The new apartment is on the second floor and there’s a streetlamp outside my window that shines all night. On the other side of the light there’s a road, a few pine trees, a train track, and a big vacant lot that allows for a view of a large patch of sky. The small living-room balcony looks onto a strip of lawn and a brick building. The mixture of green and dark red is warm and refreshing at the same time. There isn’t much left of summer, the days are getting shorter, and I like the way the colors darken at dusk. It’s like living in a small city where it’s vacation time all year round. I guess it just feels that way because it’s summer, it’s hot, and I still don’t have to go to school. It’ll be different when winter comes.
I like the idea of sleeping close to the train tracks. I have an urge to figure out how often the train goes by. I wait. The horizon is flat, wide open, dry. During the day it looks really dusty, but by night it’s seedy, dark, and alluring. Mom will kill me if she ever finds out I’ve crossed the tracks, so I’ve got to find a roundabout way of getting to the other side. I want to go see if there are any used condoms on the ground. I’m convinced people must be fucking over there at night. I wonder where. I think from now on I’d rather spend weekends here. I can’t pass up the chance to spy on the clump of pine trees on Fridays and Saturdays. I’ll stay awake at least until three. I’m sure I’ll catch some teenagers getting it on, at least. I’d like to go over there, even though I know I’m too young, but I’m still not strong enough to make a good plaything. I wish the world would present me with the perfect opportunity to get lost in the forest and be attacked by the wolf. I don’t want him to force me to do things anymore, I want him to eat me. I’d make an excellent snack. Then, when he falls asleep, I’d slit his belly from the inside, fill it with stones, then stitch him up and take off. That’s my specialty – doing things late and badly. Sigh. I know it isn’t so easy, I know I’m no good at things. If I can’t even kiss a girl sitting on a toilet, how am I ever going to escape from home?
I think I hear the train coming. I jump out of bed, put on my glasses, and run to peek out of the window on tiptoe. The stop light is green now. Does that mean it’s coming? Here it comes. It doesn’t have passengers, only cargo. What could be in those freight cars? There’s a whole bunch of them. Old, reddish, green. My new roommate snakes away into the distance.
The next morning I’m tidying my room when Mom hollers at me.
“Marina, come here! Quick!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Diana Ross is on TV!”
I dash to the living room and find Mom dancing in front of the TV. I’ve spent the last few months thinking I’d never see her dance again.
“I would’ve loved to be a backup singer!” she exclaims, spinning around on tiptoe. I get so close to the screen I’m almost touching it, and devour the picture of this happy, sensitive, playful woman, reveling in her own existence in a siren-red dress, white gloves, and a Cleopatra wig, and singing a hypnotic tune whose words I don’t need to understand at all. I know who Diana Ross is because a few years ago Mom called me in just like today, on a Saturday morning, so I could see her. It was urgent, I couldn’t miss it, she knew I was going to love it. It was true, I love her so much that something aches deep inside me. I want to be part of her magical world full of light, but no. My life is nothing like hers.
“How can she be like that, Mom?”
“Like what?”
“So graceful, so pretty, so good at everything and not afraid.”
“But sweetie, you just have to want to. If you’re not afraid of anyone laughing at you, no one will dare. Anyone can be a queen, it doesn’t matter if you’re fat or thin or white or black. If that’s how you feel, no one can take it away from you. When this chick started out she was just a regular girl.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“Me? Yeah, ever since I was little.”
“Oh. I don’t. But it must be really nice.”
The video ends and another comes on, by Alejandro Sanz, which I don’t care for at all. I bolt to my room to hold on to the Diana Ross energy, and, thinking anyone can be a star if that’s what they decide, I leave the house feeling more than ready. In the excitement of the moment, I put on my baptism shirt with a pair of white shorts. I think I’m dressed like a tennis player, which got me excited in front of the mirror, but I feel ridiculous as soon as I step outside. It’s too late to change my mind. The six teenagers sitting in a circle on the ground have already seen me and can’t stop laughing. I want to go home but it would be even more embarrassing if I ran back to change and tried again with a cooler outfit, so all I can do is keep walking and wait for the shit to hit the fan. There’s no magic glitter running through my veins, it’s more like dirty, brackish water, like I died of thirst in a puddle and they resuscitated me right there in the sludge, at the end of the driest August in history. I’m no good at anything, I can’t keep eye contact with a friend who has her panties down, I can’t dance with Mom and tell her how much I admire her, how much I love her. I steer clear of the evil young legs until one kid pretends he’s going to trip me. It’s a typical nasty trick and the dumbass takes his foot away in time, but he’s managed to throw me off-balance and the gang double over with laughter as they watch me try to get a grip. I have an intense and unpleasant history with these kinds of jerks, clearly there’s something about me that attracts them. I wonder if one would have it in him to force me to do something nice. If they weren’t so stupid I think we could come to a healthy agreement. The clapping and sniggering fade as I turn the corner and look for the road to sin. This summer I’ve figured out that social success isn’t my domain. My domain is lonely ponds filled with monsters that sneak out and gobble you up. Near a barren traffic circle, I spot two condoms and a syringe. My heart does a somersault. I stare danger in the face. I have no trouble talking to objects. I wouldn’t crouch down and touch this shit for anything in the world, but head over and check it out? Absolutely. I’m up to the task. And I’ve never wanted to explore a neighborhood so badly. It’s like getting to live at a Workers’ Resort. Just what I wanted. So why am I still so sad? Why am I sad all the time? Why am I so scared? Where are my warm, fuzzy feelings? I mean, I’m tough when it comes to some things. Being an orphan, for example. That I could handle. Life’s challenges don’t scare me as much as people do. Kids, teenagers, grown-ups, the rowdy table-soccer players always crowding around swimming pools. Maybe old folks are less dangerous, like it’s not worth it for them to keep up the fight anymore. You can tell a lot of old guys were assholes in their time, but I’m sure it’s never too late for them to learn how to braid someone’s hair.
My bedroom looks creepy from out here, small and dark in the middle of that enormous, smooth wall. This side of the building isn’t as inviting as the rest. It doesn’t face onto anything. It’s been a while since I left the apartment and I’m thirsty. I retrace my steps and make sure that the entryway is clear from the nearest corner before making my suicidal appearance. There’s no one around. The sun bears down on me. I run over to the intercom and they open the door. I have to stop and squeeze my legs together a few times on my way up the stairs. The closer I get to home, the closer I am to wetting myself. The first drops seep out as I step through the door, and there’s a weak but persistent dribble all the way to the bathroom.
“Mom, I’ve wet my panties!”
“Well, change them, then. But hurry up, I’m about to serve lunch!”
“But I’ve wet them a lot!”
“Clean up and come to the table, for fuck’s sake.”
“OK, OK!”
I take off my wet clothes, wash them quickly in the bidet, and put on some clean panties in the hallway. Once my hands come into contact with soap and water, they produce a surprising amount of liquid dirt. They feel softer now. I stroke my butt cheeks. There’s rice on the table, with just a few green bits in it.
“I have something for you,” Mom says, out of nowhere.
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, I was keeping it for when we moved and I just found it in a box.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a cassette.”
“Really? Is it Michael Jackson?”
“No, it’s James Brown.”
“Oh. Who’s that?”
“Just put it on, you’ll like it. I left it in your room.”
When lunch is over she falls asleep and I dash to my room to play the tape. It’s true, I like it, and I recognize some of the songs from TV commercials. It’s fun. It makes me feel almost purged of the strange spirits that took hold of me on my morning walk. I wander around the house over and over, basking in hope. I go into the rooms, memorize how things are arranged, take a detailed inventory, then put them back where they were. Where are they keeping the comics in this place?
Domingo gets home from work and the three of us go to the pool. There’s a bar with a straw roof, and a totally cute blond lifeguard in red swimming trunks in the shade underneath it. That’s pretty much how I picture James Brown. We have temporary passes without photos. We’re the new kids once again. Mom asking everyone’s name again, scrambling to catch up, to adjust to the way things are done. Domingo looking like a nerdy pimp, attracting funny stares again, so hard to classify, stuttering more than ever, nervous at having to face new people, one of his balls always about to slip out of his swimsuit. Me not talking to anyone again. But now with a swimming pool.
We settle in beneath an umbrella. It’s really noisy. I get in the water just to do something, in the shallow end, the area for little kids. It’s too bad I’m almost past the respectable age for using a floatie. A couple of pairs of teenagers are necking in the deep end and the lifeguard tells them off. From the water I see a ring of kids pointing at the book Domingo brought with him. Hardly surprising. There’s a picture of a naked redhead on the cover, and on top of that when you get closer you realize the title’s The Fuck Machine. I don’t know what to think, if Domingo is being inappropriate or if those kids are just half-wits. Just in case, I glance at the book then head back to the apartment to avoid being seen in public for too long doing nothing. Once I’m there, my curiosity about the new surroundings wins out. I put some shorts on over my still damp swimsuit and go back out in search of adventure. I choose a direction I haven’t tried and head toward the stores, where I pore over the products on offer in the neighborhood. There are family-friendly bars covered with tiles and aluminum where they’re bound to have great food, a couple of candy stores, and a preschool with a gigantic Snow White mural, where nearly all the neighborhood kids must have gone. I picture the kids I don’t yet know coming here, still innocent, getting less and less sweet as they get bigger, just like always. Preschools are usually creative with their decor, and Snow White isn’t just surrounded by dwarves but also a bunch of Smurfs and a few characters from Bambi. I look at Thumper the rabbit, and suddenly feel teary-eyed and flee the scene. Hightailing it when your heart is breaking is a fail-safe strategy that adults can no longer resort to. Poor things, it’s obvious most of them want to cut and run, and I wonder what’s stopping them. Being out of shape or embarrassed, uncomfortable shoes, not wanting to mess up their hair or get their shirts sweaty? A windowless hole in the wall grabs my attention and I slow down. Inside a bunch of kids are playing videogames and table soccer in the dark. A few grown-ups are playing pool and acting superior. There’s a bunch of people gathered tensely around an arcade machine, following the game of a little kid hooked on Buster Bros. who’s about to break the record. I go over and stand by the machine, admiring his skill in silence.
“Get her away from there, she’s distracting me!” the player yells, punching viciously at the buttons. I walk away in a huff, wondering when they forsook Snow White and became consumed by such violent urges. They must’ve all had their first communion, or they’re at least going to catechism. Do their parents really think those classes will teach them to be good? I guess the kids just pretend, maybe even believe all that stuff for a minute, but as soon as they’re back in the street they turn themselves over to the laws of Satan. The Devil is sort of a friend of mine in theory, but once I leave the house it isn’t so easy. The trick is to be officially Christian and be naughty behind the scenes. Then you confess and you’re good to go. I feel like I walk hand in hand with evil, but my behavior’s impeccable on the outside. But I still end up just feeling weighed down with guilt. I’m doing it all back to front.
I look around. A bakery, a branch of the San Fernando Bank, a sign for a podiatrist, one for a dentist, a video store. So there’s a video store. I feel drunk with possibility and take slow and deliberate steps, savoring my approach, aware of the delights awaiting a girl like me in a place like this. I pass through the entrance plastered in action and horror posters with religious calm. Inside, there’s a young couple looking around indecisively and a gang of kids my age loitering around the porn section. The dirty movies are half hidden next to the counter, all of them edgewise, the images covered with stickers, the kind you can scratch off a bit. The guy behind the counter loses his patience, gets up and tells them they can’t do that all afternoon, do they think he’s stupid, any day now he’s going to snitch on them to their parents. The gang leaves and the guy shakes his head kindly. He’ll never snitch. He’s young, flabby, gentle, and besides, he works at a video store. He gets what’s going on, he remembers what it was like. I give him a little smile and a wave. He sits back down to relax, picks up a magazine, and starts reading where he left off. I look through the cartoons on offer until the couple decides on a lame-looking romantic comedy. While they’re renting their movie, I drift over toward the porn and wait for the right moment to caress the few tiny cover photos that have escaped the censorship of the stickers. Sometimes I don’t need to see as much as to touch. I raise a hand, run my fingers over a two-millimeter pussy between some splayed legs, then vanish into another section before anyone can catch me, the spark still in my fingers and rising all the way up my arm. The horror movies are in the opposite corner. Some of the pictures on the cases are really disturbing, but it’s pretty much legal for me to be there. The couple leaves. The clerk fixes his eyes on me briefly, sizes me up, and decides not to interrupt my browsing. I head into a less risky section just in case. I don’t want to make an enemy of him, I want him to stay calm and trusting. Suddenly, a video on an improbable floor-level shelf, all on its own, makes me lose control of my limbs. I move toward it, hypnotized. I can’t believe it. This one has it all. It’s horror, it’s porn, and it’s terrifying – a genuine unmasking of human depravity. I realize the relief and distraction from worry I find in violence is an addiction. It’s magnetic. Sex has an even better effect, but that stuff’s more tightly controlled, and anyway the two get confused, both in fiction and in my head. I rub my thighs together. My wet swimsuit tugs at my flesh, which is also wet. I keep staring at the bleeding body of this woman impaled on a stick in a primitive village. The title is Cannibal Holocaust and they try to sell it by claiming that human eyes have never before seen so much horror. From this angle, no one can see what I’m up to. I hold the case in my little hands and turn it over. It looks truly depraved, like it’ll really live up to its promise. I don’t actually want to watch it, but the images are electrifying. I can’t let go. So it’s true, people really do get impaled on sticks. They shove the stick up your ass and push until it comes out of your mouth. You’re still screaming when they start, but by the time they’re done pushing you’re dead. Then they roast you over a fire like a wild boar, or drive the stake into the ground so that the nearby villages can see what the people who hunted you down are made of. It’s no exaggeration, it’s been done a whole bunch of times. I’ll bet someone split their sides laughing when they saw it happen in their neighborhood. I’ve never understood why people laugh at victims and I never will. I guess they must get a kick out of feeling superior, or get some kind of relief from such immediate, casual cruelty?
In the evening, Domingo’s little brother Pablo comes over for dinner. His visits are usually some of the best days of the year. He’s young, sweet, affectionate, and always in a good mood. He shows me and Mom a lot of respect while still being really approachable. Once, when he came to lunch, he spent the whole time picking the saffron threads off my plate. While he went to that unnecessary trouble on my behalf, I had an intense tingling feeling on the back of my neck. When we finished lunch, I climbed into his lap without saying a word and took a total rest from all my fears for over five minutes. Tonight we have roast chicken for dinner, and after dessert the brothers get a fit of the giggles.
“All right, we’re going out onto the balcony for a quick smoke,” says Domingo, getting stuck on the G and the B.
“But you always smoke in here.”
“That’s right, Partner, but we have imported goods today, some of that strong-smelling Dutch tobacco I like.”
He’s happy. He loves giving me that spiel every time he goes off to smoke a joint. I think it’s funny too. They go out to the balcony and close the door from outside, still laughing. They’re celebrating the fact that the days of military service are numbered. The mili, haha, the fucking mili, to hell with it, haha. They’re just like Beavis and Butt-Head.
“Pair of overgrown boys,” Mom remarks, offering me another slice of watermelon. They come back in ten minutes later, rubbing their hands.
“There was some chocolate around, right?”
“Yeah, go ahead and bring it over.”
They’ve rented Conan the Barbarian, a movie we all like a lot. We eat the whole bar while we watch it. When it’s over, Domingo goes out to take Pablo back to his neighborhood and we’re left alone. Mom looks at me.
“You haven’t said anything about James Brown, but I’ve heard you listen to him a few times.”
“Yeah, I love it!”
“See? I know you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I bet he’s really handsome.”
“You think? What do you think he looks like?”
“I don’t know, tall and blond.”
“Tall and blond, huh?”
Mom laughs.
“Why are you laughing? What’s he really like?”
“He’s short and black, sweetie.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re not making fun of me?”
“Of course not. Why would I lie to you?”
“That seems weird.”
“He’s black and he’s an amazing dancer. He’s got incredible style. Maybe he’ll be on TV some time and you can see him.”
“And is he young or old?”
“He’s on the older side, maybe sixty.”
“That’s so weird, I figured he was thirty at the most.”
I stare at the wall, eyes popping out of my head while Mom stifles a giggle. I absorb the news slowly. I can’t imagine him, and the chance of seeing him on TV seems remote. What’s he like? Sometimes the way you picture things is nothing like how they really are. First Bud Spencer hasn’t won any Oscars. Now James Brown is black. And Diana Ross, is she black or not? Because I’ve seen her but I still have my doubts. Maybe she’s mixed-race? And Whitney Houston? What difference does it make. I love Whitney, but I don’t plan on telling anyone. She’s too sappy. I don’t want anyone to suspect I’m even a teeny bit romantic. If you’re romantic, you’re weak, or so Domingo keeps saying, and I plan to be a genuine John Wayne for whatever’s left of my childhood. A stone-faced look, a heart eaten away by anguish. I hate John Wayne, he’s super boring, but something tells me Domingo’s right, that if I let myself get carried away like Whitney, and Mom caught me getting all soft around the edges, the morale in this household would plummet.
Domingo swaggers in like a cowboy and we go to bed. I stay awake, playing with my dolls in the dark until I hear two simultaneous snores. Then I put on my glasses, get up, and creep to Domingo’s nightstand. I snatch the book with the dirty cover and take it back to my room. The orange light shines in from the street, so I don’t need to turn on my lamp. I crack it open at a random page and start reading. There’s nothing about a fuck machine. I look at the contents page. There are lots of stories, the last has the same title as the book. I start paying attention when I come across a girl’s name. She’s called Tanya and her arm is stuffed full of wires. The train has just gone by. It must be after four. I put the book back in its place and pick up a few dolls from the floor before getting in bed. I arrange them in a row tucked under the sheets and drift off to sleep, sighing for sweet, ill-fated Tanya. There aren’t enough violent dolls on the market, with pastel-colored rifles, dressed for combat, like in video games. Articulated, gorgeous, and tough. From now on my dolls are going to learn how to fight. Action Men don’t cut it. They look like a bunch of knuckleheads.
In the morning, the sun shines on the pool and everything’s calmer and more innocent. Grandma is visiting and you can feel her enthusiasm in the air. She praises the lawn, the umbrellas, the water, the bar, the sky, the hedge, the showers, the mothers, the babies, the kids, the beer she’s about to order, the ice cream she’s going to buy me, the wonderful place we’ve rented, and the handsome lifeguard, who turns out to look nothing like James Brown. We start with a game of cards. Mom and Grandma smoke cigarettes and make conversation with other women of different ages. Mom takes a quick dip and goes home. Grandma and I are left alone in the shallow end. A few meters away, a quiet little girl in a green swimsuit is cooling off. She makes eye contact and starts swimming toward us, splashing around in a clumsy, childish way.
“Look at that lovely girl, Marina. She looks about your age, maybe just a bit older.”
The girl smiles and stands up. She doesn’t know I need glasses yet. I’m wearing my good swimsuit. She inspects and approves it. I like giving this fake first impression of total normality, and she accepts it in good faith. Her name is Prado, she’s ten, she lives in Block 8, and you can see her balcony from here in the water. It’s almost two. The pool is warm and quiet. For the fifteen minutes we spend together before going to lunch, she teaches me to dive down and swim between her legs, something I’d never have dared to do without some cheerful command. After twenty minutes of friendship, we say goodbye on the lawn.
“Coming down later?” I ask anxiously.
“Yeah, but I have visitors. I can come down after eight.”
“OK. Are you going to wear a dress?”
“What?”
“I said are you going to wear a dress later?”
“I don’t know, why are you asking?”
“Because I’m going to wear one.”
Prado gives me a weird look. I’m acting weird. Kids can tell you’re different in the blink of an eye. I guess it’s a survival strategy, a way to avoid ever feeling exposed, outside the comfort of the mainstream.
“Marina, almost no one our age wears dresses.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Well, I have one that’s getting too small, if you want I’ll wear it for the last time today to see my grandma and grandpa, then I’ll come down.”
“OK.”
I’ve bargained with her in a civilized way, but now I’m a little bit worried. She’s made it clear she’s making this allowance to welcome me, but it’s the last time she’ll go out dressed as a little girl by choice. She’s doing it as a favor, and only because she can use it as a chance to please her family. I’m quite a bit shorter and punier than her. She must weigh over thirty kilos. She’s the first person I’ve spoken to in this new dimension and I’m drawn to her. It’s a miracle. I’m not usually this lucky. She’s pretty, but I can’t help finding all my friends pretty. The main difference is that she seems unique, quicker and more interesting. She’s got a proud streak, which must have swelled when she noticed my weakness as we said goodbye.
I spend most of the afternoon trying to pick the right dress, knowing my time for dresses is almost up. I can’t think of a single respectable way to keep wearing them. I saw it coming when I stopped wanting to wear a flamenco dress. Maybe when I’ve grown and my body develops I’ll go back to knowing how to deal with the issue. But for now, I think the time has come for me to turn into a boy. Being a girl is a minefield. I wish people would understand that I want to get hurt and also have bows in my hair, but I guess I can’t blame everything on other people. I’ve got to experience physical contact with other humans, get rid of my fear of pain. I’ve got to take the doll out of the box, no matter how hard that is. Get her dirty, mess up her hair. I’m starting to understand that this is a pretty rough neighborhood, and what I really want is to get my knees torn up.
Mom’s just come back from giving Grandma a ride home and she’s lying on the new second-hand couch. While she naps, I lean on the table we dragged out of the trash, with my first Chabel doll and the kitchen scissors. The doll has long blonde hair. That’s about to change. Without measuring, carelessly, I chop the hair off at her neck. I turn her over to see the results of my work. Her hair looks wild and twisted. There’s no way to make it even except by shearing a bit more off, and she ends up with a jaw-length bob. Is she still the same doll, or has she turned into a different one? I’m still holding the scissors in my shaking hand. I notice Mom watching me, saying nothing, her face resting on one arm. I ask her the name of the school I’ll be going to. She answers and doesn’t mention the massacre I’ve perpetrated, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that she approves. She likes it when my hair gets messy and I get dirty. Time for me to join her side. I pick out a white dress with a purple pattern and go downstairs. Prado is wearing an orange dress, so she’s easy to find. I’m relieved as soon as I see her on the lawn with some other girls. There’s a pale-faced Tanya with crooked teeth and green eyes. Three of them are my age. We’re going to be at the same school, in the same class. It’s the first time I’ll ever start a new school already knowing people. And on top of that, we’re neighbors. I’ll walk to school in the mornings, wearing my backpack. They show me the vacant lot you have to cross. I memorize their addresses and birthdays. They all went to the Snow White preschool.
“Do you know who you’re going to sit with on the first day? We can get into pairs.” Tanya has a high, singsong voice.
There’s no need to settle who goes with who, since we’ll sit two by two and make an impenetrable square. But it’s true that the dresses look out of place. So it’s decided. The moment of metamorphosis has arrived. As long as no one forces me to wear the gray uniform with the pleated skirt, my larva will do its gestating in the cocoon of a boy.
I go home feeling brave and look for a bag of hand-me-down clothes, eighties and boyish, that I’ve never wanted to wear. But this place doesn’t just have a swimming pool, old sweat suits, and classmates. I’ve finally found two new issues of El Víbora on the shelf by the bed. I’m strung out on those images. I can’t live without them. Between the excitement about my new life and about the new Víboras, spending the weekend at Grandma’s has never seemed less appealing. I want to keep exploring. The parents are fairly confident that this area is safe. Kids have more freedom here, so now I do too, since that’s how the system works. Being shut in with Grandma and taking care of her plants is over. Now that she has Felipe she doesn’t need me as much.
I’d like to delve into the magazines right away, but it’s not quiet enough at home. I’d have to wait until they’re asleep, and today I don’t have the energy. In the morning I’m on alert, but Mom gets up in a cranky mood, makes me do the dishes, and sends me to the store three times but then doesn’t feel like making lunch, so she takes me to a bar for some fillets with potatoes and egg. I start getting tired of thinking about it so I put the idea on hold. When we get back from the bar I call Prado to get her to come down to the pool, and Mom is pleased. I can’t remember her face too well. I want to see her again. Her mom answers the intercom.
“Hi, is Prado there?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Marina.”
“Well look, Marina, Prado can’t go down right now. Not until five.”
“OK, sorry.”
She hangs up. She seemed pretty annoyed, but it’s not unusual to come across party poopers like that among parents. They’re easy to handle, you just have to get the information you need and then ignore them. Tanya, however, is coming out of her building in a bikini. I look at her for a few seconds and she waves at me. She’s so pretty – a bit plump, rosy-cheeked, self-confident, a little puppy blooming with health. We go to the pool together and sit under the shade of an umbrella that leans to one side. Now we can talk. She enjoys being questioned, and that helps things along. She’s the oldest of three, and her middle brother is really naughty. The littlest is called Lydia, with a Y just like her, and looks a lot like their mom, who was a swimsuit model in the Continente catalog when she was younger. A bunch of people must have jerked off looking at her. Tanya soon starts telling me about different boys she likes in the neighborhood. She kissed one of them this summer. I sit up in a snap.
“What was it like, what was it like?” I ask eagerly. She laughs mischievously, showing her crooked teeth. Her natural colors look wintery, even though she has a tan. No wonder everyone notices how beautiful she is, she looks so pure, innocent, and saucy at the same time. She has the gross motor skills of a champion, her turquoise bikini looks fabulous on her, and she isn’t snotty with me even though she could be. She points to the right to show you’d have to pass a few buildings to find the place.
“You know those arcades over there, near the freeway?”
“Where the video store is.”
“Yeah, yeah, a bit further, but around there.”
“Yeah, there are some brick buildings, I saw them yesterday.”
“Yeah, yeah, around there, well it happened there two weeks ago!”
“But was it just once?”
“No, a few times, but all in the same place.”
“Got it. So what did you do?”
“We kissed with our tongues and he touched my boobs through my shirt. Mine are really small, but I liked it.”
My eyes hurt from being open so wide. She’s the best person at answering questions I’ve ever met. She gets straight to the point, gives the most complete and relevant information, and delivers it efficiently.
“What was your T-shirt like?”
“White. Tight.”
“You don’t wear a bra yet, do you?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
“No, no. And I don’t want to either.”
“Exactly, fuck that. Such a pain in the ass.”
Tanya swears a lot but doesn’t care if I don’t.
“Was it your first kiss?”
“The first with tongues. He gave me a few on the lips before that, but that’s nothing. It doesn’t count as making out.”
“Right.”
Three or four boys come out of nowhere, shake the umbrella, and run off. Tanya peers out.
“Dickheads!” she yells at them, putting our hideout back in its place.
“Who are they?”
“A bunch of jerks. One of them’s the one I just told you about.”
“And he wasn’t like that with you?”
“No. Or that’s not why I dumped him. I dumped him cause I found out he was kissing someone else behind my back. But he wasn’t a jerk like that with me.”
“What was he like with you?”
“He was cool with me. Boys seem dumb but they’re different when you get them alone.”
“But why can’t they be like that all the time? You’re cool all the time.”
“Because they have to show off in front of their friends. But you should’ve seen how much he cried when I dumped him. Two-timing bastard!”
She yells her last comment so the boys spying on us hear it loud and clear.
I laugh. She makes it look so easy to be in control. The qualities I value most in a friend are, in this order: being wildly curious about forbidden subjects, being fun, and not standing me up when we have a playdate. Tanya represents an important contact on my journey. She doesn’t seem like she’d be too punctual, but she was there for me today at the perfect moment, and I’ll never forget the way she accepted me into her space. A mean, snot-nosed kid swoops in to our right and shoots a slimy gob of spit onto my leg.
“You little shit!” she yells, running after him. She gives him a shove and throws him onto the ground.
“You’re really getting on my tits!”
The boys scurry away, and I go to the showers to rinse off my leg. When I come back, she’s taking a deck of cards out of its packet.
“Sorry, that was my brother. He’s the worst of all of them, you have no idea.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Being friends with that spiteful brat’s older sister is going to save me a whole lot of misery. Tanya checks her waterproof watch and I get ready to try calling on Prado again. This time she answers the intercom. Her voice sounds unnatural and childish, which tells me she’s being watched. She says she’s about to have a snack, that I should come have one with her. She buzzes the door open. As soon as I walk in with my wet ponytail, I’m gripped by the certainty that this is the happiest moment of my life. The floor, the brown-and-silver wall, the tropical plant, the steps, the mirror, the mailboxes, the smell. Please, Lord, let me come back to this entryway lots of times, and if one day I have to stop coming, please send me here in my dreams. Come on, give it your best shot, is it really that hard? Just this entryway, I won’t ask for anything more. What’s the apartment going to be like? What are we going to have for our snack? Prado answers the door, her mom standing next to her. It’s dark and silent inside. Her dad is taking a siesta. She’s an only child too. They say hello with polite restraint. We go straight to the kitchen, which is packed with utensils, dishes, cereal, and canned food. The mom cheers up as soon as she opens the fridge, listing possible sandwich fillings. Some of them are really obscure.
“I want spicy sausage, Mom,” says Prado.
“Me too!” I cry.
The mom looks down at us, standing straight as a crane.
“Today’s Friday.”
“Oh yeah. Cheese then.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, puzzled. The mom stiffens further and nudges Prado.
“Meat isn’t allowed on Fridays,” Prado answers, like she’s telling me off.
“Meat isn’t allowed on Fridays? Why not?”
“Because Jesus died on a Friday,” the mom answers sternly. And then I understand it all. They’re Catholics, the kind that are actually serious about it. I must look like a disrespectful heathen not knowing this stuff, which explains why they’re being so uptight. People like this are so easy to annoy, their ways will always surprise me, no matter how carefully I tread. I ask for a cheese sandwich too, and keep my mouth shut until we’re alone. The mom tells us to be good and goes out. Prado is transformed as soon as she’s gone. Her freckles get darker, her teeth sharpen, and she does a whole range of impressions, from Disney villains to the Hound of Dracula. She also likes being silly. I hope she never loses this talent for turning into someone her family wouldn’t approve of. We finish our sandwiches in the living room. Her communion photo is on the table, blown up and framed along with a bunch of other portraits.
“You had your communion last year, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And how was it?”
“It was cool.”
“Did you like the dress?”
“Yeah, but then I changed into a prettier one for the party.”
“There was a party after?”
“Of course, there’s always a party, and you get gifts, that’s the best part.”
“You didn’t like the church part?”
“Yeah, I liked that too. Haven’t you done yours?”
“No.”
“Well, a bunch of people do it when they’re ten and it’s no big deal. Don’t worry, it’s embarrassing but you get over it quickly.”
“I’m not worried. I don’t think I’m going to do it.”
“But you’re already late.”
“Who cares, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“But it’s not about what you want, it’s about what you’re supposed to do.”
We have contradictory worldviews, and I suspect we’ll have lots of disputes like this one, because there’s no question that we’re drawn to each other somehow, that we like to talk. I’d rather we agreed on everything and that I was welcome in her home, but that’s no reason to pass up a potential friend like this one. Only two of the photos are bigger than the one of her communion, and they’re of her parents’ wedding and her grandpa dressed as a soldier. I adjust my glasses to look at his black-and-white uniform up close.
“That picture was taken in Africa, that’s why the place looks so weird.” Prado is showing off.
“Africa, huh?”
“Yeah, he spent a lot of time there. He was a general.”
“When was that?”
“During Franco.”
We both go quiet. Another issue that’s going to cause us problems in the short, medium, and long term.
“Are your parents PP supporters?” I ask, trying to go back to the subject.
“Yeah.”
“So they like Aznar.”
“Of course.”
Well, here are the Popular Party voters, at last.
“Does your family support the Socialist Party?”
“Yeah, my grandma’s in love with Felipe González.”
“The one who was with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t mind about her, she’s a grandma. But they’re a bunch of shameless thieves.”
“I’d better not say what I think of your grandpa, the Francoist general in Africa.”
“Yeah, OK, you’d better not. I don’t care.”
“One more thing, Prado.”
“What?”
“Betis or Sevilla?”
“Betis.”
“Oof, that’s a relief.”
“My dad has a video on the end of the TV stand that says it’s a Betis match but it’s really a porno.”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“And d’you think we could watch it some time when your parents are out?”
“Sure, I think so. My dad sleeps like a log and my mom just went out. Shall we put it on now?”
“Yes,” I answer emphatically, preparing for a new happiest moment of my life in the same building within the same half hour. She’s glad I’m interested and gives me a naughty smile. I don’t care where she comes from, this girl is clearly my type. I wait in the living room for her to make sure the coast is clear, studying the photo of her honorable grandpa. How’s it going, Mr. General? I don’t know how I’ve ended up at your house, but congratulations on your granddaughter, she’s a first-rate find, and I’m sure she’ll show up to all our playdates on time. I wonder what you’d think of the cover of Cannibal Holocaust. Prado and I like porn and Betis, who cares about anything else? The excitement is making it hard to answer. I can’t let the same thing happen to me as that other morning in the bathroom. This is way easier. I have to snap into action, seize my chance. I’m going to watch porn with this girl. I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.
“All right, be quiet just in case,” she whispers, beckoning me to follow her down the hall. I nod and obey. We go into the smaller living room and close the door. She opens a closet and starts taking out videos until she gets to the last row.
“He keeps it here at the back so my mom won’t see it.” We crease up in silence and she raises a finger to her lips.
“Shhh, we have to keep the volume down so we can hear if anyone’s coming.”
“Got it.”
She puts the video in the player and the Betis match comes on.
“Dad always leaves part of the match at the beginning, just in case.”
I’d explode with laughter and excitement if I could, but I don’t want to ruin the moment, so I hold it all in as hard as I can. Prado fast-forwards and the players run around at high speed until suddenly there’s a scene with a cheap kind of oriental backdrop. This is the porno. A bronze-skinned girl is dancing in front of a hairy man, next to a bed swathed in sheer canopies. You can see the hunger in his eyes. She sways seductively. He gets up and starts tearing her clothes off. Once she’s naked, he throws her onto the bed, opens her legs, and starts sucking on her pussy.
“Here comes the best part,” Prado explains in a whisper. The camera is now inside a kind of cave, and we see the guy stick his tongue in, but it’s like we’re inside the pussy. I shake my right hand and cover my mouth with my left. There’s a noise. Prado looks at me on full alert. Her mom went out on a quick errand and now she’s back. With ultrasonic reflexes, Prado rewinds the video, leaving it at the part with the soccer match, takes it out, replaces it at the back of the shelf and puts all the others in front of it in the same order. She’s a pro. By the time her mom opens the door to the small living room, we’re sitting on the couch, completely calm and collected.
“Didn’t you want to go down to the pool?”
“Yes,” Prado answers with the face of a little angel. “We’ve just finished our sandwiches.”
“Very good, come on then, a quick dip in the pool!”
Everything’s worked out, and this time the mom seems nicer. We squeal in the elevator on our way down, skip through the entry hall – the happiest place on earth – and run out to the lawn. We’ve just taken shelter under Tanya’s umbrella and haven’t managed to tell her about our epic adventure yet when Domingo shows up at the pool with a backpack in his hand, desperately searching for me. Already? Seriously, this already? My success here has lasted how long? Three days? I do my duty and go over to him, prepared for whatever it is. He looks at the ground and stumbles over his words.
“See, Partner, when I got home from work your mom was in pretty bad shape so we’re taking a cab to the hospital. D’you have a little friend you can stay with? If her parents know you, even better. We’ve got to figure this out, we have to hurry. Don’t be scared, it’ll only be for a while, but it’s best if she gets seen as soon as possible.”
I’m not scared, but after yesterday I’d die of sadness if I never saw her dance again. The memory of the porno gives me strength and I cling to it. They have to go to the hospital as soon as possible. I’ve got to be practical. Within five minutes, Domingo has explained the situation in confused but technical terms at Prado’s house, left me the backpack with a change of clothes and my toothbrush, and disappeared. Prado’s mom is welcoming and puts a warm arm around my shoulders, telling her daughter to try and distract me for the rest of the afternoon. One of the things that worries me most about this unpredictable situation is that we might have fish for dinner tonight. The minutes seem to be going by at several different speeds. I really like Prado’s room because it’s messy and the whole closet is covered in Chabel doll stickers, the ones that used to come free with chewing gum back when I wasn’t allowed to chew gum – alas – but I can’t focus on anything. She shows me a bunch of books and dolls, and she has no fear of physical contact. We can’t get the talk flowing, so we lie back quietly on her bed, trying to come up with another kind of connection to entertain us. It’s not hard after sharing such an intense moment just a while back.
“Look, lie down on your side like this,” she says. I obey. She lies close behind me and puts her hand around my waist.
“Like this?” I ask.
“Yeah. Now pretend I’m a boy you like.”
Her leg slips between mine and her knee pushes upward. I’m facing away from her so it’s easy, like it’s not happening. She’s also a little bit shy in her way and knows all the tricks to make things straightforward. We hear steps coming down the hall and sit up quickly. Her mom opens the door without knocking.
“How are you two? Marina, do you like cod?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling flustered.
“Good with fried potatoes, right?”
“Yes, really good, thank you.”
She goes off leaving the door open a crack. Prado closes it again.
“Do you want to play fighting without making any noise?”
I couldn’t care less if her family is full of fascists or if they eat cheese and fish on Fridays. I knew it, I knew she was the kind of girl I was looking for. We wrestle on the floor in slow motion, trying to keep quiet, hearing the frying pan sizzle. We jab each other with our elbows a few times and it’s hard to hold back the groans. She’s obviously stronger than me and likes to give more than receive, but the exercise does me a lot of good anyway. At dinner, I can’t take my eyes off the TV cabinet, knowing the porn is inside it, camouflaged at the back. We’re still at the table when the intercom rings. It’s Domingo. He comes in saying he’s sorry to bother them and for showing up again so late, claiming they’ve just got back and Mom wants me home for the night, and whatever she says goes, and so on. His stuttering is off the charts and nothing he says makes any sense, so I grab the backpack, translate his words into a basic summary, and we hurry downstairs and through the entryway. It still smells good but feels spookier, and I have a feeling that if I come back in my dreams it’ll look like this and not the way it did earlier. We don’t have far to go, but it’s long enough for him to bug me with his usual verbal diarrhea. He seems to be explaining things but he’s pussyfooting around, not saying anything specific. We get inside the apartment, still full of unopened boxes, and I go straight to her room. She’s lying down, resting. I’m feeling brave, ready to tackle all the subjects I normally just leave turning over inside me.
“Mom! What happened?”
“Don’t be scared, sweetie, it’s just the usual, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s one problem one day and another the next, remember how I felt shitty this morning?”
“But what was it? You were fine yesterday! You were dancing!”
“Well, I felt a bit funny but they gave me a few injections and now I’m better. We’ll be dancing again in a couple of days.”
“You should stop smoking!”
“Not now, kid. Don’t start being a pain in the ass when I’ve had such an awful day. Come here, for fuck’s sake, and tell me how it went at your friend’s place.”
I get in bed and let her squeeze me like I’m a pet or a teddy bear.
“What shall I tell you?”
“What’s that little girl like?”
“Her name’s Prado and I like her. I like her a lot!”
“Oh yeah? No kidding, that’s great.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s really funny and really pretty. She has freckles, her room’s a disaster, and I saw a lot of records at her place.”
“That’s great. What did they give you for dinner?”
“Cod and fried potatoes.”
“I’ll have to say thank you. And what was their apartment like?”
“Their balcony faces the pool and they’re PP supporters.”
“Ooof, oh boy.”
“But they’re Betis fans.”
“Well then, all right. If you like her then it’s settled, they can’t be all that bad if they’re Betis fans.”
“Yeah, don’t worry Mom, I had a good time and I wasn’t scared. If you get sick again you can leave me there. But listen.”
“Tell me, sweetie.”
“You’re not dying yet, are you?”
“Not this again.”
“But I have to ask!”
“Yes, of course, don’t worry. I’ll tell you.”
“OK.”
“Look, I’ve been way worse, a few months ago those fuckers thought I was a goner, but now? No ma’am, I’m not going to die of any of this, even if I have to spend all night at the hospital. You’ll see.”
“Are you sure?”
“I promise.”
“All right, well, promise me something else too.”
“Tell me.”
“I want you to promise that if you’re about to die, you’ll tell Domingo to come get me in a cab so I can go see you.”
“For God’s sake, sweetie, don’t say that.”
“But you have to understand! When you get worse you get all proud and don’t want me to see you! I’m always thinking you’ll get worse any moment and I’ll never see you again!”
“You’re right, I understand.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“And another thing.”
“Jeez.”
“No, this one’s easier.”
“All right then.”
“I want you to get me a Diana Ross tape and a bottle of your perfume so I can have my own.”
“Huh?”
“In case you die, so I’ll be prepared and have something to hold on to, that I can count on.”
“Ah. Like a survival kit.”
“Yeah.”
“Those are the things you want in case I die. A tape of Diana Ross songs and a bottle of my perfume.”
“Yeah.”
Mom bursts into tears and squeezes me tight.
“But don’t cry, it’s only just in case!”
“All right, just in case. Don’t you worry about it, I’ll get them for you.”
Domingo comes into the room, hunched over, hand to his forehead, and collapses on the other side of the bed in exhaustion. He hugs Mom and Mom hugs me. Pretty soon they fall asleep, but I’m still wired, their two snores booming behind me. It’s all worked out, we’ve weathered the storm one more time, and I was brave enough to say what I needed without dying of embarrassment. I get up quietly and go back to my room. Only now do I allow myself the luxury of softly humming the theme tune to The Land Before Time. Like a baby dinosaur staring a meteorite in the face, I shed a few tears while I look at the floor, then at the window, and think of the shot from inside the pussy Prado showed me this afternoon. The greatest hope of my days. Nothing is lost yet, absolutely nothing.
I blow my nose and sit straight up in bed, ready to gather the strength to keep on going. Right now my priority is to give myself over to Monica, who’s been waiting for me all day and is the only one who can give me relief from the state I’m in. I take a deep breath and go find the magazine, which is still on the nightstand. Monica is the heroine of Rubber Flesh but she’s also Beatriz’s best friend. While they’re still snoring deeply in the room next door, I put the pages up against the window and trace them both, Monica and Bea, calling upon them as future friends who I hope won’t judge me if I emerge from my chrysalis looking like a pile of shit with impaired motor skills. I slide the pencil gently over the pictures so I don’t leave a mark, then I go over the line with a felt tip pen. Here they are, drawn by my own hand. I plant an invisible kiss on the page, crumple it into a ball, and throw it out of the window. An anonymous salute to the people who wander around at night, who walk with me on this uncertain, alluring path. The ones who fuck, the ones who shoot up, even the ones who want to fuck with me.