The Endless Week, page 10
The female nurse tosses a packet of tissues onto the grandmother’s stomach. It bounces, it hits the ceiling. She throws a sponge onto the huge stomach. The sponge bounces, it flies through the room. The nurse throws other objects, gloves, cables, a phone. The male nurse throws his wallet, he throws a folded drawing from his children. The things bounce, they play, they aim for targets on the gymnasium ceiling, old traces of paint. They score, they win, they count the points. The female nurse says: Her veins are about to go. Look at her, she’s almost out of blood. She’s so soft, like rotten cheese. Eventually, her skin is going to split. We’ll be able to hear it give way. The male nurse says: She’s full. We’re emptying her, and they’re filling her back up. She’s going to croak. The female nurse says: It’s always the same with the families. They think they’re prolonging the person’s life by feeding them. They stuff sick people. They push the sick person in the wrong direction, they stretch them out. The bed becomes too small, the person suffocates, the blood can’t handle it. The female nurse says: She was thin when she was young.
How do you know?
She told me. She talks during rem sleep. The neurovascular units redirect the occluded artery through intravenous thrombolysis, which provokes temporary, parasympathetic recovery of language abilities, and she describes herself as a young woman. I’ve heard her say: I was young and pretty, passionate about the occult. I was a delicate woman, they called me The Wire.
The male nurse nods slowly, slowly, he pulls the sheet back up to the grandmother’s shoulders. And the grandmother blinks twice.
*
If someone puts on makeup, if they paint their own face directly onto their own face, if they use the right technique, the right colors, if they paint their own mouth onto their own mouth, their own cheeks onto their own cheeks, if they paint dark rings under their eyes onto the dark rings under their eyes, then they’re hiding their face with their face. They’re wearing a mask of themselves.
On the network, people have a form in the form of their faces. They have an appearance over their appearance. The image of their bodies masks the form of their bodies. The form of their lives masks the form of their lives. They place a form on their food in the form of their food. A form of their family and friends in the form of their family and friends. A form of what they like in the form of what they like. A form of what they believe in the form of what they believe. In fresh, assorted colors, the forms stand out. Sometimes, the forms are stolen, accounts are hacked, appearances are taken. Then our form operates under another name, in another country, with other friends, in other conversations, our form has left us. We send complaints to the network, we say: It’s me, I’m this person, it’s my identity, but it’s our form, it’s just moved on.
For the video, Sara chose a sixties-style filter, an echo filter for her voice, another filter to make her eyes larger, and another filter to make the outline of her head sparkle. It was dark outside, the square was empty. She was wearing a jacket with a black hood. She was holding out her arm while lying down on the steps, she was looking at the camera. She sang: Let me die one second, one second in your arms, one second in your arms, let me die, the moon is so dirty because we walked on it, because we walked on it. Her voice lingered, it was slow. Her voice slipped by as if it were on a candle-lit slide. Because we walked on it, let me die on the moon, we walked on the moon like sad dogs, sad, sad dogs, like sad dogs. Her voice was a long thick line. Sad, sad, sad dogs, sad, sad dogs, sad, sad, dogs, yeah yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah. Her voice was like an ancient caramel, almost black, surrounded by light colors. She wasn’t singing loudly. She turned her phone toward the square, she zoomed in on the light of a streetlamp. She was shaking, so the light jumped. She turned the phone again, she filmed her own mouth, which sang: Let me play with your dead body, one second with your dead body, boo hoo, dead body, boo hoo, like sad dogs, we laugh like sad dogs, oh, sad, sad dogs on the moon, on the moon, on the dirty, dirty moon, dirty dirty, dirty dirty dirty dirty moon. She turned the camera and, by accident, filmed a woman sitting on the steps a few centimeters away from her. The woman smiled horribly with her rotten teeth. She was missing a lot of them. She said: You have a beautiful voice, it makes me want to caress your glottis. And she burst out laughing with threads of spit between her lips.
Sara locked her phone and her nostrils contracted. She insulted the woman, she told her to get the hell out of here, to go get some teeth, to go to a special place for trash like her, to stop talking, to take a bath, to brush her hair, to apologize, she’d ruined the video, she said: People were watching me. She unlocked her phone and she showed her the number of subscribers. She said: All these people were watching me. The woman responded: Oh really? That’s not that many people. All those people are each just one person as far as I know. Each person is just one single person, right? One person each, one person isn’t several people, right? In reality, only one person is watching you. That’s not a lot of people. Her large lips were gray and dry. She said: My name is Catherine, I’m gullible, don’t be angry with me. Anger doesn’t work on me. It doesn’t help, I don’t notice, I don’t have a normal level of intelligence. I see things my way, I’m direct, that’s all, like animals. I know the world of humans is indirect. I know that’s a problem. She looked at Sara’s forehead, she said: Anyone can make me believe anything. I believed there was sperm in beans until I was twenty-six years old.
Who told you that?
My parents.
And she made a sound with her throat like a clock that’s about to strike. Her parents had made her believe all cars contained monkeys that pedaled under the hood, she’d believed that until she was twenty-eight years old. Her parents had told her that, in certain countries, the inhabitants had legs in their ears, little legs that served no purpose, she’d believed that until she was twenty-five years old. When she discovered sex in her adolescence, they’d made her believe that brothers and sisters shared orgasms and that, when a brother orgasms, his sister does too, no matter where she is, and vice versa. As a joke, her mother would cry out at the table, she’d say: I have news from my brother. Catherine had believed her until last month. Her mother had made her believe that movies in the theater weren’t really movies, but real scenes that were taking place in the basement. For almost her entire life, Catherine had believed that humans didn’t shit, and that she was the only one who produced those black things, like a disgusting beast. Her father said she was like a beast. And every time Catherine went to the bathroom, her father said: That’s right, squeeze it out, you little beast! Catherine believed that each person’s genitals had a different shape, some in a shaft, others in a spiral, and others in the shape of a flower or a triangle. Her parents laughed. They looked at her genitals when she was little in the bathtub, they said: Yours don’t look like anything. They laughed, then they looked at each other while raising their eyebrows. At school, Catherine believed the teachers were robots controlled by her parents. That’s what they said, and she believed anything. In her family, she was called The Idiot. She said: I can’t be mad at them, you have to do something to pass the time . . . I had problems with food, I hid so I could eat huge quantities of it, and I was overweight. Do you know what my parents called me?
Sara didn’t say anything.
Catherine said: Overweight.
Then she rubbed her nose the way thumb-sucking babies do, with the tip of her index finger. Her hair was thin, you could see her scalp. She said: Even now, anyone can make me believe anything. I believed tap water was elephant saliva, I believed that until last week. Honestly, I don’t understand anything in life, I don’t understand anything. I don’t understand why some things are possible and others aren’t. I don’t understand. Impossible things seem just as possible as possible things, right? Possible things seem just as impossible as impossible things. I don’t understand the logic. Every time I think about it, I realize I don’t understand anything. Everyone seems to understand, but I don’t understand anything. Sara replied: I don’t give a fuck.
I just wanted to watch.
It annoys me. You’re bothering me.
Okay, but I’m going to keep doing it.
You think I’m some kind of show?
Yes.
You ruined my video, people were watching me.
What about me?
You’re just there, you stink, you won’t stop talking, are you drunk?
The expression on Catherine’s face didn’t really come from her face, but rose up from the inside, from underneath her face, as if her face were dead and life came from far away, from somewhere in the depths. Her eyelids fell, her eyes were the shape of a vulva.
Sara said: I don’t like alcoholics, they make me want to vomit. Poor people like you who’re alcoholics, with your ugly clothes, you depress me, you all age the same way, you all end up with the same face, it disgusts me, you’re disgusting.
Catherine laughed with a kindly dribble. She said: Oh, my dear girl, oh no. I’m not really an alcoholic, I wouldn’t go that far. It takes years to become an alcoholic, my dear, it takes many years. I’m still far off, I’m a novice, it’s only been a few years. It takes patience, you don’t just become an alcoholic overnight, it requires time and commitment, my dear, time and commitment. You don’t just become an alcoholic by drinking, it’s deeper than that, more difficult.
She pulled a lock of hair behind her ear, but the hair stayed in her hand. She said: There are very few alcoholics on Earth, it’s rare. Rarer than pandas. Sara was looking at her phone. Pandas are almost extinct, did you know that? There are only about 1,000, no more. To become an alcoholic, it takes at least ten years, but often twenty or thirty, even a hundred. You need to work at it every day and drink every day. People don’t realize, you have to work tirelessly.
Between each sentence, Catherine would suck her lips into her mouth. She said: I’m chasing a feeling. A few years ago, I was watching a show on alcoholism. It was so well done, it made me want to drink. I’d never drank before, but I found my way. Many people stop, I understand, they undergo treatment. Who can blame them? They can’t keep going, I understand. They start but . . . I understand. Most people don’t have the strength, as for me . . . I’ve often thought . . . Many times . . . I think about it, but I don’t throw up, that’s what saves me. I have cirrhosis of the liver, but I don’t throw up. My body got stronger, it got used to alcohol. At night, I don’t have to wake up anymore, my body drinks in my sleep. My body opens a bottle, it drinks it, it knocks it back, and I just sleep. I worked hard to get to that point, my dear, I worked, but there’s still a long way for me to go. A long, shit-filled way. It feels longest during the day. Sometimes, I feel lonely, it’s true, but that has nothing to do with other people. Other people don’t interest me. None of that interests me. I’m all alone with myself, but without myself. How can I explain it . . . I don’t have my own company . . . That’s it, I’m looking for myself, but I can’t find myself. You wouldn’t understand. I’m looking for myself, I’m looking, I’m working . . . It’s a lot of work . . . Even for beginners . . . It’s constant work. Alcoholics drink eighty-nine percent of the alcohol in the world.
Sara looked up, she said: How do you know?
Oh, I read about it, my dear. I read about it because I know how to read. I’ve lived my life the way you have, and I learned how to read. You know, if you were me, you’d be me. People often tell me: Catherine, if I were you, I’d do this, I’d do that. But if other people were me, they’d be me, that’s it. And if I were other people, I’d be someone else.
What do you do all day?
I feed the cats in vacant lots. Have you ever seen people feeding cats in vacant lots?
Maybe.
Of course, my dear, of course. And that’s entirely normal, because everyone has seen us. Everyone runs into us. You can find us in every city, you’ll see. In every neighborhood, everywhere in the world, we walk funny, we feed cats in vacant lots. We know each other, we limp, we’re family. We try to be alcoholics, but the days are long, so we feed cats the way other people go to mass, as a sign of belonging.
Oh, I didn’t know that.
Unless you’ve lived it, you can’t really know. You know, the dogs in vacant lots, we also find dogs in vacant lots, they’re very skinny and dirty, the cats are missing eyes, but the dogs are dirty, skinny, and covered in fleas, do you see those dogs? They’re trying to look like me.
Why would they want to look like you?
Oh, my dear, I don’t know, I don’t have the faintest idea. But there is one moment in time when I know everything, there’s an instant, one second, when I drink, an instant, when I’m drunk, not too drunk, almost too drunk, but not very drunk, there’s a moment when I know everything. I understand everything and I forgive everyone. I forgive you. I forgive myself, but I forget, that’s the problem. Don’t you think this city’s boring? Everything’s for sale here, the pharmacies, the corner stores, nobody wants them, nobody’s buying. And this theater, it’s always closed, these steps and this sad square. When buildings are destroyed, new buildings are built and these buildings are put up for sale, but it doesn’t matter, nobody buys them, I speak, I go on, this morning, I woke up with a magnificent wad of spit on my face, alcohol spit, I often drink white spirit, do you know it? White spirit.
How old are you?
Would you say I’m sixty?
Yes.
I’m thirty-five, my dear.
Catherine’s dark lips smiled, she said: And you?
Nineteen.
What are you doing in this square then if you don’t drink? What do people who don’t drink do anyway?
I’m recording myself.
Oh yes, that’s true, I saw you just now. I don’t like that style at all, I think it’s shit, those lyrics, those tunes, it’s pure shit.
She said it with a sweet smile, like a compliment. She sucked her lips into her mouth with a sucking noise. The sound must have reminded her of babies, because she said: Every time I meet a man, I get pregnant, but thanks to alcohol, I lose the fetus, hallelujah.
