Party at Axel’s house. I allow myself to be persuaded, partly by the many messages and partly by my slight boredom. I arrive early, for the preparations. At the entrance I’m welcomed by a Martian and I realise I should have come in fancy dress. Eloísa didn’t mention it, but it’s too late for me to change my mind. There aren’t many people yet, Axel’s best friends, the intimate circle, Andy and Berni, both dressed as transvestites, I’m going to get them mixed up all night; Débora, with studs and a red mohawk, a punk; Cyntia, her best friend, a galactic girl. Eloísa is an urban Indian, her head adorned with fluorescent feathers. Axel is dressed as a rabbi: long artificial beard, jacket and black trousers, Mexican-style hat and a white silk shirt, which as the hours pass will become stuck to his skin with sweat.
Because I’m in civvies, T-shirt, jeans and sandals, Eloísa gesticulates when she sees me, laughing hard. Her laughter is the wrong way round, at seeing me without a costume, the opposite of the rest. Come on, she says, we fix ourselves a Fernet and she leads me outside. I didn’t know, I say as we cross the garden, illuminated by torches and candles floating in the pool. Eloísa, who is already quite drunk, laughs again enthusiastically. I do too, infected. In her room there’s a load of clothes, shoes and accessories piled on the mattress. Discarded costumes that have been left there for situations like this. After rummaging for a while, she makes a decision. I let her dress me in a skirt with Islamic swirls, a sequinned bodice and a belt with medallions hanging from it. And a piece of tulle to cover half my face. That’s you, she says. Now we need make-up. Otherwise you’ll look sod-all like an odalisque.
As she paints my eyes and lips and applies blusher, I crumble a lump of marijuana, separating the stems and seeds. The swift movement of my fingers over my cupped hand produces an annoying, delicious tingling. We smoke as she does my hair. Eloísa takes two steps back to look at me properly, she exhales and releases a guffaw mingled with a cough. You’re a right whore, she says proudly.
We lie down on the floor with our legs bent. Iris comes to my mind; we lay like this in the grass under the shade of the ceibo tree before the kiss that never was. Some of them are pretty much freaks, Eloísa is telling me. But I get on well with them. I look around and realise she’s made some changes to the room, even though it takes me a few minutes to pinpoint what they are. She’s put up a poster, a monkey dressed as a train driver mounted on a multicoloured elephant: The Magical Circus.
We go back to the party. My head feels hot. In the short time we were shut away, a lot of people have clearly arrived all at once. We lost track of time, says Eloísa. Now there are groups of boys and girls in the garden, most of them in costume. Two devils, more transvestites, a rocker, a mermaid, the usual nuns, priests, police officers, a skeleton and some less common disguises: a cardboard woman, a dice man and a dog girl with a leash around her neck who asks to be taken for a walk. Others, rebels, or unaware like me, have come as themselves. The joint hits me hard. All this lucidity is driving me crazy.
We enter the house and Eloísa lets go of my hand. Be right back, she says, ushering me towards the living room and she exits through a door. Illuminated with intermittent spotlights, a mirror ball and the distorted lights that mask the floor, the space seems like somewhere else, very different to the room I saw a few weeks ago. The dining table is perpendicular to the wall and serving as a bar. Instead of the photo frames and menorahs there is a long row of cups and glasses, a dish with cherries and another with prawns. I try a prawn, it’s tasteless. And the first thing I notice: the urn with Axel’s granddad’s ashes is no longer there. They must have put it somewhere safe from a potential breakage. Seeing me dressed like this, Axel throws me a Wooowww that invites a few glances and he offers me a red drink. Daiqui, he says with a twisted smile. I accept so that he won’t insist.
More and more guests are arriving without costumes. I don’t think anyone would notice if I changed back into my own clothes. Eloísa appears holding a guy by the arm, half prisoner half thief, stripy suit, a cap on his head, beard painted on with burnt cork. She introduces him like this: Marito, a genius. Later I find out that he’s in charge of the warehouse for the jeweller’s, that he was the family’s driver for a while and that he’s like a brother to Axel. Just like in the country: Jaime used to have Boca whenever he had a barbecue, that half friend half employee, half compadre half foreman, who worked for him but who also shared the table. Marito has very dark, frizzy hair and dun-coloured eyes. He seems, just like Boca, to be a good man, trustworthy.
Back in the garden, Eloísa rolls a fresh joint, we sit on the grass and the aroma is a magnet. We are joined by a girl dressed as a castaway: long face, bowl cut, tits like watermelons. Leyla is a designer like Débora, they met at university. She makes clothes, prints, what she’s wearing for example, blue leggings with dragons and flames. She laughs hard, just like Eloísa, mocking some of the people who pass near us, especially the cardboard girl. Honestly quite ridiculous. The chat takes us anywhere, chignons, pancakes, potted orchids and horoscopes. Leyla is a horoscope aficionado, she’s done several courses, she knows how to read tarot, runes, the I Ching. She asks my sign. Virgo, I think, I say not joking, and the two of them laugh in chorus. And ascendant? I shake my head, no idea. What time were you born? At dawn, I throw out to satisfy her. So you must have an ascendant in Gemini, she ventures. You’re a bit stubborn, are you?
Clapping and whistling reaches us from the house. We draw closer. In the centre of the dance floor, Axel is brandishing a microphone. He thanks everyone for coming, he says he loves us and forgives us. You know I love you all. And he adds a few words in Hebrew, or fake Hebrew, that sound like a sermon. I’m going to sing you one of my favourite songs, he says and signals to the DJ, a guy with greying hair and a baby face. A classic, he explains and forces his already hoarse voice. The song is in English, almost everyone knows it apart from me. He makes an impressive sight, veins just under his skin, eyes out of orbit, deranged. About to cry, crying, Axel trembles as if he’s about to break into pieces. The ovation will be interminable, a competition to see who can shout loudest, who can come up with the most ingenious comment. Gay-boy rabbi, Berni or Andy shouts at him.
Then the party really comes undone. Loud, catchy music. Installed behind two computers, the grey-haired guy circles his arm in the air, encouraging people to dance. Initially, there’s a certain degree of timidity, until some of the more forward guests, Eloísa naturally, begin to move, overacting an enthusiasm that ends up infecting everyone else. I watch for a while, but faced with the very likely occurrence of Eloísa dragging me in to dance, I retreat and go outside again. I sit in an intermediate area between the house and the garden, a kind of terrace with deckchairs and large pots full of canes. Near me there’s a boy dressed all in black, a priest or executioner, his back to me, next to a girl dressed as a clown who’s facing my way. They are holding hands, staring at each other, serious despite the costumes and the deafening music, as if making a real confession. The girl can’t get over her bewilderment, she shoots out a hundred questions a minute: Are you serious? I can’t believe it. But how did it happen? Did anyone know? They’re talking about someone else, sick, dead, I can’t tell. I think about the mother, the father, also about a girlfriend or pal. Why didn’t you call and tell me? The boy shakes his head in a continuous movement. And, with a snap of the fingers to materialise the idea of the unexpected, he concludes: It was just like that.
Cohen, the dealer and former tutor, arrives. Dark glasses are the only element of disguise. I need no introduction. An average-looking guy, hooked nose, four-day beard, who flees from the crowd. He makes no greetings, he prowls around for a moment before taking refuge in Axel’s room. A minor celebrity.
I spend a while wandering, from the kitchen to the living room, living room to garden, to the barbecue area and back no fewer than five times, I go to the bathroom to pee, I entertain myself there for a while with the jet from the bidet, I take advantage of the opportunity to lose the tulle veil, hiding it in the laundry basket, I go and get another strawberry daiquiri which I leave somewhere, very sweet, undrinkable, I have a fleeting conversation with Leyla who asks me whether I brought anything to smoke, an exchange of words with the barman who suggests I have a gin with mint, a brief simulation of dancing which I abort as soon as a hand grabs my arm to draw me onto the dance floor, putting up an effective resistance.
It’s ten to three, I notice on the kitchen clock, I decide to leave. Near the exit I’m intercepted by Eloísa. She grabs my wrist and drags me to the basement. The light downstairs is terrible, like an interrogation cell. My eyes won’t adapt properly. Andy and other friends of Axel are playing ping-pong with obstacles. On each side of the table there are chaotically placed objects: a bottle of vodka, a pack of cigarettes, condoms, a couple of mobile phones. They laugh as if in a cartoon, bending double. Eloísa disappears along a corridor and leaves me watching the game. Now the ping-pong group is joined by a girl dressed as a peasant, very drunk, who sways from one player’s shoulder to another so as not to fall.
I’m almost falling asleep when Eloísa reappears, rapidly descending the stairs and nodding for me to follow her. She disconcerts me, leaving from one side, returning from the other; she comes from upstairs when I could have sworn she was down here. We go into the dressing room on the way to the sauna. We try to enter but someone is holding the door shut. It’s me, says Eloísa; it still doesn’t open. She insists and finally they give in. Axel sticks his head out, frenetic, nose running as usual, those red marks around his nostrils more pronounced than ever: Come in and shut the door, he says. He’s with Débora, Cyntia, Leyla and another girl. On a yellow plate, on the steps of the sauna, Axel tips out the contents of a little plastic tube full of a glinting powder. Cyntia smiles hello with a mouthful of braces, Leyla gets excited. Axel divides the drug into a series of lines which he invites us to take with that rasping snore of his, like a contented seal. A guru. In turn, we bend down to inhale. When it’s my turn, Axel warns me: It’s fierce. I take it since I’m there. A bitter taste descends my throat. I’ll leave you to it, he says and disappears. From the other side of the door a chorus begins: Aaaxel, Aaaxel, Aaaxel.
What if we light the stove, says Eloísa, but there’s no consensus. Go on, go on, and eventually she gives in. The crystals in my nose and the cigarette smoke cause a sneezing fit. For five seconds, one after the other. The girls laugh, I feel two flames behind my eyes. Eloísa leaves and returns like lightning with a bottle of vodka and a ping-pong ball. She suggests a game. You have to pass the ball with your feet, anyone who drops it has to take something off. To begin with, apart from Leyla, the girls can’t be bothered, they sigh and exchange glances. Eloísa: It’s just a bit of fun for a while, that’s all. Ok, they agree, but without the clothes part, without taking anything off. The game is more fun than expected. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time Eloísa has played, she’s by far the most skilful. We don’t even complete two rounds before we’re all falling about with laughter. Now it’s the vodka bottle being passed from hand to hand. We drink from the neck, even Débora, who takes a slug and shudders from the burning sensation. Eloísa tilts the bottle and takes a long gulp which culminates in an Aaahhh, poured out as if she were spitting fire. The feet game fizzles out. Leyla challenges us with a more daring variation. Now it’s passing the little ball from mouth to mouth, hands on the back of the neck. This time Débora and Cyntia require no convincing. We do that for a while, like fish out of water, mouths gaping, lips brushing, until Eloísa goes off the rails and gives a love bite to Débora, who pushes her quite hard. You’re really crazy, bitch, she says, her mohawk crushed. They exit in a line, Leyla too, in solidarity with her friend.
More vodka and my eyes go from so much dizziness. I lose my senses, the grain of the wood undulates as if braiding itself, I hear deformed words: catalep, tolomintes, monlocita. I look again: Eloísa has her legs open, knickers down, passing the ping-pong ball over her groin. It’s all rather blurry to me but I can still see how Eloísa puts the little ball into her cunt, which swallows it whole without chewing. A trick. Now she squats and expels it, trying to get it to land in the wooden pot at the foot of the stove. She tries once, twice, three times, she laughs alone, she runs out of air. I think that yes, like the girls said, she’s mad. Totally mad. I leave the sauna, Eloísa doesn’t follow me. The basement is empty, there’s just a couple kissing at the mouth of the tunnel leading to the bunker. I climb the stairs quickly and cross the slippery floor, a pool of sugar, lemon and mud. It’s as if my head has been cut from my body.
In the living room they’re dancing in circles, unruly, costumes dishevelled. A potpourri of Jewish music. Axel is in the middle shaking his fake locks, minus his jacket and hat, face swollen, about to explode, glued to a bottle of whisky which he keeps pouring into his eyes. He shakes his head like a loony, he jumps, he stamps, he gives a war cry and when he can see again, despite everything, there is still some kind of emotion in his gaze. Around him there are two circles, one within the other, spinning in opposite directions, arms interlinked, screeching like magpies. Speed disintegrates the rings and the dance becomes a violent pogo with Eloísa in the vanguard, magnificent Eloísa once again, hurling bodies against each other, with punches, elbows and flying kicks. Débora ends up on the floor with a burst lip and a bloody mouth.
The accident paralyses everything. First, someone dressed as a labourer tries to administer first aid but since he can’t stop the bleeding they decide to take her to A&E. Axel is white, shaken, looking for keys and money like a madman. They leave for a clinic in two cars, Axel, Cyntia and Débora in one and another three nameless guests in the other.
For a while the party is left without music. Eloísa replaces the boy at the bar but no one wants anything any more. I sink between cushions, drunk like never before, wanting to disappear. I close my eyes and fall into a spiral that spins with exasperating slowness. Yet I’m very much here, alert. I catch distant phrases with incredible clarity. Speculation about who it was that kicked Débora; lots of people name Andy, who was really out of it. Slowly, timidly at first, gradually more decisively, the DJ starts playing music again in order to move past the incident. Background music that carries on until the end at a medium volume that discourages dancing. Eloísa wakes me up with a slap on the leg and takes me by the hand to the garden with a bottle of beer. I want to leave but confusion keeps me. Near the pool there’s a group of bodies doing I can’t tell what. We move away from the party for good and settle in the deckchairs at the barbecue area without saying anything else, faces to a sky full of weak stars.
I wake up I don’t know how much later with a stitch that twists my stomach. A device, a robot, something that sneaks into my dream and as the minutes pass becomes too real, unbearable. Something lodged in my gut, a giant parasite. Tic tac tic tac. In passing from sleep to this partial vigilance, I fantasise that I’m going to live with this thing beating inside me forever. Perhaps vomiting will relieve me. I have to try. Eloísa is still in the deckchair next to me. She’s sleeping with one hand on her forehead and her mouth half open. Fighting the migraine that suddenly erupts, I measure the steps separating me from the basin next to the grill. I stand up in three slow movements, extremely slow, and walk along the brick path but I don’t reach my destination, I stop at the foot of an outdoor shower. I barely lean over, the retches come out by themselves until I’ve released everything, like a saturated sanitary towel. Just like the night before Jaime’s wake. Unstoppable vomit. I try to aim for the grating but that’s worse, I soil my skirt. I grab tightly on to the shower pipe, trembling with cold despite the heat. I breathe deeply, consciously, and gradually start to revive. I turn on the tap and the cold water on my face, in my eyes, running down my throat, completes the resurrection. I have no strength to change, I carry my clothes rolled into a ball, like a stolen baby.
My journey home is eternal. Three quarters of an hour at the bus stop without being able to make the decision to walk. I arrive at daybreak, the sun filtering through the holes of the city. Torture. At the entrance to the building, my medallion belt gets caught on a bolt and I’m stuck for a while unable to unhook myself. I climb the stairs in slow motion. From the landing on the second floor I can make out Mercedes with a cigarette in his mouth next to the door of our flat. I pause in search of an explanation, but since I can’t find one, I keep climbing. He sees me, and when I’m close he throws me a nod, raising his chin. Like a priest, a mafioso. Sonia also welcomes me with a hard gesture, of concern or reprimand. I raise my eyebrows to find out what’s going on and she steps aside. The first thing I see is Herbert standing squeezing his chin with a frightened expression and then Simón, lying naked, his forehead covered with a damp cloth, body like a leaf. Sonia speaks quietly behind me, warming my ears: His temperature’s soaring.