JAS: Good morning, Miss.
MAK: [uncontrollable sobs]
RRS: Are you all right?
MAK: [unintelligible response]
JAS: Please, Miss Álvarez. . . . We know how traumatic this has been for you.
MAK: [disconsolate weeping]
RRS: Please, Miss, calm down. My colleague and I need to ask you some questions. Do you understand? You need to calm down.
MAK: Yes. . . . [hiccuping] Yes.
JAS: Are you feeling better?
MAK: Yes.
JAS: Would you like a coffee? Iced tea?
MAK: Coffee . . . Coffee, if you’d be so kind.
JAS: Of course. How do you take it?
MAK: What?
JAS: How many spoons of sugar?
MAK: I don’t want anything. . . .
[silence]
JAS: Very well, Miss. As we indicated over the phone, you are here to offer your testimony regarding the events that occurred on the 24th of March 2009 on the corner of Arzobispo Márquez and Paseo de los Próceres, where Mister . . .
MAK: [disconsolate weeping resumes]
JAS: Miss . . . Miss . . .
RRS: This is impossible.
[sighing]
JAS: I’ll call a cab.
[The interview ends.]
If what the Gospels say is true, Lazarus must have felt something similar when Jesus ordered him to get up, to come out. Suddenly you abandon the darkness, the confinement, the stench; your lungs fill with pure air that smells like oats or myrtle, and all of your bronchioles get to their feet for a standing ovation; your muscles regain their elasticity, and your skin flushes with a heat that frightens off the cold; your belly is overcome by a tickling sensation, as when, as children, we used to get up in the middle of the night with a desperate need to pee—unless Lazarus, like me, was a zombie. Unless Jesus’s “miracle” was a ruse, an incomplete favor, like the one they did for me. Because it’s one thing to get up and walk, and another thing altogether to be alive.
For the time being we’ll concede that Lazarus’s was a true resurrection. What Lazarus must have felt, raised from the dead, and what I have for so long yearned for, I experienced two nights ago in a lively spot in the old quarter. The feeling, so concrete and real two nights ago, is losing its definition bit by bit, becoming blurred, difficult to retain, vanishing. That’s why I’ve decided to write down my experience, because I harbor the secret hope that if I spill across the page all of the circumstances that led me to feel that I was alive (or to forget that, unfortunately, I’m a zombie), perhaps I could better detect the combination of factors that produced the fleeting miracle and discover the existence of a formula that would allow me to complete the process of resuscitation that my stupid family witch doctor left half finished.
Right off the bat I should clarify that, for a zombie, I think I’m doing quite well. I’m not a bit like those miserable types who spend years dressed in the rumpled overcoats they were wearing on that terrifying day when they awoke inside a coffin and, like moles, burrowed their way up through the earth of their gravesites; who have rocks and insect husks in the pockets of their threadbare pants; who grope the air in front of them with extended hands before taking each step, either because their eyeballs have dried up or because they’ve been slurped up by beetles and grubs; who walk like androids because their joints have frozen in a random position and they can no longer bend them.
If you saw me in the street you’d think I was alive. The minute I emerged from my grave I looked for, and found, the soap, towel, and tub of clean water that my executor had hidden among the headstones, and I gave myself a proper bath. From a backpack hidden behind the tub I pulled out a change of clothes and got dressed. My comfortable social position had allowed my family to buy a coffin of the highest quality, such that not a single insect had been able to make its way inside to nibble at my tender parts and no snake had invaded my anus to lay its eggs, as happened to one unfortunate fellow I know. For this reason my body is almost completely intact and more or less parasite free. One would have to examine me very closely to notice that anything was amiss. Expensive fragrances, lotions, and cosmetics (specially formulated for us, the living dead, by laboratories that long ago discovered this market niche and exploit it mercilessly), and all the other products of survival and camouflage to which I’m enslaved, guarantee me considerable freedom of movement. I can come and go as I please without raising suspicions or uneasiness among my fellow citizens. My life is such a perfect simulacrum that not only have I been able to graduate with honors in both pharmacology and chemistry, but they also love me in job interviews and offer me untold riches to accept their best positions. (If they only knew that they were hiring a creature from beyond the grave!) But make no mistake: I go about so paranoid and afraid of being discovered in the briefest moment of carelessness that any possibility of my establishing important emotional relationships with other human beings is irrevocably unavailable. In my interactions with others I’m incapable of going beyond politeness and allowing for an intimacy conducive to friendship. As a result, I’m an unsociable, solitary, and, so I’ve been told, extremely unhappy individual.
It’s possible that my decision to enroll in the university might intrigue my readers and that they might find my choice of the aforementioned disciplines disconcerting. But I’d ask them: Is there a better way for a zombie to take advantage of his life in perpetuity than by dedicating it to the study of matter, the combined powers and limitations of the various elements, and the curative endowments of countless plants and animals in the hope of at last hitting upon the cure for his and so many others’ affliction? Because, believe me, there are many of us, although the solitude that encircles my life would seem to argue just the opposite.
Well, it’s not that my life is completely devoid of company. Once or twice a week I get together with other zombies in a sinister tavern in a housing complex on the outskirts of the city. Of course, each and every one of us at these periodic get-togethers would prefer to be somewhere else, sharing a table and conversation with real beings. If we come without fail it’s only because we have no other alternative. Also, these occasions provide us with the rare opportunity to let our guard down; for a few short hours we’re free of the tension occasioned by having to spend the day pretending to be alive. It’s not friendship that brings us together, or even solidarity, but rather the common misfortune of not being totally dead—or totally alive, as the more optimistic of the zombies prefer to put it. As for me, I confess that sometimes I decide not to go because it seems obvious that my desire to overcome my limitations doesn’t sit well with the others, and they see my plan to discover a remedy for our condition as a sign of arrogance. On the other hand, since I’m the best preserved of the lot, almost all of them either envy or despise me.
The owner of the establishment is one of the oldest zombies around and, certainly, the wisest. His name is Dionisio, and he’s composed of a series of dried-up, dusty parts held together through a complex system of belts, straps, and Velcro that lend his remains a vaguely human semblance. Masked minions place him behind the counter every day at dusk, and there he spends the evening, immobile and ominous, like a symbol, one of those automatons that you activate with a coin in order to obtain a whole cloth prophecy. Dionisio is the only one I can talk to about my aspirations. He doesn’t agree either, but his objections are not the product of petty grudges but rather of a refined skepticism. Our conversations are extremely beneficial because the elegance of his refutations forces me to constantly improve my research approach. I’ll never forget what he said to me the first time I told him about my project.
“Qualia.”
“Qualia?”