The Mutations Read online

  Elodia obeyed grudgingly. Ramón also failed to disguise his annoyance.

  “It can’t be helped,” Carmela said, putting an end to the matter. “I feel bad for her, but we can’t take any risks. Listen, this afternoon Elodia and Paulina are going to cook for your party. You go on up to the bedroom so it’ll be a surprise, okay?”

  Ramón had been opposed to the party, which, given the scarcity of potential guests, would in fact just be a small gathering with Ernesto and his family, and some friends Ramón and Carmela had dinner with a few times a year. Ramón had poured every ounce of his social energy into cultivating relationships with his clients, and little by little had ended up without any close friends. Carlos was the only one who’d shown any real concern for Ramón’s well-being after the surgery.

  Carmela sat down next to Ramón and quickly began to eat the fruit Elodia served her each morning. Elodia soon came back into the kitchen through the door that led to the patio.

  “I put him outside. He looked like he was cold, poor little thing.”

  Under no circumstances was Ramón going to allow Elodia to take the parrot away. Since becoming mute, he’d learned to develop his arguments fully before bothering to look for a pen and paper to express them. He decided to wait until Carmela came home from the office, then confront her with his decision to keep the absurd and generous gift.

  At midday, Ramón went out to the back patio for the first time in several weeks. The cage rested on the garden table, a round wrought-iron monstrosity shaded by a sun-bleached umbrella. The parrot stood on its perch. Its hunched posture made it look meek, as if ashamed of its bedraggled appearance.

  Ramón pulled one of the heavy chairs out from under the table and sat down. He lifted a hand toward the bars, and the parrot gave a hop, determined to defend itself. It’s okay, don’t get in a flap. Between its sharp jaws, the parrot had a dark and bulging tongue.

  You have the face of a Benito, thought Ramón. I’m going to call you Benito Juárez, after the president. He was the true father of the nation. Hidalgo and Morelos were just a couple of bickering priests. And then there’s that fucking Madero, a rich kid from Coahuila who liked to commune with the dead. Juárez was pragmatic. He knew the country needed to move forward. He reformed the legal system and put the clergy and the military in their place—he did a fuckload of things. That was a real revolution, not like when all those caudillos rose up against Díaz, what a shitshow. These days they say Juárez was a traitor, but if he hadn’t cut a deal with the gringos, we’d have been stuck with the Europeans. What would you have done? He was a brave motherfucker. Can you imagine what it meant back then for a Zapotec Indian to be president? I’m telling you, the guy had balls. Some people complain about how he had Maximilian shot. But what the hell did they want him to do with a guy who went around calling himself emperor of Mexico? Fine him and send him on his way? People don’t have the slightest fucking clue what it takes to run a country.

  The parrot was intrigued by this human who, unlike all the others it had met, didn’t overwhelm it with noise and gestures. There was something comforting about his discreet gaze and total silence. Gradually, it began to relax in the patio, surrounded by bushes and flowerpots. Once it had grown used to Ramón’s presence, it demonstrated its cheerfulness with one of the phrases it knew.

  “Son of a bitch!” it squawked in a shrill and nasal voice. “Son of a bitch!”

  Ramón let out his first guffaw since the tumor had appeared on the scene. The mutant sound that emerged from his lips was more like a sea lion’s territorial bark than a human expression of delight.

  “What the fuck?” answered the parrot.

  Ramón roared with laughter. The parrot reiterated its surprise at its companion’s unexpected reaction.

  “What the fuck?”

  Little did Elodia know that the parrot had picked up a broad repertoire of obscenities at the market. When she heard its squawks, she stuck her head out of the kitchen window and saw Ramón convulsing in his chair. She ran out of the house in fright.

  “Señor! What’s the matter?”

  Ramón gave her a wave to dispel her fears. He was fine. Better, in fact, than he’d been at any time since losing his ability to say the very things the parrot was screeching.

  “Cocksuckeeerrrr!” the parrot declared just at that moment.

  “Keep it down, baldy!” Elodia said. “If Señora Martínez hears you, we’ll both be out on the street.”

  Ramón went inside and headed upstairs to take a shower. He was in a splendid mood. He even managed to look at himself in the mirror without disgust before stepping into the shower, where he lingered for a while to enjoy the stream of hot water, carefully scrubbing away the smell of sickness coating his skin. He combed the sparse fuzz left on his head with his fingers, shaved a metaphysical beard, and splashed himself generously with aftershave. His newest clothes were ten sizes too big, so he put on an outfit he’d kept from his youth, when his Saturday night fever hadn’t yet been stamped out. He patted himself on the back for having defended those shirts and pants from Carmela, who’d tried several times to donate them to a local insane asylum.

  Once dressed, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. This time, the youthful provenance of his outfit made him look more haggard than ever—his cheeks gaunt, dark purplish circles under his sunken eyes. He looked like a mummy exhumed from the cemetery in Guanajuato. He imagined the fright his appearance would cause the guests at his birthday dinner. He deeply regretted that his family, especially his daughter, had been so determined to throw him a party. How could he get them to call it off? The option crossed his mind of pretending to faint. But the danger was that Carmela might call an ambulance and he would be carted off to the emergency room at a private hospital, where, in their effort to squeeze more money out of him, a team of vultures would even subject him to a pregnancy test. He fantasized about fleeing. He would take off in the car and check into a five-star hotel where no one could find him; he would send the family a message telling them not to worry. He would run himself a bubble bath, order room service, watch some porn, then sleep soundly, undisturbed by Carmela’s snores; in the morning, he’d stuff himself at the breakfast buffet, steal the slippers, the soap, and the little bottles of shampoo. Elodia’s voice demolished his happy reverie.

  “Señor! Your smoothie is ready!”

  * * *

  As soon as Mateo and Paulina got home from school, Elodia pestered them to go out to the patio and see her gift for their father. Her goal was to recruit them to plead the parrot’s case and persuade their mother to let it stay in the house.

  The parrot greeted them with suspicion. He clung to his perch and didn’t utter a single expletive.

  “Heinous,” said Mateo.

  “Ew, gross,” said Paulina.

  Neither showed any enthusiasm. Paulina asked what was for lunch.

  “Noodle soup and roast chicken fillets,” said Elodia, discouraged by the children’s indifference to this new member of the household. “I’ve been in a rush to get the house ready for the party.”

  “When are we making dessert?” asked Paulina.

  “As soon as you’re done eating.”

  While Mateo and Paulina ate their soup, Elodia continued to lobby in the parrot’s favor.

  “You should’ve seen how happy that parrot made your dad. But now your mom says he can’t keep it. Your dad was so disappointed. In my house we had chickens, turkeys, and dogs. They were all over the place. One time, we were raising a hog for San Bartolo—”

  “What’s that?” asked Paulina.

  “A most miraculous saint, one of Jesus’s disciples.”

  “No, the hog.”

  “Oh, it’s a kind of pig, and they’re not dirty like everyone says, they just have really dry skin. But it’s true they’ll eat just about anything, even your poop…”

  “Yuck, Elo,” said Paulina.

  “So, tell us what happened,” said Mateo.

  “Ah
, well, we were fattening him up for the fiesta and then it starts hailing, but so hard that the hailstones looked like guavas this big. We were afraid the pig would be killed by the hail, so we brought him inside. And he was fine, just like a dog. Everyone stroked him and no one got sick. How’s a parrot going to be any worse?”

  “I’m going to check online,” said Paulina. “But I’m not into the idea. Daddy’s really weak right now.”

  “I know,” said Elodia, disheartened. “But you look it up and see what it says.”

  * * *

  When Carmela came home, dinner was already prepared: cream of carrot soup, ground beef casserole, and chocolate pudding, soft-textured foods that Ramón could eat without too much trouble. The table was already set—crystal wine glasses, sparkling silverware, cloth napkins, and fine china. After a swift inspection, Carmela determined that the meat was undercooked, the sauce too thin, and the pudding too heavy. Numerous fingerprints besmirched the glasses and insolent knives lay with their blades facing out from the plates, which had gathered dust during their long sojourn in the display case.

  Ramón found her rearranging the table settings. He handed her a statement in which he set forth in detail the reasons he had decided to keep the parrot. Firstly, he thought that to return it would be an affront “to our faithful household helper.” Secondly, he thought they could entrust the bird’s care to their children, “thus encouraging their sense of duty and responsibility, such an important aspect of their education.” Finally, he was afraid the parrot salesmen would not accept its return, as a result of which the creature would end up living in deplorable conditions at Elodia’s house. “It’s a thousand times better for us to keep him here, where we can be sure he stays clean and healthy, than for the poor creature to get sick at Elodia’s house, where she doesn’t have the resources to care for him, and from whom I might then very well catch a more dangerous illness.” Ramón omitted the main reason he wanted to keep the parrot—that he liked it—since it seemed improper for a grown man.

  Rather than persuading Carmela, the letter only strengthened her resolve. She answered him in a whisper so that Elodia wouldn’t hear from the kitchen.

  “We’ll pay her if she can’t take it back. She can give it to her children, or to someone else who wants it.”

  I want it, thought Ramón.

  “I’m sorry if she’s offended, but we can’t take this kind of risk just to keep the maid happy. That’s all we need.”

  Let’s ask the doctor and then decide, Ramón wrote in a conciliatory hand. His mutism had subdued his authoritarian impulses.

  “All right, we’ll ask him, but she’ll have to take it away for the moment. I’m terrified you could catch an infection.”

  He can stay outside.

  “That bird looks sick.”

  And I don’t?

  “Why are you pointing at yourself? That’s irrelevant. And anyway, who’s going to take care of it on weekends? I’m not taking any chances. What if it bites us?”

  Ramón prepared to write down another objection.

  “Please don’t keep arguing, it’s getting late. If the doctor gives his permission, then we’ll tell Elo to bring it back.”

  It was exhausting to argue when he couldn’t exercise his right of reply. Ramón gave up. So as not to witness the parrot’s departure, he went upstairs and shut himself in his room.

  He looked at himself again in the mirror. His face would inspire pity and disgust. He felt he could now relate to the people in photos of Nazi concentration camps, baffled and emaciated survivors, among mass graves overflowing with corpses. He knew the comparison was disproportionate, but he couldn’t get the absurd feeling out of his mind that, like them, he was a prisoner and a ghost.

  Carmela interrupted his narcissistic torture.

  “As soon as I finish my makeup, I’m going to have to go buy some more tomato sauce. I hope there’s time.”

  She sat down at the dressing table and began to outline her eyes. As he watched Carmela gradually transformed by eyeliner and mascara, Ramón had a revelation: his cadaverous appearance could be concealed with makeup. Was he about to celebrate his fiftieth birthday in drag? As long as the guests didn’t see his ashen skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes, or his sunken cheeks, as long as they didn’t feel sick at the sight of his face, or pity his sorry state, Ramón was willing, for one night only, to betray his self-image as a proud macho who looked down on unmanly affectations.

  He picked up his notebook and opened it to where he’d written his arguments in defense of the parrot. He turned the page and paused, contemplating its blankness. He didn’t want to sound anxious, or, worse still, effeminate. How could he ask her to make him up without impugning his virility? He rehearsed the different options in his mind. Put a bit of makeup on me, would you? Could you give me some of that stuff to help me look less lousy? I look half dead, don’t I? The ridiculousness of the situation prevented him from thinking clearly. Carmela had almost finished her own makeup. She was about to leave. Ramón wrote hurriedly:

  I look really pasty. Can you put something on my face?

  This approach allowed him to allude to the makeup without mentioning it explicitly, so he could wait for her to suggest it, apparently of her own accord. He handed her the notebook politely, stifling all the bitterness built up inside him over the incident with the parrot, and the fact that she was to blame for the dinner about to take place against his will.

  “Don’t worry,” answered Carmela. “Who’s going to notice?”

  Everyone, thought Ramón, including himself. He had spent all day seeing himself through the eyes of others; the view was insufferable.

  Put some cream on my face or something.

  “It’s going to take more than a cream to get rid of those dark circles.”

  Ramón looked toward the dressing table and raised what little was left of his eyebrows. Finally, she understood.

  “You want me to make you up?” asked Carmela, amused by the prospect of putting makeup on a man who used Palmolive hand soap as shaving cream.

  If he’d had the strength, Ramón would have blushed.

  Would it be too obvious?

  “I don’t think so. You’d just need a little foundation and concealer. Do you want me to do it for you?”

  Ramón pretended to be undecided for the sake of his dignity. Then he agreed.

  “Okay!” she said eagerly. “Sit down here.”

  * * *

  Ernesto arrived with his family and a bottle of barrel-aged tequila. Due to the stress on his liver caused by the chemotherapy, alcohol was strictly forbidden for Ramón; the sight of that elixir gave him a pang of sorrowful longing. His nieces got scared when they saw him, and Alicia had to push them toward him subtly to give him a kiss. She, for her part, had brought her brother-in-law a gift: a wooden plaque engraved with a cross, a dove, and a motto, a pearl of wisdom that read, “When you no longer have the strength to stand, kneel in prayer.” Alicia had purchased this sadistic slogan at a bazaar selling handicrafts made by nuns. Ramón tried to process the atrocity she handed him.

  “It’s for you to put somewhere special,” Alicia added.

  In the trash can, thought Ramón, making no effort to hide his displeasure.

  “What crawled up your ass? Don’t you like our little gift?” Ernesto asked with his usual coarseness. “She’s so stubborn. I told her, Ramón’s a total heathen, but she paid no attention. What am I supposed to do? That’s why I always bring booze.”

  “It’s a lovely picture,” Carmela intervened, wresting it from Ramón’s atheist hands. “I think we’ll hang it in the bedroom.”

  The tension dissipated among green olives, Chihuahua cheese cubes, ham roll-ups, and crispy pork rinds. Soon, Carlos and Laura arrived with a bottle of champagne, which Ramón also wouldn’t be able to drink. Carmela took the bottle over to the fridge, where she came face-to-face with the beatific image of San Peregrino. She begged the saint to banish discord from her hom
e that evening.

  Meanwhile, in the living room, an awkward silence hung in the air, which Carlos finally broke with a simple yes-no question, the only kind Ramón could answer.

  “Do you remember Manolo Icaza, from our procedural law class?”

  Ramón remembered him perfectly. He was a blond and immature version of the matinée idol Mauricio Garcés. He’d been admitted to the UNAM thanks to his prominent family, who wielded considerable influence in the university administration. His academic performance was substandard and his ability to attract women superhuman.

  “Well, wait till you hear this. It’s not out of the bag yet, but he’s on the short list for the Supreme Court.”

  “Is he a real hotshot or something?” Ernesto asked, while Ramón wrote in his notebook: He married one of President Alemán’s granddaughters. Otherwise he’d never even have made it to municipal clerk.

  “He’s married to one of Miguel Alemán’s granddaughters,” said Carlos. “They own half the state of Veracruz, imagine the power they must have. He was a dunce. Isn’t that right, pal?” he asked Ramón, who passed up the opportunity to say something redundant, and crossed out the message he’d just finished writing. He agreed, disheartened.

  “He was a playboy,” Carlos went on. “He passed all his classes by inviting the professors to his beach house in Acapulco. I’ve heard he used to throw some really wild parties. Women, drugs, movie stars.”

  Ramón began to write down a scandalous anecdote involving Manolo Icaza and the daughter of Ignacio Burgoa Orihuela, the university’s most formidable law professor in those days. By the time he’d finished writing the story, the others had moved on to discussing the glitzy lifestyles of politicians, and Ramón realized that once again he’d been wasting his time. He dashed off a couple of lines and passed the notebook to Carmela to read them aloud. Carmela waited for Carlos to finish slandering the governor of Chihuahua, then said, “Let’s see. Ramón says here, ‘What we need is an Anticorruption Officer, but not elected by the Senate.’”