The Return

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 believed her.

Later she told me, but this was quite a few days later, that she was losing her mind. She ate hardly anything, only instant mashed potatoes. Once I went into the kitchen and saw a plastic bag beside the refrigerator. It was a twenty-kilo bag of mashed potato flakes. Is that all you eat? I asked. She smiled and said yes — sometimes she ate other things, but mostly when she went out to a bar or a restaurant. At home it’s simpler just to have mashed potatoes, she said. That way there’s always something to eat. She didn’t put milk in it, only water, and she didn’t even wait for the water to boil. She mixed the flakes with warm water, she told me, because she hated milk. I never saw her consume any milk products; she said it was probably some kind of psychological problem that went back to her childhood, something to do with her mother. So when we were both in the apartment at night, she would have her mashed potatoes, and sometimes she would sit up late with me watching movies on TV. We hardly talked. She never argued. At the time there was a Communist living in the apartment; he was in his twenties, like us, and he and I used to get into long, pointless arguments, but she never joined in, although I knew she was more on my side than on his. One day the Communist told me Sofia was hot and he was planning to fuck her at the first opportunity. Go ahead, I said. Two or three nights later, while I was watching a Bardem movie, I heard him go out into the passage and knock discreetly on Sofia’s door. They talked for a while and then the door closed and the Communist was in there for a good two hours.

Sofia had been married, though I didn’t find out until much later. Her husband had been a student at the University of Zaragoza too, and gone to prison with the rest of them in November 1973. When they finished their degrees they moved to Barcelona and after a while they split up. He was called Emilio and they were still good friends. Did you make love every way there is with Emilio? No, but nearly, said Sofia. She also said she was losing her mind and it was a worry, especially if she was driving. The other night it happened in Diagonal, luckily there wasn’t much traffic. Are you taking something? Valium. Lots and lots of Valium. Before we slept together, we went to the movies a couple of times. French movies, I think. One was about a woman pirate; she goes to this island where another woman pirate lives and they have a duel to the death with swords. The other one was set during World War Two; there was a guy who worked for the Germans and for the Resistance at the same time. After we started sleeping together we kept going to the movies and, strangely, I can remember the titles of the films we saw and the names of the directors, but nothing else about them. From the very first night Sofia made it perfectly clear that our relationship wasn’t going to be serious. I’m in love with someone else, she said. Our Communist comrade? No, you don’t know him; he’s a teacher, like me. She didn’t want to tell me his name just then. Sometimes she spent the night with him, but not very often, about once a fortnight. We made love every night. At first I tried to tire her out. We would start at eleven and keep going until four in the morning, but soon I realized there was no way of tiring out Sofia.

At the time I used to hang out with anarchists and radical feminists and the books I read were more or less influenced by the company I was keeping. There was one by an Italian feminist, Carla something, called Let’s Spit on Hegel. One afternoon I lent it to Sofia. Read it, I said, I thought it was really good. (Maybe I said she would get a lot out of it.) The next day Sofia was in a very good mood; she gave me back the book and said that as science fiction it wasn’t bad, but otherwise it sucked. Only an Italian woman could have written it, she declared. What have you got against Italian women? I asked. Did one abuse you when you were little or something? She said no, but if she was going to read that sort of thing, she preferred Valerie Solanas. I was surprised to learn that her favorite author was not a woman but an Englishman, David Cooper, one of R. D. Laing’s associates. I ended up reading Valerie Solanas and David Cooper and even Laing (his sonnets). One of the things that impressed me most about Cooper was that during his time in Argentina (although I’m not sure now whether Cooper was ever really in Argentina, maybe I’m getting mixed up) he used hallucinogenic drugs to treat left-wing activists. These were people who were cracking up because they knew they could die at any moment, people who might not have the experience of growing old in real life, but they could have it with the drugs, and they got better. Sofia used drugs too, sometimes. She took LSD and amphetamines and Rohypnol, pills to speed up and pills to slow down and pills to steady her hands on the steering wheel. I rarely accepted the offer of a lift in her car. We didn’t go out much, in fact. I went on with my life, she went on with hers, and at night, in her room or in mine, our bodies locked in a relentless struggle that lasted till daybreak and left us wrung out.

One afternoon Emilio came to see her and she introduced me to him. He was tall, he had a wonderful smile, and you could tell he was fond of Sofia. His girlfriend was called Nuria; she was Catalan and worked as a high school teacher, like Emilio and Sofia. You couldn’t have imagined two women more different. Nuria was blonde, blue-eyed, tall and rather plump. Sofia had dark hair and brown eyes so dark they seemed black; she was short and slim as a marathon runner. In spite of everything they seemed to be good friends. As I found out later on, it was Emilio who had ended the marriage, although the separation had been amicable. Sometimes, when we’d been sitting there for a long time without talking, Nuria looked North American to me and Sofia looked Vietnamese. But Emilio just looked like Emilio, a chemistry or biology teacher from Aragon, who’d been an anti-Franco activist and a political prisoner, a decent sort of guy though not very interesting. One night Sofia told me about the man she was in love with. He was called Juan and he was a member of the Communist Party like our comrade. He worked in the same school as her, so they saw each other every day. He was married and had a son. So where do you do it? In my car, said Sofia, or his. We go out in our cars and follow each other through the streets of Barcelona, sometimes all the way to Tibidabo or Sant Cugat. Sometimes we just park in a dark street and he gets into my car or I get into his. Not long after she told me this, Sofia got sick and had to stay in bed. At that stage there were only three of us in the apartment: Sofia, the Communist and me. The Communist was only around at night so I had to look after Sofia and go to the pharmacy. One night she said we should go traveling. Where? I asked. Portugal, she said. I liked the idea, so one morning we set off for Portugal, hitchhiking. (I thought we would go in her car but Sofia was scared of driving.) It was a long and complicated trip. We stopped in Zaragoza, where Sofia still had her best friends, then at her sister’s place in Madrid, then in Extremadura. .

I got the feeling Sofia was visiting all her ex-lovers. I got the feeling she was saying goodbye to them one by one, but not in a calm or resigned sort of way. When we made love she seemed absent at first, as if it had nothing to do with her, but after a while she let herself go and ended up coming over and over. Then she started crying and I asked her why. Because I’m such an animal; even though I’m miles away, I can’t help coming. Don’t be so hard on yourself, I said, and we went on making love. Her face wet with tears was delicious to kiss. Her whole body burned and flexed like a red-hot piece of metal, but her tears were only lukewarm and, as they ran down her neck, as I spread them on her nipples, they turned ice-cold. A month later we were back in Barcelona. Sofia hardly ate a thing all day. She went back to her diet of instant mashed potatoes and decided not to leave the apartment. One night I came home and found her with a girl I didn’t know; another time it was Emilio and Nuria, who looked at me as if I were to blame for the state she was in. I felt bad but said nothing and shut myself in my room. I tried to read, but I could hear them. Shocked exclamations, reprimands, advice. Sofia didn’t say a thing. A week later she was given four months’ sick leave. The government doctor was an old friend from Zaragoza. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together, but little by little we drifted apart. Some nights she didn’t come home. I remember staying up very late, watching TV and waiting for her. Sometimes the Communist kept me company. I had nothing to do, so I set about tidying up the apartment: sweeping, mopping, dusting. The Communist was very impressed, but one day he had to go too and I was left all on my own.

By then Sofia had become a ghost; she appeared without a sound, shut herself in her room or the bathroom and disappeared again after a few hours. One night we ran into each other on the stairs, I was going up and she was coming down, and the only thing I could think of asking was if she had a new lover. I regretted it straightaway, but it was too late. I can’t remember what she said. In the good old days, five of us had lived in that huge apartment; now it was just me and the mice. Sometimes I imagined Sofia in a prison cell in Zaragoza, back in November 1973, and me, in the southern hemisphere, locked up too, for a few decisive days, and though I realized that this fact or coincidence had to be significant, I couldn’t work out what it meant. I’ve never been any good at analogies. One night, when I came home, I found a note saying goodbye and some money on the kitchen table. At first I went on living as if Sofia was still there. I can’t remember exactly how long I waited for her. I think the electricity got cut off. After that I moved to another apartment.

It was a long time before I saw her again. She was walking down Las Ramblas, looking lost. We stood there, the cold seeping into our bones, talking about things that meant nothing to her or to me. Walk me home, she said. She was living near El Borne, in a building that was falling down it was so old. The staircase was narrow and creaked with every step we took. We climbed up to the door of her apartment, on the top floor. To my surprise, she didn’t let me in. I should have asked her what was going on, but I left without saying anything; if that’s what she wanted, it was up to her.

A week later I went back to her apartment. The bell wasn’t working and I had to knock several times. I thought there was no one there. Then I thought there was no one living there. Just as I was about to go, the door opened. It was Sofia. The apartment was dark and the light on the landing went off automatically after twenty seconds. At first, because of the darkness, I didn’t realize she was naked. You’re going to freeze, I said when the landing light came on again and showed her standing there, very straight, thinner than before. Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed so many times, looked terribly helpless, and instead of feeling drawn toward her, I was chilled at the sight, as if I were the one without clothes. Can I come in? Sofia shook her head. I assumed her nakedness meant that she was not alone. I said as much, and smiling stupidly, assured her that I didn’t mean to be indiscreet. I was about to go back down the stairs when she said she was alone. I stopped and looked at her, more carefully this time, trying to read her expression, but her face was indecipherable. I also looked over her shoulder. Nothing had stirred in the utter silence and darkness of the apartment, but my instinct told me that someone was hiding there, listening to us, waiting. Are you feeling all right? Fine, she said very quietly. Have you taken something? No, nothing, I haven’t taken any drugs, she whispered. Are you going to let me in? Can I make you some tea? No, said Sofia. Since I was asking questions, I thought I might as well try one more: Why won’t you let me see your apartment, Sofia? Her answer surprised me. My boyfriend will be back soon and he doesn’t like it if there’s anyone here with me, especially a man. I didn’t know whether to be angry or treat it as a joke. Sounds like this boyfriend of yours is a vampire, I said. Sofia smiled for the first time, although it was a weak, distant smile. I’ve told him about you, she said. He’d recognize you. And what would he do? Hit me? No, he’d just get angry, she said. And kick me out? (Now I was starting to get indignant. For a moment I hoped he did turn up, this boyfriend Sofia was waiting for, naked in the dark, just to see what would happen, what he would do.) He wouldn’t kick you out, she said. He’d just get angry; he wouldn’t talk to you and after you went he’d hardly say a word to me. You’ve lost it, haven’t you, I spluttered, I don’t know if you realize what you’re saying, they’ve done something to you, it’s like you’re a different person. I’m the same as ever; you’re the idiot who can’t see what’s going on. Sofia, Sofia, what’s happened to you? You never used to be like this. Get out, just go, she said — What would you know about me?

More than a year went by before I heard any news of Sofia. One afternoon, coming out of the cinema, I ran into Nuria. We recognized each other, started talking about the movie and decided to go and have coffee. It wasn’t long before we got on to Sofia. How long since you saw her? she asked me. A long time, I told her, but I also said that some mornings, when I woke up, I felt as if I had just seen her. Like you’ve been dreaming about her? No, I said, like I’d spent the night with her. That’s weird. Something like that used to happen to Emilio too. Until she tried to kill him. Then he stopped having the nightmares.

She told me the story. It was simple. It was incomprehensible.

Six or seven months earlier, Sofia had rung up Emilio. According to what he later told Nuria, Sofia mentioned monsters, conspiracies and murders: she said the only thing that scared her more than a mad person was someone who deliberately drove others to madness. Then she arranged for him to come to her apartment, the one I’d been to a couple of times. The next day Emilio arrived exactly on time. The dark or poorly lit staircase, the bell that didn’t work, the knocking at the door: up to that point it was all familiar and predictable. Sofia opened the door. She wasn’t naked. She invited him in. Emilio had never been in the apartment before. The living room, according to Nuria, was pokey, but it was also in a terrible state, with filth dripping down the walls and dirty plates piled on the table. At first Emilio couldn’t see a thing, the light was so dim in the room. Then he made out a man sitting in an armchair, and greeted him. The man didn’t react. Sit down, said Sofia, we need to talk. Emilio sat down. A little voice inside him was saying over and over, This is not good, but he ignored it. He thought Sofia was going to ask him for a loan. Again. Although probably not with that man in the room. Sofia never asked for money in the presence of a third party, so Emilio sat down and waited.

Then Sofia said: There are one or two things about life that my husband would like to explain to you. For a moment Emilio thought that when she said “my husband” she meant him. He thought she wanted him to say something to her new boyfriend. He smiled. He started saying there was really nothing to explain; every experience is unique. . Suddenly Emilio understood that he was the “you” and the “husband” was the other man, and that something bad was about to happen, something very bad. As he tried to get to his feet, Sofia threw herself at him. What followed was rather comical. Sofia held or tried to hold Emilio’s legs while her new boyfriend made a sincere but clumsy attempt to strangle him. Sofia, however, was small and so was the nameless man (somehow, in the midst of the struggle, Emilio had time and presence of mind enough to notice the resemblance between them — they were like twins) and the fight, or the caricature thereof, was soon over. Maybe it was fear that gave Emilio a taste for revenge: as soon as he got Sofia’s boyfriend down on the ground he started kicking him and kept going until he was tired. He must have broken a few ribs, said Nuria, you know what Emilio’s like (I didn’t, but nodded all the same). Then he turned his attention to Sofia who was ineffectually trying to hold him back from behind and hitting him, although he could hardly feel it. He gave her three slaps (it was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her, according to Nuria) and left. Since then they had heard nothing about her, though Nuria still got scared at night, especially when she was coming home from work.

I’m telling you all this in case you ever feel like visiting Sofia, said Nuria. No, I said, I haven’t seen her for ages and I don’t have any plans to drop in on her. Then we talked about other things for a little while and said good-bye. Two days later, without really knowing what prompted me to do it, I went round to Sofia’s apartment.

She opened the door. She was thinner than ever. At first she didn’t recognize me. Do I look that different, Sofia? I muttered. Oh, it’s you, she said. Then she sneezed and took a step back. Perhaps mistakenly, I interpreted this as an invitation to go in. She didn’t stop me.

The room in which they had set up the ambush was poorly lit (the only window gave onto a gloomy, narrow air shaft) but it didn’t seem dirty. In fact the first thing that struck me was how clean it was. Sofia didn’t seem dirty either. I sat down in an armchair, maybe the one Emilio had sat in on the day of the ambush, and lit a cigarette. Sofia was still standing, looking at me as if she wasn’t quite sure who I was. She was wearing a long, narrow skirt, more suitable for summer, a light top and sandals. She had thick socks on and for a moment I thought they were mine, but no, they couldn’t have been. I asked her how she was. She didn’t answer. I asked her if she was alone, if she had something to drink and how life was treating her. She just stood there so I got up and went into the kitchen. It was clean and dark; the refrigerator was empty. I looked in the cupboards. Not even a miserable tin of peas. I turned on the tap; at least she had running water, but I didn’t dare drink it. I went back to the living room. Sofia was still standing quietly in the same place, expectantly or absently, I couldn’t tell, in any case just like a statue. I felt a gust of cold air and thought the front door must have been open. I went to check, but no. Sofia had shut it after I came in. That was something, at least, I thought.

What happened next is confused, or perhaps that’s how I prefer to remember it. I was looking at Sofia’s face — was she sad or pensive or simply ill? — I was looking at her profile and I knew that if I didn’t do something I was going to start crying, so I went and hugged her from behind. I remember the passage that led to the bedroom and another room, the way it narrowed. We made love slowly, desperately, like in the old days. It was cold. I didn’t get undressed. But Sofia took off all her clothes. Now you’re cold as ice, I thought, cold as ice and on your own.

The next day I came back to see her again. This time I stayed much longer. We talked about when we used to live together and the TV shows we used to watch till the early hours of the morning. She asked me if I had a TV in my new apartment. I said no. I miss it, she said, especially the late-night shows. The good thing about not having a TV is you have more time to read, I said. I don’t read any more, she said. Not at all? Not at all — have a look, there’s not a single book here. Like a sleepwalker I got up and went all round the apartment, looking in every corner, as if I had all the time in the world. I saw many things, but no books. One of the rooms was locked and I couldn’t go in. I came back with an empty feeling in my chest and dropped into Emilio’s armchair. Up till then I hadn’t asked about her boyfriend. So I did. Sofia looked at me and smiled for the first time, I think, since we’d met again. It was a brief but perfect smile. He’s gone away, she said, and he’s never coming back. Then we got dressed and went out to eat at a pizzeria.