Read Online Turing's Delirium by Edmundo Paz Soldán - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edmundo Paz Soldán
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rusted and the glass cracked in two; still, it glides upward in silence. It is how you imagine the ascension to heaven: broken bits of the world in conversation with the perfection of infinity. Slowly, the world is left behind and the elevator stops. The door opens, and, your steps suddenly light, you approach the heart of harmony.
You used to frequent these sorts of places when you were young. It was impossible to hear an echo of any kind there: every sound was devoured by the continuous murmur of laughter, clinking glasses, loud music, drunks arguing. At the back, behind a curtain made of wooden rods, the rooms were lined up, the beds creaking in frantic arrhythmia. For a few pesos you were happy, at least for a few minutesâalways quick, always fleeting.
Carla opens the door for you, her skin white, incongruous dark circles under her eyes, wearing a yellow sweatshirt with an enormous white
C
on it, a blue miniskirt, and running shoes: she is dressed as a University of California cheerleader. She lets you in. "Good evening, darling, good evening." Her short blond hair, her full lips, her smile so wide it is threatening, the soft, experienced curve of her breasts, the miniskirt revealing her thighs. She has perfected the requirements of your none-too-original fantasy of a California girl. The ruined beauty of her face, her red eyes, and the intense blue veins on her pale cheeks contrast with the apparent image of health and vigor that her body projects. Some things cannot be hidden.
You sit on the round bed and let yourself be reflected in the mirror on the ceiling. The room is dark, making the furniture look faded in the ash-colored light. At last, a few minutes for you to relax. Will you be able to? You look at Carla again and tremble. If her hair were brown and she were to wear it like Flavia, they could be sisters. Perhaps the resemblance is in her lips. You try to banish the thought from your mind. Your daughter has the sweetest face, not yet marked by excesses.
You close your eyes.
You open them again. When she's not smiling, Carla's similarity to Flavia becomes indisputable. It's her age, you tell yourself; it's because you love your daughter so much that you see her everywhere you go.
You had the same feeling the first time you saw Carla. It was lunchtime and you were leaving McDonald's with a bag of French fries in your hand. Sitting at a table near the door, her elbows resting on a plastic tray full of napkins and what was left of a hamburger, she looked at you through teary eyes. She was wearing a red dress with a mustard stain on it, hoop earrings, and a necklace made of brilliant green stones. Something made you stop. You asked if you could help her. "My parents just kicked me out," she replied, sniffing and pointing to a bag of clothes on the floor. You had to get back to work, but she was almost the same age as Flavia, and there was something about her face that awakened your paternal instinct. "If you want to help, you could pay for a night in a hotel," she said, her tone firm all of a sudden. "I have ways of thanking you."
On the walls are two somber lithographs by someone who digitally combined Klimt and Schiele. The gold-framed mirrors, the Jacuzzi that has been broken for a month now, the blood-red bedspread, the television mounted in a corner of the room. The El Dorado tries to go unnoticed and not publicize what business it's in, but one look at any of the rooms is enough to tell you that it's an hourly-rate motel. Even though your relationship with Carla is now stable and you could meet elsewhere, you use the El Dorado so she can pay off her debt to the owners. They have helped her out of more than one difficult situation. Carla has room 492 every day from five until ten o'clock; you try to use at least two of those hours. You have never asked her if she sees other men after that; you would rather not know.
"You seem pensive, darling."
"Iam."
You remember the message you received that
You used to frequent these sorts of places when you were young. It was impossible to hear an echo of any kind there: every sound was devoured by the continuous murmur of laughter, clinking glasses, loud music, drunks arguing. At the back, behind a curtain made of wooden rods, the rooms were lined up, the beds creaking in frantic arrhythmia. For a few pesos you were happy, at least for a few minutesâalways quick, always fleeting.
Carla opens the door for you, her skin white, incongruous dark circles under her eyes, wearing a yellow sweatshirt with an enormous white
C
on it, a blue miniskirt, and running shoes: she is dressed as a University of California cheerleader. She lets you in. "Good evening, darling, good evening." Her short blond hair, her full lips, her smile so wide it is threatening, the soft, experienced curve of her breasts, the miniskirt revealing her thighs. She has perfected the requirements of your none-too-original fantasy of a California girl. The ruined beauty of her face, her red eyes, and the intense blue veins on her pale cheeks contrast with the apparent image of health and vigor that her body projects. Some things cannot be hidden.
You sit on the round bed and let yourself be reflected in the mirror on the ceiling. The room is dark, making the furniture look faded in the ash-colored light. At last, a few minutes for you to relax. Will you be able to? You look at Carla again and tremble. If her hair were brown and she were to wear it like Flavia, they could be sisters. Perhaps the resemblance is in her lips. You try to banish the thought from your mind. Your daughter has the sweetest face, not yet marked by excesses.
You close your eyes.
You open them again. When she's not smiling, Carla's similarity to Flavia becomes indisputable. It's her age, you tell yourself; it's because you love your daughter so much that you see her everywhere you go.
You had the same feeling the first time you saw Carla. It was lunchtime and you were leaving McDonald's with a bag of French fries in your hand. Sitting at a table near the door, her elbows resting on a plastic tray full of napkins and what was left of a hamburger, she looked at you through teary eyes. She was wearing a red dress with a mustard stain on it, hoop earrings, and a necklace made of brilliant green stones. Something made you stop. You asked if you could help her. "My parents just kicked me out," she replied, sniffing and pointing to a bag of clothes on the floor. You had to get back to work, but she was almost the same age as Flavia, and there was something about her face that awakened your paternal instinct. "If you want to help, you could pay for a night in a hotel," she said, her tone firm all of a sudden. "I have ways of thanking you."
On the walls are two somber lithographs by someone who digitally combined Klimt and Schiele. The gold-framed mirrors, the Jacuzzi that has been broken for a month now, the blood-red bedspread, the television mounted in a corner of the room. The El Dorado tries to go unnoticed and not publicize what business it's in, but one look at any of the rooms is enough to tell you that it's an hourly-rate motel. Even though your relationship with Carla is now stable and you could meet elsewhere, you use the El Dorado so she can pay off her debt to the owners. They have helped her out of more than one difficult situation. Carla has room 492 every day from five until ten o'clock; you try to use at least two of those hours. You have never asked her if she sees other men after that; you would rather not know.
"You seem pensive, darling."
"Iam."
You remember the message you received that
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