Stendhal Syndrome

By Alejandro Cernuda

It is not an essential requirement but, in most cases to become a victim, you must first be a normal person. Pilar is just that; a girl so ordinary, that even her dreams do not go beyond the vague wish of a holiday in the Caribbean. No doubt, she would still be sitting in her office, glued to a phone, if it was not for her ex-boyfirend's death. Instructions in his will entrusted her with enough money to make the first few shy steps toward her dream. When she set foot in Barajas Airport, however, she sees this step is nothing more than a ploy, devised by powers she is yet to meet. Never would she have guessed that she was initating her career as an assassin, with the one inconvenience of being the most beautiful woman in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071544426

Book preview

Stendhal Syndrome

Alejandro Cernuda

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I did not buy flowers for Valentino. I spent part of the fifty thousand quid going to the Caribbean, but before that, and as always, I said the same thing: Hello... I’m calling you from Vodafone. Fibre optic broadband is now available in your building. We have some great deals that might interest you... and so on. The same pitch a hundred times a day. Apart from a few friendly responses, and thus an opportunity for my company, most people just let the phone ring out. That Tuesday I decided to bend the rules and not begin where the list started. I am called Pilar. In Spain it’s a common name, so there are always a few on the list. Since I am friendly, I assume the same of others named Pilar. I looked for the two Pilars on the sheet Jorge Luis de la Luz had given me that day and called them first before anyone else.  It’s worth mentioning that after those two calls I didn’t do anything more because of how strange and accurate the responses were. I went home without sparing another thought as to what could happen.

Hello, I’m looking for Ms Pilar González. I’m calling from Vodafone because fibre optic is now....

I’m sorry, dear. Ms Pilar has gone to bring her ex-boyfriend’s remains to the Himalayas.

It has happened me quite a few times. There are some people who cannot avail of Vodafone services because, right now, they are a few kilometres South of the North Pole, or going down, down into the depths of the Mariana Trench. Only that this brief exchange struck a chord deep within me. I am also called Pilar, just like that lady, and my ex-boyfriend Valentino Schmidt had made me sign a contract in which we agreed I would take his remains to the Himalayas. What’s more, the money required for this procedure was accounted for in his will.

On calling the second Pilar on the list, I got an almost identical response and it’s not worth transcribing. The sole difference was not of much importance.... one could say. The now deceased ex-boyfriend of this girl was called Valentino Schmidt. Or be more exact, the voice of the old, tearful lady told me that Mr. Schmidt, whose first name she could not recall at this time, but that he had an affinity for 1920s cinema, had fallen from the churches bell tower while trying to photograph a stork’s hatchlings. She went on to say she was very sorry, because the truth is that Schmidt was a friendly young man. That was like my Valentino, who also photographed wildlife. About him being friendly, well sure, but nobody would believe friendliness to be a major attribute of his. This blonde man of German descent could carry himself with the most absurd disdain.

When I got home, I knew I was going to find a letter from the lawyer in my mailbox asking not only that I claim the money and the ashes, but to make the trip to the Himalayas. The letter had arrived days before, but since I usually went up to the house from the parking lot and the mailbox is on the first floor, I almost never check it. Obviously Valentino wasn’t actually expecting his remains to be scattered on Mount Everest – since it’s almost impossible for a Vodafone call-centre employee like me, who gets no exercise apart from rolling from one end of her desk to the other on a swivel chair... to simply put the ashes in some isolated place would suffice. And by the way, for those who do not know, climbing the Himalayas from a small hamlet at its base all the way up to the summit, will cost you around 15,000 euro. This goes towards paying all the people helping to carry your things, the equipment, and necessary guides. No one calculates how many candies you could buy with that money. To be specific, Valentino had left me with fifty-thousand euro. After such an unremarkable relationship, and the fact that there were other Pilars with ashes, it was a good amount of money just for dumping his remains in the most sacred of public washrooms in Madrid.

Everything went by quickly with the lawyer. He made sure not to mention the other girls and I said nothing. I feared that any turn of events might endanger the money written out to me. That same evening, I got rid of the ashes inside the washrooms in the Corte Inglés shopping mall by the corner of Calle Serrano and Calle Ayala. The had been handed over to me in a human-shaped urn, pretty cool, so cool that I considered holding on to it, but then held back out of superstition. While lifting the lid of the trashcan to throw them away, I saw that someone else was already there.... another Pilar doing same thing. A fit of laughter rose from within me as I saw how we women could act so alike, and despite that, men would never understand us. The Pilar that went before me, I do confess, seemed more resolute, not to say I was given a small advantage by being a Vodafone call-centre employee and knowing in advance that there would be others involved. I imagined the Himalayas, covered in women called Pilar carrying polished mother of pearl urns filled with the remains of men called Valentino Schmidt. Like a vanilla ice cream with chocolate shavings. I then regretted throwing away his ashes and the urn. I wanted to see what would come of all this, whether it was a prank or something. Later I bought myself a box of coconut chocolates, lost in my curious speculation.

I went to Cuba. Without the ashes, staying in Madrid did not seem like such a good idea. I suppose I suspected that the lawyer might discover my misdemeanour. In Barajas Airport, while I waited for my plane to Havana, I wondered if I could see if there was a flight to Nepal or someplace nearby at that time, to see if a Pilar had been silly enough to go. There was no airline going to Nepal, but there was one headed for China. And of course, there stood a Pilar as worried as any woman would be, burdened with a task of such magnitude. I knew she was my namesake because at that moment she took the mother of pearl urn from