Nineteen Claws and a Black Bird E-Book

Agustina Bazterrica

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 173

Beschreibung

Fiercely powerful short fiction about the darkest aspects of human nature, from the acclaimed author of Tender is the Flesh 'Bazterrica's writing is ferocious; she has vision and intent. When you least expect it, her narrative hits her target, and leaves you trembling' Samanta Schweblin, author of Fever Dream In these tense, macabre stories, bodies fall from the sky, perfect nails conceal grisly secrets and violence pulses behind gleaming façades. From hellish visions to obsessive relationships, acclaimed author Agustina Bazterrica takes us to the dark heart of human desires and fears. Shocking, brutal, yet glinting with sharp humour, Nineteen Claws and a Black Bird is a breathtaking dive into human monstrousness from a master of contemporary horror.

Leseprobe

To my grandmother, my mother and my sister: my heroines.

To Liliana Díaz Mindurry, for all that you’ve taught me and more.

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphA Light, Swift and Monstrous SoundRobertoUnamuno’s BoxesCandy PinkAnita and HappinessDishwasherEarthPerfect SymmetryThe Wolf’s BreathTeicher vs. NietzscheThe DeadElena-Marie SandozThe Slowness of PleasureNo TearsThe Continuous Equality of the CircumferenceA Hole Hides a HouseHellArchitectureMary CarminumThe Solitary OnesCopyright

…the sombre bird perched on my chest dining on my tongue.

ELENA ANNÍBALI

Haven’t you ever / wondered what it would be like if instead of hands you had claws / or roots or fins, what it would be like / if the only way to live were in silence / or emitting murmurs or shouts / of pleasure or pain or fear, if there were no words / and the soul of every living thing were measured / by the intensity of what it once was capable of / and released?

CLAUDIA MASIN

A Light, Swift and Monstrous Sound

First the dentures fell on to the blue tiles of your patio. They broke in two, and it was that harsh, metallic sound that stopped you in your tracks. You crouched down to pick up one of the halves. It was clearly old and belonged to an unkempt person, someone with no dental hygiene whatsoever. You wondered who this could be, whether it was some neighbour who’d dropped them or thought to throw them on to your patio. You were about to take one more step, to pick up the other half, but you stood there thinking it was a little ironic that dentures had fallen precisely on to your patio, a dentist’s patio, and it was at that moment that Menéndez’s body fell, seconds after his dentures.

The sound of Menéndez’s body plummeting, breaking, dying on the blue tiles of your patio, that vulgar and profound noise, paralysed you. You clutched the dentures until they cut your hand as you watched Menéndez’s blood stain your patio. You thought you could hear his blood dirtying your tiles; you thought you understood the sound to be like the cold, a cold that’s light, swift and monstrous.

You crouched down, as though by force of habit, and picked up the other piece, which was very close to your bare foot, your shoeless foot, a 1st-of-January foot, at home on holiday, at the start of a new year that would be productive and happy, while your neighbour Menéndez lay dead on the blue tiles of your patio.

You looked at Menéndez’s body, which was naked and had no dentures. You smiled because it would have been very easy for you to fix his dentures and you would have done so free of charge, because Menéndez was your neighbour, had been your neighbour. His mouth was now open, empty. The expression on his face was one of hatred, a hatred that was pure, specific, directed, a hatred targeted at the woman who lived on the ground floor in apartment B, at you.

You saw Menéndez’s red blood, which was essentially black, slowly move towards your right foot, and you became aware that half a centimetre had prevented you from ending up underneath the frail but forceful bones, the yellowed and oily, murderous skin, the toothless mouth of the filthy old man that was Menéndez.

The sound of his body committing suicide on the blue tiles of your patio, that sound, which now seemed faint, almost insignificant but that had been excessive, cruel, had become mixed up with the question of why he’d gone and killed himself on your patio. He’d had several others—abandoned patios, larger patios, flower-filled patios, empty patios, beautiful patios, patios with no neighbour hanging clothes barefoot in a nightgown on the 1st of January. You looked up and understood that the only way Menéndez could have killed himself on your patio was by climbing on to the wall of his rooftop terrace. Menéndez had chosen your patio; he’d chosen you. He’d tried to kill you, or, at the very least, harm you. Menéndez had gone to so much effort, you thought, and yet had been so ineffective.

You shuddered when you saw the blood run slowly, but ferociously, around the edges of your foot. The soft sound of the red liquid moving almost in silence made your body go cold and you wanted to scream, but all you did was stare at the dentures.

You heard the neighbours behind the door to your apartment. So many neighbours, so many patios, so much noise. They rang the bell, knocked, called out your name, but you were looking, mesmerized, at Menéndez’s horribly made dentures and you laughed, because you understood that this was an awful joke fate had played on you, one of those stories that only happens to a colleague’s cousin’s friend’s girlfriend, who tells it in a way that’s humorous and not very convincing at some forgotten gathering, mixing your story, your truth, with improbable urban legends, while everyone laughs and drinks and thinks that a neighbour will never fall on their heads. And you felt that people like you didn’t deserve this, courteous people, professional people, people with their lives together and in order, people you considered to be good, because you were an exemplary person, your values were in the right place and you were destined for success. That Menéndez’s repugnant, naked body was an omen at the start of your year, a sign from the heavens, was simply unacceptable. That an everyday appliance, an object of decidedly little value, such as used dentures, had intervened and saved your young and vital body, your perfect and radiant teeth, from ending up under Menéndez’s decaying bones, his ageing, sweating skin, was an insult.

You remained there, crouched down and clutching the dentures, the two halves in your hand, while someone kicked your door in and the neighbours and police entered, yelling things and crying out, their sentences full of panic, and you heard odd words like señorita, how awful, suicide, neighbour, ambulance, male, shock, police station, poor girl, file a report, what a tragedy, Menéndez, we’re nothing.

Someone put a blanket over your shoulders, though it was the middle of summer in Buenos Aires, and human stupidity seemed so natural to you, the automatic and senseless gesture to protect. Someone tried to move you, to sit you down on a chair, but you didn’t want the edges of your foot to lose contact with the bestial yet almost inaudible sound of the blood; you didn’t want to stop hearing it. They brought you a chair and you sat down, your bare feet red and soaked.

Your fourth-floor neighbour came over. You recognized her by the stench of confinement and ten-cent incense. She put her hand over her mouth and said, How dreadful my dear, how dreadful, what a tragedy, God save us, how awful. She touched your hair and you moved her hand away as if you were ridding yourself of a plague, a venereal infection, a biblical curse. She huffed, indignant, and said something like, The nerve, and, Rude young lady, but she said all the words together, Thenerveofthisrudeyounglady. You asked yourself if there was a wise woman out there who could teach you to behave in a civilized manner next to your neighbour’s naked, denture-less body. She left for the kitchen, taking with her the smell of mothballs and breath saturated with a mix of rancid medication and alcohol masked with coffee. You didn’t care that the other women from the building joined the one from the fourth floor, and that all of these shocked neighbours made remarks, talked, breathed, while they pointed at Osvaldito, which is what they called Menéndez, whom they’d apparently known for such a long time. You thought that the older women who gathered in the hallways with their short, poorly dyed hair, their long, painted nails and small, amputated brains were united by a common misguided imbecility. They shared an excessive passion for tiny, hyperkinetic dogs, controversial breeds that tend to be programmed with minute but shrill yelps. These women come across as completely inoffensive beings, but they live comfortably submerged in a combination of evil and normalcy produced by an unhealthy amount of leisure time, the impunity of old age, and the need to be present for every occurrence that involves someone else in order to talk about it later—in the hallways, in the elevator, during homeowners’ meetings, at the bakery, at the front door, with the superintendent, with the neighbours in other buildings, with those among them who were fortunate enough not to have been in that rude young lady’s apartment.

You looked at them closely and they seemed to you a despicable group of humans. This group had settled into your kitchen, were helping themselves to water from the fridge and smoking impertinently, which you found more violent than the sound of Menéndez exploding on to your patio. Human evil knows no limits, you said. You repeated this sentence, your foot bloody, and thought that you led an ordinary life in which you were happy fixing other people’s ailing teeth and mouths, in which you felt protected cleaning the suction cannula, or a certain power while you held the fifteen-blade scalpel, or the spirit of adventure when you looked for rebellious cavities, or important when you gave threatening and serious talks on oral hygiene. And on occasion, on a 1st of January, something simple could happen, like a neighbour falling on to your patio, and all the talks and all the apparent security of your home would be reduced to an interminable string of platitudes, and to get away from them you would consider it preferable to listen to the opaque silence of the blood touching your right foot.

You lift your gaze from your foot (from that bizarre foot), and from the blood (from that unfamiliar blood). Two people take notes and pictures of the dead neighbour whose body is on your patio. You look at Menéndez as though you’re seeing him for the first time, and you understand that the sound of the naked, toothless body belonging to the filthy old man that he was, the sound of him breaking on the blue tiles of your patio, encased you in anarchy, in the chaos originating in the neighbours who look at you with feigned pity and a certain cordial disdain, in the police who talk to you with words that are imperative, broken, mechanical, in the world that’s oppressively civilized and atrocious.

You cover yourself a little more with the blanket, though it’s a hot day, because now you know, with an acute certainty, that the sound forced you out of your ordered happiness, shattered your little life of comfort, wise choices and adequate truths. There it is, the blow that was minuscule and forceful, the explosion of Menéndez’s body inside yours, under your bones. It’s a faint feeling, but you intuit that it’s definitive, irreversible. You inhale and exhale and the merciless sound invades the hollows of your home, the city, the world. It’s like the water in an underground river you can’t see; it’s hidden behind the blood, lurking, but you hear it wounding, with a relentless, light and monstrous silence, the inside of your thoughts in the centre of your cerebral cortex.

Roberto

I have a bunny between my legs. A black one. My bunny’s name is Roberto, but it could have been Ignacio or even Carla. I call him Roberto because he’s shaped like a Roberto. He’s cute because he’s hairy and sleeps a lot. I told my friend Isabel. I said, “Isa, the other day a bunny grew between my legs. Do you have one too?” We went to the toilet at school and she took off her underwear. There was nothing there. She asked me to show her Roberto, but I was embarrassed and I said no. Isabel got mad and said that she’d shown me between her legs and that I was a dummy and she didn’t believe me at all. She’s a dummy too.

Yesterday Isabel told our maths teacher what I’d said about Roberto. Mr García laughed and called me over to talk to him.

“Is what your friend Isabel tells me true?”

“No.”

“It is true, I saw it!” the dummy yelled. “Mamá told me that nobody has a bunny between their legs, but she has a black bunny! I saw it, teacher!”

I told her she was a liar because I hadn’t shown her anything. I yelled that she was a dummy and a liar and that I didn’t want to be her friend any more. Isabel started to cry. I didn’t feel bad because she’s no longer my friend. Mr García laughed. He told Isabel to go home and said that later he would explain some things to her. Then he sat down next to me and said, “You’re very pretty. Isabel doesn’t know anything, don’t pay attention to her.” He kissed me and then he did it again. He told me that after class tomorrow he wanted to see my little bunny. He wanted to see it so he could teach it to be on its best behaviour.

I waited for him. He told me to follow him to the toilet because nobody was supposed to find out about our secret.

“What’s your bunny’s name?”

“Roberto.”

“What a strange name for a bunny! Can I see him?”

“I’m embarrassed.”

He sat down next to me and kissed me a lot. He told me I was his favourite student and that I was the prettiest one. “Show him to me, be a good girl. I won’t tell anyone.” He talked a lot and looked at me, and he didn’t talk like he does when he’s in class because he looked at me loads and then he took my hands and told me to lift up my skirt. “Show me your little bunny Roberto,” he said, but I told him Roberto doesn’t like to be called little because he’s big now and a grown-up. Mr García took off my underwear while he kissed my face and hair and mouth and told me to be a good little girl because he was going to teach me a lot of things. When he saw Roberto, he went still and opened his mouth. He was so still that I thought he was playing the statues game. Roberto moved his ears and bared his teeth. Mr García screamed and ran away. Roberto went back to sleep.

Unamuno’s Boxes

I get in the taxi at 900 Alem Avenue. I throw my purse and bag of clothes, the folder with my notes, and the envelope with the receipts on the seat. While I look for my gloves I say, To Flores, the corner of Bilbao and Membrillar. Dumb name, Membrillar, frivolous. I imagine a hero addicted to cans of membrillo jam. Should I take Rivadavia or Independencia? I can’t find my gloves and am slow to answer. It doesn’t matter, take whatever you like. Independencia will get us there faster, señora. Señora? Did he just call me señora? I find the gloves, calm myself down, don’t answer. Señora, I’ll take Independencia then. I still don’t answer.

I look around the taxi. An ashtray that’s empty, clean; a sign saying “Pay with change” without the please or the thank you; a pink pacifier hanging from the rear-view mirror; a dog with no dignity wagging its head, saying yes to everything, to everyone. The aura of static cleanliness, of calculated orderliness, exasperates me. I take off my gloves, look for my keys, put them in my coat pocket. Old age that’s covered up irritates me. I look out the window. I’m drowsy.

Do you mind if I put some music on, sweetheart? I look at the driver, disconcerted. When exactly did I go from señora to sweetheart? Was it the magnitude of 9 de Julio Avenue that led his brain to make faulty connections? Was it my pseudo-interest in his natural habitat that led him to abandon formality? I don’t mind, I answer. He puts cumbia on, and I do mind. I look at the driver’s information so I know the exact name to curse in my head. Pablo Unamuno. The irony surprises me. I would never have taken the bearer of so distinguished a last name for a cumbia enthusiast. I laugh at my idiotic elitism, then uncross my legs in an attempt to cover this up. I look at his photo. Either it was taken recently, or Señor Unamuno uses the same formula for immortality on himself as he does on his car. It’s cold, but I imagine his shirt is open so it’s crystal-clear that he exercises, lifts weights, bags of cement, bags of receipts, notes, clothes, literary and philosophical theories. He stops at a light, glances at me in the mirror, smiles. He places his arm on the passenger seat, and, hanging from his wrist, I see a gold bracelet with the name AMANDA on it. I suspect she’s the owner of the pacifier. If she was the mother of the owner of the pacifier, the bracelet would be hidden. Straight hair, ripped jeans, he’s confident this look is enough. I cross my legs. I’m bored by beauty that’s easy, saturated.

Then I see them. The lights from Juan Bautista Alberdi Avenue reflect off his nails—nails cut with the dedication granted only to the most valuable things. Unamuno’s arm is still resting on the passenger seat and I can directly examine the two layers of transparent nail polish applied with the patience of the obsessive, with the precision of the enlightened. We stop suddenly at another light and I move forward a little, confirming that his cuticles are impeccable. I feel a rush and open the window. What would Juan Bautista Alberdi have thought of all this? He wouldn’t have been able to understand that true genius is concentrated in mundane, banal details, not in treatises on diplomacy or erudite literature. He wouldn’t have caught the importance of the insignificant. I settle into the seat and close the window. The cold distracts me.

I think: Unamuno is concealing something with his nails. Their perfection can only have been conceived by a mind that’s distinct, superior. A mind capable of crossing limits, of exploring new dimensions. I reckon: Unamuno’s secret is hidden in a space that’s familiar, quotidian. He requires constant contact with his object of pleasure. I surmise: the taxi is his inner world. He alone has unlimited access. It provides him with the privacy and daily interaction he requires. Where could his secrets be? Under the seat? No, too complicated. In the glove compartment? Yes. It’s the perfect spot for secrets. Behind the car’s papers he keeps clippers, nail polish, cotton and two boxes that are transparent, impeccable. In one he collects his nails as an example of the sublime. In the other, the perfectible nails of his victims. Yes, Señor Juan Bautista, Unamuno is a serial killer.

I unbutton my coat. I elaborate: He’s not just any serial killer, one who’s numerical, expansive, inclusive, ordinary. Don’t pay Unamuno the attention he’s due, and he’ll pass for a person with no great aspirations. Of course, you need to know how to look, because he leads a life that’s consistent, if alarming. He’s patient. Selective. Ascetic. He’s dangerous. The pacifier is a planned diversion for those who don’t know, for those who don’t want to know. The docile dog is a false manifestation of an existence that’s trivial, resigned. I infer that the AMANDA bracelet belonged to his first victim. A woman who looked dejected, but young. Disoriented and alone. Unable to resist, therefore easy. Her long nails red and unkempt.

Unamuno didn’t settle for immediate gratification. He didn’t rape her in the taxi and throw her into a ditch. No. He carried out a ritual.