EIGHT
LYING IN THE BED, THE RECENTLY possessed body snoring beside me, I was taken by surprise by an idea, an idea that suddenly blinded me, the idea that hell is the mind not the flesh, I became aware of this at that moment, the idea that hell resided in my agitated mind — distraught — and not in the sweating flesh, for in no other way could I explain the fact that there I was in my bed in my apartment in the Engels Building, unable to enjoy the splendor of Fátima’s milky-white skin, a skin that in other circumstances would have delighted all my senses, but whose proximity had now plunged me into a state of such dire agitation that I would have given anything for her not to be there, for nothing to have happened between us, for everything to have been just one more of my fantasies. But no, I told myself as I tossed and turned in bed without being able to fall asleep, with anguish gnawing away at the mouth of my stomach, no, that body I had so strongly desired had only made me understand the vulnerability of pleasure, its fragile and crumbling nature, I reproached myself, unable to find a comfortable position that would allow me to fall asleep or even relax, my gaze fixed on the windows whose curtains I had not closed completely and through which midnight and its suspicious sounds entered; that body so desired by everybody had suddenly lost its charm when just one hour before she had asked me point blank if I’d rather she suck it or masturbate me, a question that didn’t make any sense considering the fact that we had been kissing and touching each other passionately for only three minutes — a few seconds more, a few seconds less — on the couch in my apartment, and what should have followed, after she already had my member in her hand and I had my middle finger inside her pussy, was to get totally undressed and lick each other all over until we consummated the act of love, instead of her posing that indecent and inappropriate question as to whether I preferred a blow job or a hand job, as if that whole preamble of confessions, caresses, and kisses that had begun in that beer joint Tustepito as evening was falling had been only a ruse to bring on the moment when she could ask me what I preferred, a hand job or a blow job, something I’d expect from a shrewd prostitute showing her price list to a horny client rather than this Spanish beauty whom, according to me, I had seduced with my charm. Who knows what expression she saw on my face, but she immediately explained in no uncertain terms that she didn’t plan on fucking me—damn it! — that she had a boyfriend whom she loved very much and who would arrive in the country the next morning, a boyfriend she would never be unfaithful to, even though at that very moment she held my member in her hand and was offering to let me choose if she would jerk me off or suck it, she repeated, instead of getting naked and giving herself to me as logic would dictate. I told her to suck it, because it wouldn’t have been a good idea to remain aroused and with my balls bursting, such a strain causes pain and makes walking difficult, even though the magical moment had already passed, that instant when the magic of possession rises resplendent had gone to the dogs the moment she asked that indecent question, more typical of a professional than a girl who’s been seduced, I thought as I contemplated her with my member in her mouth, sucking, with agitated and slightly arrhythmic movements, which made me worried I would sustain an injury, perhaps the scratch of a canine, so I suggested she calm down, take it more gently, resting my hands on her head, not concentrating too much on the pleasure she was supposedly giving me but rather attempting to figure out what difference it would make as she was reaffirming her fidelity to her boyfriend, who would arrive the following morning and whom I had just found out about, if she had given me a blow job or been penetrated, a difference that was frankly difficult for me to discern, much more so when she tried to talk without taking my member out of her mouth, saying something like “ca-cu-ca-ci,” and looking at me worriedly and without diminishing the flurry of her movements she mumbled over and over again in a guttural way “ca-cu-ca-ci,” with such concern in her eyes, until I told her that I couldn’t understand what she was saying, that she should take my member out of her mouth before talking, which she did immediately and then she clearly repeated what before I had heard only as “ca-cu-ca-ci,” which in fact was the question, “Are you happy?” I would be lying if I didn’t admit that this situation surpassed all my expectations, for Fátima posed such a question with the vocal intonations of a young whore, just starting out, anxious and eager to please her client, insecure about her ability to employ techniques she had so recently learned. “Ca-cu-ca-ci,” I repeated to myself in disbelief while she stuck my member back in her mouth and carried on with her dazzling performance without me being able to fully enjoy such suckling efforts, given the alienation that awkward and unprecedented situation — so much for adjectives — had immersed me in, but without, thank God, my member failing me, in which case I don’t know what would have happened. And soon my absence would become unpleasant, my state of withdrawal would succumb to an overwhelming attack on the senses, when she, thoroughly excited by my member in her mouth, finished taking off the garments she was still wearing, including a pair of military boots and thick socks that seemed to me vulgar and unattractive garments to wear under a summer skirt, a fashion shared by most of her European colleagues and that I had assumed was nothing more than a youthful whim without any further consequences, but that at that moment acquired a sinister dimension when an odor issued forth from those military boots that tore my nasal passages to pieces and made me feel the strongest possible revulsion, an odor that undoubtedly permeated her feet, perhaps beautiful and appetizing from afar, but which I didn’t even dare to look at because I had thrown my head back against the couch, my eyes closed, my face wearing the enthralled expression of a man overwhelmed by pleasure, when the truth was that the most diverse images and thoughts were racing through my mind, thoughts and images I clung to tenaciously so as not to succumb to the overpowering assault on my nostrils emanating from the odor of Fátima’s feet. No other circumstance explained how I could have been unaware of the precise instant she stopped blowing me and in one abrupt movement climbed on top of me, only my total state of distraction made it possible for Fátima to begin to gallop on top of me with my member inside her without my realizing it, because by the time I was able to react she was already being penetrated by my member and the only thing I could do was pull her toward me so I could bury my face in her neck so as to filter out as much as possible the unbearable stench, which by then had permeated the small living room of my apartment and would probably be difficult to remove from the rug where she was digging in her feet to better ride me. Lucky me that my irrigation systems didn’t let me down, for flaccidity at that moment would have been the last straw, and while she was well on her way to a state of frenzy and even as I was attempting to use all possible means to press my nostrils against her skin, my mind was bouncing around like a ping-pong ball from her previous absolute refusal to fuck me to her little shouts now presaging orgasm, from the question about my preference for a blow job or a hand job to the unintelligible “ca-cu-ca-ci,” from the baneful military boots to the boyfriend who would arrive the following day; a ping-pong ball bouncing with increasing intensity as Fátima approached her orgasm and shouted, “my love,” “my dearest love,” as if I were the boyfriend she awaited so anxiously, whereas the only circumstance of any urgency for me was to get her off me so I could quickly go and get the air-freshener out of my bathroom. That nature is capricious I understood once she, satiated and breathless, noticed that I was still aroused, an erection that didn’t correspond even remotely to my state of mind and in the face of which Fátima decided to stick my member back in her mouth after saying, “Hey, man, aren’t you ever going to come?” at which point I reproached myself for not having the courage to push her aside, I hated that obsessive need I had to make a good impression and my fear of hurting someone that prevented me from asking her to stop, from telling her that it had all been a big mistake, that she should relax and go to the bathroom to take a shower while I made the bed, though I really would have preferred to call a taxi that would take her home right away. But I didn’t say anything, instead I let her keep at it until I suddenly understood that coming would be the healthiest thing to do, that I should cut the crap, concentrate on the suction she was applying and forget everything else if only to prevent my balls from cramping up and in the hope of recouping some of my losses from that nonsensical night, but it was already too late and after a while she took my wilting member out of her mouth and said she was tired, that we should go to the bedroom and get under the sheets, which I agreed to, since the situation had already spun totally out of control. And she walked in front of me, giving little flirtatious jumps without me sighing for any of her body’s undeniable attributes, all obscured by the disagreeable idea that the stench of her feet would permeate my bed and oblige me to ask for a change of sheets ahead of time, my bed that would no longer be what it had been, even less so when she, already lying down, immediately began telling me about the boyfriend she was expecting the following day, a major in the Uruguayan army stationed in this country as a member of the U.N. forces overseeing the implementation of the peace accords signed by the government and the guerrillas, a tender, affectionate guy who at that very moment was probably packing his bags in a New York hotel room, his heart set on the girl who the following day would meet him at the airport and who now lay beside me, naked under the sheets; a military man she affectionately called Jay Cee, for that was what he liked to be called, Fátima explained to me, even though his name was Juan Carlos Medina, Major Juan Carlos Medina, to be more exact, he preferred that she and his friends call him thus, Jay Cee, two initials that I repeated to myself, without speaking them, on the verge of panic, while Fátima revealed to me her decision to go live with Jay Cee in a few days, that the plans had already been made and she would move her belongings from Pilarica’s place to the large and modern apartment Jay Cee had rented in the city’s exclusive Zone 14, a move that — as she herself admitted as she was curling up in bed — betrayed some of her principles, especially those related to the poverty and suffering of the indigenous peoples she worked with, and that would also be somewhat inconvenient given the scarcity of public transportation in that wealthy neighborhood. But her relationship with Jay Cee was above and beyond all that, she said, lying face down, the sheet half-covering her back, he was an incomparable guy, mature, twelve years older than her, very understanding, so much so that they shared everything that happened in their lives, including “parallel encounters” as she called them, referring to their infidelities, because they had spent several periods of time apart, when he worked at the U.N. headquarters in New York and she traveled into the highlands, she mumbled sleepily between yawns, though until then, throughout their entire seven-month relationship, only Jay Cee had confessed with total frankness to one insignificant “parallel encounter,” which Fátima had un