The Lesson

It was five minutes to six p.m. as I zigzagged the Chevy up the hill, clutching the wheel with both hands, disoriented in the maze of oppressive streets flanked by ancient oaks that all but blocked the sun. I tried to keep from accelerating as I ascended the slope—to stay on the road, avoid driving off the cliff and plunging down into the city—though I was even more worried about arriving on time to my appointment. I’d forgotten the address, and I’d gone in so many circles that I was tired from gripping the wheel. But suddenly, on the left, the house appeared.

I parked in front—#126 on a nameless street—with two minutes to spare. The house was actually a mansion set on a mountaintop, a forested area populated with solid bunkers whose wealthy inhabitants barricaded themselves against the unpredictable goings-on of common life. Even in these final moments, I tried to gather my courage and drive back to my apartment, but I couldn’t. Winter was coming to an end and night was following. I decided to hurry up and got out.

I rang the buzzer. A bucolic, solicitous voice emerged from the intercom: Teacher?

I didn’t answer.

Are you the teacher, miss?

I glanced over my shoulder at the Chevy.

Are you Silvano’s teacher?

I changed my mind, turned on my heel, and headed for the car with every intention of forgetting the appointment altogether. As I walked, I remembered yesterday’s conversation. A student’s father, a politician and favorite candidate for something or other, called me on my cell. After an interminable introduction, he confessed the reason for his call: he wanted me to provide him with a general lesson on literature, something that would help him survive a press conference. His son had given him the name of his high school literature teacher and the father had opted for me over some university lecturer because they were, according to him, smug and full of themselves. He offered me a considerable sum in exchange for visiting his fortress on the hill one evening and counseling him on how to respond if, on the occasion of the next awards ceremony for the state’s literary prize, the journalists, always keen to make them look bad (“them” being politicians or businessmen, I gathered), were to ask him about any book, writer, or award that they believed a man in his position should be aware of. Perhaps more intimidated by his post than inspired by the meaty pay, I agreed to teach him to talk about books he hadn’t read and writers he’d never heard of. It would be a matter of sitting down together and talking a little about various recent texts and authors, since there was no point in discussing Quevedo, Poe, or Dostoyevsky. I would also skip over the classics, the Baroque period, and Romanticism, jumping directly into twentieth-century literature, novels of the Revolution, historical novels (a Mexican politician always benefits from mentioning Noticias del imperio), the Latin American Boom, something about the Wave writers. No one was expecting a scholar.

Unfortunately, after I’d wavered for a few seconds halfway between the mansion and my car, the gate swung open with a tremendous blaring buzz. The thought that someone had seen me fleeing from the appointment filled me instantly with shame. I retraced my steps.

I pushed at the metal gate, and farther back, beyond a long cobblestoned driveway flaunting cars of different colors and sizes—all gleaming, thanks to a veritable army of uniformed men waxing their frames in unison—I saw someone waving to me, a gaunt maid who couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Dark-skinned, and with her hair impeccably drawn into a ponytail, she was wearing a sky-blue dress and a white apron. I walked up to her and she struck me as even smaller from up close.

The man of the house isn’t here yet, but he’s asked you to wait in the study.

We went in.

The walls of the house gave off a stiffening cold. To my right, at the foot of a staircase connected to a hall with incredibly high ceilings and a fireplace, was another young maid, also uniformed and with an almost childlike figure, trying to light a pile of slumbering logs. We continued. The wide corridors were hung with more and more works of art, and I recognized the signatures of famous contemporary Mexican painters living in New York, Berlin, Paris…The paintings were arranged without any discernible order, and I could only make them out in the gloom with the help of the diminutive spotlights suspended from the ceiling and pointed toward the canvases. Intrigued by the seeming neglect of the furniture, I skimmed my fingertips across various surfaces. But I couldn’t find even the faintest film of dust coating a table or lamp. After passing through several closed doors, a small blonde girl, elevated on a pair of high heels that were far too big for her little legs, passed before me. I barely managed to blurt out a Hi before she disappeared. We continued to snake our way through the house. The echo of our footsteps outpaced us and vanished into other hallways, other rooms and their recesses. Farther ahead, I noticed a door that emanated a bluish light and the gunshot-sounds of an armed chase. Inside, I discovered a who-knows-how-many-inch-wide screen filled with images of a digital war waged by camouflaged soldiers, taking each other’s ninety-nine lives on a split screen. A curly-haired boy was operating a remote control in front of the display; beside him was a maid identical to the girl who was guiding me through the house, but this one’s dress and apron were a different color, and she fumbled with the second device. The little boy shouted and bounced around on his bed. I exchanged a glance with the maid seated on the mattress, her puzzled fingers pressing buttons arbitrarily, but her eyes said little.

Behind the next door, a woman of a timeworn beauty was mimicking the gestures of an actress identical to her, but much younger, in front of a larger TV than the previous one. A skimpy robe sheathed her body above a pair of toned white legs. She didn’t notice we were there.

It was taking us a long time to reach the studio; it seemed to me that we’d walked several kilometers. I thought of turning around and making my way back to the Chevy, but I kept up the pace, following the girl down the corridors, urged on by some superstition about dark places. At a certain point, I reflexively looked over my shoulder to find the front door, but we’d taken so many turns that I only saw a labyrinth of interminable white walls. Then, just when I felt that we’d reached the end of the house, the tiny wordless maid opened two heavy oak doors. The studio stretched out toward the city: its walls—crammed with hardcover books, some of them from the troglodyte era—culminated in a vast window that serve as a wall. The city sprawled below it, like an enormous asphalt rug erratically stained with green. Farther back, a long chain of mountains.

Do you know if Mr.…?

But the young woman was gone.

I waited in the middle of a library wallpapered with classics and collectors’ editions. The shelves seemed to belong to a literary expert, but I knew this wasn’t the case. Such an abundance of impractical tomes adorn the walls of countless mansions and offices. I returned to the window and my eyes drifted out onto the chessboard. I imagined erecting and demolishing constructions between my thumb and index finger, buying properties at the drop of a few bills, building bridges with the change in my purse. I then entertained myself by trying to distinguish buildings and avenues, entire neighborhoods I frequented. I don’t know how many minutes passed, but I started to forget where I was—until I heard the voice I’d spoken to on the phone.

Isabel?

I whirled around.

Standing before the oak doors was the candidate. He waved to me, bobbing up and down on his feet twice, three times. He couldn’t have been more than forty.

I thought you’d be older. How old are you?

Twenty-five, sir.

I’m sorry I’m late. I had to deal with…well, you know the drill.

I nodded.

Please have a seat. How should we begin?

I don’t think we’ll need very much time to….

By the way, a couple of friends will be joining us. They’d like very much to hear you speak. They feel that if they know a little about literature, if they can toss off a couple names or titles in the company of the right people—it might enhance their image. 

What do you think?

That’s fine with me.

After a couple minutes of silence sustained over glances and slight smiles, and just as the candidate was pouring himself a drink, the two men appeared. They were old. Older, at least, than the owner of the house, though younger than the books arranged along the walls.

He served four glasses of brandy or some other dark liquor. When they were all seated, I began the lesson.

I think the best approach would be to start by associating certain universal works with their authors. For example: Don Quixote is by Miguel de Cervantes; Ulysses, James Joyce; The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri; Pedro Páramo…I paused, expecting them to help me, but they simply stared into my eyes. I launched into a litany of names and titles. I stopped.

After a few seconds, I fell into a strange stupor, and I went on to speak for several hours, immersed in this state. I expounded on suffering writers, starving artists, figures defined by indecipherable stories and symbols, by plots both realistic and fantastical. Meanwhile, the men polished off various glasses of brandy, exchanged glances and sighs, and scanned the bookshelves, trophies, and mounted animal heads with their eyes. One would occasionally get up from the table to gaze out the window. I’d forgotten my hurry to leave; I was more interested in reviewing what I’d learned throughout my years of study. But they weren’t: no reaction. Resigned to my failure, I told them there was no point in knowing much about the evolution of literature; better to make a careful selection of favorite books. I assigned three to each man, although they didn’t bother to jot down the titles. I suggested more options. I hadn’t noticed, but it had gotten dark, and I was telling them all about the rising stars of contemporary Mexican literature when the two oldest men left the room without a word, offering the slightest nod of the head in thanks—not to me, but to the candidate. He stayed a little while longer, listening to my disquisition on literature from the north of the country, on how it…how it recovers the…it preserves…and then he motioned me to stop. I had no idea what time it was, and the room was shifting from left to right, then back again. Mid-sentence, I remembered the urgency of returning to my Chevy. The clock marked three in the morning. I still don’t know how so much time had passed.

How about you stay here tonight? We have more than enough space. Jesusa will take you. Don’t worry about a thing.

I should have thanked him and refused, should have ignored the hour and driven home, but my torpor prevented me from saying no. Behind me, the same young maid from the entrance appeared, but now she was wearing a navy blue apron. She turned around silently and started toward the door. I hurried to collect my books so I wouldn’t be left behind and lose my bearings in the castle’s rabbit holes. Before I followed, I turned to say goodbye to the candidate, but he was gone.

Jesusa would periodically evaporate among the shadows, though she’d soon reemerge, keeping up the pace with her soft pendular movement. Once again, we walked for countless kilometers and descended short staircases, long staircases, spiral staircases. Always downward.

The small service bedroom looked intact. I placed my books on the bed and the comforter released a scent of virgin cloth. I closed my eyes for just a moment, and when I opened them to look for Jesusa in the doorway, I was met with the smell of the countryside. I went to the little window, pulled open the curtains, and could barely make out the city at my feet: thousands of colorful dots, yellow and red lights, trembling in the distance and the blurry gradation of my glasses. I returned to the bed, exhausted, my dizziness finally easing. I hoped I’d be able to slip out of the house at first light. I curled up under the covers, but no sooner had I blinked, than the maid reappeared. She stood at the foot of the bed and told me that dinner was waiting in the kitchen. I was hungry and didn’t want to refuse.

I followed her yet again until we reached an ample white kitchen with several refrigerators, ovens, and at least two stoves. Laid out on the counter was a plate, cutlery, and a glass. On the plate, a chicken sandwich with a side salad. I considered the possibility of taking it back to the bedroom, but I doubted I’d be able to find my way back alone; besides, Jesusa had disappeared again.

I cut the sandwich in half. At that very moment, a woman came into the kitchen: she had blue eyes, burgundy lips, and black hair, and she could have easily been a leading TV actress. It was the same woman who’d showed off her talents in front of the bedroom screen. She was wearing the same translucent robe, and I could see her naked body beneath it. A nearly perfect body, or perfect; no point in hiding it. She was barefoot. At first she seemed not to see me. She approached one of the refrigerators and took out a bottle of water. She opened it with her back to me. Then she turned around.

Good evening.

Hi.

Did my husband behave himself?

Sure. No complaints.

I hope you’d say the same about Silvano.

I shrugged.

She proceeded to tell me a story about a young woman and her career as a model and actress, of her days in Mexico City TV studios and her nights in the clubs of the same great capital. She talked about dirty, dynamic places, about bars open at all hours and how they can become your home. Then she paused and confessed her intention to write a novel about nocturnal youth and how our dark sides develop when we seek the spotlight. The story, she specified, as everyone suspects (“everyone” meant her supposed readers), concludes with an elegant wedding attended by businessmen, the press, and various local celebrities. She went silent again. She finished the bottle of water, offered me a smile, and left the room.

Just then, Jesusa returned, accompanied by several other Jesusas. They weren’t her; they were different, all wearing the same uniform but in different colors. One cleared my plate, others began to sweep the floor, wipe a cloth across the counter, attend to the appliances. Together, they all began to clean the immaculate kitchen.

I returned to my room behind the Jesusa who’d asked me to follow her. Again unspeaking, again with a wave of her hand.

I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep for the second time. When I was finally verging on unconsciousness, I felt a pair of hands slip under my blouse. Another pair of hands crept into my pants. The first were rough, adult. The second were adolescent hands, delicate, but definitely a man’s. I didn’t hear anyone come into the room. The hands caressed my legs, my belly, my feet. They teamed up. Then I felt a pair of lips grazing my back. I couldn’t move. And I felt so tired, so dizzy, that I let them continue; it wasn’t worth resisting those four hands. They’d brought me upstairs and into bed. When they were done, they vanished. I opened my eyes, got up, and ran to the window: the city was still below me, oblivious to everything that happened inside the castle on the mountain. I lay down and fell asleep.

I’m not sure how much time had elapsed when I woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and rising shouts. A dense black smoke was creeping in under the door. I gathered my books and ran out, barefoot, half dressed, and searched for the exit amid the nooks and crannies of the house. The Jesusas darted haphazardly through the fire. There were dozens of them, and they multiplied as I went; some were lugging tubs filled with water, others dragged a hose that snaked in and out of my path. The flames erupted from every room; the paintings melted. The boldest Jesusas flung blankets over the furniture, salvaging them from catastrophe. Other, less brilliant Jesusas emptied glasses of water onto lost causes.

I stumbled among the tiny apron-clad women, over little blonde girls—they too had multiplied—and alongside Silvano, who followed me with his reproving gaze. I felt utterly disoriented, making my way down hallways that rose and fell without ever leading me to the exit, when I ran into a Jesusa who was crawling on her hands and knees, wrapped in a flaming uniform. The lady of the house darted in front of me then, the half-naked actress, running hand in hand with the two old literature apprentices. Two Jesusas helped me onto my feet. I dropped my books, left everything behind, and ran straight ahead, dodging debris, as the house disintegrated into nothingness. My sweat streamed. The air seared my lips. I heard sirens in the distance. I continued down the corridor until I emerged into an enormous hall with a stone fireplace spitting out jets of fire that a Jesusa struggled to control with water from a hose. At the back, through the smoke, I could see the front door.

With my Chevy revved up, I sped down wooded streets flanked by cold manors as the politician’s house blazed behind me. I drove without fearing I’d drive off the road. The sirens sounded closer and closer, perhaps approaching along some other unknown road or lane. Below, the city carried on, serene, stirring from sleep to greet another ordinary morning. Above, at my back, the burning mansion I’d never see again.