Yes. But she did something that counted as cheating. Ixtlan would understand and forgive her. At the end of the day, you had to take care of it, right?
Here’s what happened: unable to bear it any longer, she headed for Piccadilly Circus and sidled up to a hairy man. She took him back to her bedroom. She told him he didn’t have to pay. But he insisted and before going left a whole one-pound note on her bedside table! Though she did need the money. She was furious, however, when he didn’t care to believe her story. She showed him, almost waving it under his nose, the blood-stained sheet. He laughed at her.
On Monday morning she made up her mind: she’d no longer work as a typist, she had other talents. Mr. Clairson could go to hell. She’d walk the streets and take men back to her bedroom. Since she was good in bed, they’d pay her handsomely. She could drink Italian wine every day. She felt like buying a bright red dress with the money the hairy chap had left her. She’d let down her thick hair that was the most beautiful shade of red. She resembled a howl.
She had learned that she was quite valuable. If Mr. Clairson, that phoney, wanted her to work for him, it would have to be in some other capacity.
First she’d buy that low-cut red dress and then she’d go to the office, arriving on purpose, for the first time in her life, very late. And here’s what she’d say to her boss:
“I’ve had it with typing! Don’t play dumb with me! Want to know something? come to bed with me, you bastard! and another thing: pay me a high salary every month, you cheapskate!”
She was sure he’d go for it. He was married to a pale and insignificant woman, Joan, and had an anemic daughter, Lucy. He’ll live it up with me, that son of a bitch.
And when the full moon came—she would take a bath to purify herself of all those men to be ready for the feast with Ixtlan.
The Body
(“O corpo”)
Xavier was a belligerent and red-blooded man. Mighty strong, that man. He loved tangos. He went to see Last Tango in Paris and got awfully turned on. He didn’t get the movie: he thought it was a sex film. He didn’t realize it was the story of a desperate man.
On the night he saw Last Tango in Paris the three of them went to bed together: Xavier, Carmem and Beatriz. Everyone knew that Xavier was a bigamist: he lived with two women.
Every night it was one of them. Sometimes twice the same night. The odd one out would watch. Neither was jealous of the other.
Beatriz ate like a pig: she was fat and greasy. Whereas Carmem was tall and thin.
The night of the last tango in Paris was memorable for all three. By dawn they were exhausted. But Carmem got up in the morning, made a most sumptuous breakfast—with fat spoonfuls of thick cream—and brought it to Beatriz and Xavier. She felt groggy. She had to take a cold shower to pull herself together.
That day—Sunday—they had lunch at three in the afternoon. The one who cooked was Beatriz, the fat one. Xavier drank French wine. And he ate a whole chicken all by himself. The two women ate the other chicken. The chickens were stuffed with raisins and prunes tossed in manioc flour, all moist and good.
At six in the evening the three went to church. They resembled a bolero. Ravel’s bolero.
And at night they stayed home watching television and eating. That night nothing happened: all three were very tired.
And that’s how it went, day after day.
Xavier worked hard to support the two women and himself, their lavish meals. And sometimes he cheated on them both with a fantastic prostitute. But he didn’t mention it at home because he wasn’t crazy.
Days passed, months, years. No one died. Xavier was forty-seven years old. Carmem was thirty-nine. And Beatriz had just turned fifty.
Life was good to them. Sometimes Carmem and Beatriz would go shopping for super sexy nighties. And perfume. Carmem was more elegant. Beatriz, with her fat rolls, would pick out some little panties and a skimpy bra for those enormous breasts of hers.
One night Xavier didn’t come home until very late: the two women distraught. Little did they know he’d been with his prostitute. The three were in fact four, like the three musketeers.
Xavier came home with a bottomless hunger. And popped open a bottle of champagne. He was flush with vigor. He chatted enthusiastically with the two women, telling them that the pharmaceutical business he owned was making good money. And he suggested all three take a trip down to Montevideo, to a luxury hotel.
What a frenzy, packing the three bags.
Carmem brought all her complicated makeup. Beatriz went out and bought a miniskirt. They caught a plane. They sat in a row with three seats: he between the two women.
In Montevideo they bought whatever they wanted. Including a sewing machine for Beatriz and a typewriter Carmem wanted to learn how to use. She didn’t actually need anything, she was a poor wretch. She kept a diary: she’d write in the pages of her thick red notebook the dates Xavier sought her out. She’d let Beatriz read the diary.
In Montevideo they bought a cookbook. Except it was in French and they couldn’t understand a thing. The words looked more like dirty words.
Then they bought a recipe book in Spanish. And perfected their sauces and soups. They learned how to make roast beef. Xavier gained over six pounds and his bullish strength increased.
Sometimes the two women slept together. The day was long. And, though they weren’t homosexuals, they’d turn each other on and make love. Sad love.
One day they told Xavier about it.
Xavier quivered. And he wanted the two women to make love in front of him that night. But, on command like that, it all came to nothing. The two women cried and Xavier flew into a rage.
For three days he didn’t say a word to either.
However, during that time, and not on command, the two women went to bed together and it worked.
The three never went to the theater. They preferred television. Or going to dinner.
Xavier had bad table manners: he’d pick food up with his hands, make a lot of noise while chewing, besides eating with his mouth open. Carmem, who was more refined, felt disgusted and ashamed. The really shameless one was Beatriz who even went around the house naked.
No one knows how it began. But it began.
One day Xavier came home from work with lipstick stains on his shirt. He couldn’t deny that he’d been with his favorite prostitute. Carmem and Beatriz each grabbed a stick and chased Xavier all over the house. He ran in frantic desperation, shouting: sorry! sorry! sorry!
The two women, also worn out, finally stopped chasing him.
At three in the morning Xavier got the urge for a woman. He called Beatriz because she held less of a grudge. Beatriz, weak and tired, gave in to the desires of the man who was like a superman.
But the next day they informed him that they weren’t going to cook for him anymore. Let him work it out with the third woman.
The two would burst into tears every so often and Beatriz made them some potato salad with mayonnaise.
That afternoon the women went to the movies. They went to dinner and didn’t come home until midnight. To find Xavier despondent, sad and hungry. He tried to explain:
“It’s because sometimes I want it in the middle of the day!”
“Well,” said Carmem, “well why don’t you come home then?”
He promised he would. And cried. When he cried, it broke Carmem and Beatriz’s hearts. That night the two women made love in front of him and he was consumed with envy.
How did the desire for revenge begin? With the two women getting closer and despising him.
He didn’t keep his promise and sought out the prostitute. She turned him on because she talked dirty a lot. And she called him a son of a bitch. He took it all.
Until one fine day.
Or rather, one night. Xavier was sleeping peacefully like the good citizen he was. Th
e two women were sitting at a table, pensive. Each was thinking about her lost childhood. And they thought about death. Carmem said:
“Someday all three of us will die.”
Beatriz answered:
“And for no reason.”
They had to wait patiently for the day they’d close their eyes forever. And Xavier? What would they do with Xavier? He looked like a sleeping child.
“Should we wait till Xavier dies of natural causes?” asked Beatriz.
Carmem thought and thought and said:
“I think the two of us should take care of it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But we’ve got to figure it out.”
“Just leave it to me, I know what to do.”
And doing nothing was out of the question. Soon it would be dawn and nothing would have happened. Carmem made them some very strong coffee. And they ate chocolate until it made them sick. And nothing, nothing at all.
They turned on the transistor radio and listened to a heartrending piece by Schubert. It was a piano solo. Carmem said:
“It has to be today.”
Carmem led and Beatriz followed. It was a special night: full of stars watching them, sparkling and tranquil. What silence. Oh what silence. They went up to Xavier to see if they might get inspired. Xavier was snoring. Carmem really did get inspired.
She said to Beatriz:
“In the kitchen are two big knives.”
“So?”
“So there are two of us and we’ve got two big knives.”
“So?”
“So, dummy, the two of us have weapons and we can do what we have to do. God commands it.”
“Isn’t it better not to talk about God at a time like this?”
“You want me to talk about the Devil? No, I’m talking about God, the lord of everything. Of space and time.”
So they went to the kitchen. The two big knives were sharpened, made of fine, polished steel. Would they have the strength?
Yes, they would.
They were armed. The bedroom was dark. They stabbed in the wrong places, piercing the heavy blanket. It was a cold night. Then they managed to distinguish Xavier’s sleeping body.
Xavier’s rich blood flowed all over the bed, onto the floor, a waste.
Carmem and Beatriz sat at the dining room table, under the yellow glare of the bare bulb, they were exhausted. Killing requires strength. Human strength. Divine strength. They were sweaty, mute, despondent. If they could have helped it, they wouldn’t have killed their great love.
Now what? Now they had to get rid of the body. The body was big. The body was heavy.
So the two went out to the garden and with the help of two shovels, dug a grave in the ground.
And, in the dark of night—they carried the body out to the garden. It was hard because, Xavier dead seemed to weigh more than when he was alive, since his spirit had left him. As they carried him, they groaned with exhaustion and pain. Beatriz was crying.
They laid the big body in the grave, covered it with the damp, fragrant soil from the garden, good soil for planting. Then they went back inside, made more coffee, and were somewhat revived.
Beatriz, being a hopeless romantic—she was constantly reading pulp romances involving star-crossed or lost loves—Beatriz got the idea to plant roses in that fertile soil.
So they went back to the garden, took a cutting of red roses and planted it on the tomb of the late lamented Xavier. Day was breaking. The garden was kissed with dew. The dew was a blessing on the murder. That’s what they thought, sitting out there on the white bench.
Days passed. They bought black dresses. And hardly ate. When night fell sadness overtook them. They no longer enjoyed cooking. Out of rage, Carmem, the hot-tempered one, tore up the cookbook in French. She kept the Spanish one: you never know when you might need it.
Beatriz eventually took over in the kitchen. Both ate and drank in silence. The red rose cutting seemed to have taken root. A nice green thumb, good thriving soil. It had all worked out.
And that took care of the problem.
But it so happened that Xavier’s secretary wondered about his extended absence. There were urgent documents to sign. Since there was no phone at Xavier’s house, he came over. The house seemed bathed in “mala suerte.”* The two women told him Xavier was on a trip, that he’d gone down to Montevideo. The secretary didn’t entirely believe it but seemed to buy the story.
The next week the secretary went to the Police. You don’t fool around with the Police. At first, the Police hadn’t wanted to believe the story. But, confronted with the secretary’s persistence, they lazily decided to search the polygamist’s house. All in vain: no sign of Xavier.
Then Carmem spoke up:
“Xavier’s in the garden.”
“In the garden? doing what?”
“Only God knows.”
“But we didn’t see anything or anybody.”
They went out to the garden: Carmem, Beatriz, the secretary whose name was Alberto, two police officers, and two other men nobody knew. Seven people. Then Beatriz, without a single tear in her eyes, showed them the flowering grave. Three men dug it up, destroying the rose bush that suffered human brutality for no reason.
And they saw Xavier. He looked horrible, deformed, already half-eaten, eyes open.
“Now what?” said one of the police officers.
“Now we arrest those two women.”
“But,” said Carmem, “let us be in the same cell.”
“Look,” said one of the officers in front of the stunned secretary, “the best thing to do is pretend nothing happened or else it’s gonna stir up a lot of noise, a lot of paperwork, a lot of chatter.”
“You two,” said the other officer, “pack your bags and go live in Montevideo. Don’t give us any more trouble.”
The two women said: thank you so much.
And Xavier didn’t say a thing. There really wasn’t anything to say.
* Spanish: “bad luck, an evil spell.”
Via Crucis
Maria das Dores was scared. Oh she really was scared.
It began when she missed her period. That surprised her because she was very regular.
Two more months passed and nothing. She went to a gynecologist. The doctor diagnosed her as visibly pregnant.
“It can’t be!” cried Maria das Dores.
“Why not? aren’t you married, ma’am?”
“Yes, but I’m a virgin, my husband’s never touched me. First because he’s a patient man, second because he’s kind of impotent.”
The gynecologist tried to reason with her:
“Who knows, maybe one night you . . .”
“Never! oh never ever!”
“Well then,” the gynecologist concluded, “I can’t explain it. You’re already at the end of the third month.”
Maria das Dores left the doctor’s office completely in a daze. She had to stop at a restaurant and have some coffee. To try to understand.
What was happening to her? A surge of anguish seized her. But she left the restaurant feeling calmer.
On the street, on her way home, she bought a little jacket for the baby. Blue, since she was sure it was a boy. What would she name him? There was only one name she could give him: Jesus.
At home she found her husband reading the newspaper in his slippers. She told him what was going on. The man got scared:
“So that makes me St. Joseph?”
“Yep,” came the laconic reply.
They both fell into deep contemplation.
Maria das Dores sent the maid out to buy the vitamins the gynecologist had prescribed. They were for her son’s benefit.
Divine son. She had been chosen by God to give the world the new Messiah.
She bought a blue cradle. She started knitting little jackets and making cloth diapers.
Meanwhile her belly was growing. The fetus was energetic: it would kick her violently. Sometimes she called St. Joseph over to put his hand on her belly and feel how powerfully their son was alive.
St. Joseph would then get misty-eyed. This was a vigorous Jesus. She felt completely illuminated.
Maria das Dores told a close friend the breathtaking story. The friend got scared too:
“Maria das Dores, what a privileged destiny you have!”
“Privileged, indeed,” sighed Maria das Dores. “But what can I do so my son doesn’t follow the Via Crucis?”
“Pray,” her friend counseled, “pray a lot.”
And Maria das Dores started believing in miracles. Once she thought she saw the Virgin Mary standing by her side smiling at her. Another time she herself performed the miracle: there was an open wound on her husband’s leg, Maria das Dores kissed the wound. The next day there wasn’t so much as a trace.
It was cold, it was July. In October the child would be born.
But where to find a stable? Only if she went to a farm in the countryside of Minas Gerais. So she decided to go to Aunt Mininha’s farm.
What worried her was that the child wouldn’t be born on the twenty-fifth of December.
She went to Church every single day and, even with her big belly, would kneel for hours. As her son’s godmother, she had chosen the Virgin Mary. And as his godfather, Christ.
And that’s how the time passed. Maria das Dores had grown brutally fat and had strange cravings. Like eating frozen grapes. St. Joseph came along with her to the farm. And did his carpentry work there.
One day Maria das Dores overstuffed herself—she vomited a great deal and cried. And thought: it’s beginning, my holy son’s Via Crucis has begun.
But it seemed likely that if she named the child Jesus, he’d be, as an adult, crucified. It was better to name him Emmanuel. A simple name. A good name.