19
He gets into his car and lights a cigarette. But before he starts the engine, his phone rings. It’s his sister.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Marcos. Where are you? I see buildings. Are you in the
city?”
“I am. I had to run some errands.”
“Why don’t you come over for lunch then.”
“I can’t, I have to go in to work.”
“Marcos, I know perfectly well that today is your day off. The woman who answered the phone at the plant told me. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
He’d rather see his sister than go back home to the female.
“I’ll make special kidneys in a lemon and herb marinade. You’ll
be licking it off your fingers.”
“I’m not eating meat, Marisa.”
His sister looks at him with surprise and a bit of suspicion.
“You’re not one of those veganoids now, are you?”
“It’s for health reasons, my doctor suggested I stop eating meat.
It’s just for a while.”
“Is everything okay? Don’t scare me, Marcos.”
“It’s nothing serious. My cholesterol’s a bit high, that’s all.”
“Well, I’ll think of something. But come over, I want to see you.”
It’s not for health reasons. Since his son died he hasn’t gone back to eating meat.
The prospect of seeing his sister weighs on him. Visiting her is an errand to be taken care of when he has no other choice. He doesn’t know who his sister is, not really.
He drives slowly through the city. There are people around, but it seems deserted. It’s not just because the population has been reduced.
Ever since animals were eliminated, there’s been a silence that nobody hears, and yet it’s there, always, resounding throughout the city. It’s a shrill silence that can be seen on people’s faces, in their gestures, in the way they look at one another. It’s as if everyone’s lives have been detained, as if they were waiting for the nightmare to end.
He arrives at his sister’s place and gets out of the car. Somewhat
resigned, he rings the doorbell.
“Hi, Marquitos!”
His sister’s words are like boxes filled with blank paper. She
gives him a hug that’s limp, quick.
“Let me take your umbrella.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Are you crazy? What do you mean you don’t have one?”
“I don’t have one, Marisa. I live out in the country and the birds won’t do anything. It’s only in the city that people are paranoid.”
“Hurry up and come inside, will you.”
His sister pushes him into the house and looks around. She’s worried that the neighbours will see her brother without an umbrella.
He knows that what will ensue is the ritual of talking about trivialities, during which Marisa insinuates that she can’t take responsibility for their father, and he says that she doesn’t have to worry, and sees the two strangers that are her children, and she drops the guilt for six months until the whole thing repeats itself.
They go to the kitchen.
“How are you, Marquitos?”
He hates it when she calls him Marquitos. She does it to express a modicum of affection, which she doesn’t feel.
“I’m fine.”
“A bit better?”
There’s pity and condescension in her eyes. It’s the only way she’s looked at him since he lost his son.
He doesn’t answer, restricts himself to lighting a cigarette.
“I’m sorry but not in here, okay? You’ll fill the house with the smell of smoke.”
His sister’s words accumulate, one on top of the other, like folders piled on folders inside folders. He puts out the cigarette.
He wants to leave.
“The food’s ready. I’m just waiting to hear from Esteban.”
Esteban is his sister’s husband. Whenever he thinks of his brother-in-law, he sees a man hunched over, with a face full of contradictions and a half-smile that’s an attempt at hiding them. He
believes Esteban is a man trapped by his circumstances, by a wife who’s a monument to stupidity and by a life he regrets having chosen.
“Oh, Esteban just got back to me. That’s too bad. He has a lot of
work and won’t be able to make it.”
“That’s fine.”
“The kids will be home soon from school.”
His sister’s kids. There are two of them. He thinks that she was never much interested in maternity, that she had her kids because it’s one of the things you’re supposed to do in life, like throwing a party on your fifteenth birthday, getting married, renovating your home and eating meat.
He says nothing because he doesn’t care to see them. She serves him lemonade with mint in it and puts a plate below the glass. He takes a sip and puts it back down. The lemonade has an artificial taste.
“How are you, Marquitos? The truth.”
She barely touches his hand and tilts her head, holding back the pity she feels, though not entirely, because she wants him to notice it.
He looks at the fingers she’s placed over his hand and thinks that not long ago, that hand grabbed hold of Spanel by the nape of her neck.
“I’m fine.”
“How is it possible that you don’t have an umbrella?”
He sighs a little and thinks that yet again, they’re going to have
the argument they do every year.
“I don’t need one. Nobody needs one.”
“Everyone needs one. There are areas that don’t have protective roofs. Do you want to get yourself killed?”
“Marisa, do you seriously think that if a bird shits on your head,
you’re going to die?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll say it again, Marisa, in the country, at the plant, no one uses an umbrella, no one would even think of using one. Wouldn’t it make more sense to believe that if you get bitten by a mosquito, which could have bitten an animal before you, you might get the virus?”
“No, because the government says there’s no risk with mosquitoes.”
“The government wants to manipulate you, that’s the only reason it exists.”
“Here everyone uses an umbrella when they go out. It’s only logical.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe the umbrella industry saw an opportunity and the government got in on it?”
“You always think there’s some conspiracy when there isn’t.”
He can hear her tapping the floor with her foot. Slowly, almost without making a sound, but he knows his sister has reached her limit, that she’s incapable of discussing the subject further, more than anything because she doesn’t think for herself. That’s why she can’t back up her point of view for very long.
“Let’s not argue, Marquitos.”
“Fine by me.”
She uses her fingers to display the virtual screen on the kitchen table. In the menu, a photo of her children appears. She touches it and a window pops up. It shows her two kids, who are almost teenagers, walking down the street with air umbrellas.
“How much longer will you be?”
“We’re almost there.”
She closes the virtual screen and looks nervously at her brother.
She doesn’t know what to talk about.
“Those umbrellas were gifts from their grandparents, you have no idea how much they spoil the kids. They’d been asking for them for years, but they’re so expensive. Who would think of making an umbrella with an air propeller? But the kids are happy, they’re the envy of all their classmates.”
He doesn’t say anything and looks at a picture frame on the kitchen wall. The frame projects images of cheap still-life compositions. Fruits in baskets, oranges on a table, a series of unsigned drawings. Close to the frame he sees a cockroach on the wall.
The cockroach crawls down to the countertop and disappears behind a plate of bread.
“The kids just love this virtual game their grandparents got them.
It’s called My Real Pet.”
He doesn’t ask her anything. His sister’s words smell of detained humidity, of confinement, of intense cold. She keeps talking.
“You create your own animal and you can actually pet it, play with it, feed it. Mine’s a white angora cat called Mishi. But she’s just a
kitten because I don’t want her to get any bigger. I prefer baby cats, like everyone does.”
He never liked cats. Or baby cats. He takes a sip of lemonade, hides his disgust and watches the images change in the picture frame.
A still life flickers and then becomes pixelated. The frame goes black.
“The kids created a dragon and a unicorn. But we know they’re going to get bored soon, just like they did with Boby, he was a robot dog we bought them. We saved up for so long and after a few months they got tired of him. Boby’s in the garage, turned off. He’s really well-made, but it’s not the same thing as a real dog.”
His sister always makes sure he understands that they don’t have a lot of money, that theirs is an austere life. He knows this isn’t true though he doesn’t care either way, and doesn’t hold a grudge because she contributes nothing, not even a penny, towards their father’s care.
“I put together a warm salad with vegetables and rice for you.
Does that sound okay?”
“Yes.”
He notices a door near the sink that he doesn’t remember. It’s the kind of door found in households that raise heads. He can tell it’s new and hasn’t been used. Behind the door is a cold room. Now he understands why his sister invited him over. She’s going to ask for heads at a good price so she can raise them.
They hear sounds from the street and the kids come in.