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| Fotografía de Natalia Deprina |
EVA IS
INSIDE HER CAT
ALL OF A SUDDEN SHE NOTICED that her
beauty had fallen all apart on her, that it had begun to pain her physically
like a tumor or a cancer. She still remembered the weight of the privilege she
had borne over her body during adolescence, which she had dropped now--who
knows where?--with the weariness of resignation, with the final gesture of a
declining creature. It was impossible to bear that burden any longer. She had
to drop that useless attribute of her personality somewhere; as she turned a
corner, somewhere in the outskirts. Or leave it behind on the coatrack of a
second-rate restaurant like some old useless coat. She was tired of being the
center of attention, of being under siege from men's long looks. At night, when
insomnia stuck its pins into her eyes, she would have liked to be an ordinary
woman, without any special attraction. Everything was hostile to her within the
four walls of her room. Desperate, she could feel her vigil spreading out under
her skin, into her head, pushing the fever upward toward the roots of her hair.
It was as if her arteries had become peopled with hot, tiny insects who, with
the approach of dawn, awoke each day and ran about on their moving feet in a
rending subcutaneous adventure in that place of clay made fruit where her
anatomical beauty had found its home. In vain she struggled to chase those
terrible creatures away. She couldn't. They were part of her own organism.
They'd been there, alive, since much before her physical existence. They came
from the heart of her father, who had fed them painfully during his nights of
desperate solitude. Or maybe they had poured into her arteries through the cord
that linked her to her mother ever since the beginning of the world. There was
no doubt that those insects had not been born spontaneously inside her body.
She knew that they came from back there, that all who bore hersurname had to
bear them, had to suffer them as she did when insomnia held unconquerable sway
until dawn. It was those very insects who painted that bitter expression, that
unconsolable sadness on the faces of her forebears. She had seen them looking
out of their extinguished existence, out of their ancient portraits, victims of
that same anguish. She still remembered the disquieting face of the
greatgrandmother who, from her aged canvas, begged for a minute of rest, a
second of peace from those insects who there, in the channels of her blood,
kept on martyrizing her, pitilessly beautifying her. No. Those insects didn't
belong to her. They came, transmitted from generation to generation, sustaining
with their tiny armor all the prestige of a select caste, a painfully select
group. Those insects had been born in the womb of the first woman who had had a
beautiful daughter. But it was necessary, urgent, to put a stop to that
heritage. Someone must renounce the eternal transmission of that artificial
beauty. It was no good for women of her breed to admire themselves as they came
back from their mirrors if during the night those creatures did their slow,
effective, ceaseless work with a constancy of centuries. It was no longer
beauty, it was a sickness that had to be halted, that had to be cut off in some
bold and radical way.
