Three Messages and a Warning - By Eduardo Jimenez Mayo Page 0,4

three years, had two children, and I wasn’t happy. To me, my husband was like a piece of furniture that you’re used to seeing in a certain spot, but which no longer makes the slightest impression. We lived in a small town, far from the city and hard to get to. A half-dead town on the verge of disappearing.

I couldn’t stifle a shriek of horror the first time I saw him. He was dismal, sinister. With huge yellow eyes, unblinking and almost round, that seemed to cut straight through people and things.

My wretched life became hell. The very night he arrived I begged my husband to spare me the torture of his presence. I couldn’t help it; I was filled with horror and distrust. “He’s completely harmless,” said my husband, looking at me with marked indifference. “You’ll get used to having him around, and if you don’t . . .” There was no way to convince my husband to take him away. He stayed in our home.

I wasn’t the only one who suffered. Everyone in the house—my children, the woman who helped me with chores, her little boy—we were all terrified of him. Only my husband enjoyed having him there.

From day one, my husband gave him a corner room. It was a big space, but damp and dark. That’s why I never went in there. He, however, seemed pleased with the room. As it was rather dark, he adapted by necessity. He’d sleep ‘til nightfall, and I never did figure out when he went to bed.

I lost what little peace I’d enjoyed in my big house. During the day, everything was ostensibly normal. I’d always get up very early, dress the kids, who were already awake, feed them breakfast, and keep them occupied while Guadalupe straightened the house and went out to run errands.

The house was quite large, with a garden in the middle and rooms arrayed around it. Between the rooms and gardens, we had corridors to buffer the bedrooms from the frequent onslaughts of rain and wind. To keep such a big house orderly and the garden impeccable—my daily morning task—was hard work. But I loved my garden. The corridors were filled with vines that bloomed practically year-round. I remember how much I loved to spend my afternoons in those corridors, seated between the perfume of the honeysuckle and the bougainvillea while I sewed clothes for the children.

In the garden we grew chrysanthemums, pansies, Alpine violets, begonias, and heliotrope. While I watered the plants, the children amused themselves searching for worms among the leaves. Sometimes they’d spend hours, silent and focused, trying to collect the drops of water that dripped from the ancient hose. I couldn’t help stealing occasional glances at that corner room. Even though he spent all day sleeping, I could never be too sure. Lots of times I’d be making dinner and suddenly his shadow would fall across the wood stove. I’d feel him behind me . . . I’d drop whatever was in my hands and run from the kitchen screaming like a madwoman. He’d return once more to his room as if nothing had happened.

I think he ignored Guadalupe completely, never harassing or even going near her.

Not so with my children and me. He hated them and was always lying in wait for me. Every time he came out of his room, I was thrown into the worst nightmare anyone could know. He’d set himself up at a little table across from my bedroom door. I stopped leaving. Sometimes, thinking he was asleep, I’d sneak toward the kitchen to prepare a snack for the children, and I’d stumble on him in some dark corner of the corridor, hiding beneath the vines. “I’ll be right there, Guadalupe!” I’d scream desperately.

Guadalupe and I never discussed him by name; it seemed like doing so would mean relinquishing our reality to that dark being. We’d always say, “There he is, he’s gone out, he’s sleeping, he, he, he . . .” He only ate twice a day, once when he rose at dusk and again, sometimes, in the early morning before going to sleep. Guadalupe was responsible for bringing him his food; I can say with certainty that, inside that room, the poor woman felt the same terror as I. Meat was all he’d eat—he wouldn’t even touch other food.

When the children went to sleep, Guadalupe would bring my dinner to our room. I couldn’t leave them alone, knowing that he might be up. As soon as