Juan Villoro - The Wild Book

Im going to describe what happened when I was thirteen. Its something I havent been able to forget, as if the story had me by the throat. It might sound strange, but I can feel the hands of this story upon me, a sensation thats so specific I even know the hands are wearing gloves.

So long as the story is a secret, I am its prisoner. Now that I begin to write it, I feel a slight sensation of relief. The hands of this story are still on me, but one finger has loosened, like a promise that when I have finished I shall be free.

Everything began with the smell of mashed potatoes. My mother cooked mashed potatoes when she had something to complain about or was in a bad mood. She smashed the potatoes with more force than was necessary, with real fury. That helped her to relax. Ive always liked mashed potatoes, even if in my house they tasted like problems.

That afternoon, as soon as I noticed the smell wafting from the kitchen, I went to see what was going on. My mother didnt notice my presence. She cried in silence. I wouldve done anything for her to once again be the smiling woman I adored, but I didnt know what might make her happy.

From then on, I heard her sobbing every night. I had taken to waking up at strange hours. As a child, I slept like a log, but at thirteen I began to have the scarlet dreama nightmare that returned again and again. I found myself in a long hallway that was damp and dark. The flickering light of a flame came from the end of the hallway. I walked toward it and realized that I was inside a castle. My steps echoed in the darkness, making me aware that I was wearing iron boots. I was an armed soldier. I had to rescue someone at the end of the hallway who was crying. She had a womans voicea voice that was pleasant and incredibly sad. I walked toward that sound for an unnaturally long time, because the hallway seemed to lengthen with each step I took. Finally, I entered a room with red walls. My favorite color at that time was scarlet. How I liked the sound of the word scarlet! In the dream, I didnt see the crying woman, but I knew that she was there. Before speaking to her, I approached one of the walls, hypnotized by its scarlet color. Only then did I realize that its surface was liquid. No one had painted those walls. I placed my hands on the surface and the blood ran between my fingers. I always woke up at that moment, petrified with fear.

I turned on the light and looked at the map above the desk and at the only stuffed animal I sometimes still slept with. If someone had called me a child when I was thirteen, I would have been furious. I felt like a young man. My stuffed rabbit was there because I was fond of it. But I could sleep without him and I could defend myself on my own. Not even when I had the scarlet dream did I bring him into the bed. The rabbit watched me from his corner, with one eye lower than the other. I didnt ask him for help, but a long time passed before I could go back to sleep.

On the nights of the nightmare, I would wake up feeling very thirsty. If I had already drank the water my mother had placed on the nightstand, I didnt dare go into the kitchen to get some more, as if that were the location of the scarlet dream.

Then I would try to distract myself with the different countries on the map. My favorite was Australia, which was painted the color of bubble gum. My three favorite animals were Australian: the koala, the kangaroo, and the platypus.

What I liked most about koalas was how they hold on to trees. I would hug my pillow, just like a koala hugging a tree, until Id fall asleep with the light still on.

Perhaps it was because I was growing up that I dreamed of these horrific things. My friends at school all liked stories about ghosts and vampires. I didnt like them, but I kept having that terrible dream.

One night I woke up even more frightened than usual. I turned on the lights and looked at my hands, afraid they would be stained with blood. But they only bore the ink stains theyd had when I came home from school. I looked at the map and, before I could even imagine distant countries, I heard a sob. It came from the hallway and had my mothers unmistakable tone.

This time I dared to leave my room and I walked barefoot to my parents bedroom. Her grief was more important than my nightmare.

They slept in separate beds. The curtains were open and the moonlight entered the room and fell upon my fathers bed, which was the one closest to the window. Ive seen many beds since then, but none has affected me like this one did: my father wasnt there.

Mama cried with her eyes closed. She didnt realize that I was in the room. I went to my fathers bed, pulled back the covers, and got in. I breathed in a delicious scent, of leather and lotion, and I fell asleep instantly. I never slept better than I did that night.

The next day, she didnt like finding me asleep there. I told her that I had sleepwalked and ended up there without realizing it.

This is the last thing I need, Mama exclaimed. A sleepwalking son!

On the way to school, my sister, Carmen, made fun of me because I walked in my sleep. Then she asked me if I could teach her to sleepwalk. Carmen was ten and believed everything I told her. I explained to her that I belonged to a secret club that met at night; we wandered the streets without waking up.

What is the club called? Carmen asked me.

The Shadow Club, I answered, the name coming to me suddenly.

Can I join?

First you need to pass various tests. Its not so easy, I replied.

Carmen asked me to wake her up one night to take her to the Shadow Club. I promised that I would, but naturally I didnt.

Worried that I was walking in my sleep, Mama spoke to her friend Ruth, who had lived in Germany during World War II and had witnessed things that were more hair-raising than a somnambulant child. When she spoke on the phone to Ruth, Mama was soothed by these stories of things that were worse than her own troubles. Our life wasnt perfect, but at least we werent being bombarded.

When I got back from school, Mama was talking on the phone with Ruth. However, once again, it smelled like mashed potatoes. Her friends terrible stories hadnt managed to calm her down this time.

I left my backpack in my room. I went to the bathroom and then washed my hands (the annoying ink stains were still there). I went into the kitchen, following that wonderful smell that always heralded problems.

I stopped in the doorway and saw my mother crying in silence. Then I asked the question that I had been turning over and over in my head at school: Where is Papa?

She looked at me through her tears. She smiled as if I were a landscape, lovely and ruined.

We need to talk, was her answer, but she didnt say anything else. She continued pounding the potatoes, then lit a cigarette, smoking haphazardly, so the ash fell into the food.

I remained standing there like a statue until she said:

Your father is going to live outside the house for a while. Hes rented a studio. He has a lot of work and we make too much noise. When he finishes all this work, hes going to Paris to build a bridge.