Breathing Through the Wound Read online

  Eduardo blushed. He stood, intending to walk away, to put some distance between them.

  Why don’t you just mind your own business? he thought, staring daggers at the kid.

  The young man seemed unperturbed by this reaction. There is an odd silence between strangers, one that seems to say so much without pronouncing a single word.

  “Do I know you?” Eduardo finally asked.

  The boy didn’t nod, didn’t bat a single eyelash on his face. But his statuesque calm gave Eduardo the answer he was searching for.

  The train stopped at the platform. The boy’s eyes flitted momentarily toward the cars, and he stood. Smiling as though bemused by the middle-aged man, a man who despite his age seemed unable to make sense of something obvious.

  Eduardo watched him walk to the car’s open doors. He didn’t realize, until the train had already pulled out of the station, that the boy had left his Chinese cat there on the bench.

  * * *

  —

  He found Graciela behind the desk in the lobby of their building. She sat reading a fashion magazine by the light of a small lamp, its reflection giving her face a nocturnal-butterfly air. Dressed in worn jeans and a wrinkled, short-sleeved shirt with a tiny coffee stain at the collar, she had her legs crossed and was jiggling one clog back and forth in the air. When she saw Eduardo walk in, she raised her pointy chin and put the magazine to one side.

  “I waited for you, so we could have our coffee.”

  Eduardo fidgeted pointlessly with the collar of his shirt. The memory of Graciela’s amputated breast troubled him.

  “Sorry. Olga asked me to go see her at the gallery. She wants me to do a series of sketches—the anonymous faces of Madrid.” In the fictional world he’d invented for others, Eduardo was still a somewhat renowned painter, preparing a monograph he was planning to exhibit at one of Olga’s galleries. Sure, it was a lie, but one credible enough to hold up, provided people didn’t ask too many questions.

  “Have you had dinner? I could make something. I don’t feel like eating alone, and you shouldn’t go to bed without some hot food inside you,” she dove right in, not giving him time to think it over.

  Eduardo tried to act friendly. Graciela didn’t interest him in the slightest, he had no intention of becoming yet another of her failures. But there was no need for sincerity. Sometimes the truth is nothing but an excuse to be cruel.

  “I’m really tired. All I want is to go to bed.” In actual fact, he was thinking of the half-empty bottle on the dresser in his bedroom. “Maybe another night.”

  Graciela rubbed her forehead wearily. Her hair was cropped short, the color faded, roots growing in, revealing the gray she was trying to hide. She sighed, flaring her red-veined nostrils.

  “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? That’s no way to solve whatever problem you’re trying to solve,” she remarked.

  Eduardo had no desire to argue with Graciela, so he changed the subject.

  “So. How’s Sara doing?”

  “She had a bad night, but she’s asleep now. It’s funny—the first thing she did when she got up this morning was to ask about you. I don’t know why, but she’s really fond of you. You should stop by more often.”

  Eduardo nodded. He, too, felt something like fondness for his landlady’s daughter. She was thirteen, just a year younger than Tania had been when she died.

  “Give her this when she wakes up.”

  “A Chinese lucky cat?” Graciela asked, surprised.

  Eduardo shrugged.

  “This weird guy left it on the metro. I thought Sara might like it.”

  She glanced at the figure with little interest.

  “I suppose so; you both seem to like weird things. Come on over if you change your mind.”

  Eduardo wasn’t going to change his mind. They both knew that.

  TWO

  The gallery was located in the basement of an old building where the smell of wet ashtray and old furniture hung in the air. A few people were poking around, looking at the works on display. Olga was wandering, not showing much real interest in any of the paintings. The most she did was purse her lips in curiosity if one of them caught her attention, which, truth be told, seemed somewhat scattered.

  Where the fuck are you, Eduardo? she thought. He was the damn artist, for God’s sake, he was supposed to be there. When he finally walked in, thirty minutes late, she shot him a look—half-annoyed, half-aghast. Eduardo had arrived in shirtsleeves, unshaven. His hair was a mess and the bags under his eyes looked like two bottomless pits.

  “You look like crap. And you’re late, to boot.”

  “Isn’t that to be expected from drunks?” he replied sarcastically. Sarcasm was a luxury he afforded himself only with his dealer.

  “Don’t act all wounded with me,” she scolded, expelling a puff of air from the corner of her mouth as if she was smoking.

  To some men, a woman as smart, beautiful, and as sure of her beauty as Olga was off-putting; it made them insecure, and they found it distasteful. Olga was the embodiment of all male fears. At five-foot ten, her tight pants revealed narrow hips and strong quads. She was an active woman with an air of self-sufficiency, and a certain masculinity about her. The virility in her look led many people to profile her, assuming she was a lesbian. She was a sci-fi brunette, with a somewhat robotic expression that was accentuated by her haircut—very short, almost shaven at the back, but with long bangs that hung down in front and covered her eyes; her hair color changed in the light, sometimes gray and sometimes blue, and she had the inscrutable face and slightly irked countenance of those prone to frustration. The overall impression she gave off was one of aloofness.

  Eduardo looked at the people nosing through the paintings. Just a handful of loafers who’d sought refuge from the rain and were waiting for it to abate.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken me on. It seems my paintings aren’t exactly wowing the public.”

  Olga frowned.

  “It’s been a while. People need time to remember who you were.”

  Eduardo stared at his hands as though someone had just sewn them onto his wrists. At some point, a permanent disconnect had formed, a gulf separating his fingers from his brain, like a short circuit inside him.

  “Wholesale portraits, that’s my thing now, Olga. I get paid by the canvas, you sell them to department stores. That’s my deal, I just produce them like churros on an assembly-line.”

  For some reason, Olga was intent on trying to coax Eduardo back to a stage of his life he was never going back to.

  “You’ve still got it, you still have the urge to create something important.”

  That wasn’t true. His time had passed. And the exhibition, showcasing older works that Olga had tracked down, was his swan song, his final moment of inspiration.

  At the time he’d done these canvases, the top art critics had been so taken by the portraits. Everyone seemed to swoon over what they saw as a hot young talent, barely twenty years old and capable of producing such groundbreaking work. They swore they’d never seen anything like it. Claimed nothing about it was traditional, hand-me-down, derivative, copied. It was all part of some indecipherable personal mythos. In these paintings, Eduardo had laid himself bare in a way that seemed brazen—even the feverish titles of his works were proof of that. Demiurge: God, in an apartment on the Costa Brava, overlooking the Gulf of Rosas, slitting his wrists with a razor. Hippocampus: a cross-sectioned brain pinned open, laid out on a dish before a television set. Zephyr: a naked woman, in a distorted heap at the bottom of a cliff…They were disconcerting, almost as disconcerting as the attraction the public seemed to feel for them back then, stunned at the depth of his sorrowful depiction of the models, their visceral pain reproduced in broad charcoal strokes that were as thick as the darkness of their expressions, their contorted bodies, all intensely depressin
g and black as night. Everyone wanted to know where on earth that painter had come from.

  Olga pointed to a small oil painting hanging in an out-of-the-way corner beneath a poorly illuminated arch: a woman hanging from a rope, eyes cast down at the chair she’d used to hang herself from a wooden beam. She looked desperate to put her feet back on the chair, repentant for what she’d just done. You could see the panic on her face, but it was too late. The painter refused to save her.

  “I think that one’s got a lot of promise. I’m going to try to sell it to an English art house. They find it quite suggestive. What do you think?”

  Eduardo focused on the painting: it was dramatic—the predominant use of ochre tones added to the sense of drama, as did the depth of the woman’s expression, the torque of her body. Emotions translated into irreversible acts by desperation and sorrow. A painting no one would ever buy.

  “People still wonder why you suddenly just stopped painting. You haven’t lost your exceptional talent; you have a phenomenal hand—so plastic, so exact. These paintings, the visions they capture, they’re so beautiful that they’re…”

  “Repulsive?” Eduardo finished the sentence for her, with resignation.

  “Sometimes you really are a pain in the arse, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Olga pulled out a business card and showed it to Eduardo. It was printed on roughly textured, expensive paper, in a calligraphic font, with plenty of curlicues.

  “I think I’ve got something that’s going to be really good for you this time. A very important woman willing to pay what your talent merits. Interested?”

  Eduardo nodded, but it was halfhearted. The truth of the matter was, he earned enough to get by just doing the commissions, and he had no further aspirations. He was assiduous, but not passionate, about doing what Olga asked of him; he delivered his canvasses on time and didn’t charge too much—so one way or another he was muddling through.

  He read the card: Gloria A. Tagger.

  “Who is she?”

  “Seriously? You don’t know? Doesn’t it even ring a bell?”

  But she could tell from Eduardo’s expression that he was in the dark on this one.

  “Only one of the most prestigious violinists in the world. And she’s married to Ian Mackenzie, the film director. You know, the guy who made What Your Name Conceals. Documentary about the post—World War II Jewish diaspora; they say it was inspired by his wife’s life.”

  “Sorry to say, classical is not my cup of tea. I’m quite happy with the record collection I have already. And as far as film goes, I’ve been out of circulation too long.”

  Olga stared at him like he was an extraterrestrial.

  “Gloria A. Tagger showed up at the gallery in person a couple of weeks ago. I was closing, but I offered to help her. I felt this force of attraction from the first moment; she walked into the gallery and suddenly she just commanded the entire space, you know what I mean? She’s the kind of person who fills everything with her presence, without saying or doing a thing—an act of will, and class. You can tell she got used to having people admire her a long time ago. When I asked what she was looking for, so I could help point her in the right direction, she seemed a little disappointed, took a disinterested glance around and refused to have a seat or even take off her coat.”

  “Did she at least buy something?”

  “No. She’d actually come to see you—see your work, I mean. Asked specifically to see your most recent portraits and I showed her some that hadn’t yet sold. She seemed to have an expert eye; examined them closely, though I was pretty sure she wasn’t a professional. But she asked the right questions about technique, focus, then asked to see the photos of the actual models. Thirty minutes later, she told me she wanted to hire you.”

  “Did you tell her I’m off the market?” Eduardo asked, adopting a sarcastic tone that did little to conceal the anxiety in his voice.

  Olga’s tight, frozen expression said that she’d been interrupted before she finished.

  “This is someone who could give you a second chance, Eduardo. Ever since you got out of Huesca you’ve done nothing but drink and squander your talents on people who couldn’t tell a Velázquez from a ‘Monkey’s Anisette’ poster. You can’t carry on like this. It’s gone on too long. Fourteen years is penance enough.”

  Eduardo made no reply, simply gazed off at some vague point in the distance. And Olga didn’t know how to read his hazy look.

  “So what did she propose?” he finally asked, cautious.

  “She didn’t say, just that it was a portrait. I’m telling you the woman really dug her heels in, kept repeating you were the only one she would talk to. But she gave me her card, and I promised you’d go see her first thing in the morning.”

  “Why would you make a promise you have no idea whether or not I’ll keep?”

  Olga smiled indulgently and raised both palms like a wall, fending off his predictable protests.

  “Because she left you an advance, and it was pretty damn substantial.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her trousers and showed him the check, dangling it between two fingers. “You know how much money this is? A shitload—and it’s just the first advance.”

  “You took her money? Why?”

  “Because I told her that you were a good professional, and that, whatever it was she wanted, you’d be up to the task.”

  “Then you lied.”

  Olga leaned close and pressed her lips to Eduardo’s jowly cheek. Cold lips that left an overly thick lipstick mark.

  “No. I didn’t. You’re very good, and you’re going to prove it to that filthy rich, high-society jezebel. And now, if you don’t mind, I have to get to work,” she said, scooting away. A Japanese couple, obviously tourists, were in need of her attention and so off she went to talk to them about one of Eduardo’s paintings.

  He silently commended the couple on their good taste. They were examining Strolling the Shore of Your Eyes. It was, no doubt about it, a beautiful canvas, one in which Elena strolled along a beach, one that captured the sea breeze in the movement of her dress.

  In his mind, he reached a hand out to stroke the memory of that August afternoon spent in Cadaqués: the north winds blew hard that day, hard enough to make walking on the beach problematic, and swimming any distance from the shore dangerous. The scent of wicker from the fruit basket blended in with that of lemons, espadrilles and the saltwater of the sea, as did the sound of the waves with the laughter of children playing ball games on the shore. After lying in the rocky cove, Elena strolled a few yards away, staring out at the ocean. She must have been lost in the horizon, trying to capture it in the silence, her often headstrong silence. They could have gone on like that forever, Eduardo thought, watching her: immersed in their own easy silence, no friction, protected by the magnificent sun, the pine trees, the cove, their complicit quiet, each in their own world, feeling sheltered by the other. Naturally, that desire was impossible from its very conception, but still it was marvelous to contemplate.

  “Eduardo? You okay?” Olga’s voice was as corrosive as turpentine. He was standing at the door, hand on the knob, but hadn’t yet managed to leave, his eyes glued to the lithograph, which still lay on the counter—but now the image of Elena had gone still once more, and the Japanese tourists had disappeared.

  No. He wasn’t okay—but he forced a smile before saying goodbye.

  “I’ll go see her tomorrow, but I’m not making any promises.”

  * * *

  —

  He downshifted shortly before reaching the turnoff to the back road. Off to the right, beyond the shoulder, he could see an overturned truck, its tires spinning in the air—the dust had not yet settled. The accident must have taken place just a few minutes earlier. If Eduardo had been driving any faster, he surely would have been involved in it. Coincidence had
always played a decisive role in his life.

  “What happened?” he asked the traffic cop.

  “What—you can’t see?” the officer replied grudgingly.

  The truck had been transporting a load of hogs headed for the municipal slaughterhouse. When it overturned, they had gotten trapped in the tangled steel of the cages, or thrown out and crushed in the surrounding vicinity. The worst thing about it, though, was the sound of the squealing of those dying pigs. Their cries were atrocious, and they pierced Eduardo’s brain like knives cutting right through his nerves.

  “For the love of God, can’t you shoot the poor animals and put them out of their misery?”

  The cop eyed him, his face the picture of impotence.

  “We have to wait for the company’s vet to arrive. If we do it ourselves, we’ll almost definitely be reported for destroying merchandise.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  The man shrugged in defeat.

  “We live in an absurd country.”

  “How long is traffic going to be stopped?”

  Now he glanced carelessly at his watch.

  “Hour. Maybe two.” He may as well have said a month, a year.

  Eduardo opened the glove compartment and pulled out a piece of paper, which he showed the officer.

  “I’m looking for the Mayoral complex, a house on Calle Doctor Ochoa.”

  The officer glanced at him with slight surprise, just a flutter of the eyelids that morphed into his enunciating more clearly, adopting a slightly more formal demeanor, suddenly straightening his shoulders, setting his chin. The rich always make the poor uneasy—and even though the guy didn’t look like a banker, you could never tell.

  “It’s not far. If you take that dirt road, you can cut across a hill where you’ll see a few holes from the golf course. When you get to the guard’s booth they can tell you exactly where the street is. Thing is, you’ll have to walk. That road’s got sinkholes like you wouldn’t believe and you’ll never make it in that SUV. Either that, or you wait for traffic to get moving again—the turnoff to the complex is less than two kilometers away.