Club of Impossible Desires by Alberto Torres Blandina / Fiction / Untitled Books

"We’d like you to become a member of our select club. As a subscription gift, you can live with this girl. Her name is Eva, but if you don’t like it, you can change it. She’ll do whatever you wish. Shall I continue to explain the benefits?"

Club of Impossible Desires by Alberto Torres Blandina

Translator's note: this is an excerpt from Alberto Torres Blandina's hugely inventive Cosas que nunca occurrirían en Tokio (Things That Could Never Happen in Tokyo). The novel is narrated by soon-to-retire airport cleaner Salvador Fuensanta, who recounts fabulous stories about the travellers passing through to his friend Juana on the newspaper stand. I am indebted to François Gaudry's French translation of the original, on which I based this interpretation. MR

His name was Domingo Millón. Such a happy name - Sunday is a pleasant day, and a million would make anyone pretty contented. And yet there was no joy in his heart. When you spoke to him, instead of looking you in the eye, he'd stare at the ground in embarrassment. I suppose he hadn't been very popular as a child. But then I imagine it's the same story for any fat kid...

         He worked in town, and went back to his mother's at weekends. He'd take a plane each Friday, coming back on Sunday night. One day, as he waited for his plane at the departure gate, flicking through a newspaper and enjoying a bar of chocolate, a woman came and sat down next to him. It wasn't the first time I'd seen this girl. Frizzy hair, large breasts, and a false air of confusion that wouldn't fool anyone. She always wanders this way and that before sitting herself down beside a solitary man. I greeted her once. It was raining, and I said: Miserable day for a flight. I was only trying to be friendly. She didn't even reply. But when she wanted to seem likable, she had no equal. Just ask Domingo. That day it was him she sat beside.
         - Good afternoon, she said.
         - Good afternoon. She watched him, as if waiting for something.
         - You're not going to ask me the question?
         - What question?
         - Why did I sit down next to you?
         Imagine poor, nervous Domingo, not knowing at all how to act with this woman. Paralyzed by a kind of fear, due to his lack of experience in relating to others. His mother spoonfed him as a kid, sure she was the best mum in the world. Now there he was, mute, trembling, frozen to the spot. Lacking all social skills.
         - There are lots of free places, but I sat down next to you. You don't want to ask why?
         - Why did you pick this seat?
         - Because you remind me of a teacher I had at school. He taught history. He was the best teacher I ever had, by far. You're not a teacher, are you?
         - No, and I don't know much history either.
         - Oh, I adore history. It's crazy how much a teacher can influence your personality. If it was the music teacher I liked, I'd probably play the flute. Do you know which year the Trojans annexed Armenia?
         - Er, no.
         - 177 ad. And when did the Mongols execute the last Abbasid Caliph? 1055. Ask me a question and you'll see.
         - I don't know what to ask.
         - Anything.
         - I don't know...
         - Ask me when Lenin died.
         - When did Lenin die?
         - 1924.
         Domingo, though outwardly stammering, was leaping for joy inside. Here he was, talking with a really pretty girl! He couldn't believe it. When was the last time this happened? He couldn't even remember. His only amorous adventure worth recalling was about twelve years ago, with Mariló Pérez, on the back seat of his car. Mariló was a girl at school. He didn't know exactly how it happened. It was his birthday, and he'd had a bit too much to drink. One thing led to another, and soon there they were on the back seat. After that, nothing. Women seemed to avoid him. For years not a single one had approached poor Domingo. Until today.
         - For the two years he was my teacher, I was totally in love with him. If you'd seen the passion with which he described the Punic Wars, you'd have fallen in love with him yourself.
         - I don't think so. I don't like men.
         - No, of course. You like women. Just like him. When he thought no one was looking, he used to ogle my bum and my breasts.
         - Well, teachers are human too. (Domingo began to loosen up.) When you're a kid, you think they're from another planet, they're not human. But in fact they're just like us.
         - But you, you've hardly looked at them.
         - What's that?
         - My breasts. Don't you like them? He turned his head to the left and didn't move. He didn't know what to do with his eyes.
         - Why... I don't know.
         - "I don't know" isn't an answer. Either you like them or you don't.
         - Yes, of course.
         - Him too. But teachers aren't allowed to get involved with their pupils.
         - You can't have everything in life.
         - Oh no? I have to disagree with you there. When he was no longer my teacher, I slept with him. The day after the September exams, to be precise. I went to pick up my marks, and then took him to the orchard. He was married but, well, that was his problem, not mine. Are you married?
         - No.
         - Still single! A man like you... Where are you going?
         - Um, home... I'm going to see my mother. The poor woman is lonely.
         - What a good son! If only they were all like you. The men I know are only concerned about one thing: themselves. They won't stir for anything or anyone else. But you're different, huh? I could see it right away. You'd take care of me. You'd spoil me... Do you like your work?
         - It's not so bad.
         - But your boss is the son of a fat whore, right? Domingo didn't reply.
         - Don't be like that. You can say it. Plumbers mend the taps, carpenters make chairs, and bosses are sons of whores. It's their job. So, what's your boss like?
         - He's very...
         - You don't get it. What's he like, your boss?
         - He's the son of a fat whore!
         They both burst out laughing. Domingo Millón was happy. As happy as a Sunday, like a man with a million. They continued talking until the departure door opened and the passengers stood to join the queue.
         - OK, you'd better go, said the girl. Shame. Sharing our stories was fun, no? She rose and kissed the dumbstruck Domingo on each cheek.
         - Will I see you again? he said with a trembling voice.
         - But of course!
         - So... will you give me your number so I can call you?
         She shook her head.
         - I said we'd see each other again. Don't you trust me?
         She smiled and walked away. Domingo took the plane. He was smiling too, so much so that by evening his jaw was aching. When he arrived at his mother's, she asked him what was wrong. He said he was distracted by problems at work, but she wasn't convinced. It's difficult to fool a mother. They have an inexplicable bond with their children, and know what they're thinking before they've even thought it.
         The following week, Domingo arrived looking neater than usual. He was even wearing aftershave. He wasn't himself anymore. He bought the paper, but no chocolate bar. He sat in the same seat and tried to be interested in the news. But he just wasn't. Every two seconds he'd lift his eyes to see if the girl was coming. She'd said they'd see each other again, but he had neither her number nor her address. Logically they would meet in the same place as before. This departure gate was the only thing that connected them. That could be an idea for a song, he thought...
         A man in a suit sat down by his side. Domingo looked at him. He was going to say: This place is reserved, then he realized that if she didn't come, he would look a bit pathetic sitting next to a seat that was reserved but empty for practically a two-hour wait.
         - Afternoon, said the man.
         - Afternoon.
         - You must be Domingo Millón. Domingo stared at him in surprise.
         - Do I know you?
         - No. But we know you.
         He put a briefcase on his lap, opened it, and took out a file. On the front was a heading in Times New Roman: Domingo Millón. He began to read.
         - According to the report, you are unmarried, heterosexual, you never had a serious relationship, hardly even a casual one, you don't like your work, and you're still tied to your mother's apron strings...
         And so on and so forth. You can imagine the rest. Phrase after phrase illuminating all Domingo's miseries, while the poor guy hadn't a clue what was going on.
         - How can you know all this?
         - If there's an error, let me know and I'll put it right. This report was compiled by one of our employees, but they sometimes make a mistake.
         - And how does this colleague of yours know it all?
         - She spoke with you last week, and after studying the information, our selection committee decided you have the profile we're looking for, and we should make contact with you. We'd like to make you an offer you can't refuse.
         Domingo's heart sank. Now he realized why the girl came to speak to him. How had he not seen it? As she told him of her life, she subtly introduced personal questions: Are you married? Who's waiting for you at home? Do you like your bosses? And he, trusting idiot, allowed himself to be hoodwinked by her feminine charms. He'd really thought she was interested in him...
         Domingo stood, ready to leave. He wasn't going to sit there and put up with this humiliation.
         - You don't want to listen to what I'm offering you?
         - No.
         He grabbed his wheeled suitcase and walked away. At that moment, the girl from the previous week appeared and stopped right in front of him. Domingo wanted to yell at her, tell her it's wrong to mislead innocent people like this, that he doesn't deserve it, he's a good man who never hurt anybody. Calm, not too eccentric. Why did she do this to him? Did she have no heart? But he said nothing. The salesman approached him from behind.
         - We'd like you to become a member of the Club of Impossible Desires. A select club. As a subscription gift, you can live with this girl. Her name is Eva, but if you don't like it, you can change it. She'll do whatever you wish. Shall I continue to explain the benefits?
         Domingo was petrified, as you can imagine. He no longer knew where he was. The departure gate opened.
         - I must get that plane, he stammered.
         - Take this, said the man, handing him some brochures with the club's logo on. Domingo had expected they'd try to stop him, but that's not what happened. They smiled and walked away, as if what they'd just offered him was the most normal thing in the world. What kind of joke was this? In the plane, he opened the brochures. They contained a three-year contract in his name and that of the company: Club of Impossible Desires, S.A. The monthly fee was astronomical, but the contract was clear:
         A la Carte Life Programme: the Company undertakes to realize each of the Client's dreams without judgement. If the Client is not satisfied, he will be reimbursed. If he has any problems with the Law, the Company will take care of everything, and place a member of its Legal Team at his disposal.
         He continued to leaf through, and in another document he read: Subscription Gift: Eva Merelles (for the duration of one year; renewable up to a maximum of four years.)
         That weekend, Domingo was even more nervous than the last.
         - Are you going to tell me what's going on, son? his mother asked again and again.                 Then, with a sniffle: You used to tell me everything. When you were small, I'd sit on your bed and you'd just blurt it all out. But now you don't love me anymore. You no longer love your mother, after all I've done for you...
         For a moment or two Domingo was tempted to confide in her, but he couldn't do it. He didn't know where to start. With the pretty girl who approached him to take him for a ride? With the salesman and his absurd proposal?
         By the time he got home, he'd practically forgotten the whole thing. He'd concluded that these two swindlers had taken him for an idiot, no more, no less. They thought they could dupe him, but who'd be taken in by such a ridiculous scam? Who would trust them? He opened the door, put his case down in the hall, and went into the lounge to turn off the TV. Apparently he'd left it on...
         - Back already, dear?
         Eva was stretched out on the sofa, dressed in one of his old T-shirts.

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Translated by Mark Reynolds. Alberto Torres Blandina is a writer, musician and teacher. Cosas que nunca ocurrirían en Tokio has been published in six languages. An extended version of this excerpt appears in the latest issue of The Drawbridge.
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Thursday, 20 January, 2011

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Issue 44 / May 2012

"We’d like you to become a member of our select club. As a subscription gift, you can live with this girl. Her name is Eva, but if you don’t like it, you can change it. She’ll do whatever you wish. Shall I continue to explain the benefits?"