THE PINK COLORED ROSE

By Eduardo Goldman

(Translated by Martín Lazzarini)  

 

Went with a stealthy walk over the tile floor because you had a feeling about something. Your body perspired a scent of urgency. You dared jump over the low wall and trespass the unauthorized property. A plain mansion, only one floor, L-shaped. You knew she was alone. The housekeeper had left hours ago and you had monitored the place obsessively. No one came in that night. You approached one of the bedroom windows. The bedside lamp was lit. You knew it was her. The light from the lamp and the white curtains behind the glass made a tenuous mirror where you saw yourself fearful of your own image. Shocked at having gone too far, like a hallucinating dream that became real. You were afraid. You did not want her to discover you were stalking her. You were afraid. You did not want to frighten her. To provoke her rejection. You were afraid that none of this would happen. That it would be another one of those empty nights meandering this setting. At 12305 Fifth Helena Drive. You kept repeating the address in your mind, to not think of her. Who knows how, you ended up facing that door. You knocked on that hardwood, as if stroking it. You moved the handle and, to your surprise, it opened the way. The living room was dark. You felt like a thief, an assassin, and you wished to withdraw.  You still had time to avoid disaster. The weight of a whole life was pushing you towards her and could not stop. It felt like playing an all or nothing round of poker. You were lured by the reflection of the lamp that came from the bedroom. You were late in your reaction but you went on, resolute. If only to see her- or better yet -be seen by her. To exist, for a few seconds, in her life. Even if it would have been your sole memory treasured in jail. You fingered the pink colored rose you slipped in the buttonhole of your jacket, knowing by heart that she loved them. You finished opening this door. She was lying in bed, she seemed asleep, but her eyes were twinkling. You moved in closer. You wanted to sit by her side, so she could see you, it was too much for your poor modesty, and you knelt on the carpet. Her lipstick painted red, her mole floating on her rosy cheek, a tress of blonde hair scattered all over the pillow. She was staring at you, you could swear it. You knew magic had happened. You could see empty jars, a few pills over the carpet, her barely latent breathing, and you guessed her last sight. You wished to give her your posthumous tribute, proof of that love she never had- or you never had -and slowly, with the tenderness of a prince, kissed your Cinderella goodbye. Sinking a little on her soft lips, holding back your tongue to not disturb her. Your mouth remained still. Your eyes, maybe for the first time since childhood, smiled with gratitude. This is what you thought, and you smiled while you kissed her.

Later, soon after, you saw her extinguish, whither. It was then that you felt a tickle in one of your hands. You looked down, and without the least hint of fear, saw through a translucence,  as if it was about to disappear in an instant. Then, the other. You felt like laughing from happiness, while finger by finger they faded away, then the arm, and up to the breastplate of your shoulders. Your body, evaporating, dissipating in white fumes that turned light blue at times. Until it vanished completely. Only the pink colored rose remained, detached from your jacket, gliding down until it landed in one of her unmovable hands. Which is the way it was found. They say the coroner treated her body, discarded the rose in the waste basket, then discovered that the rose, still in the waste basket, remained fresh and lush as if recently cut from a garden, with a soft and sweet perfume, indelible in time. Moved by this supernatural attachment to life, the coroner returned the rose to Marilyn's hand. And no one else dared to take it away, not even on her funeral, at the Westwood Village Memorial Park, on August 8th, 1962.

 

Este cuento es parte de una antología recientemente publicada en España (Vencejo Ediciones), titulado “M.M.”, en homenaje a Marilyn Monroe. Participan autores españoles, argentinos, mexicanos, cubanos, colombianos, ecuatorianos, panameños, venezolanos, italianos y franceses.