The Woman at 1,000 Degrees

104 Mollusk 1949

In a dark bar on a bright street in the Constitución district, I was told where the famous Big Ben Benítez knocked back his glasses. After a few false leads I stumbled on an unmarked underground joint where the knife and accordion led the dance. A warehouse had been converted into a tavern with a minimum of effort. A bunch of boozers filled one corner, and a barman sat on his stool, busy growing a moustache. Floorboards wobbled a long way down the room, and the smoky fog slithered as I strolled towards the bar. Inside this cave a gently drunk man played his acordeón and a wasted woman sang an unsolicited song while her partner danced solo on the floor; at regular intervals the woman alternated her singing with shrieks of laughter that were laced with the most loving hate.

I whorishly sauntered over and ordered myself a glass of coal-black wine, smoked a few Arizonas, and then discreetly asked about the famous boy. I was already quite tipsy and engaged in a passionate discussion with two Germans, who together had lost one arm in Normandy, when the fellow finally showed his face. Like a true man of power, he majestically strolled into the joint, flanked by sidekicks, two shady mestizos who were a head shorter than he was and chewed on Italian cigars. Big Ben was bareheaded and therefore immediately stood out, because in those years the whole world wore hats. He flashed an attractive scar on his right cheek, which he wore with pride, like an officer’s medal of honour, and carried his chin high so that the nearest bulb would highlight his wound. His skin was thick and he had thick hands. His face was far from the ugliness of the Crocodile, although his nostrils showed the paternal genes at work.

I remained still at the end of the bar, casting a furtive glance out at the table and then at his beefy torso. It didn’t go unnoticed by him: I sensed his confidence wavering. The knight even seemed flustered with the barman, whom he obviously knew well. Maybe he wasn’t all that cool after all. The three men moved into a dark corner and slumped into seats with their drinks. Big Ben dumped his feet on the table while the other two kept their heels glued to the ground and occasionally turned their glasses but rarely raised them to their lips. They just shut up and smoked. Their calm concealed the same pent-up aggression you’d find in a pride of dozing lions.

So as not to appear too sluttish I allowed some minutes to pass before walking over to them. The leader sat up and greeted me with a grin. But he was clearly disappointed by my small stature. I always had more chances by staying seated. With a decent smile and a spellbinding stare, I could make most men believe I was a long-legged diamond goddess with a slim waistline and ample breasts. Many of them would then be very surprised when I popped off to the ladies’ room and they saw this short tomboy of a woman with a flat maid’s ass. But once I sat down again, I could reignite their interest.

I would have preferred to wind this up as swiftly as possible in the Icelandic way, but this cowboy was the kind of guy who preferred the hunting to the catch and first wanted to wear me down with a conversation about astrology. One of his henchmen happened to be an expert in Aztec astrology, and Big Ben allowed him to decipher my future while he borrowed his cigar. The minion pressed me for my date of birth and then made his calculations and drawings until he’d shaken half the cosmos for a precise picture of my trajectory on earth. He probably saw the garage as well.

‘It’s as if you can’t get into your own life. Jupiter is so heavy here, see? It’s always pushing you away. You’re condemned to follow a tortuous path.’

We left the warehouse behind us, and the dama de hielo or Ice Lady was escorted to an even darker place. Big Ben was adamant to show me what he called knife tango. We finally found a sample of this suicidal dance in some narrow joint down by the harbour, but by then dawn was beginning to break. The night had come to an end and it was time for the morning work. I followed him up to a small loft apartment by the train station, where I vanished into the bathroom and came out again to face the greatest hesitation of my life. The sun had risen over the rooftops to the east, a golden orange eye that asked me the same question the eyeball had asked Dad in the trenches.

What are you doing?

I reviewed the situation. There I was, at the age of twenty, half-naked on a seventh floor in Argentina, on the eleventh day of my menstrual cycle (that was how well I’d planned this operation), a girl in the prime of her life who was finally ready for her big moment, when life lays down its strict law for a moment, transforms a tulip into a cucumber, and strokes it to extract some oyster from it that will then hatch an egg. Crazy stuff.

The sun didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, because it repeated the question.

What are you doing?

Oh, for God’s sake, I thought, as I slipped into his bedroom, closed the door behind me, and wrestled against my final doubts. But it was the same as before and after – some life force was pushing me onto a path that I knew perfectly well to be wrong.

The stud had started to snore. His scar shone in the wondrous morning light, white against his golden-brown face. The bed was like a white island in the middle of a smelly ocean of dirty clothes. I zigzagged towards the bed and lay beside him, stroking his chest and stomach. He had a beautiful and well-proportioned body. Finally he stirred, and I whispered something into his ear. His greasy hair smelled of cinnamon. I continued fondling him and loosened the belt of his trousers. His male member slept inside them, curled up and still, like an unknown species of mollusc resting in its shell. The knife man faintly smiled and we kissed. I felt I had finally reached South America. Then I helped him out of his trousers and shoes and slipped out of my pants.

It was probably Jupiter. None of my killing charm or sweetest caresses could make any difference; that tulip wouldn’t turn into a cucumber. But I wasn’t about to give up, and tried as best I could to get that mollusc on its feet. My future and Dad’s was at stake. But it was futile. Long into the morning I tried to get some blood to flow into that golden-brown splotch of flesh, without success. I even prayed God to raise that limb from the dead. Nothing doing. Finally I dozed off on my watch, but I sprang up when the man woke, and gave it one final try. I pictured my happy father holding a tiny Benítez grandson, a babbling blond infant with a scar on its cheek, the legitimate heir to La Quinta de Crío. Once the Crocodile father and son were dead, we would build our own ranch down by the river, a long way from Bennis’ farm. Grandma and Grandad would get a postcard with a photograph of a house that was bigger than the Bessastadir residence itself. But the result was the same. The knife hero just couldn’t get it up.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked the Icelandic girl.

‘No, no, it’s just… why are you so keen to…?’

I sensed unease in his voice.

‘Am I that ugly?’

‘No. Ha-ha… a curse was put on me.’

‘Curse?’

‘Yeah. A fucking fortune-teller. Told me I would never be able to…’

‘Huh? Was this the same fortune-teller who predicted you’d die at the age of thirty-three?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I know a few things.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘In La Quinta de Crío.’

‘La Quinta de Crío? Have you been there?’

‘I work there. Live there.’

‘Huh? You don’t say!’

‘Yes, I’m taking care of your dad.’

‘Dad? The old Crocodile?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and I had a sudden epiphany. There was another way of getting my hands on the Crío estate. I swiftly dressed, said goodbye, and ran down the stairs and all the way to the coach station.