Stop Talking Crazy
It was a cold night. Gabriela dashed into the backyard and threw an armful of jumpers, shirts, belts, and pants into a pile on the snow. She bolted back into the house and scooped up the fallen clothes from the floor.
On the patio stairs, she slipped and fell. She stood up cursing. With the sleeve of her cardigan, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and reached for the bottle of gasoline. The cold tightened her throat. She struck a match and tossed it on the pile.
“There … you bastard.” Her eyes sparkled in the flames. Through a bay window, her neighbors stared. ‘They thought they had seen everything,’ she said under her breath.
The next day she felt worn out and woozy. The past week she’d hardly slept. She reached a hand to her forehead and closed and opened her eyes; tiny light spots danced in front of them. I should get off the pills the doctor put me on, she thought. She sighed, bent over the crib, and pulled the blanket over her baby’s shoulders.
She put the kettle on the burner, buttoned her cardigan, and looked out of the window; the whiteness of the snow made her blink. On the lawn, a crow dug its beak into the snow. In a timber house over the road, a woman shook a brown blanket; her breath steamed in the air.
It was two years since Gabriela had left Granada and moved into a three-story, timber house overlooking a fjord in Oslo. The house belonged to Carlos, the man she’d fallen in love with while on holiday in Buenos Aires. In accented Spanish, he’d asked her if he could join her for a glass of red wine. She thought him handsome.
Everything was fine for a few months. Gabriela worked at home on her poetry. When Carlos wasn’t working for the family’s salmon export business, they went walking in the woods or in Frogner Park, sailing and fishing in the fjords, cooking, and going to the movies. At weekends they went to dinners with Carlos’s friends. People liked Gabriela. But after a while, she realized that Carlos’s mother didn’t. She would interrupt Gabriela, make funny remarks about how she dressed, mock her Norwegian, and ignore her poetry. And when she heard that Gabriela was pregnant, she tried to talk her into having an abortion, saying it was too early for them to have a child.
Little by little, Things got worse. Halfway through her pregnancy, Carlos started to drink heavily. Many times, he came home with alcohol on his breath and other times he didn’t come home at all. When she asked him where he’d been, he told her that it wasn’t her business. By the time she brought her baby home from the hospital, things were going to the dogs.
The phone rang. Gabriela got to her feet and on the fourth ring she picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened to the static on the line. “Who is it?”
She heard breathing and pictured her husband.
“Is that you, Carlos? I know it’s you, you son of a bitch. Don’t you dare come to this house again, you hear me?”
“Hey, I want to pick up my clothes.” The voice was rough.
“Your clothes?” She passed the receiver to her other hand. “I burned your clothes, you hear me?” Ask your floozy to buy you some.’
Two weeks ago, Gabriela had arrived from Granada earlier than expected, and she caught Carlos with a woman in the shower. Before she left, they had agreed to try to make things work; “Let’s give it a genuine chance,” Carlos had said and gathered the baby and her in his arms. Gabriela had bought him a cashmere scarf and a bottle of cologne.
In the house, she heard running water. In the living room, the lights were dimmed, curtains were drawn, and candles burned in holders they’d bought together in Toledo. When Gabriela saw the lipstick on the rim of a wine glass, she put the baby in the crib. Still, in her coat and boots, she flung the bathroom door open. Steam hung in the space, and behind the fogged-up shower glass, two bodies moved and moaned. “Get out, you whore! Get out!” The woman jumped from the shower, scooped up her clothes, and dashed out of the bathroom, wet footsteps trailing after her.
“You didn’t burn my clothes” His voice seemed calm on the other end of the line.
“I did. I burned the Armani suits, your shirts and woolen cardigans, your scarves, and your Prada shoes. I burned your cashmere coats too. The fire was majestic, you son of a bitch!” She hung up, leaned against the wall, and breathed heavily.
Gabriela blamed herself for this mess. She needed to get the hell out of this house, out of Oslo. A couple of days before her best friend had called her from Barcelona, “Move from that cold place and come and live with me. Forget that bastard. The apartment is near the sea, and it will be good for you and the baby.” With these words turning in her mind and a feeling that Carlos was on his way, she moved to the hallway. She stood still and ran a hand through her hair. Then she locked the front and back doors. Upstairs, she ran in and out of the rooms, locking windows. Downstairs, she put the meat knife on the kitchen table.
A car roared into the driveway. Through the kitchen window, she saw Carlos and his new woman talking together. Gabriela’s face went stiff. Carlos was now heading towards the house, coat flapping. He began to bang on the door.
“Stop that, you son of a bitch,” she said from behind the door. “The baby is sleeping.”
“Open the goddamn door!”
“Go away!”
He banged some more, cursing.
When she heard his scuttle off, she picked up the baby from the crib, wrapped it in a blanket, and held it tight.
Gabriela stood by the balcony door. She watched as Carlos worked his eyes over the burned clothes, clenched his hands, and kicked the snow. He hurled a burnt shoe toward her. It landed on the patio. He bolted up the steps and grabbed hold of the doorknob.
“Open up, you bitch!” He rocked the door.
“Go away!” The baby began to cry.
While upstairs calming the baby, Gabriela heard glass breaking. She pictured a broken square of glass by the doorknob. Then she heard him moving downstairs calling out her name and then his steps on the stairs. She held her breath as she rushed into the bedroom.
While she stood at the door of the walk-in closet, holding the baby to her chest, Carlos was pushing the remainder of his clothes into a black leather bag, mumbling under his breath.
“I’m glad this thing happened,” she said. “You son of a bitch. I’m glad, do you hear? You betrayed us.” She pushed strands of hair out of her face.
“Hey, shut up!” he said standing up. He zipped the bag shut and took a step toward them. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“I want to take the baby.”
“Take her where?” she said, her eyes searching for an answer.
“Take her with me.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” She held the baby more tightly.
He worked his eyes over them. His breath smelt of alcohol. Gabriela recognized that devilish look in his eyes. She remembered that she had first seen it a year ago. She had suspected it was the alcohol and, even though that night a voice in her dream told her to pull out, it was too late. She was pregnant.
Gabriela took a few steps back and, keeping her eyes on him, ran from the room.
“Hey, where are you going?” He followed her down the stairs.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the baby in her arms.
“I want the baby.”
“Stop talking crazy!” She kept her eyes on him as he started towards her.
She edged back into the kitchen. The baby turned in her arms and began to cry.
The canary fapped its wings and chirped inside the cage.
“I want the baby.” He clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles flexed. Then he reached for the baby’s arm.
“Keep your dirty hands off her!” She pushed his hand away. “Go back to your whore and leave us alone!” She pressed the baby as tightly as she dared against her chest.
When his arms shot out again, Gabriela tried to move past him, but he grabbed hold of her arm. She squirmed but his grip was strong.
“Let go of my arm!” She twisted and turned.
The baby wailed and the canary fapped its wings.
“I am not leaving here without the baby!”
He pushed her against the table. A cup of coffee spilled over. The canary cage landed on the floor and its gate flipped open. The canary chirped and fapped its wings frantically. The baby’s face was red and filled with tears and snot as she screamed.
“Look what you’ve done, you bastard!” She felt her pulse throbbing in her temples. He pulled on the baby’s blanket. She moved away from the table, dragging the blanket and then she put the baby in her seat.
Carlos looked at the baby and then at her. As he came closer, she grabbed the knife from the kitchen counter and thought of his pathetic mother, of all the arguments, and of the day she caught him in the shower and her anger swelled larger than her, larger than any word could describe.
“I swear, if you come any closer, I’ll cut you open!”
“Put the knife down.” He stood still, his frantic eyes on her. “Take it easy … Put the knife down.”
“You take one more step and I’ll cut you open. I swear!” With this, she tightened her grip on the knife. Her fingers went white. “If you want to have the baby … first you have to kill me, you son of a bitch.”
When Gabriela glanced over her shoulder at the baby, Carlos lurched towards her. Stepping back, she lost her balance but still managed to swing the knife at him. The tip of the blade caught his cheek. With wide eyes, he put a hand on the cut and grunted. Blood dripped onto the white wood floor.
“You fucking bitch.” He stared at his bloody hand in disbelief.
Gabriela’s face had turned red. Veins stood out on her sweaty temples.
Holding his cheek, he slumped against the wall. The fight went out of him.
Carlos looked diminished to her, even harmless.
Gabriela opened the front door of the house. A cold wet wind blew in and she shivered. In the kitchen, she heard running water. A car whooshed by with headlights on, wipers going. It had begun to snow again.
Carlos moved out to the hallway holding a wet kitchen towel to his wound.
“I don’t want to see you again,” she said as he stepped out into the snowy weather.
She locked the door behind him, leaned with her back to the door, and felt the warmth of her baby.
From the kitchen window, Gabriela saw the car backing out of the driveway and heard its roar as it drove up the hill.
It was quiet in the house now. From the edge of the table, coffee dripped down to the wooden floor forming a pool. The canary stood on the tiny bar inside the cage, looked at the open gate, and few out. It circled near the ceiling and perched on the curtain pole.
Gabriela stuffed a pillow into the broken window. Whispering a lullaby, she sat on an armchair and held her baby close to her chest. She felt frail. She draped a thick blanket over them and began to rock the baby to sleep. Then she broke into silent tears. Outside the window, thick snowflakes fell. Feeling the warmth of her baby, she closed her eyes and pictured them living in the house near the sea. And, little by little, Gabriela and her baby went to sleep.
It was a cold night. Gabriela dashed into the backyard and threw an armful of jumpers, shirts, belts, and pants into a pile on the snow. She bolted back into the house and scooped up the fallen clothes from the floor.
On the patio stairs, she slipped and fell. She stood up cursing. With the sleeve of her cardigan, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and reached for the bottle of gasoline. The cold tightened her throat. She struck a match and tossed it on the pile.
“There … you bastard.” Her eyes sparkled in the flames. Through a bay window, her neighbors stared. ‘They thought they had seen everything,’ she said under her breath.
The next day she felt worn out and woozy. The past week she’d hardly slept. She reached a hand to her forehead and closed and opened her eyes; tiny light spots danced in front of them. I should get off the pills the doctor put me on, she thought. She sighed, bent over the crib, and pulled the blanket over her baby’s shoulders.
She put the kettle on the burner, buttoned her cardigan, and looked out of the window; the whiteness of the snow made her blink. On the lawn, a crow dug its beak into the snow. In a timber house over the road, a woman shook a brown blanket; her breath steamed in the air.
It was two years since Gabriela had left Granada and moved into a three-story, timber house overlooking a fjord in Oslo. The house belonged to Carlos, the man she’d fallen in love with while on holiday in Buenos Aires. In accented Spanish, he’d asked her if he could join her for a glass of red wine. She thought him handsome.
Everything was fine for a few months. Gabriela worked at home on her poetry. When Carlos wasn’t working for the family’s salmon export business, they went walking in the woods or in Frogner Park, sailing and fishing in the fjords, cooking, and going to the movies. At weekends they went to dinners with Carlos’s friends. People liked Gabriela. But after a while, she realized that Carlos’s mother didn’t. She would interrupt Gabriela, make funny remarks about how she dressed, mock her Norwegian, and ignore her poetry. And when she heard that Gabriela was pregnant, she tried to talk her into having an abortion, saying it was too early for them to have a child.
Little by little, Things got worse. Halfway through her pregnancy, Carlos started to drink heavily. Many times, he came home with alcohol on his breath and other times he didn’t come home at all. When she asked him where he’d been, he told her that it wasn’t her business. By the time she brought her baby home from the hospital, things were going to the dogs.
The phone rang. Gabriela got to her feet and on the fourth ring she picked up the receiver. “Hello?” She listened to the static on the line. “Who is it?”
She heard breathing and pictured her husband.
“Is that you, Carlos? I know it’s you, you son of a bitch. Don’t you dare come to this house again, you hear me?”
“Hey, I want to pick up my clothes.” The voice was rough.
“Your clothes?” She passed the receiver to her other hand. “I burned your clothes, you hear me?” Ask your floozy to buy you some.’
Two weeks ago, Gabriela had arrived from Granada earlier than expected, and she caught Carlos with a woman in the shower. Before she left, they had agreed to try to make things work; “Let’s give it a genuine chance,” Carlos had said and gathered the baby and her in his arms. Gabriela had bought him a cashmere scarf and a bottle of cologne.
In the house, she heard running water. In the living room, the lights were dimmed, curtains were drawn, and candles burned in holders they’d bought together in Toledo. When Gabriela saw the lipstick on the rim of a wine glass, she put the baby in the crib. Still, in her coat and boots, she flung the bathroom door open. Steam hung in the space, and behind the fogged-up shower glass, two bodies moved and moaned. “Get out, you whore! Get out!” The woman jumped from the shower, scooped up her clothes, and dashed out of the bathroom, wet footsteps trailing after her.
“You didn’t burn my clothes” His voice seemed calm on the other end of the line.
“I did. I burned the Armani suits, your shirts and woolen cardigans, your scarves, and your Prada shoes. I burned your cashmere coats too. The fire was majestic, you son of a bitch!” She hung up, leaned against the wall, and breathed heavily.
Gabriela blamed herself for this mess. She needed to get the hell out of this house, out of Oslo. A couple of days before her best friend had called her from Barcelona, “Move from that cold place and come and live with me. Forget that bastard. The apartment is near the sea, and it will be good for you and the baby.” With these words turning in her mind and a feeling that Carlos was on his way, she moved to the hallway. She stood still and ran a hand through her hair. Then she locked the front and back doors. Upstairs, she ran in and out of the rooms, locking windows. Downstairs, she put the meat knife on the kitchen table.
A car roared into the driveway. Through the kitchen window, she saw Carlos and his new woman talking together. Gabriela’s face went stiff. Carlos was now heading towards the house, coat flapping. He began to bang on the door.
“Stop that, you son of a bitch,” she said from behind the door. “The baby is sleeping.”
“Open the goddamn door!”
“Go away!”
He banged some more, cursing.
When she heard his scuttle off, she picked up the baby from the crib, wrapped it in a blanket, and held it tight.
Gabriela stood by the balcony door. She watched as Carlos worked his eyes over the burned clothes, clenched his hands, and kicked the snow. He hurled a burnt shoe toward her. It landed on the patio. He bolted up the steps and grabbed hold of the doorknob.
“Open up, you bitch!” He rocked the door.
“Go away!” The baby began to cry.
While upstairs calming the baby, Gabriela heard glass breaking. She pictured a broken square of glass by the doorknob. Then she heard him moving downstairs calling out her name and then his steps on the stairs. She held her breath as she rushed into the bedroom.
While she stood at the door of the walk-in closet, holding the baby to her chest, Carlos was pushing the remainder of his clothes into a black leather bag, mumbling under his breath.
“I’m glad this thing happened,” she said. “You son of a bitch. I’m glad, do you hear? You betrayed us.” She pushed strands of hair out of her face.
“Hey, shut up!” he said standing up. He zipped the bag shut and took a step toward them. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“I want to take the baby.”
“Take her where?” she said, her eyes searching for an answer.
“Take her with me.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” She held the baby more tightly.
He worked his eyes over them. His breath smelt of alcohol. Gabriela recognized that devilish look in his eyes. She remembered that she had first seen it a year ago. She had suspected it was the alcohol and, even though that night a voice in her dream told her to pull out, it was too late. She was pregnant.
Gabriela took a few steps back and, keeping her eyes on him, ran from the room.
“Hey, where are you going?” He followed her down the stairs.
She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the baby in her arms.
“I want the baby.”
“Stop talking crazy!” She kept her eyes on him as he started towards her.
She edged back into the kitchen. The baby turned in her arms and began to cry.
The canary fapped its wings and chirped inside the cage.
“I want the baby.” He clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles flexed. Then he reached for the baby’s arm.
“Keep your dirty hands off her!” She pushed his hand away. “Go back to your whore and leave us alone!” She pressed the baby as tightly as she dared against her chest.
When his arms shot out again, Gabriela tried to move past him, but he grabbed hold of her arm. She squirmed but his grip was strong.
“Let go of my arm!” She twisted and turned.
The baby wailed and the canary fapped its wings.
“I am not leaving here without the baby!”
He pushed her against the table. A cup of coffee spilled over. The canary cage landed on the floor and its gate flipped open. The canary chirped and fapped its wings frantically. The baby’s face was red and filled with tears and snot as she screamed.
“Look what you’ve done, you bastard!” She felt her pulse throbbing in her temples. He pulled on the baby’s blanket. She moved away from the table, dragging the blanket and then she put the baby in her seat.
Carlos looked at the baby and then at her. As he came closer, she grabbed the knife from the kitchen counter and thought of his pathetic mother, of all the arguments, and of the day she caught him in the shower and her anger swelled larger than her, larger than any word could describe.
“I swear, if you come any closer, I’ll cut you open!”
“Put the knife down.” He stood still, his frantic eyes on her. “Take it easy … Put the knife down.”
“You take one more step and I’ll cut you open. I swear!” With this, she tightened her grip on the knife. Her fingers went white. “If you want to have the baby … first you have to kill me, you son of a bitch.”
When Gabriela glanced over her shoulder at the baby, Carlos lurched towards her. Stepping back, she lost her balance but still managed to swing the knife at him. The tip of the blade caught his cheek. With wide eyes, he put a hand on the cut and grunted. Blood dripped onto the white wood floor.
“You fucking bitch.” He stared at his bloody hand in disbelief.
Gabriela’s face had turned red. Veins stood out on her sweaty temples.
Holding his cheek, he slumped against the wall. The fight went out of him.
Carlos looked diminished to her, even harmless.
Gabriela opened the front door of the house. A cold wet wind blew in and she shivered. In the kitchen, she heard running water. A car whooshed by with headlights on, wipers going. It had begun to snow again.
Carlos moved out to the hallway holding a wet kitchen towel to his wound.
“I don’t want to see you again,” she said as he stepped out into the snowy weather.
She locked the door behind him, leaned with her back to the door, and felt the warmth of her baby.
From the kitchen window, Gabriela saw the car backing out of the driveway and heard its roar as it drove up the hill.
It was quiet in the house now. From the edge of the table, coffee dripped down to the wooden floor forming a pool. The canary stood on the tiny bar inside the cage, looked at the open gate, and few out. It circled near the ceiling and perched on the curtain pole.
Gabriela stuffed a pillow into the broken window. Whispering a lullaby, she sat on an armchair and held her baby close to her chest. She felt frail. She draped a thick blanket over them and began to rock the baby to sleep. Then she broke into silent tears. Outside the window, thick snowflakes fell. Feeling the warmth of her baby, she closed her eyes and pictured them living in the house near the sea. And, little by little, Gabriela and her baby went to sleep.