Rabbit Island Read online

  “Beneath the impeccable surface of Navarro’s ice-cold prose, dread and grief wrestle in a territory of uncanny shadows. Like the work of many great fantasists before her—Robert Walser, Leonora Carrington, Witold Gombrowicz, Remedios Varo—Navarro takes alien landscapes and turns them into eerily apt mirrors of our most secret realities. Grimly comedic, deeply affecting, these stories are a necessary poison, one that revives instead of destroys, emboldens rather than deadens. In spite of all the ghosts, madnesses, nightmares, and grotesque transformations they are subject to, her characters manage to make their own maps, turning endings into beginnings, disgust into love, death to peace: Rabbit Island is a series of unforgettable journeys designed by a master cartographer.”

  —MARYSE MEIJER, author of The Seventh Mansion and Rag: Stories

  “On the farthest edges of radical honesty, Navarro discovers something surreal. Reading Rabbit Island is like spending a week at an abandoned hotel with rooms inhabited by haunted bunnies and levitating grandmothers. Dark, brilliant, and addictive.”

  —SANDRA NEWMAN, author of The Heavens

  “The stories in Rabbit Island are as surprising and delightful as they come. Here there are no mundane worlds: wherever an Elvira Navarro story begins, it eventually leads to the uncanny borderlands between dream and nightmare, love and fear, science and mystery, all of which are, of course, reality itself.”

  —MATT BELL, author of Appleseed

  “Striking and visceral, Rabbit Island is a surreal masterpiece. Each story surprises with its enticing balance of the grotesque and the mundane. Navarro’s latest work is truly one to be savored.”

  —LAURA GRAVELINE, Brazos Bookstore (Houston, TX)

  “Elvira Navarro writes like a dream… Or is it a nightmare? Smoke-saturated hostels, dive bars, run-down neighborhoods with a scenic view of the open sewer—Navarro’s crisp prose stands in stark contrast to the seedy worlds of her stories. Here on Rabbit Island, she picks up life’s roadkill and, with a surgeon’s hand, peels back the skin to reveal its inner workings in all its grotesque beauty.”

  —DEVON DUNN, Book Culture (New York, NY)

  “Elvira Navarro is certainly an excellent storyteller, sharp and brave. Her prose sounds always precise, confident, intense. Among the authors of my generation in Spain, I think she is, doubtless, one of the most engaging.”

  —ANDRÉS NEUMAN, author of Fracture

  “This author’s literary talent is a natural gift…the subtle, almost hidden, true avant-gardist of her generation.”

  —ENRIQUE VILA-MATAS, author of Mac’s Problem

  “Elvira Navarro is an enormously gifted and disturbing young writer with an unusual eye for the bizarre; she captures personal fragility with deceptively detached prose that stays with us like a scarring incision.”

  —LINA MERUANE, author of Seeing Red

  RABBIT ISLAND

  Also by Elvira Navarro from Two Lines Press

  A WORKING WOMAN

  RABBIT ISLAND

  STORIES

  Elvira Navarro

  Translated from Spanish by Christina MacSweeney

  Originally published in Spanish as: La isla de los conejos

  Published in coordination with Casanovas & Lynch Literary Agency, S. L.

  Copyright © 2019 by Elvira Navarro

  English Translation © 2020 by Christina MacSweeney

  Two Lines Press

  582 Market Street, Suite 700, San Francisco, CA 94104

  www.twolinespress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-949641-09-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-949641-10-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Names: Navarro, Elvira, 1978– author. | MacSweeney, Christina, translator.

  Title: Rabbit island / Elvira Navarro; translated from the Spanish by Christina MacSweeney. Description: San Francisco, CA: Two Lines Press, [2021] | Originally published in Spain as La isla de los conejos in 2019. | Summary: “Eleven stories that traverse a gritty, surreal terrain between madness and freedom” --Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020024001 (print) | LCCN 2020024002 (ebook) | ISBN 9781949641097 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781949641103 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PQ6714.A827 A2 2021 (print) | LCC PQ6714.A827 (ebook) | DDC 863/.7--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020024001

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020024002

  Cover design by Gabriele Wilson

  Cover photo by Avigator Fortuner/Shutterstock.com

  Design by Jessica Sevey

  Printed in Canada

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Support for the translation of this book was provided by Acción Cultural Española, AC/E. This project is also supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  CONTENTS

  Gerardo’s Letters

  Strychnine

  Rabbit Island

  Regression

  Paris Périphérie

  Myotragus

  Notes on the Architecture of Hell

  The Top Floor Room

  Memorial

  Gums

  The Fortune-Teller

  GERARDO’S LETTERS

  I’m on the bus listening to Stevie Wonder on my iPod. Gerardo’s patience is wearing thin. There’s a song that’s you. To block out Gerardo, I use all my might to visualize you. Why am I here, on a journey I don’t even want to be making? Where are you now? I’ve turned off my cellphone for fear that you’ll call while he’s here. He was annoyed when I showed up late, had even gone out of the bus station to see if I was coming so he could tell the driver that I was waiting for the light to cross the street. “I was ready to tell him to leave without you.”

  It’s still raining. He’s taken my hand. “I don’t want us to argue on this trip.” I have to take off my headphones and make him repeat what he’s said, and that really bothers him, although I don’t mind letting him suffer for my sins: he wants to trust me. Later, I’m ashamed of my pettiness, but I keep telling myself that he asks for it. Plus his hand feels heavy. It’s weighing me down. I think about you, think that I’ve taken this journey out of cowardice, and the waves of rage wash over me again; I have to get free before his weight crushes me, shrug off his head resting on my shoulder. Brusquely, I push it away; I stand up and pretend to look for a book in my backpack.

  There’s some consolation. He really does believe I’m trying to find something. He got wet standing in the drizzle, he’s shivering and looks so vulnerable and patient that I calm down. It’s just two days. Two days and it’ll be finished.

  The hostel is about three kilometers from Talavera. We take a cab. There’s no one at the front desk, but through an open door come the sounds of a television and the flickering light of the screen. I walk into the large lounge and say, “Hello?” A man, who’s been dozing, sprawled on the couch, gets to his feet—I’m not tall, but he’s shorter, though not quite achondroplastic. Without saying a word, without even a smile, he leads us back to the lobby. He has a flat, course-featured face. Greasy hair, grubby clothes—frayed jeans and a dark crimson sweater—big clumsy hands with dirty nails. “We have a reservation.” “Gerardo de Paco?” “That’s right.” “Can I have your ID?” A cavernous, stealthy voice. Shorty heads for the stairs, holding the key to our room. We follow. Third floor. A white hallway with bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He puts the key in the lock. The room is a good size, but doesn’t even have a sink. Gerardo watches my face. He observes me, taking my revulsion for granted. That’s how well he knows me. That well.

  He’s closed the door. This is what I know: I’m alone in a room with Gerardo, our luggage still packed, the night pulsing outside. Outside, beyond a tiny window covered
with green mosquito netting, covered, closed.

  “So?”

  “A bit dirty,” I say.

  He bends over his backpack and extracts an old radio. Then he stands up and takes off his parka. The way he moves is a model of efficiency, a reproach. With a joint between his lips and the sports station playing at deafening volume, he lies back on one of the beds to demonstrate his ability to make himself at home anywhere. And just like when he bent over his backpack (it contains only the bare essentials, all of them perfectly organized; and then there’s the backpack itself: not only cheap—he hates using brand names—but one of his best-ever buys, the weight well distributed between the shoulders and hips so he can walk comfortably while carrying it, and with just the right number of pockets, and straps for attaching up to three sleeping bags. It’s nothing like mine, which isn’t even a backpack, but a vaguely sporty bag bought in El Corte Inglés, and which in addition to being expensive is impractical, as useless as they come and so on), the way he lies on the bed with his buttocks and thighs on a grubby checked blanket covered in hairs is a condemnation of me, and I’m breathing, chewing, and smelling blanket full of hair and grime.

  “Shall we have dinner?”

  “We can ask if there’s anything left,” he replies, holding out the joint to me. I shake my head. “Just let me finish this.”

  “If we wait any longer they’ll have closed the kitchen.”

  Unwillingly, he follows me to the large TV lounge. I haven’t been hungry for months. Since I told him, I’ve had no appetite for anything. Shorty is half asleep on the couch. This time it’s Gerardo who speaks:

  “Excuse me, can we get sandwiches or something?”

  Shorty scrutinizes us from the shadows with an astonished expression, as if we were ghostly presences whose voices he can’t hear.

  “One moment,” he says.

  Soon afterward he returns and, with a grimace, beckons us into the equally spacious dining room adjoining the large lounge; at the far end is a gleaming metal counter for sliding the trays piled at its left-hand side. He points to a table and goes into the kitchen, coming back with a selection of dishes: lima beans in garlic, sausages, dried-out Spanish omelet. The table has a green checked cloth with tomato stains. The cutlery is dirty too. I start to eat. Shorty disappears.

  “Not so bad, is it?”

  I shrug. What I want to say is: “It’s disgusting.”

  “What do you expect for ten euros?” Gerardo continues.

  Back in the bedroom, I sit on a chair and look at him. He’s serious. The bags under his eyes sag down over his cheekbones, he’s lost seven kilos. He’s taken the remains of the joint from the ashtray and is smoking it.

  “You do your own thing. I’m going to take a look around,” I say.

  I open the door, glance back at the blank screen of my cellphone peeking out from my bag. Gerardo notices that glance, is aware of my suspicions. But anyway, I go out into the hall, which divides into two wings. One way leads to the staircase, two narrow passages with red doors splitting off. At the far end a young girl in a bathrobe is sitting on a stool. A boy comes out of a room and asks if she’s done with the homework. “No,” she replies. The bathrobe is open to her thighs, allowing a glimpse of gleaming, pearly legs. A third guy joins them and they talk about the math topics covered in the university entrance exam. They are seniors in high school, I think, staying in the hostel for the semester. Teenagers from the villages in the Sierra de Gredos. Their greedy eyes, fixed on me, make me feel uncomfortable and I turn away before the words clamoring to get out of their mouths can become spiderwebs. I walk back along the labyrinth of hallways and red doors and descend the stairs. The spacious TV lounge is empty and dark. I switch on a light: a horror vacui of celebrities covers one wall. There are large posters, but also postcards and magazine clippings. I recognize: Ava Gardner, Humphrey Bogart, Vivien Leigh, Marilyn Monroe, and Sara Montiel. The New Kids on the Block stand over the TV and, covering the window, Alejandro Sanz and the Spice Girls smile out at me.

  “You love these places,” comes Gerardo’s voice from the back of the room, and it’s only then that I perceive the smell of hash in the air and the putrid damp.

  It’s him, I think, but it could also have been Shorty, who is now crouched down between the faux leather couches, stalking some prey.

  We go back to the bedroom, where my cellphone is also spying on me with its silence. I switch it on.

  “Are you expecting a call?” asks Gerardo.

  His voice is unsteady; he breathes as if he’s suffocating.

  “No.”

  “Why did you turn off your phone?”

  “To save the battery.”

  “You told me that you’d broken up with him. That you don’t even call each other now.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  I grab my toothbrush and go to the bathroom, worrying about my phone, in spite of having erased the compromising messages. When I return, it’s sitting where I left it, but I continue to feel anxious until Gerardo goes to the bathroom and I can check that there isn’t, in fact, anything on it to give me away.

  I sit on the bed—the grubby blanket covered in hairs—and wait. He reappears with a damp toiletry bag. His air of efficiency has vanished. He picks up my phone. Checks it compulsively. I watch the missed calls scroll past, the outgoing calls, the messages. I’m getting annoyed. He puts the phone on the nightstand and looks ashamed.

  “You should change your password. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “Sorry,” he repeats.

  He lies down, puts on his headphones, and smokes. I undress and get between the sheets.

  “Switch off the light,” I say.

  I calculate that it must be about two. I’m not sleepy. I try to work out a strategy for leaving him, for walking out on him in the morning, or maybe on Sunday, when we’re back in Madrid, to say that it’s over, that I’ve had enough, and that I only came on this trip to put an end to it all because there’s no point going on…but I can’t. Gerardo’s angst is pasted onto my body, it immobilizes me.

  A couple of years ago we had a six-month separation, when I accepted a job in Brussels, and while I was there I wrote him long letters (at that time I still believed that emails violated the principle of delay). He never commented on the things I told him. It was as if they had been replaced by something else, and the result of that something else couldn’t just be called jealousy, even though that was the driving force behind it all: his jealousy, which used to flay me with some weird form of animus, as though I had to pay for future injuries. At first, I took no notice and continued writing to him. Then, as his listless voice on the telephone and his silence about my letters piled up, I began to feel guilty for writing. Those letters never mentioned anything that might arouse suspicion, but it seemed as though telling him about the walks I took was a cover for some grubby reality, on which he had the last word.

  The silence in this room, in this hallway, in this hostel, is Gerardo’s silence about my letters. It makes no difference what I say. There’s only his obsession, and I meet every one of its expectations: I behave as if talking about hairs on blankets is a way of not mentioning something else. And although his mania is justified now, the result is the same as when I was living in Brussels and not cheating on him. What’s really happening isn’t particularly important, or is only important now because his fears have finally taken physical form. And how—lying here between the sheets with his desire prolonging the silence—can I avoid sensing his disgusting attempts to make me open my mouth. There are many nights when I lie awake, waiting for him to go to sleep, for the sheer pleasure of not hearing him, the pleasure of his silence. Then I become aware of the muscles in my legs relaxing, resting lightly on the bed, my respiration slowing, and it seems like a miracle to be able to sleep and move and live as I please, without Gerardo watching me.

  The day is gray. Or that’s how it seems through the green mosquito netting. We go down t
o the front desk to ask how to get to Talavera and Shorty says that if we wait, he’ll give us a lift. Ten minutes later he reappears in a new white Citroën C5. We climb in the back seat; it’s freezing inside the car. Shorty doesn’t close the doors. Gerardo eventually asks:

  “Is someone else coming?”

  “No,” he replies.

  He doesn’t, however, move off; the doors of the C5 are still open.

  “We’d like to get to Talavera quite soon. In time for breakfast.”

  “You could have gotten a coffee from the machine. Or woken up and shaken a leg earlier. Breakfast finishes at eleven here.”

  With three rapid movements, he closes the doors; Gerardo whispers, “What’s with him? Is he stupid or something?” and I put a hand on his arm to calm him. I want to avoid an argument so that Shorty doesn’t drive like a maniac, which I think will happen if he gets into a fight with Gerardo. Journeys along narrow back roads really disturb me, I become superstitious, and behind any raised voice I hear the screech of tires, collisions, see bodies flying through the air. It’s so bad that whenever I get into a car I prepare to die. But Shorty drives slowly, and what ends up bothering me is his lack of urgency. All of a sudden, I want the C5 to accelerate and thus crystallize my fear, which is not fear now, but the thrill of letting myself be carried away by speed, the sensation of not giving a damn if we crash. In Talavera we eat sandwiches and visit the ceramics museum. Then we spend a few hours walking around the bitingly cold city, with its unalleviated back-alley ambience. We hitch a ride back to the hostel and, as the idea of going up to the bedroom scares me, I insist on taking a walk before nightfall. Two roads, separated by a wasteland approximately a kilometer wide, run parallel to the building. I suggest we cross them, but Gerardo says it’s late, and we’d be better off exploring closer to home. I acquiesce, although I still have the urge to cross the limits of the landscape—this anxiety to know what lies beyond always makes me hurry, as if I’m late in arriving somewhere. We walk in a straight line until the darkness is absolute, and then turn back, guided by the lights from the hostel and the passing cars. We can’t even see our sneakers, and keeping our eyes fixed on the ground makes us nervous, as though any minute we might fall face first or step into a scorpion’s nest. More than walking, it feels like our feet are sinking into the earth like talons. When we get to the basketball courts, I ask Gerardo to brace my knees while I do some abs. The cold ground makes it hard to bend; the sense of having Gerardo crouching near me, his head brushing my knees, becomes unpleasant and I stop. I feel absurd but think that getting wrapped up in each other’s manias is what couples do. Things like that are part and parcel of the whole romantic rigmarole, of the idea that you find a special person who loves you, and whom you love, and who gives his blessing to all your personal eccentricities, like doing an ab workout at nine at night on a dark basketball court three kilometers from Talavera. Perhaps there’s something good in all of it, something I’ve lost sight of; perhaps the absurdity only applies to moribund relationships, like mine and Gerardo’s. He claims that everyone else accepts that rigmarole without question. “You’re crazy,” he tells me when I voice such arguments, and then I experience my craziness as a lacerating loneliness, even as true madness; I don’t know if I’m crazy, or if it’s Gerardo making me think I am. In his company, I lose my sanity, and given that Gerardo has usurped sound judgment, I assume that without him I’ll be unable to find my way in the world.