look at me then you’re
going to look at my reflection, and you’re going to realize it’s the same, the
problem is this filthy mirror and this filthy station and the bad lighting in
this corridor. And he didn’t say anything, but I took that as a yes—he
could have objected—and I came up to the mirror and leaned forward with my
eyes shut.”
“You can see the lights already, compadre, we’re just about there,
take it easy.”
“Are you playing deaf, or what? Didn’t you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you. You had your eyes shut.”
“I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. And then I opened
them. Maybe that’s normal for you: standing in front of a mirror with your eyes
shut.”
“Nothing seems normal to me any more, compadre.”
“Then I opened them, suddenly, I opened my eyes right up and
looked at myself and saw someone staring back at me wide-eyed, like he
was scared shitless, and behind him I saw a guy about twenty years old, but
he looked at least ten years older, a skinny guy with a beard and bags under
his eyes, looking at us over my shoulder, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t
be sure, I saw a swarm of faces, as if the mirror was broken, though I knew
perfectly well it wasn’t, and then Belano said, very softly, it was barely
more than a whisper, he said: Hey, Contreras, is there some kind of room
behind that wall?”
“The fuckhead! He’d seen too many movies!”
“And when I heard his voice it was like I woke up, but in reverse, and
instead of coming back to this side, I’d come out on the other side, where even
my own voice sounded strange. No, I said, as far as I know, behind it there’s
just the yard. The yard where the cells are? he asked me. Yes, I said, where the
regular prisoners are. And then the son of a bitch said: Now I understand. And
that completely flummoxed me, because, I mean, what was there to understand? And
I said the first thing that came into my head: What the flying fuck do you
understand now? But I said it softly, without raising my voice, so softly he
didn’t hear me, and I didn’t have the strength to repeat the question. So I
looked in the mirror again and saw two old classmates, a
twenty-year-old cop with a loose tie, and a dirty-looking guy
with long hair and a beard, all skin and bone, and I thought: Jesus, we really
have fucked up, haven’t we, Contreras. Then I put my hands on Belano’s shoulders
and led him back to the gym. When we came to the door a thought crossed my mind:
I could take out my gun and shoot him right here; it would have been so easy,
all I had to do was aim and put a bullet through his head, I’ve always been a
good shot, even in the dark. Then I could have come up with any old explanation. But of course I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t. We don’t do that sort of thing, compadre.”
“No, we don’t do that sort of thing.”
Cell Mates
We happened to be in prison in the same month of the same year,
although the prisons were thousands of miles apart. Sofia was born in 1950 in
Bilbao. She was dark, small and very pretty. In November 1973, while I was a
prisoner in Chile, she was sent to jail in Aragon.
At the time she was getting her degree in science at the University of
Zaragoza, biology or chemistry, one or the other, and she went to jail with
almost all of her classmates. On the fourth or fifth night we slept together, as
I was adopting a new position, she told me there was no point tiring myself out. I like variety, I said. If I fuck in the same position two nights in a row, I
become impotent. Well, don’t do it for my sake, she said. The room had a very
high ceiling, and the walls were painted red, the color of a desert at sunset. She had painted them herself a few days after moving in. It looked awful. I’ve
made love every way there is, she said. I don’t believe you, I replied. Every
way there is? That’s right, she said, and I was at a loss for words (maybe I was
embarrassed) but I
going to look at my reflection, and you’re going to realize it’s the same, the
problem is this filthy mirror and this filthy station and the bad lighting in
this corridor. And he didn’t say anything, but I took that as a yes—he
could have objected—and I came up to the mirror and leaned forward with my
eyes shut.”
“You can see the lights already, compadre, we’re just about there,
take it easy.”
“Are you playing deaf, or what? Didn’t you hear me?”
“Of course I heard you. You had your eyes shut.”
“I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. And then I opened
them. Maybe that’s normal for you: standing in front of a mirror with your eyes
shut.”
“Nothing seems normal to me any more, compadre.”
“Then I opened them, suddenly, I opened my eyes right up and
looked at myself and saw someone staring back at me wide-eyed, like he
was scared shitless, and behind him I saw a guy about twenty years old, but
he looked at least ten years older, a skinny guy with a beard and bags under
his eyes, looking at us over my shoulder, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t
be sure, I saw a swarm of faces, as if the mirror was broken, though I knew
perfectly well it wasn’t, and then Belano said, very softly, it was barely
more than a whisper, he said: Hey, Contreras, is there some kind of room
behind that wall?”
“The fuckhead! He’d seen too many movies!”
“And when I heard his voice it was like I woke up, but in reverse, and
instead of coming back to this side, I’d come out on the other side, where even
my own voice sounded strange. No, I said, as far as I know, behind it there’s
just the yard. The yard where the cells are? he asked me. Yes, I said, where the
regular prisoners are. And then the son of a bitch said: Now I understand. And
that completely flummoxed me, because, I mean, what was there to understand? And
I said the first thing that came into my head: What the flying fuck do you
understand now? But I said it softly, without raising my voice, so softly he
didn’t hear me, and I didn’t have the strength to repeat the question. So I
looked in the mirror again and saw two old classmates, a
twenty-year-old cop with a loose tie, and a dirty-looking guy
with long hair and a beard, all skin and bone, and I thought: Jesus, we really
have fucked up, haven’t we, Contreras. Then I put my hands on Belano’s shoulders
and led him back to the gym. When we came to the door a thought crossed my mind:
I could take out my gun and shoot him right here; it would have been so easy,
all I had to do was aim and put a bullet through his head, I’ve always been a
good shot, even in the dark. Then I could have come up with any old explanation. But of course I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t. We don’t do that sort of thing, compadre.”
“No, we don’t do that sort of thing.”
Cell Mates
We happened to be in prison in the same month of the same year,
although the prisons were thousands of miles apart. Sofia was born in 1950 in
Bilbao. She was dark, small and very pretty. In November 1973, while I was a
prisoner in Chile, she was sent to jail in Aragon.
At the time she was getting her degree in science at the University of
Zaragoza, biology or chemistry, one or the other, and she went to jail with
almost all of her classmates. On the fourth or fifth night we slept together, as
I was adopting a new position, she told me there was no point tiring myself out. I like variety, I said. If I fuck in the same position two nights in a row, I
become impotent. Well, don’t do it for my sake, she said. The room had a very
high ceiling, and the walls were painted red, the color of a desert at sunset. She had painted them herself a few days after moving in. It looked awful. I’ve
made love every way there is, she said. I don’t believe you, I replied. Every
way there is? That’s right, she said, and I was at a loss for words (maybe I was
embarrassed) but I
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