The girl is sound asleep, and everything that happens after that seems to her like the continuation of a dream. Lenotre claps loudly at her bedside, shouting that the young gentleman is here. What young gentleman? Well, who else, the young gentleman is the young gentleman, Mr. Gob-Smacked, the one with the hymen, the son of the rubber magnate. He’s out of his mind, he says he must see you at once and he’s brought a pile of cash — put on one of those dresses he likes so much and do whatever he wants. She jumps to her feet in a flash; she almost leaps across Cayetana’s body. She runs to look at herself in the cracked moon of the mirror. Why would the young gentleman be in such a hurry? His desperation, his urgency can mean only one thing. Only one? As she hastily applies makeup and gets dressed, she makes a deal with God: if he is waiting for her in the private rooms on the ground floor and not on the second, then it means he’s come to say to her what she so longs to hear. It’s a fair deal; not having a crucifix, she seals it with a kiss on her fist. As she descends the staircase, everything around her seems unreaclass="underline" the carpeted stairs, the still-life paintings on the walls, the sickly light that is beginning to sift in through the windows, giving the house a dreamlike atmosphere. No, it’s not a dream — it is a passage from one of those novels Mimí is always reading to her. And she is the protagonist, of course; she looks like a young lady and everything, with her white dress and her matching hat and gloves. His favorite outfit. She has opened the parasol, too, and is carrying it against her shoulder. She’s not superstitious about that, at least; how could she be, when lately only good things have been happening to her, even when she opens umbrellas that aren’t really umbrellas indoors.
No, she’s not superstitious. But she smiles to discover that there’s no one in the rooms on the second floor. And so she goes down to the bottom floor. She pushes open the only door that’s ajar. And on the other side is the young gentleman, who abruptly drops his hat and lunges at her. It is such an unexpected movement that she instinctively closes her eyes, as if bracing for a blow. But it’s not a blow. It’s a frenzied kiss, one that tastes of alcohol and fever and blood. It takes her a moment to react. Could the gesture mean more than the words he isn’t saying? Is God keeping up His end of the bargain? She doesn’t know. She only feels her body go weak when he begins to press against her, furiously fumbling at the laces of her bodice. For the first time, the young gentleman’s hands aren’t shaking. Indeed, they are quite steady as he takes her in his arms and drops her onto the bed. A little rough, perhaps. The prince would never have done such a thing, but of course she is not an odalisque of the southern seas but just another tart on Calle del Panteoncito.
She thinks that—just another tart—and the word won’t go away. Tart, while the young gentleman tears at the seams of her dress. Tart when he pulls up her skirt to cover her face. Her, the tart, her legs forced open under the weight of his body. She’s supposed to wash her customers’ cocks in the basin, it’s the house rule, but before she can say anything, he is already inside her, violently driving into her. If she could move her hands… but she can’t, because the young gentleman is holding them down. If she could speak… but she tries, and the young gentleman — gentleman? — screams at her to shut up, just shut up, you tart. Her, the tart. If she could see — but she can only feel the white gauze of the dress covering her face, the stifling humidity of her own breath. Through the fabric she hears Carlos’s animal panting, his hot gasps and hoarse grunts. If only it hurt a little, but there’s not even that. She barely feels him moving inside her, and that’s the most absurd, horrible part of all. He’s just another customer, murmuring the same old filthy words in her ear, crushing her with his body and digging his fingers into her flesh. Is it really him? He could be anybody. At the very least he’s as repellent as all the others, his movements produce the same nausea, the same need to fly far away in her thoughts. To fly — but where? She has nowhere left: he is not waiting for her in a distant palace with a turban and beautiful poems but instead is right here, holding down her wrists so fiercely that it hurts.
She has stopped struggling to get free, stopped trying to uncover her face. There is nothing she can say, nothing she can do. She knows that the way to make this finish as soon as possible is to stay very quiet. And since there is no longer any prince to dream of, she finds herself thinking about everything else. About the window bars. About the bed she shares with Mimí and Cayetana, and Madame Lenotre’s account book, and the pieced-together portrait stored under the straw mattress. And she understands for the first time that she will never leave that house, never finish paying off her debts, never see her mother again the way she was in that photograph. She feels an urge to shout. To put her lips close to that body jerking inside her and howl her own name, to shout it out at the top of her lungs so that the stranger hears it, so that he never forgets it. To tell him that she too exists, that she’s there right now. But at the last moment her voice freezes up inside her. The man’s breath gets faster, grows hoarse and staccato — in the end, he’s the one shouting. And she, her mouth still open, murmurs the only words that men want to hear from her lips.
“Oh, like that, you strong man.
“Like that, you stud.
“Like that, faster, harder, deeper — like that. Yes, like that.”
IV. A Poem
~ ~ ~
◊
The novel ends right where its authors leave it — that is to say, one night in the final weeks of 1905. At least that’s what they will believe for the next fifteen years: that they have written a tragedy, and that their tragedy ends with Georgina dying. They are mistaken, but that’s no surprise, as they were never great writers, and perhaps not even good readers. They have not realized that something is still missing, an epilogue that shows up late, when no one is waiting for it anymore. And after that, it’s done.
It is 1920. Up until very recently, the world seemed to be living out a tragedy worthy of the pages of their novel. In addition to Georgina’s death there was also the Archduke Ferdinand’s, and then the fifteen million dead of the Great War; the massacres of the February and October revolutions; the Spanish flu and its seventy million victims; the execution of Czar Nicholas, the czarina, their five children, and their four servants. But something seems to have changed now. There is no more flu, no more war, no more revolution or counterrevolution. There are even those who claim that the young Princess Anastasia is still alive, hidden away somewhere in Russia. It is not a question of reviving Georgina too — at this point, Georgina is as dead as the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But at the very least it is a sign that no catastrophe is absolute, that even in the greatest tragedies there is room for mercy or hope.