Félix J. Palma: Confusión macabra

Los lunes, la ciudad tiene un despertar cansado de perra recién parida. Eliseo Barroso siempre asiste al remiso advenimiento del día tenso bajo las mantas, imaginando que su parsimonia se debe a los problemas de la luz para asirse a un mundo que la noche abandonó húmedo, como si la claridad resbalara continuamente de las lentejuelas de rocío derramadas sobre la hierba del jardín. A veces, consume un largo rato contemplando a Verónica, que duerme separada de él por esa distancia que la rutina matrimonial impone en el lecho. Y entonces siente una mezcla de piedad y envidia al oír el significativo ronroneo con que ella anuncia la perfección de su descanso. Por su postura confiada, Eliseo deduce que Verónica cree ocupar el espacio que le corresponde, su exacto lugar en el mundo. Incluso se atrevería a decir que ha dejado que la vida la arrastre sin resistirse hacia este momento de vulgar plenitud, convencida de que yacer cada noche junto a él es lo correcto.

Eliseo, sin embargo, apenas logra adentrarse en el sueño, como esos ancianos que no pasan de mojarse los pies en la puntita del mar. Hace casi tres años que le atormenta la idea de habitar una madriguera errónea, de encontrarse en el colchón equivocado. Por eso, en las honduras de la madrugada, se escurre del lecho y se encierra en el baño. Allí, sentado sobre el inodoro, realiza siempre el mismo ritual. Abre su cartera y, con dedos de cirujano, le extrae el corazón: el recorte de periódico que le confirma que toda su vida es un error monumental, un despropósito en el que nadie repara. Ajado y amarillento, el recorte muestra la fotografía de una mujer que dedica a la cámara una mirada entre aturdida y furiosa. En el pie de foto puede leerse: Laura Cerviño Frías, una de las víctimas del equívoco. Sobre la crónica, hay una entradilla donde se nos informa de que, debido a un error del hospital, una mujer tuvo que velar durante diez horas el cadáver de una desconocida. El titular reza: Confusión macabra.

Cuando la primera cuchillada de luz hiende la cortina del dormitorio, Eliseo dedica al despertador el alzamiento de cejas que lo hace sonar. Verónica, como si el timbre la arrancara siempre de entre los brazos de Errol Flynn, suelta invariablemente un gruñido hosco. Comienza entonces la torpe representación de la higiene personal, los tropiezos en la angostura del baño y el rezongar del niño, una coreografía doméstica con aires de danza sagrada que acaba desembocando milagrosamente en la pastoril escena del desayuno: Verónica perfumada hasta la médula, vestida de profesora de instituto; el niño repeinado, practicando la lectura con las esquelas del periódico; y él amortajado en gris sucio para la oficina. Todos alrededor del plato de tostadas que ha brotado como por arte de magia durante el ceremonial.

Les Daniels: They're Coming for You

Mr Bliss came home from work early one Monday afternoon. It was a big mistake.

He'd had a headache, and his secretary, after offering him various patent medicines, complete with their manufacturer's slogans, had said "Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Mr Bliss?"

Everyone called him Mr Bliss. The others in the office were Dave or Dan or Charlie, but he was Mr Bliss. He liked it that way. Sometimes he thought that even his wife should call him Mr Bliss.

Instead, she was calling on God.

Her voice came from on high. From upstairs. In the bedroom. She didn't seem to be in pain, but Mr Bliss could remedy that.

She wasn't alone; someone was grunting in harmony with her cries to the creator. Mr Bliss was bitter about this.

Without even waiting to hang up his overcoat, he tiptoed into the kitchen, and plucked from its magnetic rack one of the Japanese knives his wife had ordered after watching a television commercial. They were designed for cutting things into small pieces, and they were guaranteed for life, however long that happened to be. Mr Bliss would see to it that his wife had no cause for complaint. He turned away from the rack, paused for a sigh, then went back and selected another knife. The first was for the one who wanted to meet God, and the second for the one who was making those animal noises.

After a moment's reflection, he decided to use the back stairs. They were more secretive, somehow, and Mr Bliss intended to have a big secret just as soon as he could get organized.

He had an erection for the first time in weeks, and his headache was gone.

He moved as quickly and carefully as he could, sliding across the checkerboard linoleum and taking the back stairs two at a time in slow, painful, thigh-straining stretches. He knew there was a step which creaked, couldn't recall which one it was, and knew he would step on it anyway.

Richard Matheson: Duel

At 11:32 a.m., Mann passed the truck.

He was heading west, en route to San Francisco. It was Thursday and unseasonably hot for April. He

had his suit coat off, his tie removed and shirt collar opened, his sleeve cuffs folded back. There was

sunlight on his left arm and on part of his lap. He could feel the heat of it through his dark trousers as he drove along the two-lane highway. For the past twenty minutes, he had not seen another vehicle going in either direction.

Then he saw the truck ahead, moving up a curving grade between two high green hills. He heard the

grinding strain of its motor and saw a double shadow on the road. The truck was pulling a trailer.

He paid no attention to the details of the truck. As he drew behind it on the grade, he edged his car

toward the opposite lane. The road ahead had blind curves and he didn't try to pass until the truck had

crossed the ridge. He waited until it started around a left curve on the downgrade, then, seeing that the

way was clear, pressed down on the accelerator pedal and steered his car into the eastbound lane. He

waited until he could see the truck front in his rear-view mirror before he turned back into the proper

lane.

Mann looked across the countryside ahead. There were ranges of mountains as far as he could see

and, all around him, rolling green hills. He whistled softly as the car sped down the winding grade, its tires making crisp sounds on the pavement.

At the bottom of the hill, he crossed a concrete bridge and, glancing to the right, saw a dry stream bed

strewn with rocks and gravel. As the car moved off the bridge, he saw a trailer park set back from the

highway to his right. How can anyone live out here? he thought. His shifting gaze caught sight of a pet

cemetery ahead and he smiled. Maybe those people in the trailers wanted to be close to the graves of

their dogs and cats.

Robert R. McCammon: Eat Me

A question gnawed, day and night, at Jim Crisp. He pondered it as he walked the streets, while a dark rain fell and rats chattered at his feet; he mulled over it as he sat in his apartment, staring at the static on the television screen hour after hour. The question haunted him as he sat in the cemetery on Fourteenth Street, surrounded by empty graves. And this burning question was: when did love die?

Thinking took effort. It made his brain hurt, but it seemed to Jim that thinking was his last link with life. He used to be an accountant, a long time ago. He'd worked with a firm downtown for over twenty years, had never been married, hadn't dated much either. Numbers, logic, the rituals of mathematics had been the center of his life; now logic itself had gone insane, and no one kept records anymore. He had a terrible sensation of not belonging in this world, of being suspended in a nightmare that would stretch to the boundaries of eternity. He had no need for sleep any longer; something inside him had burst a while back, and he'd lost the ten or twelve pounds of fat that had gathered around his middle over the years. His body was lean now, so light sometimes a strong wind knocked him off his feet. The smell came and went, but Jim had a caseload of English Leather in his apartment and he took baths in the stuff.

The open maw of time frightened him. Days without number lay ahead. What was there to do, when there was nothing to be done? No one called the roll, no one punched the time-clock, no one set the deadlines. This warped freedom gave a sense of power to others; to Jim it was the most confining of prisons, because all the symbols of order---stoplights, calendars, clocks---were still there, still working, yet they had no purpose or sense, and they reminded him too much of what had been before.

Fernando Iwasaki: Última voluntad

Los moribundos tienen fugaces destellos de lucidez que se extinguen como velas en la penumbra de la muerte. Mamá murió así, enumerando mis obligaciones, recordándome mis deberes, indicándome en qué cajón estaban los papeles del seguro, quiénes tenían libros suyos y sobre todo conminándome a proteger siempre a mis hermanas. Pobre mamá. Su agonía había sido muy larga y jamás esperamos que en el último instante podría despedirse así. Lentamente fue cayendo en una somnolencia dolorosa, repitiendo una y otra vez los nombres de mis hermanas. Cogí su mano y me dijo que le alegraba reunirse por fin con papá. De pronto me clavó dulcemente las uñas y me pidió que nunca dejara solo a Luisito, que estaba enfermito y me necesitaba. Y mamá murió como suponía, reservando sus palabras finales para el pobre Luisito, que falleció de leucemia cuando éramos niños.

Fuimos a casa de mamá a ordenar sus cosas y escuchamos un llanto dentro del ropero. Mis hermanas dicen que es mi obligación y me lo tuve que llevar a casa. Le gusta jugar con medias de nailon y pétalos secos.

Roald Dahl: Man From the South

It was getting on toward six o’clock so I thought I’d buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

I went to the bar and got the beer and carried it outside and wandered down the garden toward the pool.

It was a fine garden with lawns and beds of azaleas and tall coconut palms, and the wind was blowing strongly through the tops of the palm trees making the leaves hiss and crackle as though they were on fire. I could see the clusters of big brown nuts handing down underneath the leaves.

There were plenty of deck chairs around the swimming pool and there were white tables and huge brightly colored umbrellas and sunburned men and women sitting around in bathing suits. In the pool itself there were three or four girls and about a dozen boys, all splashing about and making a lot of noise and throwing a large rubber ball at one another.

I stood watching them. The girls were English girls from the hotel. The boys I didn’t know about, but they sounded American and I thought they were probably naval cadets who’d come ashore from the U.S. naval training vessel which had arrived in the harbor that morning.

I went over and sat down under a yellow umbrella where there were four empty seats, and I poured my beer and settled back comfortably with a cigarette.

It was very pleasant sitting there in the sunshine with beer and a cigarette. It was pleasant to sit and watch the bathers splashing about in the green water.

The American sailors were getting on nicely with the English girls. They’d reached the stage where they were diving under the water and tipping them up by their legs.

Just then I noticed a small, oldish man walking briskly around the edge of the pool. He was immaculately dressed in a white suit and he walked very quickly with little bouncing strides, pushing himself high up onto his toes with each step. He had on a large creamy Panama hat, and he came bouncing along the side of the pool, looking at the people and the chairs.

He stopped beside me and smiled, showing two rows of very small, uneven teeth, slightly tarnished. I smiled back.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón: La mujer de vapor

Nunca se lo confesé a nadie, pero conseguí el piso de puro milagro. Laura, que tenía besar de tango, trabajaba de secretaria para el administrador de fincas del primero segunda. La conocí una noche de julio en que el cielo ardía de vapor y desesperación. Yo dormía a la intemperie, en un banco de la plaza, cuando me despertó el roce de unos labios. «¿Necesitas un sitio para quedarte?» Laura me condujo hasta el portal. El edificio era uno de esos mausoleos verticales que embrujan la ciudad vieja, un laberinto de gárgolas y remiendos sobre cuyo atrio se leía 1866. La seguí escaleras arriba, casi a tientas. A nuestro paso, el edificio crujía como los barcos viejos. Laura no me preguntó por nóminas ni referencias. Mejor, porque en la cárcel no te dan ni unas ni otras. El ático era del tamaño de mi celda, una estancia suspendida en la tundra de tejados. «Me lo quedo», dije. A decir verdad, después de tres años en prisión, había perdido el sentido del olfato, y lo de las voces que transpiraban por los muros no era novedad. Laura subía casi todas las noches. Su piel fría y su aliento de niebla eran lo único que no quemaba de aquel verano infernal. Al amanecer, Laura se perdía escaleras abajo, en silencio. Durante el día yo aprovechaba para dormitar. Los vecinos de la escalera tenían esa amabilidad mansa que confiere la miseria. Conté seis familias, todas con niños y viejos que olían a hollín y a tierra removida. Mi favorito era don Florián, que vivía justo debajo y pintaba muñecas por encargo. Pasé semanas sin salir del edificio. Las arañas trazaban arabescos en mi puerta. Doña Luisa, la del tercero, siempre me subía algo de comer. Don Florián me prestaba revistas viejas y me retaba a partidas de dominó. Los críos de la escalera me invitaban a jugar al escondite. Por primera vez en mi vida me sentía bienvenido, casi querido. A medianoche, Laura traía sus diecinueve años envueltos en seda blanca y se dejaba hacer como si fuera la última vez. La amaba hasta el alba, saciándome en su cuerpo de cuanto la vida me había robado. Luego yo soñaba en blanco y negro, como los perros y los malditos. Incluso a los despojos de la vida como yo se les concede un asomo de felicidad en este mundo. Aquel verano fue el 

Raymond Carver: Whoever Was Using This Bed

The call comes in the middle of the night, three in the morning, and it nearly scares us to death.

"Answer it, answer it!" my wife cries. "My God, who is it? Answer it!"

I can't find the light, but I get to the other room, where the phone is, and pick it up after the fourth ring.

"Is Bud there?" this woman says, very drunk.

"Jesus, you have the wrong number," I say, and hang up.

I turn the light on, and go into the bathroom, and that's when I hear the phone start again.

"Answer that!" my wife screams from the bedroom. "What in God's name do they want, Jack? I can't take any more."

I hurry out of the bathroom and pick up the phone.

"Bud?" the woman says. "What are you doing, Bud?"

I say, "Look here. You have a wrong number. Don't ever call this number again."

"I have to talk to Bud," she says.

I hang up, wait until it rings again, and then I take the receiver and lay it on the table beside the phone. But I hear the woman's voice say, "Bud, talk to me, please." I leave the receiver on its side on the table, turn off the light, and close the door to the room.

In the bedroom I find the lamp on and my wife, Iris, sitting against the headboard with her knees drawn up under the covers. She has a pillow behind her back, and she's more on my side than her own side. The covers are up around her shoulders. The blankets and the sheet have been pulled out from the foot of the bed. If we want to go back to sleep — I want to go back to sleep, anyway — we may have to start from scratch and do this bed over again.

"What the hell was that all about?" Iris says. "We should have unptugged the phone. I guess we forgot. Try forgetting one night to unplug the phone and see what happens. I don't believe it."

After Iris and I started living together, my former wife, or else one of my kids, used to call up when we were asleep and want to harangue us. They kept doing it even after Iris and I were married. So we started unplugging our phone before we went to bed. We unplugged the phone every night of the year, just about. It was a habit. This time I slipped up, that's all.

Christopher Fowler: Dracula’s Library

Jonathan Harker stays on at Dracula’ s Castle, but at what cost to hisimmortal soul . . . ?

BEING A DIARY chronicle of the true and hitherto unrevealed fate of Jonathan Harker, discovered within the pages of an ancient book.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 2 July
.
I have always believed that a building can be imbued with thepersonality of its owner, but never have I felt such a dread ache of melancholy as I experienced upon entering that terrible, desolateplace. The castle itself – less a chateau than a fortress, much like theone that dominates the skyline of Salzburg –
is very old, thirteenthcentury by my reckoning, and a veritable masterpiece of unadorned ugliness. Little has been added across the years to make the interiormore bearable for human habitation. There is now glass in manyof the windows and mouldering tapestries adorn the walls, but atnight the noise of their flapping reveals the structure’s inadequateprotection from the elements. The ramparts are unchanged fromtimes when hot oil was poured on disgruntled villagers who came tocomplain about their murderous taxes. There is one entrance only,sealed by a portcullis and a pair of enormous studded doors. Water isdrawn up from a great central well by a complicated wooden pump-contraption. Gargoyles sprout like toadstools in every exposedcorner. The battlements turn back the bitter gales that forever sweepthe Carpathian mountains, creating a chill oasis within, so that onemay cross the bailey – that is, the central courtyard of the castle –  without being blasted away into the sky.

     But it is the character of the Count himself that provides thecastle with its most singular feature, a pervading sense of loss andloneliness that would penetrate the bravest heart and break it if admitted. The wind moans like a dying child, and even the weak sunlight that passes into the great hall is drained of life and hope bythe cyanic stained glass through which it is filtered.

Graham Masterton: A portrait of Jennie

He dragged the sheet off the easel.

“My God,” she gasped.

It was her, nude, with butterflies dancing around her nipples.

“Marry me, Jennie, or I promise I’ll never paint another picture.”

“John, you’re sick. You know I’m marrying Matt.”

“Jennie -- “” But she was gone.

At least he still had her likeness. But he would keep his promise. He wrapped his right hand in turpentine-soaked paint-rags, and struck a match. Screaming, he stumbled into the painting, and set that alight, too. The butterflies flew out, their wings blazing, but spiralled to the floor, as all dreams do.

Ángel Olgoso: Cleveland

El humo se acumulaba en el techo de la bolera. Los muchachos, confiados, lanzaron sus bolas como quien exprime un jugoso racimo de bayas y lo arroja lejos. Habían puntuado alto y ahora charlaban y fumaban tranquilamente, estudiando los ventiladores y el bruñido de la tarima. Mi turno. Entre las bolas vino rodando un cráneo, limpio y brillante. Los muchachos miraron con preocupación. Introduje los dedos en los orificios de los ojos. Sentí que se ennegrecían de sombra y de vacío de gruta. Era dolorosamente más ligero que las demás bolas corrientes. Ladeé la cabeza calibrando peso y distancia. Retrocedí unos pasos para tomar impulso. Al lanzarlo cerré los ojos y hubiera cerrado los oídos si éstos funcionaran de tal manera. El cráneo salió proyectado, describió una buena trayectoria y rodó por el centro de la pista percutiendo contra el suelo pulido, como un meteoro color crema a la deriva en la corriente de las probabilidades.

Robert Bloch: Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper

I looked at the stage Englishman. He looked at me.

"Sir Guy Hollis?" I asked.

"Indeed. Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody, the psychiatrist?"

I nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean, sandy-haired — with the traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he'd left his umbrella in the outer office.

But more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.

Sir Guy didn't help matters any as he sat down. He cleared his throat, glanced around nervously, tapped his pipe against the side of the desk. Then he opened his mouth.

"Mr. Carmody," he said, "have you ever heard of — Jack the Ripper?"

"The murderer?" I asked.

"Exactly. The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack the Ripper. Red Jack."

"I've heard of him," I said.

"Do you know his history?"

"I don't think we'll get any place swapping old wives' tales about famous crimes of history."

He took a deep breath.

"This is no old wives' tale. It's a matter of life or death."

Tiziano Scarpa: Acqua

1

In piscina

Guarardo ragazze del secondo turno nuotare nelle mie Inde neuromagnetiche. Sono seduta ai bordi della piscina. Nuotano a rana, tre per corsia, ventiquattro te-tt che si immergono e fanno capolino a ritmo. All'improvviso però questa frase mi attraversa la testa e mi domanda che cose l'amore. Che cose l'amore in genette, al di là dei casi particolari che ci legano a questa a quella persona. Sto pensando a cosa può significale insomma il fatto che... Di colpo la massa azzurra love nuotano i corpi delle ragazze sparisce. In un attimo la piscina si svuota. Senza più sostegno, i corpi delle ragazze precipitano sul fondo. Rimbalzano sull'imbottitura, i cuscini spugnosi sono così soffici che le inghiottono come se affondassero nella gelatina. Le ragazze guardano in alto, verso l'istruttrice, non capiscono cos'hanno combinato di tanto grave per essersi meniate questo black-out di neuroenergia. Una ragazza In costume viola invece continua il movimento a rana anche sul fondo della piscina, come se niente fosse. Lo la apposta, chiaro. Allarga le braccia, apre e stringe le l'ambe. Striscia a rana sul fondo della piscina fino alla scaletta. Tre o quattro le stanno intorno, in piedi, ridacchiano. Camminano saltellando sui cuscini imbottiti in fondo alla piscina. Salgono tutte su per i gradini, mi sfilano davanti in silenzio. Qualcuna mi dà un'occhiata di traverso.

— Se fosse veramente innamorata non avrebbe questi cali di tensione — la ragazza in costume viola parla all'orecchio dell'ultima della fila. Troppo forte e chiaro per essere un pettegolezzo sottovoce.

Ho staccato il cavo dall'inguine, mi sono alzata. L'istruttrice si avvicina senza dire una parola.

—È la terza volta, oggi — lo dico io per lei. Tanto vale ammetterlo subito. Non ho nessuna voglia di rimproveri.

—Vedi di rilassarti. Fatti un po' una nuotata anche tu — l'istruttrice mi parla con la faccia seria. Ma non è severa, è dispiaciuta. Si siede sulla mia sedia, raccoglie il cavo e lo connette alla nuca. — Non ridere. Sono una primitiva, io. — Sta controllando di averlo fissato bene sotto la cuffia. Poi si fa sentire da tutte le altre: — Forza, si continua. Posso reggere almeno per un quarto d'ora. Se non ce la faccio vi avverto. — La piscina si riempie in un attimo di una polpa marrone a strisce gialle.

Cristina Fernández Cubas: La mujer de verde

—Lo siento —dice la chica—. Se ha confundido usted.

La he escuchado sin pestañear, asintiendo con la cabeza, como si la cosa más natural del mundo fuera ésta: confundirse. Porque no cabe ya otra explicación. Me he equivocado. Y por un momento repaso mentalmente la lista de pequeñas confusiones que haya podido cometer en mi vida sin encontrar ninguna que se le parezca. Pero no debo culparme. Me encuentro cansada, agobiada de trabajo y, para colmo, sin poder dormir. Esta misma mañana a punto he estado de telefonear a mi casero. ¿Cómo ha podido alquilar el piso de arriba a una familia tan ruidosa? Pero lo que importa ahora no son los vecinos ni tampoco el casero ni mi cansancio, sino el extraño espejismo que, por lo visto, he debido de sufrir hace apenas media hora. Una mezcla de turbación y certeza que me ha llevado a abandonar precipitadamente una zapatería, y correr por la calle tras una mujer a la que me he empeñado en llamar Dina. Y la mujer, sin prestarme atención, ha seguido indiferente su camino. Porque no era Dina. O por lo menos eso es lo que me está afirmando la verdadera Dina Dachs, sentada frente a su ordenada mesa de trabajo, con la misma sonrisa inocente con la que, hace apenas

una semana, acogió la noticia de su incorporación a la empresa. «No», me dice. «No me he movido de aquí desde las nueve.» Y después, meneando comprensivamente la cabeza: «Lo siento. Se ha confundido usted».

Sí. Ahora comprendo que a la fuerza se trata de un error. Porque, aunque el parecido me siga resultando asombroso, la chica que tengo delante no es más que una muchacha educada, cortés, una secretaria eficiente. Y la mujer, la desconocida tras la que acabo de correr en la calle, mostraba en su rostro las huellas de toda una vida, el sufrimiento, una mirada enigmática y fría que ni siquiera alteró una sola vez, a pesar de mis llamadas, de los empujones de la gente, del bullicio de una avenida comercial en vísperas de fiestas. Y fue seguramente eso lo que me llamó la atención, lo que me había llevado a pensar que aquella mujer —Dina, creía— sufría un trastorno, una ausencia, una momentánea pérdida de identidad. Pero ahora sé que mi error es tan sólo un error a medias. Porque la desconocida, fuera quien fuera, necesitaba ayuda. Y vuelvo a mirar a Dina, su jersey de angora y el abrigo de paño colgado del perchero, y de nuevo recuerdo a la mujer. Vestida con un traje de seda verde en pleno mes de diciembre. Un traje de fiesta, escotado, liviano... Y un collar violeta. Indiferente al frío, al tráfico, a la gente. No digo nada más. La evidencia de que he confundido a aquella chica con una demente me hace sonreír. Y me encierro en mi despacho, dejo las compras sobre una silla y empiezo a revisar la correspondencia. Será un mes agotador, sólo un mes. Y luego Roma, Roma y Eduardo. Me siento feliz. Tengo todos los motivos del mundo para sentirme feliz.