Free The Halfway House (New Directions Paperbook) by Guillermo Rosales Page A

say anything more. I turn my back on him and continue on to my room. I get to my bed and look for the book of English Romantic poets under my pillow. I stick it in my pocket and head back out to the porch. As I pass the women’s room, I see Frances sitting on her bed, drawing something on a piece of paper. I get closer. She stops drawing and looks at me, smiling sadly.
    “Worthless things,” she says, showing me her work.
    I take it in my hands. It’s a portrait of Mr. Curbelo. It’s done in the style of primitive artists. It’s very good, and it admirably reflects the stinginess and smallness of the subject. She hasn’t left out the desk, the telephone and the pack of Pall Malls that Curbelo always has out in front of him. Everything is exact. It also breathes its own life, that childish, captivating life that only a primitive’s drawings can transmit.
    “I have more,” she says, opening a folder. I take them all and leaf though them.
    “They’re quite good!” I say.
    There they (we) all are, the halfway house’s inhabitants. Caridad, the
mulata
whose hardened face still retains a distant flicker of goodness. There’s one-eyed Reyes, with his glass eye and his fox’s smile. There’s Eddy, the nut who is well-versed in international politics, with his ever-present expression of impotence and bottled rage. There’s Tato, with his groggy boxer’s face and his lost look. And there’s Arsenio, with his devilish eyes. And there I am, with a face that is both hardened and sad at the same time. She’s really good! She has captured all of our souls.
    “Do you know that you’re a good painter?”
    “No,” says Frances. “I have no technique.”
    No,” I say to her. “You’re already a painter. Your technique is primitive, but it’s very good.”
    She takes her drawings out of my hands and puts them back in the folder.
    “They’re worthless,” she says with a sad smile.
    “Listen,” I say, sitting down next to her. “I swear that … pay attention. Let me say this to you and believe me, please. You are a tremendous artist. You are. I’m telling you. I’m here, in this disgusting
house
, and I’m practically a phantom of myself. But I’m telling you that I know something about art. You are amazing. Do you know who Rousseau was?”
    “No,” she says.
    “Well you don’t need to,” I say. “Your technique is similar. Have you ever painted oils?”
    “No.”
    “Learn to paint with oils,” I say. “Give some color to these drawings. Listen!” I say, taking her strongly by the neck. “You are a good artist. Goooood.”
    She smiles. I squeeze my hand a little tighter and her eyes fill with tears. But she keeps smiling. I feel a wave of desire washing over me again. I let go of her. I go over to the room’s door and lock it again. I go over to her gently and start to kiss her arms, her armpits, the nape of her neck. She smiles. I kiss her slowly on the mouth. Once again, I throw her down on the bed and take out my penis. Pulling aside her small panties with my fingers, I penetrate her slowly.
    “Kill me,” she says.
    “You really want me to kill you?” I ask, sinking into her completely.
    “Yes, kill me,” she says.
    I get a hand on her neck and start to squeeze forcefully again.
    “Bitch!” I say, suffocating her and penetrating her at the same time. “You’re a good artist. You draw well. But you need to learn about color. Colooor.”
    “
Ay!
” she says.
    “Die!” I say, feeling myself dissolve between her legs again.
    We remain that way for a while, totally undone. I’m kissing her cold hand. She’s playing with my hair. I stand up. I straighten my shirt. She lowers her dress and sits on the edge of the bed.
    “Listen,” I say to her. “Do you want to go for a spin with me?”
    “Where to, my angel?”
    “Around!”
    “Okay.”
    We leave. When we get to the street, Frances presses against me and grabs my arm.
    “Where are we going?” she says.
    “I don’t