The Manual of Darkness (36 page)

She goes back and finds him exactly as she left him. She asks him something, anything that will make him go on talking, but she has stopped paying attention, stopped taking notes. He is sitting so close that she can smell his breath and, taking advantage of the fact that he is blind, even count the hairs sprouting from his ears. She need only stretch out her hand and she could follow the dark blue tracery of the vein beneath the pale skin of his forearm. She could feel his bones, the gaunt flesh, but not even this would chase away the thought that she is staring at a ghost: Víctor Losa, the finest magician in the world, the man who likes his women ‘al dente’, is dead. What remains, what is here before her very eyes, is the last vestige of his spirit, the remnants of a time long gone. A ghost. And the worst thing is, he knows it.

‘I think we’ll leave it there for today,’ she says suddenly. Not that she is giving up. She needs a little distance, needs to go home and go over her notes, to prepare a strategy. ‘We’re both exhausted. I’ll come at the same time tomorrow, if that’s OK with you,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll programme my number into your phone just in case.’

The phone is a Telefónica DOMOuno with large, well-spaced keys and additional buttons for memory and redial functions. It’s perfect. Alicia knows these things. She knows which phone models suit blind people. And when they’re not suitable, she knows how to customise them using DYMO labels. Shit, she knows a lot. She has studied everything there is to know about helping blind people improve their quality of life. It’s her job. But nobody ever said anything to her about ghosts.

She enters her home phone number. Thinks perhaps it would have been better to leave her mobile number, then dismisses the idea. That time will come and she’s in no hurry to become too
intimate. This is something else the training courses do not deal with: in less than two hours she has exchanged sweat with this stranger, she bears the imprint of his fingers on her elbow, has felt the warm haze of his voice, has even seen him walking naked, barefoot, wet from the shower. Admittedly, this happened only in her imagination, but … can there be anything more intimate than imagination?

‘If you need me, all you have to do is press “1” and hold,’ she tells him. She slings her bag over her shoulder. ‘In any case, one of these days, maybe even tomorrow morning, I’ll show you how to dial any number you like. It’s easy.’

Víctor has his back to her. He hasn’t moved. Alicia wants to leave.

‘Víctor,’ she calls, her voice weak and exhausted. ‘I’d like you to show me to the door.’

He hasn’t forgotten this lesson and matches his steps exactly to hers, but this time, rather than gripping her elbow, his hand barely grazes it, as though intent on confirming her suspicion that he is a phantasmagoria. The ultimate question, the one that might finally break down Víctor’s defences, the wall he has built around himself, occurs to her as she opens the door.

‘And what happens when the money runs out?’

He doesn’t answer. Leaning against the door frame, ready to close the door as soon as she leaves, he shrugs his shoulders and sighs.

‘Look, Víctor …’

She knows she shouldn’t push him. She does not want her words to force him to retreat even a millimetre farther into his lair. Quite the reverse, she wants to lure him out, to tempt him with something that might make him want to poke his snout outside. She tells him of genuine wonders: a French photographer who lost his sight in an accident but still managed to go on working, specialising in night-time scenes, spectacular full moons that now hang in galleries; a woman who spent months crying because she would never see her newborn son’s smile again, until the baby chuckled next to her ear, a giggle so contagious she laughed and laughed, tracing the child’s lips with her fingers: her rehabilitation began the following day. The last case she was involved with was that of a
sous-chef whose blindness was caused by macular degeneration. He went through hell, but now is about to open his own restaurant. There are many cases. If he is prepared to come to the group sessions at ONCE, he can meet these people himself.

He shouldn’t worry, she tells him. He has all the time in the world. Nobody is expecting miracles, or even radical changes. Just a series of small steps. A gradual evolution.

She is careful not to reproach him. On the contrary, she congratulates him on the extraordinary progress he has managed to make with no help. Tells him he deserves a lot of credit for being able to feed and dress himself. It’s an important step. In fact … Alicia pauses as though she needs to catch her breath, because she has been talking non-stop for several minutes now. She makes the most of this short silence to consider him again. Even if he genuinely wants to carry on as he is, never going out, never speaking to anyone, there are still things she can help him with. She decides not to mention the deplorable state of his beard, or his toenails, which are so long they would pose a serious problem if Víctor did decide to put on his shoes. But there are lots of things, she tells him, there’s a whole world within his grasp. Damn it, there’s pretty much nothing he can’t do if he is prepared to accept her help. That’s what she’s here for, to put herself in his place, to grope with him through the darkness and guide him back to the light. At this point Alicia recites a long list of of activities, including going to the cinema, to the beach, the theatre, to restaurants, hobbies of every kind, holidays, social events. But Víctor’s posture is telling: he is still standing with one hand on the door as though waiting for a pause so he can say goodbye and close it. It is obvious that, if he seems attentive, if he appears to be listening to her, it is only out of politeness, the way he might put up with some idiot selling encyclopaedias. Alicia realises this and hurries on, she knows she doesn’t have much time.

‘It’s up to you,’ she sums up. ‘But you have only two options. You can either take control of your life, or you can hole up here and disappear from the world, like Houdini.’

What a brilliant example. She feels proud of herself.

‘You’re right.’ Víctor cuts her short. ‘We’re both exhausted.’

And he gently closes the door. Alicia starts down the stairs, but
after only a few steps, she gives in to the weakness in her legs and sits down. She needs a few minutes to take stock. Her blouse is soaked with sweat. She wraps her arms around herself as though she might console herself with a hug. She feels awkward. If she were not sitting alone in the dark, she would swear there was someone behind her.

If she felt ‘al dente’ when she arrived, she is definitely overcooked by now. She finds it difficult to pinpoint why she feels she has failed. After all, for a first day, she could say that Víctor has made some progress. And she did not even have to fight. Perhaps that is the problem. She arrived armed for battle, with a whole army of gambits ready to be deployed, ready to lay siege to Víctor’s fortress, only to find the city burned to the ground and the sole surviving inhabitant, a ghost, entrenched behind a wall.

She sighs, grabs the banister and hauls herself to her feet, then glances back up the stairs and says: ‘That bastard isn’t going to make it easy for me.’ She hears a slight crack, as though Víctor has been standing behind the door all this time and has only now decided to close it. Alicia pictures him, his ear pressed to the door, motionless, silent. Sniffing the air. By the time she gets down to the entrance, she barely has the strength to lug her bicycle out through the front door. Her lips pressed tight, she shakes her head as she leaves.

Upstairs, Víctor rushes down the hall with astonishing speed, gets to the telephone, lifts the receiver and presses ‘1’.

A
licia stands in front of the bookshelf, head tilted to one side so she can read the spines. The idea of going back through her university books, reading up on theory, is something she can hardly bring herself to think about right now. But her indignation is stronger than her weariness. She cannot be so naive. She cannot show up at Víctor’s apartment tomorrow the way she did today, with nothing to protect her but her conviction that everything will turn out for the best. She needs to be better prepared. Someone, somewhere, must have described the place where this man is holed up, and how to reach him. Because no man is an island. And anyone who tries to be is forgetting that, at best, he is part of an archipelago. There is an established itinerary for reaching all the places men will hide. If Alicia did not believe that, she would give up her job today.

The blinking of the answering machine catches her attention. She’s been out of the house for only two hours and has six missed calls. Strange. She sits down, presses play and immediately recognises Víctor’s voice.

‘Look …
[A sigh, a long pause then, in a single breath]
Look, Alicia. I’m not stupid, I know everyone says “look” when they mean “listen”, but let’s see if you get this. I don’t like it when you say “look, Víctor”. I don’t know, it’s like shaking the stump of a one-armed man. It’s in poor taste, if you want to know the truth. But that’s not why I’m calling you. I’m phoning to ask you not to make predictions. It’s a long story and, since you’re so keen for us to sit down and talk, maybe I’ll even tell it to you one day. The thing is, I don’t like predictions. It messes me up when they come true. Maybe I am a bastard, but at least I have an excuse. And all right, maybe I’m not making things easy for you. You’d know, you
said it. And while we’re at it [
The voice, which sounded perfectly calm in spite of the complaints, breaks here
], while we’re at it, I’d like you to know that I don’t give a fuck about all the smiling babies in the world … or about full moons, especially full moons, because I had a couple in my eyes, full moons blinded me, and beaches, I don’t care about beaches, sunsets and sea horizons. I can’t remember what else you mentioned, but it doesn’t matter, because I don’t give a toss about all that picture-postcard bullshit. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really glad about all the progress your poor little blind people have made, honestly. I’m really happy for them.
[A beep indicates that the minute available for a message has elapsed. Alicia slumps back against the chair. She now suspects all six calls are from Víctor, whose voice rings out again]
Like I was saying, I’m happy for them. I hope your photographer gets to show his moon shots in every gallery on earth and your chef manages to prepare the menu every day without cutting off his fingers, but the truth is I just don’t give a shit. With all due respect, of course. There you are telling me about all the things I can do, when the only thing I want to do is see. I don’t know if you get the distinction, Alicia.
See
, Alicia. Ask your little chef to open a pod of fresh peas. Ask him, and watch his face as he’s doing it. I’m sure he’s capable of doing it, and of shelling the peas. I’m sure he could boil them or fry them or do whatever it is you’ve taught him to do. But what I want to do is see them. I assume you’ve shelled peas at some point in your life. There they are, inside, protected, then suddenly, along you come and crack, you squeeze the pod with your fingers and the peas exist. It’s a fucking miracle! A miracle of light, which until that very moment had never entered that place, but the moment your fingers split the pod, the light pours in and the peas start to quiver if you move your hand, even a little, they tremble as though their lives depend on the filament on which they are suspended, a minuscule thread almost impossible to see, but you can see it, you can fucking see it …
[These last words are rushed, as though Víctor has been counting the seconds, and doesn’t want the beep to cut him off in mid-sentence]
Where was I? Oh yes, peas. And eyes. Well, the brain actually. The neurologist explained the whole thing to me. It’s the brain that actually sees the light, sees the peas, sees the quivering. The only problem is
that in the middle there’s a nerve, get it? Looking is a nervous tic. And it’s one I’ve lost.
[A few seconds of silence, three deep breaths as though Víctor is doing his utmost not to lose control]
Anyway. Let me give you another example of the verb to see. You’re in a car, and you see a hand. There’s a man on the pavement, he has his back to you, he’s talking on the telephone, you rush past and all you see is the hand holding his mobile phone to his ear. What am I saying? Not even the whole hand, you see his knuckles and you keep on driving and you imagine the hand lighting a cigarette and days later or years later, that hand is beating eggs to make an omelette in your imagination, or in your brain to be precise, it points to tell you where to look or holds a gun and aims it at you, or takes a thorn out of your back, because it’s your lover’s hand, or your enemy’s hand, light, light made it possible for it to exist in your brain with absolute freedom. Your gaze, Alicia. A completely involuntary action that illuminates life. When that doesn’t happen, when an atrophied nerve turns out that light, all you have are memories. Nostalgia, which kills imagination. Oh, don’t tell me, things can evolve. One little step, then another. Everyone loves to think that we evolve towards a perfect state. But that’s bullshit. What we call evolution is decay. Latin decayed to become Spanish which decayed to become the thing we speak today, which doesn’t even have a name. Things that are perfect are born perfect, they don’t need to evolve. Like a spoon.
[Another beep. Message number four. Alicia is counting them]
Just so you know, I don’t care that I get cut off every minute. Make yourself comfortable, because what I’ve got to say to you I’m going to say however many messages it takes. You tell me I shouldn’t give up, I should be strong, I should face adversity head on, all that kind of thing. I get the impression you’re keen on films. Speaking of films, I suggest you get a DVD of
To Have and Have Not
. You’re probably too young to have seen it. Put it on, then close your eyes. When Lauren Bacall asks “Anybody got a match?” open them and watch. And think about … Don’t bother, it doesn’t matter. You won’t get it. You know what I really miss? Sorry for changing the subject but anyway … You know what I would pay anything to see again? A shadow. A fucking shadow! I bet that didn’t occur to you, did it? It’s the light you don’t see. And the brain understands that! Straight
off! In a millionth of a second. That stretch of wall you can’t see, your brain immediately tells you, that patch of negative light, that dark area in the shape of a tree when you can’t see a tree anywhere, means that the wall is here and the light is coming from behind it, it means the tree is there too. All that from a shadow!
[Penultimate beep. Alicia is sitting rigid in her chair. If Víctor was trying to insult her, he’s made a mistake. Because she is going to rewind this tape and play it over and over, listen to it until the words start to sketch out the map she has been searching for. Right now, she knows where she needs to start: enthusiasm. She has to find some way of focusing all the power, the energy that Víctor is spitting and sputtering into his calls and turn it to his advantage]
OK, that’s it. There’s just one more thing. Don’t ever ask me to have faith again. Faith in you, faith in rehabilitation. Jesus Christ, what an awful word. Just hearing it pisses me off. Faith is people believing without having seen. I’ve seen lots of things and I believe in them. And don’t tell me there’s hope. Hope takes up a lot of space and my world is small and fragile. It’s pathetic and bitter. It’s wretched, if you prefer. I just need you to know that, since you’re so determined to be a part of it. A world so narrow that the minute you try to turn round you trip over something. Oh, and if you ever say you only want to put yourself in my place again, I’ll staple your eyelids shut. That is my place.
[Abruptly the line goes dead and Alicia, surprised that Víctor didn’t use up the whole minute, gets up and goes over to the machine. As she does so, there is another beep and she hears the same voice, much calmer now]
I forgot one thing. Never mention Houdini again. Or if you have to, do your homework first. Houdini didn’t disappear. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories. Drowned in the Hudson river, suffocated in a trunk … None of that, please. He was crude, flashy, always boasting about how he could take a punch to the stomach. And his abs must have been strong because, after every show, he’d try to get members of the audience to punch him, made a fortune on bets that no one could knock him down. But one day, he was caught unawares. It was after a performance, people were having drinks in the dressing room and some bastard punched him right in the stomach when he wasn’t expecting it. Bye, bye, Houdini. Oh, and I’m sorry for that thing about stapling your eyes
shut. I know it sounded aggressive. Maybe your prediction is coming true after all. Anyway, I’m sorry. See you tomorrow.’