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Fiction

Stalin’s Wife

By Liliana V. Blum
Translated from Spanish by Toshiya Kamei

Moira and I wait for Stalin’s wife in a downtown café. We arrived on time, but we didn’t expect her to be punctual: it’s the mistress who must wait for the wife, not the other way round. I take a window seat so I can pretend to look outside while listening to the table next to mine. There, Moira takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one without looking at me. I told her not to smoke because all the mistresses do and she shouldn’t fall into this stereotype, but she just gave me an annoyed look and snorted. She’s nervous—only I can tell.

The waitress comes over and offers me coffee and I accept. When she approaches the next table, Moira shoos her away, saying she’s waiting for someone. She has that defiant look that single women sometimes adopt, a look men often seem to find irresistible. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Don Juan offered to keep her company at any moment—it happens to women like her all the time. But not to women like me; when I sit in a café by myself, I prefer to become invisible. I’ll stare intensely at the steam rising from my coffee cup, or make a point of checking my watch from time to time, as if I were waiting for a date.

Almost half an hour later, Stalin’s wife appears. She turns her head, searching among the costumers for someone who looks like a slut, I suppose. When they had talked on the phone and agreed to meet here, they didn’t discuss how they would recognize one another—as if, having shared the same man’s body for so long, they might know one another by scent alone. But maybe Moira has seen Stalin’s wife before—perhaps she went through Stalin’s wallet while he was taking a shower in their motel room and found a picture of her—because I see her stub out her cigarette and wave at Mrs. Stalin. Anyone would think she was experienced at this kind of thing.

Stalin’s wife walks toward Moira with all the dignity afforded her by a piece of paper bearing the city’s official seal. Like all wronged women, she walks with tight steps, her back erect. She’s not horribly ugly, but she’s far from beautiful: I can understand why her husband is seeing my friend, who, unlike his wife, doesn’t look like a pug with slightly asymmetrical, bulging eyes. At least her hair flatters her: it’s straight and shiny, and it cascades down to her waist, like a model’s hair in a shampoo commercial. But the poor woman has a nose like a chile relleno, long and broad. You can’t help but notice it. Aside from that, she looks normal enough, perhaps a bit of a hippie, one of those women who have spent many years on a never-ending dissertation. She takes a seat in front of Moira and stares at her. Maybe she wants to know what it is about this woman that makes her husband want to sleep with her. Moira meets her gaze and lights another cigarette. She puffs smoke above her head, places her lipstick-stained cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and spreads her hands on the table as if they were a peacock tail. Her nails are recently done— perfect.

“So?” Moira’s voice is strong and beautiful, like a singer from the 80s. It never trails off. Sometimes I listen to her sing as she puts on makeup after her shower, leaning forward before the mirror, a towel just barely covering her. I didn’t want her to come here and make a scene with this poor woman.

“Put yourself in her shoes,” I told her in the car. “Your life turns to dust when you find out your husband is cheating.”

“Well, her shoes must be really ugly,” she answered. “She’s not a material girl like me.” Moira laughed as she said this: she always laughs when she wants to avoid something.

“I want you to stop seeing him,” says Stalin’s wife, a hint of melodrama in her voice.

Moira finishes her coffee and wipes her lips with a napkin. I don’t know what they were expecting from this meeting, to measure one another, perhaps; to etch on their minds the other woman’s image, and later lie awake at night comparing and contrasting each other using every possible parameter.

“If you want something, it’s my treat,” says Moira.

Stalin’s wife tightens her mouth and remains silent. She’s in a difficult situation, facing her husband’s mistress, and she needs some kind of shield against her enemy. I flag down the waitress. She approaches meekly, a coffee pot in her hand, and Stalin’s wife asks for a cup.

“I don’t need your pity. I have a man to support me.”

Moira laughs at this, but I can sense the falseness of her laughter. Cruelty is the best way to hide your fear, and she knows how to be cruel. The last time we drank together in our apartment, Moira told me how she suffered because of Stalin. She came near me, shaking, but when I leaned in to kiss her, she covered her mouth with her hand, disgusted. “When was the last time you brushed your teeth?” It was early morning, we were drunk, and it was completely unfair. I went to my room, curled up in my bed, and pretended to be the nonchalant, sleeping roommate.

“A man to support you? It’s funny that a liberal like you boasts of being a kept woman. I thought left-wingers were feminists. You know, ‘marriage is a bourgeois invention’…”

“Who told you I’m a leftist?”

“Stalin, of course. Do we know anyone else in common? Anyway, from what I’ve heard, you’re actually the one who supports him.” Moira’s tone is childish, mocking.

Stalin’s wife must be recreating in her mind a conversation between her husband and his lover where she’s the main subject. The mixture of pride and humiliation she’s feeling is a sensation I know only too well. The dessert cart passes my table and I order a slice of apple pie. I wish Stalin would go back to his wife, breaking Moira’s heart into pieces like the pie crust against my fork. Maybe then she would realize I’m not there just to pay half the rent.

“Stalin and I are reconsidering our relationship. We’ll start anew. He promised me he’d never see you again.”

I see that she drinks her coffee black, without sugar. A wet mustache appears on her upper lip when she puts down her cup.

“I’m happy for you.” Moira uncrosses her legs and plants her shoes firmly on the wooden floor. I know that her world is crumbling under her feet. Only a few days ago she told me she didn’t understand why Stalin wasn’t answering her e-mails, messages or calls. She began to gnaw her nails to the quick, but I dragged her to the manicurist to keep up appearances.

“But what’s that got to do with me?” she says, in the most malicious tone I’ve ever heard.

“I want you to know this so you’d leave him alone.”

“Then you should be talking to Stalin. He’s the one who wants me.”

Lying is the last resort of the cornered. Stalin’s wife swallows hard and stares at her rival. I’m sure she wants to leap over the table, seize Moira by the neck, and squeeze out every particle her husband has left inside her, killing her slowly. But she can’t, so she uses words. At first, she sounds awkward, like someone telling a child the facts of life. But as she rattles on, her voice grows stronger, and Moira’s face darkens. Her body hardens, and I imagine her back is tense. She has become vulnerable, as fragile as marzipan.

Only I know how much she hates it when people make assumptions about her, putting her in a group of people like you, and calling her a little bourgeois girl. She can’t stand those pedants who consider themselves above her just because they grew up poor.

And from the stories Stalin has told Moira—stories she poured out to me during our long evening chats—it sounds like the Stalins are less fortunate than Moira. They met in the Arts Faculty, in a class taught by a communist professor. They grew closer as they attended secret political meetings in abandoned places; went to lectures on books that seemed subversive to them but could be found in any library; and shared the sin of eating a burger in a transnational franchise restaurant. His parents had been militant members of the Communist Party and that’s why they named him Stalin. They thought the world was going to turn red, and nobody would raise an eyebrow when their son said his name. Her parents were middle-class people who had fallen on hard times, and that was a good enough reason for the young couple to unite against capitalism. The two had lived together for many years without getting married, but they finally tied the knot for practical reasons.

I’m sure the brand-name logos on her clothes weigh heavily on Moira. According to Stalin’s wife, they represent the needle-pricked fingers of some third-world seamstress enslaved in a sweatshop. Moira’s stomach begins to burn—it’s her private education, the job in an air-conditioned office, the generous income that allows her to buy a whole new wardrobe every year and share an apartment in a good neighborhood with her best friend.

If this is a duel to the death, Moira is waving her sword weakly and losing a lot of blood. He could never really love her because her family has been more fortunate than his: resentment is the Berlin Wall between social classes.

“Stalin gave me all his passwords, access to his cell phone and everything I ask. We go everywhere together now. That’s how I know he doesn’t want you anymore—you, or any of the others.”

A flat stone skids over the surface of a green, muddy lake. Stalin’s wife smiles as she watches the pain forming ripples in Moira’s eyes. “The loneliest place in the world is in Stalin’s arms,” she told me once during one of their many brief breakups. And now she must wonder whether she has been the only one to suffer inside those arms. There’s no way to know if Stalin’s wife is lying—and perhaps it doesn’t matter. Why would Moira be the only woman to fall for this defenseless man, with his nervous breakdowns, his constant depressions, his poverty? For some women, pity is the strongest aphrodisiac. I signal the waitress for the check.

I don’t know what Moira expected from all this, but what Stalin’s wife wanted is clear: she wanted to get up triumphantly without paying her share, turning her husband’s mistress into a pillar of salt on the chair. My friend would be left to look for some bourgeois man to marry so she could start making babies to drive around in a minivan—the embodiment of everything Stalin despises. Moira would try to stifle a sigh, thinking about what she had lost, but she didn’t really lose anything. Even if I tell her this again and again, I know she will never understand it.

We walk together to the car in silence. It’s already getting dark. I put my arm around Moira’s shoulders and she, curling up against my body, lets me take her home.

Translation of “La esposa de Stalin.” First published in Vidas de catálogo (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2007). By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2008 by Toshiya Kamei. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

Moira and I wait for Stalin’s wife in a downtown café. We arrived on time, but we didn’t expect her to be punctual: it’s the mistress who must wait for the wife, not the other way round. I take a window seat so I can pretend to look outside while listening to the table next to mine. There, Moira takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights one without looking at me. I told her not to smoke because all the mistresses do and she shouldn’t fall into this stereotype, but she just gave me an annoyed look and snorted. She’s nervous—only I can tell.

The waitress comes over and offers me coffee and I accept. When she approaches the next table, Moira shoos her away, saying she’s waiting for someone. She has that defiant look that single women sometimes adopt, a look men often seem to find irresistible. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Don Juan offered to keep her company at any moment—it happens to women like her all the time. But not to women like me; when I sit in a café by myself, I prefer to become invisible. I’ll stare intensely at the steam rising from my coffee cup, or make a point of checking my watch from time to time, as if I were waiting for a date.

Almost half an hour later, Stalin’s wife appears. She turns her head, searching among the costumers for someone who looks like a slut, I suppose. When they had talked on the phone and agreed to meet here, they didn’t discuss how they would recognize one another—as if, having shared the same man’s body for so long, they might know one another by scent alone. But maybe Moira has seen Stalin’s wife before—perhaps she went through Stalin’s wallet while he was taking a shower in their motel room and found a picture of her—because I see her stub out her cigarette and wave at Mrs. Stalin. Anyone would think she was experienced at this kind of thing.

Stalin’s wife walks toward Moira with all the dignity afforded her by a piece of paper bearing the city’s official seal. Like all wronged women, she walks with tight steps, her back erect. She’s not horribly ugly, but she’s far from beautiful: I can understand why her husband is seeing my friend, who, unlike his wife, doesn’t look like a pug with slightly asymmetrical, bulging eyes. At least her hair flatters her: it’s straight and shiny, and it cascades down to her waist, like a model’s hair in a shampoo commercial. But the poor woman has a nose like a chile relleno, long and broad. You can’t help but notice it. Aside from that, she looks normal enough, perhaps a bit of a hippie, one of those women who have spent many years on a never-ending dissertation. She takes a seat in front of Moira and stares at her. Maybe she wants to know what it is about this woman that makes her husband want to sleep with her. Moira meets her gaze and lights another cigarette. She puffs smoke above her head, places her lipstick-stained cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and spreads her hands on the table as if they were a peacock tail. Her nails are recently done— perfect.

“So?” Moira’s voice is strong and beautiful, like a singer from the 80s. It never trails off. Sometimes I listen to her sing as she puts on makeup after her shower, leaning forward before the mirror, a towel just barely covering her. I didn’t want her to come here and make a scene with this poor woman.

“Put yourself in her shoes,” I told her in the car. “Your life turns to dust when you find out your husband is cheating.”

“Well, her shoes must be really ugly,” she answered. “She’s not a material girl like me.” Moira laughed as she said this: she always laughs when she wants to avoid something.

“I want you to stop seeing him,” says Stalin’s wife, a hint of melodrama in her voice.

Moira finishes her coffee and wipes her lips with a napkin. I don’t know what they were expecting from this meeting, to measure one another, perhaps; to etch on their minds the other woman’s image, and later lie awake at night comparing and contrasting each other using every possible parameter.

“If you want something, it’s my treat,” says Moira.

Stalin’s wife tightens her mouth and remains silent. She’s in a difficult situation, facing her husband’s mistress, and she needs some kind of shield against her enemy. I flag down the waitress. She approaches meekly, a coffee pot in her hand, and Stalin’s wife asks for a cup.

“I don’t need your pity. I have a man to support me.”

Moira laughs at this, but I can sense the falseness of her laughter. Cruelty is the best way to hide your fear, and she knows how to be cruel. The last time we drank together in our apartment, Moira told me how she suffered because of Stalin. She came near me, shaking, but when I leaned in to kiss her, she covered her mouth with her hand, disgusted. “When was the last time you brushed your teeth?” It was early morning, we were drunk, and it was completely unfair. I went to my room, curled up in my bed, and pretended to be the nonchalant, sleeping roommate.

“A man to support you? It’s funny that a liberal like you boasts of being a kept woman. I thought left-wingers were feminists. You know, ‘marriage is a bourgeois invention’…”

“Who told you I’m a leftist?”

“Stalin, of course. Do we know anyone else in common? Anyway, from what I’ve heard, you’re actually the one who supports him.” Moira’s tone is childish, mocking.

Stalin’s wife must be recreating in her mind a conversation between her husband and his lover where she’s the main subject. The mixture of pride and humiliation she’s feeling is a sensation I know only too well. The dessert cart passes my table and I order a slice of apple pie. I wish Stalin would go back to his wife, breaking Moira’s heart into pieces like the pie crust against my fork. Maybe then she would realize I’m not there just to pay half the rent.

“Stalin and I are reconsidering our relationship. We’ll start anew. He promised me he’d never see you again.”

I see that she drinks her coffee black, without sugar. A wet mustache appears on her upper lip when she puts down her cup.

“I’m happy for you.” Moira uncrosses her legs and plants her shoes firmly on the wooden floor. I know that her world is crumbling under her feet. Only a few days ago she told me she didn’t understand why Stalin wasn’t answering her e-mails, messages or calls. She began to gnaw her nails to the quick, but I dragged her to the manicurist to keep up appearances.

“But what’s that got to do with me?” she says, in the most malicious tone I’ve ever heard.

“I want you to know this so you’d leave him alone.”

“Then you should be talking to Stalin. He’s the one who wants me.”

Lying is the last resort of the cornered. Stalin’s wife swallows hard and stares at her rival. I’m sure she wants to leap over the table, seize Moira by the neck, and squeeze out every particle her husband has left inside her, killing her slowly. But she can’t, so she uses words. At first, she sounds awkward, like someone telling a child the facts of life. But as she rattles on, her voice grows stronger, and Moira’s face darkens. Her body hardens, and I imagine her back is tense. She has become vulnerable, as fragile as marzipan.

Only I know how much she hates it when people make assumptions about her, putting her in a group of people like you, and calling her a little bourgeois girl. She can’t stand those pedants who consider themselves above her just because they grew up poor.

And from the stories Stalin has told Moira—stories she poured out to me during our long evening chats—it sounds like the Stalins are less fortunate than Moira. They met in the Arts Faculty, in a class taught by a communist professor. They grew closer as they attended secret political meetings in abandoned places; went to lectures on books that seemed subversive to them but could be found in any library; and shared the sin of eating a burger in a transnational franchise restaurant. His parents had been militant members of the Communist Party and that’s why they named him Stalin. They thought the world was going to turn red, and nobody would raise an eyebrow when their son said his name. Her parents were middle-class people who had fallen on hard times, and that was a good enough reason for the young couple to unite against capitalism. The two had lived together for many years without getting married, but they finally tied the knot for practical reasons.

I’m sure the brand-name logos on her clothes weigh heavily on Moira. According to Stalin’s wife, they represent the needle-pricked fingers of some third-world seamstress enslaved in a sweatshop. Moira’s stomach begins to burn—it’s her private education, the job in an air-conditioned office, the generous income that allows her to buy a whole new wardrobe every year and share an apartment in a good neighborhood with her best friend.

If this is a duel to the death, Moira is waving her sword weakly and losing a lot of blood. He could never really love her because her family has been more fortunate than his: resentment is the Berlin Wall between social classes.

“Stalin gave me all his passwords, access to his cell phone and everything I ask. We go everywhere together now. That’s how I know he doesn’t want you anymore—you, or any of the others.”

A flat stone skids over the surface of a green, muddy lake. Stalin’s wife smiles as she watches the pain forming ripples in Moira’s eyes. “The loneliest place in the world is in Stalin’s arms,” she told me once during one of their many brief breakups. And now she must wonder whether she has been the only one to suffer inside those arms. There’s no way to know if Stalin’s wife is lying—and perhaps it doesn’t matter. Why would Moira be the only woman to fall for this defenseless man, with his nervous breakdowns, his constant depressions, his poverty? For some women, pity is the strongest aphrodisiac. I signal the waitress for the check.

I don’t know what Moira expected from all this, but what Stalin’s wife wanted is clear: she wanted to get up triumphantly without paying her share, turning her husband’s mistress into a pillar of salt on the chair. My friend would be left to look for some bourgeois man to marry so she could start making babies to drive around in a minivan—the embodiment of everything Stalin despises. Moira would try to stifle a sigh, thinking about what she had lost, but she didn’t really lose anything. Even if I tell her this again and again, I know she will never understand it.

We walk together to the car in silence. It’s already getting dark. I put my arm around Moira’s shoulders and she, curling up against my body, lets me take her home.

La esposa de Stalin

by Liliana V. Blum

Moira y yo esperamos a la esposa de Stalin en una cafetería del centro. Llegamos a tiempo y sin

esperanzas de que ella sea puntual. Se entiende que la amante es la que tiene que aguardar a que

llegue la mujer oficial y no al revés. Me siento junto a la ventana para poder ver disimuladamente

hacia fuera mientras escucho lo que pasará en la mesa de junto. Desde allí, Moira saca una cajetilla

de cigarros y enciende uno sin mirarme. Yo le aconsejé que no fumara, que todas las amantes

fuman y ella no debería entrar tan limpiamente en ese estereotipo, pero ella me vio con una

expresión de enfado y dio un pequeño bufido. Está nerviosa; sólo yo podría adivinarlo.

La mesera se acerca para ofrecerme café y acepto, pero Moira la despacha diciéndole que

espera a alguien. Tiene esa mirada desafiante que adoptan a veces las mujeres solas y que para

algunos hombres es irresistible. No me extrañaría que en cualquier momento algún solitario con

aires de conquistador se ofreciera a acompañarla. A las mujeres como ella, les pasa eso todo el

tiempo. Yo prefiero observar el vapor que sale de mi taza o revisar mi reloj indignada, como si mi

cita estuviera con retraso.

Después de casi media hora, la esposa de Stalin aparece. Mueve la cabeza buscando entre

los clientes a alguien que tenga pinta de mujerzuela, supongo. En realidad, cuando hablaron por

teléfono y acordaron el lugar de la reunión no se dieron ninguna seña para reconocerse. Como si

pudieran olerse desde lejos por el simple hecho de compartir el cuerpo de un tercero. Pero tal vez

Moira haya visto furtivamente alguna foto en la cartera de Stalin mientras se duchaba en el baño del

motel, porque veo que apaga con determinación la última parte de su cigarro y le hace una seña con

la mano a la señora Stalin. Cualquiera diría que tiene experiencia en este tipo de cosas.

Ella camina hacia Moira con toda la dignidad que le confieren un pedazo de papel y un sello

del municipio. Como le corresponde a las mujeres ofendidas, va con paso apretado y la espalda muy

erguida. No es terriblemente fea, pero dista de ser guapa: entiendo por qué él sale con mi amiga,

que no tiene ese aire de perro pug, con los ojos ligeramente asimétricos y saltones. Al menos tiene

el cabello a su favor: lacio, brillante y hasta la cintura, como de anuncio de shampoo. Pero la pobre

tiene la nariz demasiado ancha, de chile relleno. Imposible no fijarse. Fuera de eso, parece una

mujer bastante normal, un poco hippy, de esas que llevan años trabajando en una tesis eterna. Toma

asiento en la silla justo frente a Moira y la estudia sin disimular. Tal vez quiere ver qué es lo que

la hace tan maravillosa para que su marido la busque para copular a escondidas. Moira le sostiene

la mirada mientras enciende otro cigarro que mancha con su labial. Exhala hacia arriba, pone el

cigarro sobre la orilla del cenicero y abre las manos como un pavorreal sobre la mesa. Sus uñas

están recién hechas: perfectas.

¿Y bien?

Su voz es fuerte y hermosa como la de una cantante de los ochentas. No se extingue ni se

quiebra por la mitad. A veces la escucho cantar mientras se maquilla después de bañarse, inclinada

frente al espejo con la toalla envolviéndola malamente. Yo no quería que fuera a hacer una escena

con esta mujer, por quien siento un poco de pena.

La vida de uno se vuelve un polvorón cuando se descubre una infidelidad, ponte en sus

zapatos, le sugerí cuando íbamos en el carro. Pues sus zapatos deben ser bastante feos, me contestó.

No es una chica material como yo, dijo entre risas. Siempre se ríe cuando desea evitar algo.

Quiero que dejes de verlo, dice la esposa de Stalin con un dejo melodramático.

Moira se termina su café y se limpia los labios delicadamente con la servilleta. No sé qué

esperaban las dos de esta reunión, medirse tal vez, infectarse los ojos para siempre con la imagen de

la otra y luego perder el sueño comparándose bajo todo parámetro posible.

Si quieres algo, yo te invito.

La esposa de Stalin aprieta la boca y guarda silencio. Una taza de café siempre es algo de lo

que uno se puede asir en una situación difícil. Ella está frente a la amante de su marido y no tiene

una trinchera. Yo levanto la mano para llamar a la mesera, que acude dócil con una jarra negra. Ella

aprovecha que está cerca y pide uno.

No necesito tus limosnas. Tengo quien me mantenga.

Por supuesto que Moira ríe, pero sólo yo detecto lo falso de esa risa. Ser cruel es la mejor

forma de disimular el miedo, y ella sabe ser cruel. La última vez que bebimos juntas en el

departamento y Moira me contaba cómo sufría con Stalin, se acercó a mí vibrando toda, pero

cuando yo iba a besarla, se tapó la boca con asco. ¿Cuándo fue la última vez que te lavaste los

dientes? Era de madrugada, estábamos ebrias, era totalmente injusto. Me fui a mi habitación, me

enrosqué sobre la cama y fingí dormir como la simple compañera de cuarto que soy.

Es curioso cómo alguien tan progre como tú se ufana de ser una mantenida. Yo creía que las

de izquierda eran feministas, ya sabes, el matrimonio es un invento burgués…

¿Y quién te dijo que yo soy eso?

Stalin, ¿o tenemos a alguien más en común? Pero según entiendo, tú eres la que lo mantiene

a él.

El tono de Moira es de burla infantil. La esposa de Stalin debe estar recreando en su mente

una conversación entre su marido y su amante en donde ella es el tema central. La sensación de

humillación y orgullo mezclados es una experiencia que conozco. El carrito de los postres pasa

junto a mí y pido una rebanada de pay de manzana: deseo intensamente que Stalin vuelva con su

mujer y el corazón de Moira se despedace como esta corteza al insertar mi tenedor. Tal vez

entonces se daría cuenta de que estoy allí no sólo para pagar la mitad de la renta.

Stalin y yo vamos a replantear nuestra relación, vamos a empezar de nuevo. Me prometió

que no te iba a volver a ver.

Veo que toma su café negro, sin azúcar. Unos bigotes húmedos le cubren el labio superior

cuando baja la taza.

Me alegro por ustedes. Moira descruza las piernas y planta los zapatos sobre el piso de

madera. Parte de su mundo se está desmoronando debajo de sus pies, lo sé. Justo hace unos días no

se explicaba por qué Stalin no contestaba sus correos, ni sus mensajes, ni sus llamadas. Comenzó a

roerse las uñas hasta dejárselas hechas una lástima, pero yo la arrastré con la pedicurista para cubrir

las apariencias. ¿Pero qué tiene qué ver eso conmigo?, dice con el tono naïve más malintencionado

que he escuchado.

Quiero que lo sepas para que lo dejes en paz.

Entonces tendrías que estar hablando con Stalin. Él es el que me busca.

La mentira es siempre el último recurso de los acorralados. La esposa de Stalin traga saliva

y mira fijamente a su rival. Estoy segura de que quisiera abalanzarse sobre la mesa, tomarla por

el cuello y apretarlo hasta que por su aliento salga cualquier partícula que su hombre haya dejado

en ella. Extinguirla lentamente. Pero como no puede, usa las palabras. Tiene el timbre de voz

incómodo que los adultos usan cuando van a hablarle de sexo a los niños. Dice muchas cosas y a

medida que lo hace, su voz deja de ser enclenque, mientras que el rostro de Moira se vuelve oscuro

y su cuerpo se va endureciendo. Imagino que los músculos de su espalda están tensos. Se ha vuelto

un objeto quebradizo, un mazapán.

Sólo yo sé qué tanto le disgusta que la gente asuma cosas de ella, que la aglutinen en un

grupo ficticio llamado “gente como tú”, que se refieran a su vida como “pequeño burguesa”. No

puede soportar la pedantería de los que piensan que son superiores a ella sólo porque tuvieron una

infancia llena de carencias. Y por lo que Stalin le ha platicado a Moira, y ella a su vez ha vertido

sobre mí en nuestras largas pláticas nocturnas, Stalin y su esposa se conocieron en la Facultad de

Letras de la universidad, en una clase dictada por un profesor comunista. Nutrieron su relación con

mítines secretos en lugares abandonados, lecturas que ellos creían subversivas, pero que se podían

encontrar en la biblioteca, compartieron la culpa de comer una hamburguesa en alguna franquicia

trasnacional. Los padres de él habían sido militantes del partido comunista y de allí la ocurrencia

de bautizarlo así. Creían que en el futuro el mundo iba a ser rojo y que nadie levantaría ni una

ceja cuando su hijo dijera su nombre. Los padres de ella eran simplemente gente de clase media

venida a menos, y ésa era una buena razón para unirse en contra del capitalismo. Los dos habían

vivido juntos por muchos años sin casarse, pero al final lo hicieron sólo por el civil, por cuestiones

prácticas.

Estoy segura de que a Moira le pesan los logotipos de su ropa que, según la esposa de

Stalin, representan los dedos pinchados de alguna costurera tercermundista esclavizada en una

maquiladora. Una gastritis comienza a formársele con su educación privada, con su trabajo de

oficina climatizada que le permite cambiar de guardarropa cada año y compartir con su mejor amiga

un departamento en una buena colonia. Si este encuentro es una especie de duelo a muerte, Moira

blande su espada sin fuerzas y pierde mucha sangre. Él nunca podría amarla de verdad porque

ella nació en una familia más favorecida que la suya. El rencor es el muro de Berlín de las clases

sociales.

Stalin me dio todos sus passwords, el celular, acceso a lo que yo pida. Vamos juntos a todas

partes. Por eso sé que no te ha buscado ni a ti ni a ninguna de las otras.

Una piedra arrojada con fuerza sobre un lago verde y fangoso. La esposa de Stalin sonríe al

ver el dolor formándose en líneas concéntricas dentro de los ojos de Moira. El lugar más solitario

del mundo está entre los brazos de Stalin, me dijo una vez en una de sus tantas rupturas. Ahora

resulta que no sólo es Moira. Si la esposa de Stalin miente, no hay forma de averiguarlo, y en todo

caso, es irrelevante. ¿Por qué tendría que ser ella la única que sucumbía ante la indefensión de ese

hombre, sus crisis nerviosas, sus constantes depresiones, el dinero que apenas le alcazaba para

comer? El patetismo asumido es el mayor afrodisíaco para algunas. Llamo a la mesera y pido mi

cuenta.

Yo no sé qué esperaba Moira de todo esto, pero para mí está claro que lo que quería la

esposa de Stalin con el encuentro era levantarse triunfal sin pagar su parte, dejando a la amante de

su marido hecha un cúmulo de sal sobre la silla. A mi amiga sólo le quedaría buscar algún burgués

con quien casarse para comenzar a fabricar hijos, a los que llevaría a todas partes en una minivan:

la encarnación de todo aquello que Stalin desprecia. Intentaría no suspirar pensando en lo que se

perdió, porque de hecho no se perdió de nada. Pero aunque yo se lo diga una y otra vez, sé que no

podrá entenderlo jamás.

Caminamos juntas hasta el carro sin hablarnos. Ya está oscureciendo. Paso mi brazo por

encima de los hombros de Moira y ella, acurrucándose contra mi cuerpo, se deja llevar a casa.

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