A Planet for Rent (31 page)

In the hospital, while I was filling out the forms to have my Abuela cremated, I found out about the epidemic. And I started putting two and two together.

The magenta illness, the terrible venereal disease of Colossaurs, was wreaking havoc in the artist community. Some fifty of them had died, their flesh covered almost entirely with the purple sores that were the stigma of the disease. The Health Department of Planetary Security couldn’t understand the cause of the contagious outbreak that the disease seemed to be following and was adopting measures to fight the plague while searching desperately for the illness’s new vector. Because it seemed unlikely that it could have been transmitted by the usual means...

Even before I heard their names and saw their faces, I already knew who they were. In the final stages of the disease, their faces didn’t show much of that satisfaction I’d seen on them when they came downstairs from Ettu’s bedroom. But they did show the same disgust, and a horrible despair.

Naturally, they never told how they had acquired the disease. They just painted, worked, created like crazy, knowing the end was near. At least they got that much out of the price they’d paid Ettu for their lives and health. And then they died.

One day the package arrived. By Hyperspace Shipping, direct from Colossa. I knew who it was from long before I opened it, of course. But the contents truly surprised me.

A letter, on plain paper, written by hand. A thick, wobbly hand. It wasn’t very long.

Hi, Liya. How are you? They tell me you’re doing okay. Sorry about your Abuela. But without her, your life will probably be more... bearable. A lone wolf always gets ahead... And pardon me if I sound inhuman. Don’t forget what I am.

I’ve seen the news from Earth. I think you’ll have already figured out that I’m the vector they’re looking for. And that it won’t do much good for you inform them. Magenta illness is incurable... And anyway, by the time this letter is in your hands, nobody will be able to take any measures against me.

I carried the disease for years... without knowing it. Apparently, sterilization makes us Colossaurs more prone to developing it. It was as an asymptomatic carrier that I gave it to Moy. And not even all the money the two of us made could keep his flesh from being covered in magenta pustules and then dissolving. I killed him, Liya. Nobody but me, who loved him so much, killed him, one of the few people I really cared about in this life.

In his last days he wanted to have one of the few humans he valued by his side. A guy named Jowe... An artist. He told me to spare no expenses to get him there. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He was the other one who died in the Escape Tunnel, along with Friga, your mother, trying to leave the solar system unlawfully. Because the terrestrial government wouldn’t allow him to come to Ningando, where Moy waited for him to the end...

But I didn’t find out any of this until I got to Earth. When Moy died, and the first symptoms of the illness were already weakening me, I felt lonely and decided to look for this Jowe. Maybe he would look like Moy, and having our absent friend in common would serve as a bridge. All I wanted was a little affection during my final days, you understand?

But Jowe was dead, and the last person connected to him was your mother. I don’t know what kind of relationship they had, and I don’t care. When I found out that Friga had left a daughter behind, I set off to find you. You are, in a way, the only thing I have left.

At that time, I still hadn’t come up with my plan for revenge. The idea came to me while we were traveling the world, one night when I was thinking how sad it was that such a rich planet should also be so poor. Revenge. I had to take revenge for Moy. Revenge on whom? For what? How was it those artists’ fault that Earth was poor? you must be wondering. And I could answer you: no fault at all. Just that I was alone and furious, despised by my own people and not accepted by yours, about to die. Stupid reasons, don’t you think?

But they were guilty. Guilty of selling their art because they were hungry, of betraying the history of their world, of not seeing beauty. So my revenge, from a certain point of view, was simple justice.

In case you care to know, I didn’t act indiscriminately, either. Of all the needy artists who came to beg me for help, I only responded to the ones who had known Moy or Jowe. And not all of them, either. Only the ones who could barely remember them... Most of them miserable that they had achieved a degree of success they didn’t deserve. Ambitious sorts who really didn’t even need my modest financial help very much... but who were already so used to selling themselves that they approached me almost as a reflex action, having heard of easy money. Worse rats than the lowest social workers. The fact that they still lived and sometimes prospered, while Moy and Jowe had already fallen by the wayside, also condemned them.

The magenta illness is extraordinarily contagious. It was because of that, not because I didn’t find you attractive, that I never paid attention to your advances. I may have noticed your intentions before you were aware of them yourself. And I admit, there were times when I seriously considered the idea... But you weren’t guilty of anything. You were the only way for me to feel that everything I was doing wasn’t just irrational destruction and fierce revenge.

I hope you do well. I hope that when you pick your vocation you will listen to your heart’s desires, and not be looking for money or applause. And, even if you do choose to be an engineer or a flight attendant, I hope that art will be important to you some day. As it was for Moy, for Jowe, whom I never knew... and for me.

I hope you don’t hate me. That you can understand me, just a little bit at least. That you understand that, in my own way, I loved you like the children they wouldn’t let me have.

Remember me, Liya. But live your own life. Here, as a goodbye present, is a little something to help you. After all, Moy made me rich... and I had to pick an heir. That, by the way, might be the answer to why I needed you so much...

Take good care of yourself,

Ettu

PS. You always treated me as male. The truth is that, although my race has seven sexes, I’m more like your mother and you than Jowe or Moy. But I liked it when you called me “him.” It made me feel like more of a... protector.

Wrapped in the letter was a small, oblong object. My platinum card.

That was six months ago.

Now I’m living in a small penthouse in New Sydney, studying hard for the aptitude test I have to take to get into the Baryshnikov School of Modern Dance. I have rhythm and flexibility, according to the private tutor I hired, but I need a lot more style. And I’ll need at least as much luck if I want to compete for one of the school’s coveted slots with the teenagers who’ve been going to dance school practically since they learned to walk. But I trust my luck. If I don’t make it this year, I’ll still have next year. And the next one, and the next. With his card, Ettu gave me all the time in the world.

This isn’t a nosy neighborhood, and no one here can connect me with the girl Planetary Security is secretly looking for as the accomplice of the Colossaur “epidemic vector.” I’m growing up, I’ve changed my hairstyle... and in a couple of years, I won’t look anything like that skinny, four-foot-eleven Liya.

The platinum card pays all my bills. Though I avoid showing it whenever possible; people might start asking questions I wouldn’t want to answer. Not long ago, I started using an ordinary plastic card with just ten thousand credits on it. It attracts less attention around here.

I’ve picked a new name for myself: Ettuya... The reason why is obvious.

I’m always thinking about him, about Moy, about Jowe, about my mother... And it’s funny, but when I do so, I feel less alone.

Also, I live across the street from a fourteen-year-old boy who’s not bad at all. He’s studying to get into the Da Vinci Fine Arts School, and we’ve crossed paths a couple of times. He looks like the son of very rich parents...

One of these days I’m going to ask him out. Probably, no matter how rich his family is, he’ll be amazed to see I have a platinum card.

He’d be even more amazed if he heard the whole story. But I don’t plan to tell it to him, of course. Most likely they’d never believe a word of it, and I hate to be called a liar.

I’ll tell them I’m the daughter of a couple who died in an accident, and that their insurance paid for it... Or something like that. Anything that doesn’t sound as unbelievable as the truth.

The truth... Well, I hardly believe it myself, even now... From a girl in a Barrio 13 gang to the owner of a platinum card, by the work and grace of a xenoid! And without even going to bed with him.

And they say that reality can’t beat fantasy...

October 8, 1998

This book is indebted to many people. Some, because their lives served as its inspirations and raw material. Others, because their works or comments did the same. Though making their names public will not cancel out the debt owed them, I think it may help... a little.

To Yanet from San Miguel del Padrón and her two sisters. To Mayelín, Elda’s former sister-in-law. And to the other “social workers” of L Street between 23rd and 25th.

To the Arte Calle group. To Cuenca and the other artists of the ‘80s who left to live from their performance art under other skies.

To the Cuban volleyball teams, male and female. To Duke Hernández, Roberto Urrutia, and other members of “the champions.”

To my friends Adolfo and Ariel, ex-policemen, for explaining the rules of the game to me.

To the Biology majors of the Class 1991 (including me) who ended up in Aquaculture, Fishing Bureaus, and Spawning Stations. To those who stayed in the field of science. To those who left for some conference and never came back. To those who are driving old taxis or selling pizzas. To all the Cuban scientists who ever had to pass aptitude and attitude assessment tests.

To my friend Vlado, who rowed into the Escape Tunnel but returned to tell me the tale. To all the makeshift sailors of the summer of ‘94. Especially to those who never made it.

To Danilo Manera, foreigner, Italian, for trying to understand us. For becoming another victim of the disease called Cubanitis. And most of all, for giving me the platinum card of his friendship.

To Cuba and to all its people, because we still do believe in the future in spite of it all, because we have faith in ourselves.

To Domingo Santos, because his collection of short stories,
Futuro imperfecto
, gave me the idea for this book, years ago.

To Frederik Pohl, because his story “The Day the Icicle Works Closed” made me think of what a nightmare Body Spares would be.

To Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza, Carlos Alberto Montaner, and Alvaro Vargas Llosa, because it was thanks to their polemic in
Guide to the Perfect Latin American Idiot
that I decided to read
Open Veins of Latin America
to find out if they were right and it was so awful.

To Eduardo Galeano, for
Open Veins of Latin America
. Which turned out to be just the opposite.

To Roberto Urías, for his story “Infórmese, por favor,” to which “Aptitude Assessment” is an explicit tribute.

To Ronaldo Menéndez, because his story “Otro Lado” gave me the original idea for “Escape Tunnel,” and his story “Una ciudad, un pájaro, una guagua” was the inspiration for “Platinum Card.” And also for being, aside from all difference in theories and aesthetics, a terrific storyteller and a friend.

To Eduardo Heras León, “El Chino,” because his reading of “Performing Death” convinced me that science fiction could attract non-fans if it was well written and had something to say. Because his spirit was what turned this book from a project to a reality.

To Carlos, for his punctual and unsparing criticism. To Fabricio, for his measured, almost pedantic attitude as a connoisseur and friend. To Vlado for his wild enthusiasm and the liberties he took with my original. To Michel (Umbro), to Guillermo, to Ariel, to Roberto Estrada, to all the fans of science fiction who read my work and believed in me.

To Sandra, who read “Social Worker” and told me she’d had it up to here with
jineteras
and didn’t want to keep reading. I hope she’ll change her mind... some day.

To Yailín, who thought “Performing Death” was a horrible story and refused to illustrate it. For having the courage to express her opinion even though many of her friends disagreed with her.

To Milana, in the distance, for many things that cannot fit in a list of acknowledgments. Just because.

Born José Miguel Sánchez Gómez,
Yoss
assumed his pen name in 1988, when he won the Premio David in the science fiction category for
Timshel
. Together with his peculiar pseudonym, the author’s rocker aesthetic has allowed him to stand out amongst his fellow Cuban writers. After earning a degree in biology in 1991, he went on to graduate from the first-ever course on narrative techniques at the Onelio Jorge Cardoso Center of Literary Training in 1999. Today, Yoss writes both realistic and science fiction works. Alongside these novels, the author produces essays, reviews, and compilations, and actively promotes the Cuban science fiction literary workshops, Espiral and Espacio Abierto.

^^^^^^

When he isn’t translating,
David Frye
teaches Latin American culture and society at the University of Michigan. Translations include
First New Chronicle and Good Government
by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala (Peru, 1615);
The Mangy Parrot
by José Joaquín Fernandez de Lizardi (Mexico, 1816), for which he received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship;
Writing across Cultures: Narrative Transculturation in Latin America
by Ángel Rama (Uruguay, 1982), and several Cuban and Spanish novels and poems.