Rabbit Island Read online

  In the dining room, the trays are being taken away. It isn’t even ten; we ask an elderly lady wearing a hairnet why they close so early. She says that if we want to eat later we can go to a proper hotel. The menu: Spam with peas and perfectly elliptical schnitzels whose greasy coating conceals an agglomeration of minced chicken cuts. I only eat the peas. The Spam and the chicken are the same pale pink. “These schnitzels haven’t been cooked through,” comments Gerardo. At one of the tables the girl from the night before is chatting with seven boys; together they must compose the sum total of the students. They have finished their meal and are smoking, flicking the ash into a plastic cup; they then stub out their cigarettes in the remains of their food.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I announce as we enter our bedroom.

  I extract my bathrobe and slippers from my bag, and am already at the door when Gerardo says:

  “You can get undressed here. I promise not to touch.”

  I turn my back and start to strip. I’m aware of his determination to be noticed; it’s a disagreeable weight at the back of my neck that causes me to get tangled up in my jeans and fall over. I get back to my feet and walk out the door in my bathrobe, still wearing my bra and T-shirt. The showerhead spits water in fits and starts, but I stand under it until the skin on my fingers goes wrinkly and the bathroom mirror is misted. I pace up and down, opening the doors of the other shower cubicles, where those black bugs that inhabit dark, shady places are scuttling around. I slam the doors, frightening away the bugs; eventually, a whole colony is flying around the mirror, from which a swarm of droplets falls. My feet are cold, and I decide to get in the shower again; but a plague of insects is crawling up the walls of the cubicle and I don’t have the courage to chase them out. I go back to the room. Gerardo is jacking off with his jeans around his knees. He doesn’t look at me. I quickly grab my clothes and, with the cord of the hairdryer trailing behind, leave the room before he ejaculates.

  I take refuge in the bathroom, where the insects are now in the corners of the shower cubicles. I’m worried that there won’t be an outlet; but if not, I can always go to the lounge and dry my hair there. I imagine the high school students sprawling on the faux leather couches watching Big Brother 3; I’m surprised that I can’t visualize them watching any other program and—rationalizing this inability—I decide that it must have to do with my mood.

  The thought of having to ask the students’ permission to use the hairdryer while they are enjoying the show isn’t appealing, but I’m determined not to return to the bedroom; this way Gerardo will think Shorty has cut my body up and put the pieces in the freezer by the swimming pool bar. It’s a good moment for us to finish once and for all: I’ll go back upstairs for my luggage at six in the morning, while he’s still asleep, and then call a cab. For any other couple, that breaking-up plan might be unimaginable without the police searching the village for the absent partner; but Gerardo and I are used to behaving weirdly. If I felt like spending the day hanging from the branch of a tree, he wouldn’t give it a second thought. That’s another of the things that, almost a year ago, made it unthinkable to leave him: I detest conventionality. With him, by taking everything to extremes—rage to extremes, thinking to extremes, disgust to extremes—I achieve some form of exasperated life, and believe that the force of that exasperation will hurl me somewhere.

  Fortunately, there’s an electrical socket in the bathroom. As I’ve forgotten to bring my comb, I attempt to untangle my hair with my fingers, making the top layer and my bangs more or less presentable: the climate in Talavera isn’t dry enough to stop my hair from frizzing, although it’s likely that this has less to do with Talavera than the microclimate of the bathroom, the damp mist evaporating from the floor tiles, redolent of plumbing and swamps. My nascent dreadlocks fall in ringlets, like the coiffure of someone in a crinoline skirt, but what really annoys me is not having brought my eyelash curler or my green eyeliner so I might get at least one part of my face in shape, achieve some sort of beauty that will nudge me toward a kinder appraisal of myself. I leave the bathroom carrying the hairdryer and pass our door on tiptoe, heading for the stairs. Gerardo must have been listening for my footsteps because, when I get to the landing, he turns the lock and opens the door. I run and don’t stop until I’m in the lobby. I’m euphoric.

  “Natalia?” he calls from two floors above.

  I don’t answer.

  “Natalia? Is that you?” he repeats, and my euphoria dissolves into pity.

  I start walking, not worrying about making noise, or that he might come down and see me going outside again.

  The TV lounge is empty. It’s Saturday. Why had it never occurred to me that the high school students would have gone to Talavera? I wonder if they walk down, taking it for granted that they don’t have cars, that their only transportation is the bicycles on which they do balancing acts along the ditch in the nonexistent moonlight. In one corner of the room a router connected to a computer is blinking, and my fingers itch to open my email. I have the sense that, having not checked my account for the entire day, some critical piece of news must be waiting for me. I also harbor the vague hope that there might be a message from you. The computer takes ages to boot up, and the room is so cold that I plug in the hairdryer and place it next to the keyboard, cursing Gerardo, but at the same time enjoying the sensation of being pissed off at him again because even an ounce of pity would jeopardize my resolve.

  There are four unimportant emails in my inbox. I answer them mechanically, then drag one of the couches over and plug the hairdryer into the adaptor by the TV so I can watch it with a stream of warm air blowing on my legs. It’s so cold that my breath seems to be freezing in the air. I tell myself that it must be warmer outdoors, that it’s only icy inside the hostel. The posters of singers covering the window prevent me from seeing just how long the building is, and I’m tempted to go outside to check. I could take a stroll to the basketball courts; if I had my coat, I could even sit and gaze at the stars. I need to do something; here, curled up on the faux leather, with the hairdryer resting on the instep of my left foot, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to hold out until morning. However, leaving my refuge would mean meeting Gerardo, because he’s now the one walking up and down the hallways, the one who’s gone out to smoke a joint on the grass and throw a stone into the scummy water. I sit watching a documentary about trans fats and, when it’s over, leave the room, with the impression that the temperature has risen slightly.

  A shopping-mall-white light is coming from the swimming pool bar, and I’m certain that Gerardo must be there with Shorty. That light erases any sense of intimacy, and as I cross the threshold it occurs to me that I’m going to be subjected to an interrogation. I’m dressed, but it’s as if I were naked. I have the feeling that my thoughts and what I’ve been doing in the TV lounge are on view, but I don’t have the energy to leave the bar. Four of the high school students are sitting at a table with bottles of beer before them. Gerardo and Shorty are drinking together; Gerardo is smoking a joint; he’s frowning, deep in conversation. But even so, he can’t help but say:

  “The TV doesn’t belong to you. These kids probably wanted to watch a movie.”

  The students make no response. Their eyes are red; I guess Gerardo has passed a few joints around. The noise of the hairdryer has isolated me from the nightlife of the hostel; it’s not so different from the dives Gerardo and I frequent: a strange place where you can learn something or have a unique—usually synonymous with sordid—experience. A place that fits our tendency to take everything to the limit. But I need a few beers to wind down and settle, with no sense of guilt, into our usual routine—just for this one last night, and then it’s over. I ask Shorty for a Mahou; he points to the fridge. I can’t find the bottle opener, but say nothing; I rummage around on the counter, which is piled with glasses, cups, and teaspoons. Gerardo hands me the opener.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He doesn’t reply. He’s nodding at whatever Shorty is saying. I stand behind the counter until I’ve finished my beer and then take another from the fridge; then I come out, at a loss for what to do next. The bar has two doors: one leads to the lobby; the other is an exit. I don’t know if that one is open, but there’s a key in the lock. I walk over and give it a gentle tweek, trying not to attract attention. My delicacy achieves nothing, and I swing from side to side in an attempt to turn the key, which leaves its imprint on my skin. In the hushed bar (the high school students are either talking in whispers or not saying anything), where Gerardo and Shorty are like a pair of actors on stage, my gyrations must resemble the behavior of a woman who works in a very cheap restaurant on Calle Atocha: she insults the customers as she serves their meals, swearing loudly, as if she were singing. Her song and the clicking of her heels interrupt the murmurs of the diners, who sometimes laugh quietly, but mostly view the poor woman’s lack of restraint with grave expressions, while she alternates between normal conversations and foul language, managing not to offend anyone, or maybe not even having to try since the voice she uses for swearing is different from her conversational one, as if she had a devil in her throat. I succeed in opening the door and go outside, certain that I won’t have the courage to reenter the bar. I down my beer at an incredible rate to achieve a pleasant state of alcohol-induced passivity as quickly as possible, so that I won’t feel self-conscious walking past Gerardo and Shorty, not to mention the high school students, because by now there’s no escaping my tendency to humiliate myself just to be accepted. It could also be that my compulsive drinking and belief that I’ll feel completely at ease once I’m inebriated are a cover for my desire to submit to Gerardo and, through him, enter the real world. I’ve noticed the looks Shorty gives me for not staying close to my
boyfriend, for not living up to his expectations of the behavior of the partner of this man he’s getting along well with and who is playing up to him so amazingly. I sit on the steps and watch the occasional truck pass; this isn’t a swimming pool bar, as I’d initially thought, but some sort of roadhouse, even if it doesn’t function as such; maybe it’s just a game room for the students.

  Feeling the effects of the first two beers, I go inside for a third. I walk on air to the counter; the opener is in my possession, although that’s not really important since Gerardo, Shorty, and the students have moved on to gin and tonics. A mild hubbub—the students are suddenly speaking more loudly, interrupting one another—has eased the atmosphere, and I lean against the pool table. I’ve left the door ajar, and the cold air enters, stirring the smoke from the joints and cigarettes, making it rise to the ceiling and momentarily form small clumps of cloud. Shorty watches me; his disapproval has morphed into a repulsive desire that must be directed at the girl who is studying in Talavera, that Scarlet Johansson of La Mancha. It pains me that her cheerful, animal innocence should be confronted with Shorty’s lust. I scowl in disgust; he sees and passes a finger across his lips and blows me a quick, pathetic kiss. A sick, senseless gesture. Gerardo sees the gesture and pauses. Turning his back on his companion would mean losing a devotee, but he has passed the point where he can sit next to Shorty without becoming violent. Shorty is drunk enough not to notice the change in Gerardo’s mood. Gerardo, for his part, is ready to ditch him, although what he’s really hoping for is an argument with me. I stand up and grab four beers to see us through. Then I say to Shorty:

  “Put them on our bill.”

  He mutters some obscenity, points at me, and laughs. We leave the bar without saying goodnight.

  Back in the room I sink my comb into the knots in my hair. It takes me quite a while to untangle them; while I’m doing this, Gerardo opens a Mahou, finishes his joint, and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returns I’m curling my eyelashes. He doesn’t speak; in fact, he seems to understand that my belated attempts to look presentable are because I’m leaving, and as I too now understand that fact—at first I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of combing out the knots in my hair, curling my eyelashes, and putting on eyeliner to make my reflection in the mirror appealing—our mood turns somber. It’s five in the morning; I ask him to come down to the front desk with me because I’m afraid of Shorty. I call a cab. The bar is empty and smells of the pot Gerardo shared with the students. The cab takes half an hour to arrive; it’s a white vehicle, similar to Shorty’s, with the regulation interior light. The driver looks at us as though some member of our family has been stabbed and he’s taking us to identify the body. When he realizes that Gerardo is staying, as we’re wishing each other all the best, the driver looks less concerned, and I begin to love his serenity; he suddenly seems so sane to me, full of life, and I’m so happy that these attributes are going to accompany me on the journey to the train station, during this night—almost as dark as the last one—when the only things to see are the markings along the highway.

  STRYCHNINE

  1

  She compares the ferry to a spacecraft, and thinks that the windows are similar to the compound eyes of certain insects. Then she sees the as-yet nameless character walking along the deck, saying just that. The character is a woman, and she exudes an air of measured, rational, calming coldness. She’s speculating on what she observes, which is also cold: dirty, white material; a slight odor of damp earth, sweat, french fries, and fish.

  It’s going to be a third person narrative, as though she were a stranger to herself. She wants to enter this aura of serene iciness she has just imagined, which is also the tone she wants for her text. That seems the best way to try out her new brain, to anticipate what’s going to happen.

  But feeling a little pessimistic, she seeks conversation.

  As she approaches an elderly couple, she doesn’t attempt to control the trembling of her lower lip. She suspects they have noticed the paw hanging from her earlobe. Then she goes to the café. Beside her is a very pale, potbellied man of around forty, and she feels the urge to tell him everything. She ties back her hair into a pony-tail and glances between the bottles behind the counter at the mirror: her left ear is higher than the right. The man doesn’t notice, even though the difference is obvious. The ear feels heavy, and it’s been getting increasingly red over the last few hours.

  2

  She remembers that she visited the city of T a year earlier. The guide showed them around the cathedral and they went to the seafront. The light was soft, filtering through the mist. It must have been early afternoon, and although spring had hardly shown its face yet, it felt as though there were a scorching hot summer to come.

  The guide led them to the southern end of the city wall, by the beach. She noted some foreign tourists walking into the sea, still taking swigs from their cans of beer. Others had climbed onto the rocks of the breakwater that formed a path to a small island with an ochre fortress; the horizontal structure looked like a heap of earth floating on the ocean. But what she saw wasn’t a military installation or a clod of earth, but an excrescence sprouting from the city.

  3

  Finally, she disembarks. Rain has been falling through the whole crossing. It takes her an hour to get through customs; the cabs are mostly old Mercedes that smell of musty leather. She walks through the medina quarter, up the narrow streets that remind her of canyons. She’s booked a room in a hotel that had its heyday more than a century before. It feels as though night is about fall, because angry gray clouds are crowding the sky, but in fact it’s only three in the afternoon.

  She crosses a terrace overlooking the bay. The desk clerk stares at her ear, and when he speaks there’s mockery in his voice.

  The hotel is in shadows. Her room has two beds, shabby blankets, wall hangings that look like they’ve been hanging on the walls since 1870, when the hotel was built. Only the bathroom is new.

  She attempts to write her story but gets no further than making a few scant notes. She numbers them. When the storm has passed, she leaves the hotel and goes into the souq, where she sees groups of women. Shopkeepers are offering them chickens, beans, onions. The carcasses of lambs, slashed from sternum to pelvis, spread the sour smell of blood over the dirty, greasy sidewalk, littered with disgarded vegetable leaves and offal.

  She reaches the area where fabrics and argan oil are sold and decides to buy a hijab. In one of the stores she enters, countertop figures without breasts or facial features dominate the otherwise plain interior: half-finished mannequins wearing colorful headscarves.