Cuento de Mi Id

“Le Démon de Midi”

Tanith looked into the mirror and despaired. Her short oh-so-fashionable haircut, her diamond earrings, her new dress -- none of them had done the work she had hoped that they'd do.

She looked into the mirror hoping to see a well-preserved woman of 39; instead she saw an old hag of nearly 40. And in the absence of clothes and makeup, what she saw was even worse.

Her breasts were no longer "dirty pillows," merely sloppy ones. They were no longer capable of being fluffed into shape. Her buttocks sagged, her belly bulged obscenely, an varicose vein crept like a spider up the side of her leg. All this and more she saw until finally she could no longer stand it and she hurriedly dressed to cover herself.

Once more immured in cloth, she turned to face the mirror and saw that the image had changed. Instead of the redheaded harridan she had looked upon earlier, she now saw a young girl of perhaps sixteen or eighteen, clad in the type of bikini she had once worn when she had not yet started to fear exposing her waist to the light of day. The girl had a boyish figure barely marked by her walnut-sized breasts.

This was one girl, thought Tanith, who would never have to fear the eagle eye of the voyeur. One girl who, despite her physical shortcomings, still maintained the aura of beauty that most men craved.

Tanith approached her and wondered what such a figure was doing in her mirror. She glanced behind her but no one was there. She glanced off to the sides, but she was alone on either side.

Then where did the girl come from?

The girl gestured and tapped on the glass.

Tanith closed her eyes and prayed for the figure to go away.

She opened them and the red-haired girl was still there. Waving at her. Gesturing at her. Taunting her.

Until Tanith finally turned around and left the bathroom, ignoring the wildly gesturing figure in the mirror behind her.

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Later that night, she met Andre. Andre, who was so young and handsome. Andre, who was so young and naive. Andre, who was not so innocent and yet still earnestly desired to be tutored in the venereal arts by an older woman.

"My God," she said at dinner, "you've obviously read too many French novels."

The boy blinked and she realized that he probably did not read. None of his generation read. Only her generation read.

Never mind. There were other ties between him and her, and any boy diplomatic enough to describe her nude body as "Rubenesque" had to have some intellectual savvy about him.

But enough about his mind. What, pray tell, about his body?

She looked forward to seeing it again, naked, upon her bed.

She could not get finished with her meal fast enough, she was so anxious.

She felt just like a schoolgirl -- only she could not remember having been so horny back when she actually had been a schoolgirl.

"Home, James," she said with a smile as they got into her car.

Andre drove and Tanith watched him drive. The redheaded girl in the rear view mirror watched him too.

No!

She glanced at the mirror but the girl was gone. Not for good, she feared, but -- to where?

She glanced around and the boy drove on.

"Lose something?" he asked.

"No," she said.

Nothing save my innocence, she thought. And I lost that a long time ago.

She waited for the young girl to show up again but she did not.

Then they arrived at her apartment.

She let him in, glancing at all the mirrors as they entered in order to make sure it was safe.

Middle-aged women should never have mirrors, she decided. Too tempting. Too revealing. And all too dangerous.

She offered to fix Andre a cocktail while he got undressed, and he smiled and let her do so.

At least he will never need to fear a mirror, she thought. Not for a long time. And even then -- no, men at my age don't fear mirrors any more than he does. They don't have to. They always look so old and distinguished -- they're constantly being compared to fine wine.

As for us women, it's different. Time is our enemy, not our lover. Gather up your maidenheads while you may, for once the big three-oh crops up, they'll be gone forever. And old age is just as harsh on virgins as it is on whores.

She turned away from the dark glass looking out upon the street and looked back toward her bedroom door. A stream of light was escaping beneath the door. Andre was already in there -- and ready. Yes, that was the fun part about young men -- they were always ready.

She picked up a full cocktail glass. And then she picked up a glass for herself.

She smiled and glanced at the front door, checking that the lock was turned, the chain put on. She looked around and saw that the phone was unplugged, the windows locked, the shades drawn, and the outdoor light off.

Good, she thought. No interruptions.

She walked down the hall and knocked on the bedroom door. No answer. But then there did not need to be. She pushed the door open with her back and entered.

Just in time to see that Andre, in turn, was entering somebody else.

It was the red-headed girl from the mirror.

The two of them were in bed together and they never looked up. Not even when Tanith dropped the glasses.

The glasses fell unharmed upon the floor and divulged their liquid contents onto the carpet.

Tanith ran forward, hand over mouth, a scream at the edge of her lips.

"Andre," she said. "How could you? I thought--"

"Just what did you think?" said the girl in a familiar voice.

She was no longer wearing a bikini. In fact, there was no disguising the fact that she and Andre were quite nude. Which allowed Tanith to see everything.

Everything.

"Get out of my place!" she shouted.

The girl just smiled. And gestured.

Toward the bedroom mirror suspended above Tanith's night table.

It was empty now. Void of all reflection.

But that's impossible, thought Tanith. It's just glass. Only glass.

She touched it and like Alice in the old storybook, she was surprised to see her hand go through the glass. All the way through.

Amazing, she thought.

Just simply amazing.

She never saw the girl start to gesture again behind her until it was too late...

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"I came by for my tutoring session and I just found her like that. The door was open, the windows unlocked, and the blood ... God, the blood--"

"Calm down, Mr. Miller. Scenes like this can happen to anyone. Are you certain she wasn't experiencing any type of depression or emotional crisis?"

"No, not at all. Oh, she did say something about her fortieth birthday coming up. But still that's no reason to do something like this. God, the way she looked ..."

"How about witnesses?"

"No, no one at all. But I think someone might have been in the apartment before I got here. I noticed one of the pictures were gone from her mantelpiece. I used to see it almost every time I came over. A young girl in a bathing suit. Might have been her niece or even herself at a younger age -- they both had the same type of hair. The minute I saw that picture gone, I knew something was wrong. I knew it."

"Now calm down, Mr. Miller. We'll get it all straightened out -- though to tell the truth, I hope we can get our hands on whoever stole that picture. Anyone crazy enough to steal from the scene of a suicide like this -- Christ, they'd be crazy enough to do anything. Although I doubt they had anything to do with your teacher's death. There is just no way any living human being could get her to plunge her hands into the mirror like that. The angle's just too wrong."

"So I guess it had to be suicide. What else could it be?"