“Max, why don’t you take off your mask? I still haven’t seen your face.”
“You want me to take it off?”
Carmen nodded.
“You might not like what you see,” he said, and she thought she saw a smile on his snout.
“Take it off.”
He put his hands on his neck and struggled a little, as if he was having trouble finding the zipper. Carmen was seeing double and her eyes wanted to close but the anticipation kept them open. Finally, the wolf’s face gave way. First, it went lax on his features, then absolutely amorphous. Fran grabbed it by the sides and pushed up. When the mask finally fell away, Carmen saw the face underneath. It was her mother’s face. And now it was her voice, with thundering clarity, which seemed to come from every corner of the room.
“You’re too big for such things, dear. It’s time you found other pastimes.”
In the next instant, Carmen saw only the open fangs coming toward her face. And darkness.
Carmen opened her eyes ten minutes before the alarm and let time ease by until the moment to get up. At first, it took her a few seconds to realize she was at home. Later, she tried to remember how she’d gotten back, but couldn’t. She managed to believe momentarily that she hadn’t gone out the night before, but her costume — that horrible costume — was thrown on the floor, like an annoying witness. She got up and shoved it under the bed with her foot. She wanted to forget she’d turned forty. That she’d ever had a birthday. The only thing that’s really real, she told herself, is what happens in front of other people.
She was comforted knowing that nobody at work would ask her about anything. She had that kind of relationship with her officemates: respectful when it came to intimacy. She could decree that they’d never had a celebration with apple cinnamon muffins. Maybe the others wouldn’t even remember it. Maybe they hadn’t even taken note of yesterday and were just waiting for her today with a hooker costume, ready to go enjoy Carnival. When she undressed before the mirror, she realized that wrinkles were starting to show on her neck, her armpits, and between her breasts. She felt as though her body came with an expiration date. To celebrate the passage of time with joy struck her as a supremely tasteless custom.
The Enigma of Her Voice
by Isabel Franc
Poble Nou
The clerk was surprised I wasn’t familiar with the story. “Everyone in the neighborhood knows about it,” she said, practically scolding me. I had recently moved into a very small apartment on Amistat Street that served as both living space and office for me. Since arriving in Poble Nou, I’d tried to gain the confidence of folks out in the streets, store owners and porters, if there are any (there are so few left); you never know when you’re going to need information. I was curious about the name of the place, so I had decided to ask about it as a conversation starter.
“In 1957, a customer gave a parrot to the owners of La Licorería, the Farreras family. He had brought it from Guinea. It was a very likeable parrot, but a bit of a rascal. Streetcar 36 began and ended its route right here in front of the store. The conductor and the ticket collector would come in for coffee until the inspector blew his whistle to give the streetcar the go-ahead. For a time, the whistle blew quite abruptly; the conductor and the collector would have to rush through their coffee and leave without paying to get back to streetcar 36 and take off, while the inspector would get annoyed that they’d left without him giving the official order. It took a while for them to discover that it was the parrot whistling. Its imitation was so perfect, and caused so much confusion, that the streetcar supervisor forced the store’s owners to keep the bird inside.”
“That poor parrot!” I exclaimed.
“Oh shush! It had such a mouth! And don’t think it died of sadness, no ma’am: it lived until 1992, the year of the Olympics. It’s embalmed in its cage, right in La Licorería. You can stop by and see it if you’d like.”
As I was leaving the shop, I turned around to look at the lettering on the entrance: El Lloro del 36 (The Parrot of 36). The shop doesn’t exist anymore, just La Licorería; after Mr. Farreras’s death, the women of the family rented the storefront and ended up closing it after a bit. They complained that it was too much to handle. Later, I stopped in to see the story’s protagonist. It was a gray parrot, pretty big, with a mischevious face. They’d put a little hat on its head that looked like the inspector’s, and a whistle hung around its neck.
There was also another story involving the parrot that nobody liked to mention: Twenty years ago, on a Sunday morning around breakfast time, with the store packed with customers, a man with a hunting rifle came in, walked toward the bar, and, without a word, unloaded two shots point blank in the stomach of a customer who had been peacefully drinking the house vermouth. The parrot must have been traumatized: first, being shut in, and then this event. I imagine that its larynx would have dedicated itself to brilliantly mimicking the two shots and terrifying the neighborhood. And I say I imagine because this wasn’t anything the clerk told me; it was kind of taboo, as I discovered along the way, and it also led me to my first case.
I returned to my office thinking about the parrot.
Since I left the department — the police department, and the only job I’ve ever quit (all the others have asked me to leave) — my detective business has been my sole means of support. It didn’t occur to me to do anything else; I don’t know how to do anything else. At first, I thought of starting a GLBT-friendly agency. Since the passage of the same-sex marriage laws, a new market niche has opened up and specialization always guarantees a steady clientele. It’s the usuaclass="underline" inheritance hassles, infidelity, divorce... With so much desire to go mainstream, they behave in every way like traditional couples. But I also feared that specialization might close some doors, and my priority is eating. I decided not to promote myself explicitly on my business card or on the door, but I did send out information to all the gay hangouts and organizations, web pages, and businesses, as well as all the neighborhood shops and strategic locations such as the courts, the unemployment office, and the bingo palace. G&R Detectives uses the initials of both my last names. But this way it makes it look like there are at least two of us.
That morning, after chatting with the clerk at El Lloro del 36, I got my first case. Around eleven-thirty, I received a call from a woman wanting my services; her voice was so sensual, it gave me goose bumps. It was certainly an intriguing voice. Since my office was a mess and something told me this potential client came from a good family, I decided to meet her elsewhere.
“If it sounds good to you, we can meet in a half hour in the patio at El Tío Che, in front of the Alianza Casino. I’ll be carrying a copy of El País.”
Without a doubt, El Tío Che had the best Cuban milkshakes around, creamy and with lots of cinnamon. The real Tío Che was originally from Valencia and passed through Barcelona on his way to America, but he missed the boat, and while waiting to catch the next one, he began selling his concoction. His shakes became so popular that he decided to stay in Poble Nou. On one of those afternoons when I was just hanging out in the neighborhood, the owner went on and on about it.
I was sucking on the slender sugarcane, forcing the sweet liquid into my mouth, when I saw a riot of curls, more fanning out than falling, and a huge pair of sunglasses in the middle. That couldn’t be her, I thought, and then I watched — the little piece of cane stuck on my lip — as she walked directly toward me. An enigmatic face, with an overall feline aspect. Beautiful and tall. Like she’d just stepped out of a Botticelli.