To remember Betzi is to invoke three nightmares, with their interludes. None of them give enough details about our relationship, I know. Perhaps they even hide its significance. The truth is that I don't understand details either. Living with Betzi was a way of functioning for me. While we were together, her kisses and caresses would awaken delightful feelings. I would turn over my realm if I could prolong them. But then came the shower of disagreements. We shouted at each other, cursed at each other, contradicted each other, and everything turned into chaos. I stopped understanding. Today I'm cured of the caresses, but not of the dreams.

* * *

It all started when I irresponsibly lost my wedding ring. It was a plain gold ring. We had bought it at a small, cramped downtown jewelry store. I couldn't remember when and where I misplaced it. In the office? During lunch? I looked for it until I was exhausted and returned home feeling ashamed, with the intention of explaining to Betzi what had happened. She was furious and let out a scream as bid as the world. I apologized. What could I do? While I did promise to look for it better, I never thought the incident could have such connotations. Well, the first nightmare occurred the following night, after an exciting game of poker. Several friends of mine and I had gathered together at home. We bought whiskey, tequila, and appetizers that the made improved with cheeses, onions, and dip. We drank quite a bit. It was after midnight. Betzi had arrived home late from the office and in a bad mood. She seemed to have springs in her face and a grumpy, stony grimace. The alcohol was starting to go to my head. I was dizzy and had the vague sensation that I was drowning in a fish tank. Packs of cards would go. come back. Noise. The piercing rattling of two bottles that would shatter. Cigarette smoke. I wanted to vomit and, excusing myself, ran to the bathroom and locked myself for fifteen minutes. For exactly fifteen minutes. I threw up my stomach. The light bulb over the mirror hurt my eyes. I felt chills. Betzi was shouting at me, saying, "Are you all right, Messeguer?" "Yes," I replied, feeling embarrassed. (Now that I think about it, I know that Betzi controlled me like a witch.) Later on she knocked at the door. I opened it, she looked at me and ran into the dinning room where my friends were. "Someone go to the drugstore," she said. "I need a bottle of milk of magnesia for Messeguer..." How embarrassing. Getting drunk is one of the hardest challenges a man can undergo..., and I had failed. How long had it been since I last drank? Long enough to loose my resistance... to become a child again. To be honest, I would have wanted to vomit my discomfort at Betzi. A shower wouldn't have done me any harm, but I didn't even manage to open the faucet. I waited for Betzi to come and cure me. I later came out of the bathroom and collapsed on the sofa. My friends disappeared. Had the game ended? In my cotton-filled eardrums the voices sounded like squeaking rats, like rusty locks. That was when I had the nightmare that woke me in a single bound. Hours had gone by. Betzi was in the bathroom. I walked up the stairs. The room was dark. Depressed, I slipped into bed between the sheets. "Very quiet, aren't you? she stammered. My heart trembled. "Arrhythmia," I replied. My lungs hurt. My heart beats too fast. It was those appetizers the maid served. They provoked a horrible nightmare." She turned the lamp on. "Talk to me" she said. I resisted.
"Relax... now, now...," she said, soothing me. "You're nervous. You lost your rhythm. What happened?" Then I told her the sequence of the dream: I was in a grayish room, with very high walls, frozen. Actually, it wasn't a room but a warehouse. Or a refrigerator. One of those old refrigerators that smell damp because the owner forgot to clean them. I felt I was suffocating. I looked for a window or door, an area in which I could breathe. Nothing. Why was I encased in that box? In the center of the box was a wooden bench. Should I sit down? I walked around in circles, without direction, like a madman. I walked around the bench. Suddenly, a uniformed guard, wearing gloves, a helmet with a visor, and boots, appeared at the corner. His pupils followed the outline of my heels, the joins of my knees. One, two.... One, two.... One, two... Absurd situation. One, two... One, two... I would approach him, but he would back away. Surely he was prohibited to mingle with the prisoners. With gloves on, his hands held up his belt... or perhaps his belt held up his hands. He had a hairy, curved mustache. "Listen," I told him. But he would ignore me. nearby, I discovered a briefcase. It was inexpensive, conventional, and Italian-made, with a greenish-yellow band on the side. Surely it hadn't been there before. I was intrigued by its contents. But before I even had the chance to approach it, an abominable monster, a strange medusa, sprang out of its interior. Transparent, it had a dozen tentacles on each side of its body, and wore jewelry. Pearls and rings with diamonds, Hindu gems and rubies were handing from its nose, ears, and long hair. But it wasn't hair that flourished on its head: it was cables, miles of multicolored cables of different caliber. A moldy, rotten, and ridiculous-looking sight. Its long, blackish eyelashes were surrounded by electric bulbs. It was a mechanical medusa that vomited (like me in the bathroom), not stomach residue, but semen. It spit semen when it spoke while its tentacles oscillated happily, to and fro, contracting like worms. "Benito Messeguer, we've decided on your sentence." He was saying my name, which implied that he knew who I was. "You have one week to present three letters of recommendation." Three letters? Why? Addressed to whom? "Messeguer, think about what I'm saying. This isn't a joke. Your life is in danger. You lost that ring and deserve the worst punishments. We want to help you. We want you to bring those letters. Through those letters we can prove that you deserve to go on living interminably... to continue being Benito Messeguer... Understand?" No, I didn't understand. I hadn't even realized the connection between the refrigerator and the ring. "This is a nightmare. Do you know what a nightmare is? We receive reports of bad behavior. You're just like everyone else, Messeguer, and then some. We won't allow serious depravity. Would you like to continue being Benito Messeguer? Very well then...., commit yourself!" I was confused. What were they blaming me of? "It's advisable that you not be too clever. People like you deserve to be in the sewers, crawling like a reptile. We're going to give you a little pat on the rear." I was looking at the guard out of the corner of my eye, who until then had been daydreaming and who now, obligingly, applauded his bosses' words. "I warn you, Messeguer, refusing won't do you any good. We have spies placed in strategic areas. They're following your every move. They know what your mind knows." I felt dizzy and replied: "I don't plan to cooperate." The medusa was becoming furious. "Messeguer, please! Know that by not cooperating, you'll be helping us even more. remember: three letters of recommendation in one week. Come now, my friend, wake up. The week has just begun."
Betzi burst into laughing. She was making fun of me and her smile was terrifying. "They'll kill you," she announced. "You don't even know under what pretext you should ask for those letters of recommendation. You're screwed, Messeguer!" And as she said this, tears of laughter trickled down her face. "But... in case they do kill you," she then said with dignity, "make sure they do it in the most delicate way possible." "What are you talking about?" I asked. "Have you gone crazy? You seem to be spying on them." And Betzi continued: "That's your punishment for having lost the ring." The discussion and Betzi were both proving to be detestable. Still, she gave herself the luxury of finishing, by saying: "What a pity, Benito! You would be better of dead." I felt an unprecedented rage. "Shut up," I said. "Shut up. You're going to destroy me. You're a witch. Please, leave me alone." I left the room, slamming the door behind me. I wanted to kill her.

* * *

In the days that followed I found myself driving away ghosts that perch themselves on my knees and shadows that attack me. (I know ghosts don't exists, that's why I would drive them away.) I felt like brutalizing someone, like losing control. There exists resistant men who know how to love... and others who are weaker, and dwarfish, who are trapped by passion. My love for Betzi was the trustworthy mirror of my inability and fears. Similar were the days that went by during which she acted more and more strangely. She would get up from eating breakfast without giving me her customary good-bye kiss. And she would get into her heavy fox fur coat, and would put perfume on while she frowned, loathsome--yes, ignoring me. hurt and very sad, I would lock myself in the bathroom for more than fifteen minutes and wouldn't come out even if the telephone rang. Or I would shave for hours. I even stopped going to work. If they would call from the office, I wouldn't come to the phone. And what if the maid was a spy?, I would ask myself. Everything was in a state of confusion. At noon, Betzi would also call. She would ask if the gas tank was full if the bed cloths were being aired out... and only at the end, when she was about to hang up, would she ask about me. One time I answered her phone call, saying: Why didn't you say good-bye?" She replied with whatever stupidity, and then again I said: "What do you think they'll do to me, Betzi, if I don't turn in those letters of recommendation?" "Messeguer, you're an imbecile," she replied, and then she cut me off. She had called me an imbecile.
My mind started to plan requests, think of relatives or close friends from whom I could ask for letters of recommendation. I had to look for someone who knew me well, who had confidence in me. I thought about my poker friends, my boss at the office, my brother. And what was I going to tell them? They would think that I had lost my mind. (Had I?) What do you need to prove, Messeguer?, they would ask.
One morning I got on the Route 5 bus, the same bus that would take me to the office every morning. It was horrible. The passengers were watching me. they looked like spies working for the medusa. A little girl kept looking at my hands, while her mother had her attention focused on my zipper. (For a moment, I thought it was open, but no.) Another individual wearing a silly tie was bending his mouth downward. He felt sorry for me. Even the bus driver, when I went to pay him, waved away the change. He avoided touching me. "Go away!" I shouted, without holding myself back any longer. An old woman tried to help me, but I pushed her. I got off the bus and stumbled into a concrete median. I had a headache and I was exhausted. I returned home and the maid had to open the door for me because I couldn't find the key. She looked at me with fearful eyes. It's funny: hanging from a handle in her right hand was a suitcase. I could have sworn that it was the medusa's briefcase. "Ms. Betzi called," she said. "She had to leave for Rochester. It's a ternational conference." I deduced that ternational meant international. Ternational: the word sounded nice. Betzi was a fashion designer. She designed winter dresses, belts, and shoes. Her professional commitments would call for her to travel frequently, go away. I understood the message. I that international conferences could be improvised. what was the maid doing with the briefcase? "Where did you get it," I asked her. "She'll be in Rochester for two days. Said the lady who owned an inn..." She mechanically repeated the same phrase. "That's not what I asked you," I said. "Where did you get that suitcase?" "Which suitcase?" she replied. The maid's hands were empty. I had been dreaming. My throat was dry. "What's the matter, Mr.. Messeguer?" she asked. I had been a normal guy until the day before yesterday, and now u was lowering my guard. A bit later I took two aspirin. I also took an antibiotic capsule remaining in the medicine chest and lay down to sleep.

* * *

My brother called that afternoon. "Benito, why aren't you at the office? he said. "As a favor, I need a letter of recommendation from you?" I told him. "I'm ceasing to be who I am," and I disclosed my critical moments, the hallucinations. "You've lost your mind, dear. It's Betzi, she's bewitching you." I got on the defensive: "No, she's innocent. It's the mid-life crisis, I'm afraid...." "Stop worrying. Separate yourself from that woman, I know what I'm telling you. You've never been so frail. You had a reputation for being responsible. Stop worrying! People die of typhoid, cancer... but never from having a bad nightmare... and even less, from owning three letters of recommendation." He laughed. The conversation was encouraging. One word echoed in my mind: frail... frail. I hung up the receiver and immediately felt better. It's the convalescence of the soul, I thought. I should recover. your brother is right: you're afraid of Betzi. She's bewitched you. That innermost dissatisfaction is creating this sequence of apparitions. You should alleviate your anxiety.
Another three days went by without Betzi, without controlling my patience, without logic. Three absurd days. I kept looking for the ring. I cleaned the office, and the basement of the house--where I had repaired a pruning hook, looking for the damned ring. And I had a few classified adds placed in the newspaper Excelsior. nothing,. That's when I decided to buy another ring. It's necessary, I told myself. Its importance hid powerful secrets. Replacing it would return some lost happiness to me. I went to the same downtown jewelry store and explained to the salesman what I wanted: a plain ring, not luxurious, although made of gold, to replace the previous one. Although they had discontinued the style, they could match it by request. The replacement would be more expensive and they couldn't assure me it was going to be identical. "However... nothing is identical," said the salesman. "Things look like themselves." Yes, there would be a similarity, but it would also have its own qualities. After much talk, I accepted. It would be ready in two weeks: the gold would be melted down, and the original mold would have to be found. That would take several days. They would have to work very carefully. No, my urgency was too great. He should have it ready by the end of the week, the date of the second nightmare. The salesman said that he would try, though he couldn't promise. This was enough reason to make me happy. I returned home. there was no news from Betzi, not even a telegram. I thought about the possibility of having been deceived for years during my marriage. While she provoked this emotional crisis, she surely had another man inserted between her legs. All women are bitches, I thought. They're all witches. I wanted to get revenge, to avenge myself somehow. I walked around in the bedroom, went up the stairs, down, and walked around in circles like a madman.


* * *

The seventh day arrived and the jewelry store didn't have the ring ready. I was exhausted. Even so, I did everything possible not to fall asleep. No, I didn't want to. I resisted, but in the end... I dropped off. In front of me was the same refrigerator. The same guard with the belt holding up his hands. The same visor. I was sitting on that bench. In the farthest corner was the briefcase radiating heat. Hours would go by... and nothing. surely they've forgotten about me, I thought. They must be busy reading other letters of recommendation... or dreaming them. Suddenly the guard approached me: "Congratulations. We know that you haven't obtained a single letter." Why was he congratulating me? Immediately the transparent medusa appeared out of the briefcase. Its cables were coiled and dirty with grease. It looked like a bubbling sea sponge. "Stop worrying," it was telling me. "Luckily, we've found your ring. You left it here." What? That's impossible. "I misplaced it two or three days before coming here. You couldn't have found it." "Don't be clever, Messeguer. If I tell you we found the ring, it's because we found the ring. Look at it." He extended one of his tentacles, showing me the ring amongst so much other jewelry. "Take it, Messeguer, and be attentive. It would displace us very much if we had to judge you again," it was saying while it gave it to me. I slipped it onto the knuckle of my left pinkie finger. "Be happy!" concluded the medusa. "This nightmare has also ended."
What? I woke up drenched in sweat. I had been used like a puppet. I had never lost the ring, nor did I ever have it. Everything was in a state of confusion. I examined my hand, and there it was. What a surprise! My heart was beating at a wicked pace. Suddenly, I fell asleep again, thus allowing the final nightmare to begin. The following was its sequence: I'm on a shadowy street, standing feverishly under the light of a lamppost, and smoking. I'm wearing a gray suit and preparing to go to the movies. I know that they're showing the film Shanghai Express with Marlene Dietrich one or two blocks away. I arrive at the ticket booth and find a beautiful, robust woman there. She's lost her ticket. I want to help her but my shyness impedes me. Immediately she asks me: "Could you lend me some money? I want to go in." I agree to. (She looked like Betzi, but no, it wasn't her.) I give her the money, she pays, and then turns her back on me. "How rude!" I think. Eventually, I stop concerning myself about it. Then I too go in without even looking at her. Later, I unintentionally discover her buying a box of popcorn. I wait. I see that she quietly enters the auditorium and looks for an orchestra seat. Indiscreetly, I follow her and sit down next to her. Good, perfect move, Messeguer. Out of the corner of my eye I look at her tremendous breasts, her slender body. As soon as the film begins the lights go out. I try to concentrate. But I can't I keep my attention on her. I feel uncomfortable, embarrassed. More out of an obligation to instinct than to conscience, I put my hand on her knee. She wears nylon stockings that make her thin legs smooth. I wait. I know that from one moment to the next she would slap me. My hand is stiff. Sweaty. God, the slap doesn't arrive. What joy! But the hand starts to sweat. I see myself forced to remove it and pull a handkerchief out of my pocket to dry it. Flirting, in the meantime, she tidies up her dress and erotically pulls on the strap of her bra. I'm aroused. I suppose that she also felt desire. Quickly I remember that I'm married to Betzi. Shit! Once again I place my hand on her knew and let it slide. Fascinated, nervous, she lifts her buttock upwards and gets comfortable. She's asking me for more... I know it. And I'll give her more. I gently bring my hand up to her thighs and oh, what a surprise! I realize that underneath her slip, amongst those very confused, protective ligaments... she wasn't wearing any underwear. I started breathing faster. The bald-headed man sitting in the orchestra seat in front of us suspects something. He knows that we're not watching the film. He turns around to make sure that everything is all right. No. He turns around because he's jealous of me. he wants to snatch my woman away from me. I place my hand across my face because I won't want him to see me. She's probably his wife, I think. No, if she was his wife they would be sitting next to each other. I place my hand on her knee again and quickly find her private part, I find that savage jungle that fills me with enormous passion. I become insane. I try to trap her. Meanwhile, she acts as if nothing was happening, not even batting an eyelid. Hey, this frolicking is nice! I keep fondling her. I should suggest that we go to a hotel or ask her out for dinner. I remove my hand and quickly discover... oh, no!.... I discover that once again I've lost my ring. Impossible, it's a trick. I'm an idiot. "Lady, I lost my ring," I tell her. She doesn't react. I return to the scene of passion. I introduce my hand again, and then bend down to look. Nothing, not a trace of the damned ring. I insert one of my hands completely, then the other hand. It's a very large, deep, a bottomless hole--a wintry cave. I look up and she's still watching Marlene Dietrich. Shit! What a mess I've gotten myself into. Determined, I bend down once more. Both of my hands and then my head go inside. I'm afraid the bald-headed man could report me. I completely enter the abyss, and it is totally dark. I light a match. It's impossible that the ring could have vanished. I illuminate the area from one side to the other with the lit match. Nothing. My God! I have the feeling that the medusa is going to appear soon. I start walking. I walk. I hear deep voices in the distance. Perhaps they're sounds coming from the film. A jelly-like liquid, having dripped onto the floor, makes it difficult for me to walk. My breathing is awkward. And what if I wanted to return? Yes, I want to return. I want to return but I'm lost. I've lost myself. I scream. I tell myself: Cream, Messeguer, louder... louder... "Give me back my ring." I hope the bald man can come to save me. Nothing. My hands are sweating. Suddenly I see a couple. I get closer and discover that it's... Betzi--accompanied by some stranger. Sure, her deception was obvious. My brother was right. I hear her say something about Rochester even though I can barely decipher the syllables. I soon discover that the stranger standing beside her is wearing my ring on the pinkie finger of himself hand. Betzi then says something more about the trip. Yes, they should know the way back perfectly. Would it be indiscreet to ask them to return my ring? "Hey, friend," I tell him slyly, "you're wearing my ring." I look at his face. It's impossible... the person accompanying Betzi is me.
It was the last time we saw each other.

Translated by Harry Morales

"Three Nightmares" is part of The One-Handed Pianist and Other Stories, which will be published in January 1996 by the University of New Mexico Press.