Skin. Sergio del Molino

Skin - Sergio del Molino


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they are us, the parents.

      When the metamorphosis was just beginning, and the rash nothing but tiny blotches that could just as well have been fleabites, I was living with a witch in Madrid. It was early autumn in 2000, I was 21 years old and, though I’d had dealings with witches before, it was the first time I’d lived with one. She was the friend of a friend. Our friend in common found out that she had an unoccupied bedroom in her flat in Cuatro Caminos and wanted a flatmate to split the costs. What luck, said my friend: I’ve got a friend who’s looking for a room. And she got us together.

      I was studying journalism, which is to say I only ever went to university when it was time for an exam, which I would have revised for the previous night using the photocopied notes some very diligent girl had taken down in her convent-school handwriting. The rest of the time I spent in other departments (Philosophy, for example, reading French novels from the library) or in the National Film Library, unsystematically guzzling down the work of all the classic directors. The witch was in the same department as me, but studying PR and advertising, and attended classes daily, sometimes taking immaculately clear notes in convent-school handwriting. We were enrolled in the same building, but various worlds separated us. I had chosen indigence and indolence; she dreamed of offices in glass towers, cocaine and prize ceremonies at Cannes; for me it was the bar life, the low life, smoking the occasional joint (though I never inhaled) and letting my hair grow long.

      Don’t play around with that, she would say. Promise me you won’t buy anything from that place, they’re bad people, and they do black magic. I’m warning you.

      And that magic was black, but as in the colour of its skin. What really bothered her about La Milagrosa was that its client base came from the Caribbean and from illiteracy, and a hip publicist wasn’t going to win a contract with Coca Cola if she showed up singing African mumbo jumbo with voodoo beads around her neck. Her magic always had to be the refined, white, European kind. Or Asian at best, and India trumped China. Racism is rife among people involved in esoteric practices, and I found it infuriating, because I really wanted one of those gigantic penises but, out of respect for my racist witch, I never bought one.

      Read my cards, would you, Patricia? I said in a moment when I felt my faith growing weak and wished to renew my vows.

      Patricia was lazing around. She was perfectly happy watching the television and had no desire to clear the coffee table in the living room, which was forever covered in glasses and bottles.

      Come on, Patri, come on my girl. Read my cards.

      Puffing out her cheeks, she grudgingly lifted herself off the sofa, turned the TV off and got the cards out of the drawer.

      You tidy up this shithole for me, she said. You’ll get a terrible reading with all these dirty glasses around.

      And an indulgent diagnosis, obviously. Patricia portrayed me in a way that I would like. Or in a way she thought I would like: you’re impulsive, you have a real inner strength; don’t overlook your rational side, seeing how sentimental you tend to be, which is necessary in the right moment, but can also be debilitating for you. Plus, wow, I see a very charged sexual energy. If you run into someone else bursting with it like you are, it’s going to be a hell of a meeting. But make sure they don’t dominate you.

      Easy, Patri, I think I can dominate myself. You’re not going to have to put a bolt on your door tonight.

      Idiot. Shall I carry on?

      Carry on, carry on, please.

      And she went on laying cards, until Stalin came out.

      The devil!, I shrieked. Oh no.

      I’ve told you a thousand times, the devil isn’t bad. And particularly in your case.

      How can it not be bad, it’s Stalin! Look at that scowl, that moustache! He’s very bad. Don’t sugarcoat it for me, I can take whatever it is. Tell me what it means.

      There isn’t one single meaning. This isn’t a science, it’s perception, art, interpretation. Within this spread, it’s alerting you to your instincts, it’s saying they might betray you. Look, I’ve drawn it upside down.

      That’s bad.

      The cards next to it tell us it’s to do with health. Have you noticed anything strange recently? Any pain, anything bothering you?

      Nothing at all.

      Just a rash.

      It’s been there for quite a few days.

      Does the devil upside-down mean ill health?

      It’s a way of warning you that something’s incubating, some danger for the body, almost always sexual. You haven’t had unprotected sex, have you?

      Oh, bugger Stalin.

      I only offer warnings. You men are so carefree – plus you in particular go to bed with every madwoman around. So, I don’t believe you for a second.

      I’m telling you, no. Neither protected nor unprotected. I’ve been spending my every waking minute at the National Film Library these last few weeks. I could have picked something up there. They say there are fleas.

      If you bring fleas into the flat,


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