THE ROOM EXISTED in perpetual darkness. For years the drapes had been drawn, sewn together to prevent any hint of brightness from filtering through. The only source of light grazing the shadows was a copper wall lamp. Its dull ochre-coloured halo revealed the outline of a bed crowned by a canopy from which hung a diaphanous veil, behind which Mauricio Valls could perceive his wife Elena’s static figure. It looks like a hearse, Mauricio Valls thought as he peered at her silhouette.
She lay there motionless in the bed that had been her prison for the last decade, once it had become impossible to sit her in the wheelchair. As the years went by, the disease that was wasting her bones away had twisted Doña Elena’s skeleton, reducing it to an unrecognizable tangle of limbs in constant agony. A mahogany crucifix stared down at her from above the headboard, yet heaven, in its infinite cruelty, refused to grant her the blessing of death.
It’s my fault, Valls thought. He does it to punish me.
He could hear Elena’s tortured breathing through the echoes of the orchestra’s strains and the voices of the guests – over a thousand of them – who were downstairs, in the garden. The nurse on night shift rose from the chair next to the bed and walked quietly over to Valls. He couldn’t remember her name. The nurses watching over his wife never lasted more than two or three months in their job, however high their salary. He didn’t blame them.
“Is she asleep?” he asked.
The nurse shook her head. “No, Minister, but the doctor has already given her the evening injection. She’s been restless all afternoon. She’s better now.”
“Leave us.”
The nurse nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Valls moved closer. He drew back the gauze curtain and sat on the edge of the bed. Closing his eyes for a moment, he listened to Elena’s rasping breath while he absorbed the bitter stench emanating from her body. He heard the sound of her nails scratching the sheet. When he turned, with a false smile on his lips and the serene expression of calm and endearment frozen on his face, Valls discovered that his wife was looking at him with blazing eyes. The illness for which the most expensive doctors in Europe had been unable to provide a cure, or even a name, had deformed her hands and turned them into knots of rough skin that reminded him of the claws of a reptile. Valls took what had once been his wife’s right hand and confronted her glare, which flashed with anger and pain. Perhaps with hatred, Valls hoped. The very thought that the poor creature could still hold the slightest bit of affection for him or for the world seemed too cruel.
“Goodnight, my love.”
For almost two years now, Elena had all but lost the use of her vocal cords, and to form a word required a huge effort. Even so, she responded to his greeting with a guttural moan that seemed to stem from the very depths of the deformed body one could just about visualize under the sheets.
“I hear you’ve had a bad day,” he went on. “The medication will soon take effect, and you’ll be able to sleep.”
Valls didn’t wipe off his smile, nor did he let go of the hand that aroused both revulsion and fear in him. The scene would take place as it did every day. He would speak to her in a low voice for a few minutes while he held her hand, and she would observe him with those blazing eyes until the morphine calmed the pain and the fury, whereupon Valls could leave that room at the end of the first-floor corridor, and not return until the following day.
“Everybody is here. Mercedes wore her new long dress, and I’m told she danced with the son of the British ambassador. They’re all asking after you and send you their love.”
While he reeled off his ritual of banalities, his eyes rested on the small tray lying on the metal table next to her bed, holding medical instruments and syringes. The table was covered with a piece of red velvet, and in the dim light the morphine phials shone like precious stones. His voice became suspended, his empty words lost in the air. Elena’s eyes had followed his and were now fixed on him imploringly, her face covered in tears. Valls gazed at his wife and sighed. He leaned over to kiss her forehead.
“I love you,” he whispered.
When she heard those words, Elena turned her head and closed her eyes. Valls stroked her cheek and stood up. He drew the veil and walked across the room, buttoning up his dinner jacket and cleaning his lips with a handkerchief, which he dropped onto the floor before leaving.