“Do you feel all right, Benavides?”
Benavides replies, “Yes, of course.” He can’t think of anything but the twisted-up body. The suitcase gives off a smell of putrefaction.
“What’s in it, Benavides?”
Then Benavides discovers his error: trusting Dr. Corrales, having faith in the doctor. As if a man dedicated to health in life could ever contend with death. So he says, “Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“I mean, don’t worry about it. You go see your patients now and I’ll manage here.”
“Is this a joke?”
Corrales approaches. Benavides bends down and holds on to the buckles so Corrales can’t open them, but the doctor kneels down next to him and says, “Let me see, come now, move.” And with a simple shove, Benavides falls over. Corrales struggles with the buckles but can’t open them: pushed to their limit by the suitcase’s excess load, they resist.
“Help me,” orders Corrales.
“No, look here . . .”
“I’m telling you to help me, Benavides. Stop this nonsense,” says Corrales, indicating Benavides should sit on the suitcase. Benavides finds the most opportune spot on the irregular leather surface, and puts the weight of his body on top of his wife’s. Corrales is strong, and together they finally manage to unbuckle the clasps.
Benavides stands up and moves away from the suitcase that, though now unbuckled, has still not been opened. He doesn’t want to see. Rapid pulses squeeze his heart. Corrales studies the scene. He knows, thinks Benavides when he sees the doctor stand up and walk toward him. Corrales stops beside him and looks at the suitcase. In a low voice, almost hypnotized, he orders Benavides:
“Open it.”
Benavides stays where he is. Maybe he thinks that this is the end, or maybe he’s not thinking about anything, but ultimately he obeys and walks over to the suitcase. When he opens it, he forgets Corrales for a moment: his wife is curled up like a fetus, her head bent inward, her knees and elbows forced into the rigid, leather-lined box, her fat filling up all the empty space. What a thing, nostalgia, Benavides says to himself. All those years just to see her like this.
Threads of blood trickle toward him over the floor. Corrales’s voice returns him to reality:
“Benavides . . .” And the doctor’s cracked voice betrays his anguish.
“Benavides . . .” Corrales, walking slowly, approaches the suitcase without taking his eyes from its contents. His eyes, full of tears, finally turn to meet Benavides’s gaze. “Benavides . . . This is drastic. It’s . . . It’s . . . wonderful,” he concludes.
Benavides, dubious, stays silent. He looks back at the suitcase but what he sees is what is there: his wife, purple, coiled like a worm in tomato sauce.
“Wonderful,” repeats Corrales, shaking his head. He looks at the suitcase for a moment, then at Benavides, as if he can’t understand how Benavides has been able to do such a thing for himself. “You are a genius. And to think that I underestimated you, Benavides. A genius. Let’s see. Let me clear my head—it’s no small thing you’re proposing with this . . .” He rests his arm around Benavides’s shoulders with friendly enthusiasm. “Well, let me offer you a drink. Believe it or not, I know just the person you need.”
Corrales lets go of Benavides and heads toward the garage exit.
“Genius, truly beautiful,” he repeats in a low voice as he walks away. Benavides takes a moment to react, but as soon as he understands that he’s about to be left alone, he looks at his suitcase one last time and runs after the doctor.
* * *
Olives, sliced cheese and salami, potato chips, little cheese-flavored crackers, onion and ham. Everything neatly arranged on a large wooden tray on the coffee table in the main living room, along with three fine crystal glasses into which Corrales pours white wine.
“Donorio, this is my friend Benavides, the man I’ve told you so much about.”
Donorio curiously studies Benavides’s small body and finally puts out his hand. Corrales smiles, pours more wine, and invites the men to eat something.
“Donorio, you have no idea what you’re about to see,” says Corrales. “Now, I don’t want to sound arrogant, I know you have experience with great artists. But even so, I don’t think you can imagine what we’ve got prepared for you. Isn’t that right, Benavides?”
Benavides finishes off his wine in one gulp.
“I want to see it,” says Donorio.
* * *
They cross in the night from the house to the garage. Corrales goes first, enjoying the slow walk toward success; Donorio follows, distrustful but curious. Finally, lagging, sensing the suitcase nearby, Benavides feels his fragile nerves gather into large and fibrous knots.
Corrales has the men enter in darkness, since he prefers the impact the sudden image will have when he turns on the light.
“Benavides, guide Donorio to you-know-what and let me know when he’s ready.”