’m not frightened by new things.”

In my experience, you can’t do better than to submit to a woman’s desires. 

***

I booked room 603 in the Ritz Hotel. The choice of number was not random: we met in the online chat room on June third, four months before our first date. Four months of several hours a day of conversation. I opted for the Ritz not only because I wanted to impress her, but also because a cousin of mine, my accomplice, worked there. I went to the room a good while before the hour of our date to arrange all the details. I asked my cousin to give the other room key to the woman who called herself Mrs. Wells—Wells was my chat room alias. While waiting for her arrival, I created the appropriate atmosphere: absolute absence of light, soft music, French Champagne freshly delivered by room service, and the bed not turned back. I didn’t want to appear impatient or give her a bad impression.

She arrived punctually, opened the door with her key, and stopped in the middle of the diminutive hallway.

“Hello?” she said.

I asked her to close her eyes and she immediately obeyed. I realized that she was smiling and was prettier than I had imagined.

I moved my lips close to her shoulder and slipped off her purse. I kissed her bare arms. The back of her hand. Her fingers; one by one. I sampled the taste of her skin, ran my lips along her forearm, stopped at the elbow. In a daring change of direction, I advanced toward her breasts. My strategy made her tremble. I thought the moment had come for my mouth to find hers. The kiss outlasted her confusion. Her fingers found my cheeks and touched me. Slowly, like a blind person, she ran her open hands over me. She combed her fingers through my hair, softly caressed my shoulders, kneaded my back, lingered on the nape of my neck and my eyebrows.

“Your blindness makes me visible,” I said.

“Your voice . . .” she replied.

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. I guided her slowly to the bed and she allowed herself to be led. We didn’t take the bedspread off.

I believe she did not talk again for two hours, when she said:

“I don’t want to open my eyes ever again.” 

***

For weeks, we met every Tuesday. Same day, same room, the same menu, the same ritual of caresses and blindness. I would wait for her inside the room, in the shadows, and she would find me, looking so lovely and excited. The second time, she surprised me by bringing a mask with her, the sort used for sleeping. She had it in her purse and, as soon as she had crossed the threshold, she put it over her eyes, let her purse drop to the floor, and announced:

“I’m ready.”

When the sex gave us an appetite, we called room service, and I would feed her with my own hands. She didn’t take off the mask even to eat. I would place the food in her mouth, and she licked my fingers to experience its taste to the full. She talked about her problems at work, about the conjugal life she felt to be her worst ever mistake, the interests she scarcely had time for. Sometimes, her words caused me a pang of sadness. Like when she said:

“When I’m with my husband, I feel like you.”

“Lucky?” I asked.

“No. Invisible.”

During one of those delectable conversations, I realized she had something to tell me. It was the way she frowned, her nervous movements, her hesitation in speaking, and also because, that day, she hardly mentioned her work or her husband. She spent the whole time talking about the old attic in her house. After many years, she had ventured up there and discovered a treasure trove of old junk. She confessed that, as a child, she used to spend hours up there, playing her solitary childish games without friends. She said she hadn’t set foot in the place since her marriage, in part through fear of what she would find, and also because she was frightened of confronting that child she had stopped being so long before. But she was pleased to have gone up there. The room, I noticed, seemed to interest her much more than its contents. She was thinking of doing it up. Cleaning it, throwing out the old things and converting it into a study, something she had longed for all her life. A space where she could cut herself off from the world, sleep from time to time—gazing at the stars through skylight, a space to dream in, live another life.

I was wondering why she was telling me all this when she suddenly said:

“Come and live there. It’s the perfect place for us.”

I was confused.

“I’ll do it up for you. We can be together. We won’t have to go on with these clandestine meetings once a week.”

It was crazy. I see it now as I did then. Absolute lunacy. But how many acts of madness have humans committed for love? Isn’t love, of all the possible reasons for letting oneself be dragged toward delirium, the best, the most irresistible? And wasn’t that a golden opportunity to hide myself, get away from that place in which, in a few short hours, it would be better for me not to be found?

She knew nothing about me. In fact, everything I was doing with her was dishonest: tricking her, seducing her, accepting her offer, seeing her proposal as my only hope.

Suddenly, I saw it all clearly: disappearance like that would give me the alibi I had been seeking for so long. If someone like me ever needed an alibi when it came to finding a dénouement. 

***

It didn’t happen straight off. I told her that I had some things to sort out before moving in. That a man couldn’t disappear just like that. I put my affairs in order, acted with professional speed, pretended I was traveling to distant parts, and vanished. Those who believe that an invisible person can’t vanish might be surprised by that turn of phrase. They are wrong: in this world in which it is our lot to live, no one is completely invisible. Not even me.

Five weeks after Gala’s proposition, I moved into the attic, newly converted into a study. The smell of varnish was still fresh, and everything had that air of newness so laden with hope. The best thing was that I never at any moment felt strange. The noises of the world scarcely reached up there. From time to time the peace was disturbed by some horn blast that seemed to come from another dimension. Otherwise, the only thing to be heard clearly was the sound of the birds which nested in the roof.

My hostess had included a large sofa for me, on which I spent the nights reading and the early hours making love with that woman who never came in without the mask placed squarely over her eyes. She seemed happy as a child. Her color improved, she always had a wide smile on her face, and her voice had a singsong quality that reminded me of those birds living up there at the top of the house with me.

“My husband doesn’t suspect a thing. He’s not even interested in seeing the improvements I’ve made here.”

I didn’t want to disillusion her by saying that he had been there. Luckily, the last stretch of the stairs creaked so much that it gave you the time to prepare yourself if someone was coming up. On the first occasion that happened, I stood still in the middle of the room, hoping he wasn’t one of those highly sensitive people who perceive everything happening around them, even if not confirmed by their senses. He wasn’t. He came in, scanned the room, closed the window I’d opened, seemed to approve of the changes his wife had made, and turned back to the door. Just before leaving, he retraced his steps. He had noticed the book I was reading—by José Manuel Caballero Bonald—and had left on the sofa. He inspected it, opened it at one of the central pages, as if gauging some specific aspect, and decided to take it with him.

I had no idea he was even interested in poetry.

When they were at home, the murmur of their domestic life reached me as if from another world: the clatter of plates, the muffled hum of electric motors, steps hurrying along passages, snatches of conversation and the slightly childish glee of the television, permanently switched on, as if neither of them were capable of tolerating the silence that threatened their lives when all the apparatuses were quiet. At night, the husband went to bed early and she would come up to the attic to read, she said.

It was stimulating to make love in absolute silence, making sure nothing disturbed the cuckold husband sleeping just one floor below. She used to bring me up a meal and stayed until nearly daybreak, chatting in whispers.

Five minutes before the alarm clock in her bedroom went off, she would go downstairs. Sometimes I could hear her excuses:

“Silly me, I fell asleep in the attic.”

Her husband would grumble, but immediately forget his reproaches in his haste to get ready. 

***

I only occasionally got the urge to leave my hiding place. When neither of them was at home, I liked to wander through the rooms, observe the lack of order, snack on something from the fridge, deadhead the flowers in the garden. I did that quite often during the first days, when I felt the need to watch the television news (nothing offers a closer notion of the importance of an event than seeing it recounted in a television news broadcast). Later, I became interested in the outside world. I knew where the keys were, and took them at will—with Gala’s permission. I would take a walk around the neighborhood, go in and out of various establishments and return before it got late. During one of those strolls I saw Miriam. It was completely unpremeditated, surprising. She looked in my direction and squinted, there was a strange glow in her eyes, and my heart began to beat more strongly than ever before.

As my strolls became more frequent, I found it increasingly difficult to sustain my passion for Gala. It wasn’t her fault but mine. She still gave herself completely to me. When her husband was away on business trips, we would hole up in the attic and forget the world. But it wasn’t as intense as formerly, a few weeks before, when her insistence found its twin between my arms. In that period of doubt, I did atrocious things: reacting to the creaking of the stairs which announced her visit with a newfound annoyance; holding my breath, squeezing up against the wall without moving a muscle and pretending I wasn’t there, observing her unhappiness and her supposed solitude.

I particularly remember one of those mornings when she came in blindfolded, a lovely smile on her face and her arms extended, searching in the darkness for me. When she saw that I didn’t respond to her call with the usual passion, she stopped, took off her mask and observed the apparently empty space. She made a slight sound, and stood there thoughtfully for a couple of seconds, watching the specks of dust falling slowly, golden in the sunlight. Then she went back downstairs.

I heard her making a phone call, arranging to meet a woman friend in a café. She came back up to the attic to make certain I wasn’t there. I held my breath, hoping again that she wouldn’t sense me, would believe I’d gone out. I noticed that she felt around the floor, the chairs, the curtains, in search of some, any, trace of my presence. She also suspected something. She was also beginning to realize that the deception could be something more than an intruder between us.

By that time, I no longer felt anything for Gala, apart from profound gratitude. Despite the fact that the attic was still the best possible hiding place, I began to miss my apartment, my street, my neighborhood full of men who are not willing to remain invisible and aspire to notoriety. A bit like me, but in a different way. They wanted money, status, power. I only aspired to doing something really important. Something great, that would be reported on the news. I know it’s not an ideal way to live, but it’s mine, and I wasn’t then ready to renounce it, nor am I now.

 

***

I give a lot of thought to the endings of things. Finishing, well or badly, is sometimes very tiring. I try to give it all the thought it deserves so my conscience doesn’t trouble me later, during sleepless nights. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself for giving Gala an ending that was unworthy of the intensity of our story. And for that reason I attempted to make our last night unforgettable. Time, among other things, had taught me that a beautiful memory is of no solace to a woman in the early days, but is later the only possible comfort: the comfort of believing she has had the chance to experience something unique. Thinking of Gala’s future memories, I made every attempt to love  her better than ever. I feigned a passion I didn’t feel, murmured even more clichéd and jaded phrases in her ear; I made love to her several times before nightfall, gently covering her mouth when she showed signs of crying out, so that her husband wouldn’t hear us. When dawn broke, she turned her head to me and said:

“Everything that happens beyond this darkness and this silence has ceased to interest me.”

I felt a stab of fear, but kept on with my plan. As I watched her leave, five minutes before the alarm clock made its shrill demands, I knew there wouldn’t be another time. 

***

I went back to my home. During my absence, no one had suspected anything. The doorman hadn’t mentioned me to the police while they were in the area. They had taken off the seal from the dead woman’s apartment, and there were only plumbers and painters left there. Adapt or perish, that’s the motto of our course toward oblivion.

I must confess that for a few seconds, that last time, I toyed with the idea of killing Gala, too. The final possession, the definitive moment. She would have thanked me, I’m sure. A sharp knife and a bare, white neck: the perfect combination. Then the blood. It needs care; fingerprints can give me away, as happened with my neighbor. Although I’m a master of my trade and should only have to preoccupy myself with endings, I also have to give thought to the details, so that nothing like that happens again.

I didn’t kill Gala. I thought it was better to leave her with her pain, her figurative death, and the later grandeur of her rising from the ashes. At the last moment, I confess, I wasn’t only thinking of her. I imagined her husband’s unhappiness, alone, burdened with suspicion for the rest of his life. He didn’t deserve that fate. Heck, I quite liked the poor guy.

Perhaps I also thought of myself. Of the sleepless nights after watching Gala die. Every choice is, essentially, an act of egoism.

If I never told Gala about Miriam, it was to spare her pain she would have been incapable of tolerating. She would have wanted to know what Miriam had that she couldn’t offer me. In fact, in terms of what really mattered, they weren’t so different. They were both passionate, pretty, and discreet. Neither of them asked questions. Miriam, however, has a very rare, strange form of color blindness, which allows her to see things others can’t.

Me, for instance.

Though none of this matters now. The only important thing is the ending. The ending of my neighbor, who was also passionate, but not discreet. The ending of my story with Gala; Miriam’s ending—about which I’m starting to think—in the time every good story needs.

It’s beautiful, or so it seems to me, to know that at the end of everything there is always invisibility. 

© Care Santos. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2012 by Christina MacSweeney. All rights reserved.

Más allá de esta oscuridad y este silencio

El mundo se ha enterado de que tiene un ciudadano invisible. Pero nadie sabe que estás aquí.
H. G. Wells 

Se lo advertí en una de nuestras primeras conversaciones, aunque no me tomó en serio: «Soy invisible». No es que le reproche su escepticismo. En realidad, suelo abstenerme de hablar de ello; la gente no está preparada para hacer frente a lo extraordinario. Lo cual, si formas parte de lo que se considera «extraordinario» termina por resultar agotador.

De Gala lo sabía casi todo. Sabía de sus deseos nunca confesados y de sus tediosos años de matrimonio. Tenía exacta noticia de lo insoportables que se le habían hecho los últimos años, desde que ella manifestó sus ansias de tener un hijo y tropezó con la negativa frontal e innegociable de su marido.

«Es como si él no deseara que pasara el tiempo. Como si fuera feliz instalado parta siempre en este presente insoportable», dijo.

Aquella noche, Gala se refería a los sinsabores de su matrimonio con más tristeza que otras veces. Me hablaba de zanjas que se abren de pronto entre dos personas y que ya no vuelven a cerrarse. Me hablaba de cansancio, de resignación y de silencio:

 «Ya no tenemos absolutamente nada que decirnos. Y así, día tras día».

Recordaba que, nada más conocerla en el canal de conversación virtual, me dijo que estaba casada y me preguntó si para mí aquella situación representaba un problema. Por supuesto que no lo era. Entre otras cosas, porque ella era una desconocida entonces, alguien que no me importaba.  Recordé aquellas palabras precisamente entonces, mientras experimentaba una rabia intensa. No podía comprender qué hacía Gala al lado de un hombre que no sabía valorarla. No podía soportar la idea de que se acostara con otro, noche tras noche, mientras yo la deseaba. Me había enamorado de ella.

Tal vez fue la rabia la que me impulsó a hablar. O tal vez los cuatro güisquis que me había tomado. 

«Ahora que estamos en el terreno de las confidencias —escribí en la barra de conversación— yo también quiero confesarte algo».

Fue entonces cuando le hablé de mi invisibilidad.

Respondió con un perplejo mutismo. Normalmente, apenas tardaba unos pocos segundos en teclear su respuesta. En aquella ocasión, adiviné que cribaba las palabras pero no encontraba la que quería. Me pareció oportuno matizar mi afirmación:

«No hablo en sentido figurado. Soy realmente invisible. Es una rara mutación genética que se da en algunos hombres de mi familia. Una tara incómoda, que no tiene cura».

Como había pensado, se mostró impresionada. Quiso conocer los detalles técnicos. Me preguntó cómo me las había apañado para estudiar, para encontrar un trabajo, para mantener relaciones sexuales, para vestirme. Le conté que vestirme nunca fue un problema, ahora que existen tejidos especiales para gente como yo. Lo mismo que estudiar. El diagnóstico médico propició que pudiera hacerlo a distancia, y obtuve, por cierto, un brillante expediente académico. Reconozco que buscaba impresionarla cuando le dije que fui un estudiante sobresaliente, el mejor de mi promoción. Y todo ello desde la enseñanza primaria hasta el doctorado, que superé sin ninguna dificultad. Fue natural que me dedicara a la investigación, como lo fue que me convirtiera en uno de los físicos más reputados en mi especialidad.

Le expliqué que jamás tuve que preocuparme por buscar trabajo ni por superar el inconveniente que suele afectar a los de mi condición, ya que nadie parece dispuesto a contratar a alguien de quien no puede saberse con absoluta seguridad dónde se encuentra. Sí, es cierto que hay indicios. Un observador agudo puede apreciar, por ejemplo, que allí donde me siento se produce una ligera deformación (apenas es visible en las superficies más duras, pero por el contrario en las blandas llega a resultar chocante para alguien no familiarizado con el fenómeno). Es más difícil no percibir que en mi puesto de trabajo los teléfonos se mueven («solos», dicen los ignorantes, faltando a la verdad), los bolígrafos esmeran su caligrafía sobre el papel o las piezas del teclado se hunden a buen ritmo mientras en la pantalla avanzan los signos tipográficos, como urgidos por una fuerza sobrenatural.

Gala debía de estar muy sorprendida. Si no hubiera habido motivos para ello, habría creído que estaba al teléfono o que, simplemente, había salido del canal por una urgencia. Es difícil diferenciar la estupefacción de la ausencia en una conversación que transcurre en una pantalla.

«De modo que en mi vida profesional no he encontrado grandes escollos», le dije, antes de añadir: «No puedo decir lo mismo con respecto al amor y al sexo. Los finales siempre me destrozan. Ahora mismo, sin ir más lejos estoy destrozado».

También supuse que aquella frase actuaría como señuelo. Gala se interesó de inmediato por lo que acababa de decirle. Quiso saber qué tipo de dificultades había encontrado. Me hice el remolón, argumentando que no me gusta hablar de ello (es rigurosamente cierto), pero cedí en cuanto ella insistió un poco.

«La mayoría de las mujeres no soportan la idea de acostarse con alguien a quien no pueden ver», tecleé, a la velocidad acostumbrada.

Me sorprendió la prisa que se dio en responder:

«Yo no soy de esas».

«Tal vez lo dices porque no me conoces en persona».

«No. Lo digo porque hace mucho que deseo conocerte y porque nada nuevo me asusta».

Por mi experiencia, nada hay mejor que plegarse a los deseos de una mujer.

           

* * *

 

Reservé la habitación 306 del Hotel Ritz. La elección no fue casual: nos conocimos en el canal de conversación virtual el tres de junio cuatro meses antes de nuestra primera cita. Cuatro meses de varias horas diarias de conversación. Elegí el Ritz no sólo porque quería impresionarla, sino porque allí trabaja un primo mío que me sirvió de cómplice. Llegué a la habitación un buen rato antes de la hora de la cita para preparar todos los detalles. Le pedí a mi primo que le entregara la otra llave de la habitación a la mujer que se presentara como señora Wells —Wells era mi seudónimo en el Chat. Mientras ella llegaba, yo creé un clima propicio: ausencia casi absoluta de luz, música suave, champán francés recién traído por el servicio de habitaciones y la cama sin abrir. No quería parecer impaciente ni causarle mala impresión.

Llegó puntual, abrió con su llave y se detuvo en mitad del diminuto pasillo.

—¿Hola? —saludó.

Le pedí que cerrara los ojos y obedeció al instante.    Me di cuenta de que sonreía y que era más bonita de lo que había pensado.

Acerqué mis labios a su hombro. La libré del bolso. Besé sus brazos desnudos. El dorso de su mano. Sus dedos; uno por uno. Probé el sabor de su piel, recorrí su antebrazo, me detuve en el codo. En un cambio audaz de sentido, avancé hacia sus pechos. Mi maniobra la estremeció. Creí que había llegado el momento de que mi boca buscara la suya. El beso duró más que su desconcierto. Ella buscó mis mejillas con sus manos y me tocó. Me recorrió despacio, con las manos muy abiertas, como una ciega. Enredó los dedos en mi pelo, acarició con suavidad mis hombros, amasó mi espalda, se detuvo en la nuez y en los párpados.

—Tu ceguera me hace visible —le dije.

—Tu voz… —contestó ella.

Esperé a que continuara, pero no lo hizo. La guié despacio hacia la cama y ella se dejó llevar. No apartamos la colcha.

Creo que no volvió a hablar hasta dos horas más tarde, cuando dijo:

—No quiero abrir los ojos nunca más.

           

* * *

 

Durante semanas nos citamos cada martes. El mismo día, la misma habitación, el mismo menú, el mismo rito de caricias y ceguera. Yo la esperaba dentro, en la penumbra y ella se acercaba a mí, preciosa y excitada.  La segunda tarde me sorprendió trayendo un antifaz de los que se utilizan para dormir. Lo llevaba en un bolsillo, y nada más traspasar el umbral, se lo colocó sobre los ojos, dejó el bolso en el suelo y proclamó:

—Estoy lista.

Cuando el sexo nos daba hambre, llamábamos al servicio de habitaciones y yo mismo la alimentaba. Ni siquiera para comer accedía a quitarse el antifaz. Yo le suministraba los alimentos en la boca, y ella me lamía los dedos para saborearlos al máximo. Me hablaba de sus conflictos en el trabajo, de aquella vida conyugal que sentía como el mayor error de su vida, de las aficiones para las que apenas tenia tiempo. A veces, sus palabras me transmitían una punzada de tristeza. Como cuando me dijo:

«Cuando estoy con mi marido, me siento como si fueras tú».

«¿Afortunada?», pregunté.

«No. Invisible».

Fue en una de esas charlas deleitosas en que supe que tenía algo que decirme. Lo supe por el modo en que fruncía la boca, por los gestos nerviosos, por sus titubeos al hablar, y también porque aquel día apenas me contaba nada de su trabajo, ni de su marido. Se pasó todo el tiempo hablando del viejo desván de su casa. Se había atrevido a subir, después de muchos años, y había descubierto un tesoro de cachivaches viejos. Me confesó que de pequeña solía pasar muchas horas en ese lugar, practicando sus juegos de niña solitaria y sin amigas. Que no había vuelto a poner los pies allí desde que se casó, en parte por miedo a lo que iba a encontrar y en parte porque le asustaba la idea de enfrentarse a la niña que había dejado de ser tanto tiempo atrás. Pero estaba contenta de haberlo hecho. El sitio, reparé, parecía entusiasmarla mucho más que su contenido. Estaba pensando en arreglarlo. Limpiarlo, tirar los trastos viejos y convertirlo en un estudio, la ilusión de su vida. Un rincón donde aislarse del mundo, donde dormir de vez en cuando —cuando el marido estuviera de viaje— mirando a las estrellas a través de la lucerna del tejado, un rincón donde soñar, donde vivir otra vida.

Yo llevaba un rato preguntándome por qué me contaba todo aquello cuando de pronto dijo:

—Ven a vivir allí. Es un lugar perfecto para nosotros.

Me dejó perplejo.

—Lo arreglaré para ti. Podremos estar juntos. No tendremos que continuar con nuestras citas clandestinas una vez a la semana.

Era una locura. Lo veo ahora como lo vi entonces. Un completo disparate. Pero ¿cuántas locuras han cometido los seres humanos por amor? ¿No es el amor, de las causas posibles para dejarse arrastrar hacia el delirio, la mejor de todas, la más irresistible? ¿Y no era aquella una oportunidad de oro para esconderme, para alejarme del lugar donde, en sólo unas horas, sería mejor que no permaneciera?

Ella no sabía nada de mí. En realidad, todo lo que estaba haciendo con ella era deshonesto. Engañarla, seducirla, aceptar su ofrecimiento, ver su propuesta como una tabla de salvación.

De pronto, lo vi todo claro: aquella desaparición me ofrecía la coartada que llevaba tanto tiempo buscando. Si es que alguien como yo necesita alguna vez una coartada a la hora de planificar un desenlace.

 

* * *

 

No fue inmediato. Le dije que tenía algunas cosas que resolver antes de mudarme. Que un hombre no puede desaparecer así como así. Resolví mis asuntos, actué con rapidez profesional, fingí que me iba de viaje a algún lugar lejano y me esfumé. Puede que este modo de hablar sorprenda a quienes creen que alguien invisible no puede esfumarse. Es un error: en el mundo que nos ha tocado vivir, nadie es completamente invisible. Ni siquiera yo.

Cinco semanas después de la propuesta de Gala, estrené el desván, recién convertido en estudio. Estaba aún fresco el olor del barniz, y todo tenía ese aire de novedad tan cargado de esperanza. Lo mejor fue que no me sentí extraño en ningún momento. Hasta allí arriba apenas llegaban los ruidos del mundo. De vez en cuando la paz se veía turbada por algún bocinazo que parecía venir de otra dimensión. Por lo demás, allí sólo se escuchaban con claridad los pájaros que anidaban en el tejado.

Mi anfitriona había instalado para mí un amplio sofá, donde pasaba las noches leyendo hasta tarde y las mañanas haciendo el amor con ella, que jamás entraba sin llevar su antifaz bien colocado sobre los ojos. Se la veía feliz como una niña. Tenía mejor color, una amplia sonrisa siempre dibujada entre sus mejillas y un tono de voz tan cantarín que me recordaba a aquellos pájaros que vivían conmigo en las alturas.

—Mi marido no sospecha nada. Ni siquiera se interesa por ver las reformas que he hecho aquí.

No quise desengañarla contándole que el marido había estado allí. Por fortuna, la madera del último tramo de la escalera crujía tanto que te daba tiempo a prepararte si alguien subía. La primera vez me quedé quieto en mitad de la habitación, deseando que no fuera de esas personas con una sensibilidad tan aguda que percibe cuanto pasa a su alrededor, aunque sus sentidos no se lo confirmen. No era de esos. Entró, echó un vistazo circular, cerró la ventana que yo había abierto, pareció dar su aprobación a las reformas que había llevado a cabo su esposa y se dirigió de nuevo a la puerta. Cuando ya se iba, volvió sobre sus pasos. Reparó en el libro que yo estaba leyendo —de Caballero Bonald— y que acababa de dejar sobre el sofá, lo inspeccionó, lo abrió por una de sus páginas centrales, como calibrando aspectos concretos, y decidió llevárselo consigo.

No tenía ni idea de que le interesaba la poesía.

Cuando ellos estaban en casa, los rumores de su vida doméstica me llegaban como desde otro mundo: tintinear de platos, rugir de sordos motores eléctricos, pasos avanzando con prisa por los pasillos, retazos silbantes de conversaciones y la alegría un poco infantil de la televisión siempre encendida, como si ninguno de los dos se supiera capaz de soportar el silencio que amenazaba sus vidas cuando todos los aparatos callaban. Por las noches, el marido se acostaba temprano y ella subía al desván, decía que a leer.

Era estimulante hacer el amor en un silencio absoluto, procurando que nada alertara al marido engañado, que dormía sólo un piso más abajo. Ella solía subirme la cena, y se quedaba casi hasta el amanecer, charlando en susurros.

Bajaba cinco minutos antes de que sonara el despertador en su habitación. A veces podía escuchar sus excusas:

—Me he quedado dormida arriba, qué tonta soy.

El marido refunfuñaba, pero enseguida olvidaba los reproches para volver a sus prisas.

* * *

Sólo de vez en cuando me animaba a salir de mi guarida. Cuando ninguno de los dos estaba en la casa, me gustaba deambular por las habitaciones, observar el desorden, picar algo de la nevera, arrancar flores muertas de las plantas del jardín. Lo hice a menudo durante los primeros días, cuando sentía necesidad de ver las noticias de la televisión (nada te ofrece una idea más aproximada de la dimensión de un suceso que verlo narrado en un informativo televisivo). Luego, comencé a interesarme por el exterior. Sabía dónde estaban las llaves, y las tomaba a mi antojo —tenía el consentimiento de Gala—, daba una vuelta por el barrio, entraba y salía de diversos establecimientos y regresaba antes de que se hiciera tarde. En uno de esos paseos conocí a Miriam. Fue algo totalmente impremeditado, sorprendente. Ella miró hacia donde yo me encontraba, achinó los ojos, brilló un fulgor extraño en sus pupilas y mi corazón comenzó a palpitar más fuerte que nunca.

A medida que mis paseos se hacían más frecuentes, comenzó a costarme cada vez más mantener la pasión con Gala. La culpa no fue de ella, sino mía. Su entrega seguía siendo absoluta. Cuando el marido estaba de viaje, nos refugiábamos en el desván y nos olvidábamos del mundo. Pero ya no era tan intenso como antes, unas semanas atrás, cuando sus énfasis encontraban entre mis brazos justa correspondencia. En esa época de dudas, llegué a hacer cosas abominables. Reaccionar al crujido de los escalones que me anunciaban su visita con un fastidio desconocido. Aguantar la respiración, pertrecharme junto a una pared, procurar no mover ni un músculo y fingir que no estaba allí, observando su desconsuelo y su falsa soledad.

Recuerdo especialmente una de esas mañanas en que ella entraba, con los ojos vendados, la sonrisa preciosa y las manos extendidas, buscando en las tinieblas hasta encontrarme. Cuando vio que no respondía a su llamada con la fogosidad de siempre, se detuvo, se quitó el antifaz, observó el espacio, supuestamente vacío. La contrariedad afeó su rostro (la desilusión no sienta bien a las mujeres). Musitó algo. Un ronroneo, un quejido. Se quedó un par de segundos pensativa, observando las motas de polvo que caían lentamente, doradas por la luz solar. Y bajó de nuevo las escaleras.

La escuché llamar por teléfono, quedar con una amiga, citarse con ella en una cafetería. Volvió a subir al desván para cerciorarse. Volví a aguantar la respiración, a desear que no me presintiera, a dejar que creyera que había salido. Me fijé en que rastreaba el suelo, los sillones, las cortinas, en busca de algún vestigio, cualquiera, de mi presencia. Ella también desconfiaba. También comenzaba a darse cuenta de que el engaño podía ser algo más que un intruso entre nosotros.

Por aquella época, yo ya no sentía nada por Gala, además de un fundamentado agradecimiento. A pesar de que el desván seguía siendo el mejor escondrijo posible, comenzaba a añorar mi piso, mi calle, mi barrio residencial lleno de hombres que no se conforman con ser visibles y aspiran a la notoriedad. Un poco como me ocurre a mí, pero de otra forma. Ellos ambicionan dinero, posición, poder. Yo sólo aspiro a haber hecho algo realmente importante. Algo grande, que salga en las noticias. Ya sé que no es el estilo de vida ideal, pero es el mío, y ni entonces ni ahora estaba dispuesto a renunciar a él.

* * *

Suelo meditar mucho en los finales de las cosas. Terminar, bien o mal, es a veces muy fatigoso. Por eso procuro darle a todo el remate que merece para que el remordimiento no me persiga después, en mis noches de insomnio. No me habría perdonado darle a Gala un final que desmereciera la intensidad de la historia. Por eso pretendí que la última noche fuera inolvidable. Los años, y no sólo ellos, me han enseñado que un bello recuerdo desconsuela a una mujer al principio, pero luego le da el único de los consuelos posibles: el de creer que ha tenido la oportunidad de vivir algo único. Pensando en los recuerdos futuros de Gala, me esmeré en amarla mejor que nunca. Fingí la pasión que no sentía, susurré junto al oído las frases más cursis y jadeantes, le hice el amor varias veces antes de que anocheciera, tapándole la boca con dulzura cuando ella hacía amago de gritar, para que su marido no pudiera escucharnos. Cuando ya amanecía, ella volvió su rostro hacia mí y dijo:

—Todo lo que ocurre más allá de esta oscuridad y este silencio ha dejado de interesarme para siempre.

Sentí una punzada de temor, pero seguí adelante. Cuando la vi desaparecer, cinco minutos antes de que el despertador lanzara su estridente reclamo, supe que no habría una próxima vez.

* * *

Entonces regresé a mi casa. Durante mi ausencia, nadie había sospechado nada. La portera no había hablado de mí a la policía que durante unos días frecuentó la zona. En casa de la vecina muerta, se habían levantado ya los precintos policiales y sólo había albañiles y pintores. Renovarse o morir, ese es el lema que conduce nuestras vidas hacia la nada.

Debo confesar que durante unos segundos de aquella última vez acaricié la idea de matar también a Gala. La última posesión, el instante definitivo. En aquel momento, ella me lo habría agradecido, estoy seguro. Un cuchillo muy afilado y un cuello blanco y expuesto: el binomio perfecto. Luego la sangre. Hay que tener cuidado, las huellas podrían delatarme, como ocurrió con la vecina. Aunque soy todo un maestro y no debo cuidar sólo los finales: también debo prestar atención a los detalles, para que nada de aquello vuelva a suceder.

A Gala no la maté. Pensé que era mejor dejarla con su dolor, su muerte figurada, y la grandeza posterior de su propio resurgir de entre las cenizas. En el último momento, lo confieso, no sólo pensé en ella. Imaginé al infeliz del marido, solo y cargado de sospechas para el resto de su vida. No merecía ese destino. El pobre tipo, qué cosas, me caía bien.

Tal vez incluso pensé en mí. En mis noches de insomnio después de ver agonizar a Gala. Toda elección es en el fondo un acto de egoísmo.

Si nunca le hablé a Gala de Miriam fue para evitarle un dolor que no habría podido soportar. Habría querido saber qué tenía Miriam que ella no pudiera ofrecerme. En realidad, en lo esencial no se diferencian tanto. Ambas son fogosas, bonitas y discretas. Ninguna de las dos hace preguntas. Sin embargo, Miriam padece un extraño tipo de daltonismo, muy poco común, que le permite ver lo que otros no son capaces de ver.

A mí, por ejemplo.

Aunque nada de todo esto importa ahora. Lo único importante es el final. El de mi vecina, que también era fogosa, pero no era discreta. El de mi historia con Gala. El de Miriam, en el que estoy comenzando a pensar, con el tiempo que precisa toda buena historia.

Es hermoso saber, o a mí me lo parece, que al final de todo siempre está lo invisible.

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