Read Kiss of the Spider Woman Online
Authors: Manuel Puig
Tags: #Regional.Latin America, #Fiction.Magical Realism, #Fiction.Literature.Modern, #Acclaimed.Horror 100 Best.Index
Kiss of the Spider Woman (15 page)
—Why the nasty tone?
—Never mind, when you’re better we’ll talk about it.
—Agh . . . aghhh . . . I’m sorry . . . Ugh, what am I doing? . . .
—No no, don’t wipe yourself on the sheet, wait . . .
—No, stop it, not your shirt . . .
—Yes, take it, wipe yourself. Keep away from the sheet; you’ll need it so you don’t catch a chill.
—But it’s your change of clothes, you won’t have any shirts left . . .
—Take it, wait, lift yourself, not that way, that’s it, careful, wait, so it doesn’t get on the sheet.
—It didn’t, did it?
—No, just on your shorts. Come on, let’s go, off with them.
—I feel embarrassed . . .
—There you are, slowly, careful . . . perfect. Now the difficult part, wipe yourself with the shirt.
—I’m ashamed . . .
—Weren’t you the one who said you have to be a man? . . . So what’s this business of being embarrassed?
—Roll them up good . . . the shorts, so it doesn’t smell.
—Don’t you worry, I know how to take care of things. See, like this, all wrapped up inside the shirt, which is easier to wash than a sheet. Take some more paper.
—No, that’s yours, you won’t have any left for yourself.
—You don’t have any, come on, don’t be proud . . .
—Thanks . . .
—Forget it, come on now, finish wiping yourself and relax a little, you’re trembling.
—I’m enraged. I’m so enraged I could cry, enraged at my fucking self.
—Now, now, calm down, why do you have to keep picking on yourself, you’re crazy . . .
—Yes, I’m crazy all right, with rage, for letting these bastards lock me up.
—Try and relax.
—Ah, that’s smart . . . The newspaper around the shirt so the smell won’t escape . . . right?
—Good idea, isn’t it?
—Uh-huh.
—Try and relax, and keep yourself covered.
—Mmm-hmm, tell me a little more now, about that film.
—I can’t even remember where I was at.
—You were just asking me about my mother.
—Yes, but with the film I don’t remember where I stopped.
—I don’t know why I never talked to you about my mother. I don’t know much about yours, but I can picture her somehow.
—As for me, I can’t picture your mother one bit.
—My mother is the kind of woman who’s very . . . very difficult, that’s why I don’t talk about her much. She’s never liked my ideas, she believes she’s entitled to everything she owns, her family has always had money, and a certain social position, you know what I mean?
—Upper-crust like.
—You might say that, not the very top, but upper-crust, yes. She eventually separated from my father, and now he died just two years ago.
—A little like the film I’m telling you.
—No . . . you’re crazy.
—Well then, more or less.
—Not at all. Aghhh . . . hurts so much . . .
—You like the film?
—I can’t concentrate. But go on, finish it quickly.
—Then you don’t like it.
—What happens finally? Tell me in a few words, the gist of it, how it ends.
—Well, the kid latches onto this woman, a little older than him, and she thinks he’s just interested in her money, to make himself a new racer, and at this point suddenly he has to return to his own country, because his father, who also went back himself in the meantime, has been kidnapped by guerrillas. And the kid makes contact with them, and convinces them how he’s for the same cause, and when she finds out he’s in real danger, the woman, the European one, goes to look for him, too, and they save the father in exchange for a lot of money, but when the moment arrives for the father to be freed, and the kid, too, because he’s taken his father’s place without the guerrillas realizing anything about it, anyway there’s a mixup and they’re about to kill the kid because they discover the trick, but the father intercedes and they kill the father. Then the kid prefers to remain there with the guerrillas, and the woman goes back all alone to her job in Paris, and the parting is really sad, because the two of them actually love one another, but each one belongs to a different world, and ciao, The End.
—And what way does it seem the same?
—The same as what?
—As my situation. What you said about my mother.
—Oh, nothing, just that the mother comes out very well dressed to meet him, when the kid returns home to where all those coffee plantations are, and she asks the kid to go back to Europe, oh, and I forgot to tell you how when at the end they free the father there’s a shootout with the cops, and the father is mortally wounded by them, and the mother reappears, and they end up together, the son and the mother I mean, because the other woman doesn’t stay, the one who loves him, she goes back to Paris.
—You know something, I’m beginning to feel sleepy.
—Then take advantage of it and get some sleep.
—Yes, let me try to sleep a little.
—And if you feel bad, no matter what time it is, wake me.
—Thank you, you’ve had a lot of patience with me.
—Nonsense, get some sleep. Forget it.
—Nightmares, all night long.
—What were you dreaming?
—I don’t remember at all. It’s that my system is still messed up, but it’ll go away soon.
—Hey, you’re eating too fast! On top of which you’re still not well at all.
—I feel so ravenous, and my nerves are jumpy, too.
—Honestly, Valentin, you shouldn’t eat. You should have a special diet today.
—But I feel like I have a gigantic hole in my stomach.
—At least stretch out a little now that you’ve finished eating all your rice glue, don’t start to study.
—But I wasted all morning by sleeping.
—Whatever you want. I’m just telling you something for your own good . . . If you want, I’ll talk to help pass the time.
—No thanks, I’m going to see if I can read.
—Know something? If you didn’t tell your mom that she can actually bring food to you each week . . . then you’re a fool.
—I don’t want her to feel obligated, I’m here because I asked for it, and she’s got nothing to do with it.
—My mother doesn’t come because she’s sick, you know?
—No, you didn’t tell me.
—They told her she can’t get out of bed for anything, on account of her heart.
—Oh, I didn’t know, I’m terribly sorry.
—That’s why I’m almost out of provisions, besides which she doesn’t want anyone else to bring me things; she thinks the doctor is going to give her permission from one minute to the next. But in the meantime I’m screwed, because she doesn’t want anyone except herself to bring me the food.
—And you think she’s not going to get well?
—Oh, I don’t give up hope, but it’ll take months at least.
—If you were out of here, she’d get better, right?
—You’ve read my mind, Valentin.
—It’s logical, that’s all.
—But look, you’ve cleaned off your plate, you gobbled everything up, that’s just crazy.
—You’re right, now I feel so full I think I could explode.
—Stretch out awhile.
—I don’t want to sleep; I had nightmares all last night and then this morning too, every second.
—I told you the end of the picture already, so it’s no fun now if I go on telling the rest.
—The pain’s coming back, this is unbelievable . . .
—Where does it hurt?
—In the pit of my stomach, and lower down in my intestines, too . . . ugh . . . it’s awful . . .
—Just relax, try to listen to me, it’s probably all nerves.
—Agh, Molina my friend, it’s just like having someone punching holes in your guts.
—Should I call to let us out to the john?
—No, the pain is higher up, as if something’s burning my insides out, something in my stomach.
—Why don’t you try to vomit?
—No, if I ask to go to the john they’ll send me off to the infirmary.
—Vomit in my sheet then, wait, I’ll fold it, and you can throw up into it, afterwards we’ll wrap it up tight and there won’t be any smell.
—Thank you.
—Forget it, come on, put your fingers down your throat.
—But you’ll be cold later on, without a sheet.
—No, the blanket covers me okay. Come on, throw up.
—No, wait, it’s subsiding a little now, I’m going to try to relax . . . like you told me, to see if it passes.
—a European woman, a bright woman, a beautiful woman, an educated woman, a woman with a knowledge of international politics, a woman with a knowledge of Marxism, a woman with whom it isn’t necessary to explain it all from A to Z, a woman who knows how to stimulate a man’s thinking with an intelligent question, a woman of unbribable integrity, a woman of impeccable taste, a woman of discreet but elegant dress, a woman who’s young and at the same time mature, a woman who knows a good drink, a woman who knows how to order a meal, a woman who knows the right wine, a woman who knows how to entertain at home, a woman who knows how to give orders to her servants, a woman who knows how to organize a reception for a hundred people, a woman of poise and charm, a desirable woman, a woman who understands the problems of a Latin American, a European woman who admires a Latin American revolutionary, a woman more preoccupied nonetheless with Paris automobile traffic than with the problems of some colonized Latin American country, an attractive woman, a woman who won’t be shaken by the news of someone’s demise, a woman who is capable of hiding a telegram for hours with the news of the death of her lover’s father, a woman who refuses to quit her job in Paris, a woman who refuses to accompany her lover on a trip back to the jungle coffee region, a woman who goes right back to the daily routine of busy Parisian executive, a woman who nonetheless finds it difficult to forget true love, a woman who knows what she wants, a woman who has no regrets about her final decision, a dangerous woman, a woman who is capable of quickly forgetting, a woman with the power to forget what would have only become a burden, a woman who could even forget the death of a fellow who returns to his own country, a fellow who’s flying back to his own country, a fellow who from up in the sky observes the azure mountains of his country, a fellow moved to tears, a fellow who knows what he wants, a fellow who hates the colonialists in his country, a fellow ready to sacrifice his life in defense of principles, a fellow who cannot comprehend the exploitation of the workers, a fellow who’s seen old peons tossed out into the street because they’re no longer useful, a fellow who remembers peons imprisoned for robbing the bread they couldn’t afford and later turned to drink to forget their own humiliation, a fellow with an unshakable faith in the precepts of Marxism, a fellow with his mind made up to enter in contact with guerrilla organizations, a fellow who from up in the sky observes the mountains certain of his forthcoming meeting with the liberators of his country, a fellow who’s afraid of being taken for an oligarch, a fellow who ironically enough could be kidnapped by the guerrillas in hopes of a ransom, a fellow who gets off the plane and embraces his widowed mother dressed there in strident colors, a mother without tears in her eyes, a mother respected by an entire nation, a mother of impeccable taste, a mother of discreet but elegant dress inasmuch as there in the tropics those strident colors are appropriate, a mother who knows how to give orders to her servants, a mother who finds it difficult to look her son in the face, a mother with some kind of problem on her mind, a mother who walks with her head held high, a mother whose straight back never touches the back of a chair, a mother who since her divorce has been living in the city, a mother who at the request of her son accompanies him to their old coffee plantation, a mother who now recalls in her son’s presence various anecdotes of his childhood, a mother who manages to smile once again, a mother whose clenched hands manage to relax enough to caress her son’s head, a mother who manages to relive for a moment the better years of her life, a mother who asks her son to have a walk with her through the old tropical park which she designed so long ago, a mother of exquisite taste, a mother who beneath palm trees relates how her husband was executed by guerrillas, a mother who in a flowery thicket of hibiscus relates how her ex-husband shot an insolent servant and in that way provoked the revenge of the guerrillas, a mother whóse slender silhouette is outlined against a far-off blue sierra behind the coffee plantation, a mother who begs her son not to avenge the death of his father, a mother who begs her son to return to Europe even though it will mean their separation, a mother who fears for the life of her son, a mother who leaves unexpectedly to attend a charity event back in the city, a mother who from the comfort of her Rolls Royce pleads with her son to get out of the country, a mother who cannot conceal her nervous tension, a mother without apparent reason to be so tense, a mother who’s hiding something from her son, a father who’d always been kind with his servants, a father who’d attempted to better the condition of his peons through charitable acts, a father who founded a country hospital for peons in the region, a father who constructed dwellings for those peons, a father who used to argue bitterly with his wife, a father who rarely talked to his son, a father who never came downstairs to eat with his family, a father who never pardoned the strikes by his peons, a father who never pardoned the burning down of hospital and dwellings by a faction of dissident peons, a father who’d permitted his wife to divorce him on condition that she go live in the city, a father who refused to deal with any guerrillas whom he’d never forgiven for the burnings, a father who leased his fields to foreign investors and took refuge on the Riviera, a father who later returned to his properties for reasons known only to himself, a father who sealed his fate with a shameful stamp, a father who was executed like a criminal, a father who perhaps was a criminal, a father who almost certainly was a criminal, a father who covered his son with ignominy, a father whose criminal blood runs in his son’s veins, a peasant girl, a girl of Indian and white blood, a girl with all the freshness of youth, a girl with teeth yellowed by malnutrition, a girl of timid character, a girl who looks at the protagonist with rapture, a girl who delivers a secret message, a girl who notes with profound relief his favorable reaction, a girl who takes him that same night to rendezvous with an old friend, a girl who rides horseback admirably well, a girl who knows those mountain trails like the back of her hand, a girl who hardly speaks at all, a girl with whom he doesn’t know quite how to talk, a girl who in less than two hours leads him to the guerrilla camp, a girl who gives a whistle to summon the head of the guerrillas, a classmate from the Sorbonne, a classmate with a militant political stance, a classmate whom he hasn’t seen since then, a classmate convinced of the honesty of the protagonist, a classmate who’d returned to his country to organize subversive activities among the peasants, a classmate who’d managed in just a few years to organize a guerrilla front, a classmate who believes in the honesty of the protagonist, a classmate prepared to make an incredible revelation, a classmate who thinks he’s caught wind of a governmental conspiracy behind the dark episode which caused the death of the father and the overseer, a classmate who asks him to return to the plantation and unmask the guilty party, a classmate who perhaps is mistaken, a classmate who’s perhaps preparing an ambush, a classmate who perhaps needs to sacrifice a friend to continue the fight for liberation, a girl who takes him back to his mansion, a girl who doesn’t speak, a taciturn girl, a girl merely exhausted perhaps after a long day’s work and a long night’s ride, a girl who from time to time turns around and observes him with mistrust, a girl who possibly detests him, a girl who orders him to hold it, a girl who tells him to keep quiet, a girl who hears the distant echoings of a reconnaissance patrol, a girl who tells him to get down off his horse and wait a few minutes hidden in the bushes, a girl who tells him to wait for her quietly holding both horses by the reins while she scrambles up a rocky crag and has a look, a girl who returns and orders him to head back to a turn in the mountain trail, a girl who a little while later points to a natural cave where they can spend the night inasmuch as the soldiers won’t break camp until dawn, a girl who’s shivering with the cold in the damp cave, a girl of unfathomable intentions, a girl who’s capable of stabbing him in his sleep, a girl who without looking him in the face asks with a choked voice if she can lie next to him to keep herself warm, a girl who neither talks to him or looks up at him, a shy girl or a cunning girl, a girl with nubile flesh, a girl who lies there by his side, a girl whose breathing quickens, a girl who lets herself be taken in silence, a girl treated like a thing, a girl with whom you don’t need to say nice things, a girl with an acrid taste in her mouth, a girl with a strong odor of sweat about her, a girl who gets used up and then tossed aside, a girl to dump your semen into, a girl who’s never heard of contraceptives, a girl who’s exploited by her boss, a girl who can’t make you forget a sophisticated Parisian, a girl with whom there isn’t any desire to caress after the orgasm, a girl who relates how the ex-manager of the plantation raped her when she was just a kid, a girl who relates how the ex-manager of the plantation is currently very high up in government circles, a girl who asserts that this same man has something to do with the death of the fellow’s father, a girl who dares to say that the one who perhaps knows the most about everything is the fellow’s mother, a girl who reveals the cruelest fact of all, a girl who’s actually seen the fellow’s mother in the arms of the ex-manager, a girl with whom there’s no desire to caress after the orgasm, a girl who gets slapped and insulted for saying such horrible things, a girl who gets used up and then tossed aside, a girl who’s exploited by a cruel boss in whose veins runs the blood of an assassin
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