At such times he is all alone and helpless. The mere ticking of a watch can be like a tiny light in the distance, the sort of tiny light that the terror-stricken hero in children’s stories spies when he thinks he is hopelessly lost in the heart of a vast forest.
Then I would tap lightly on the table or chair, as though by accident, and would note how Iglesias, with morbid anxiety, would focus his entire awareness in that direction. In the midst of his solitude, he was perhaps wondering: What is Vidal up to? Why has he been sitting there in silence?
As a matter of fact, he greatly mistrusted me. He became more and more wary of me as the days went by, and after three weeks, when his metamorphosis was very nearly complete, he had ceased to trust me altogether. If my theories were correct, there was a certain sign that would mark Iglesias’s definite entry into the new realm, his total transformation: the feeling of repulsion that real blind men always arouse in me. Nor does that repulsion or apprehension or phobia appear all at once: my experience had proved to me that this too comes about gradually, until one day we find ourselves confronted with the hair-raising fait accompli: that bat or the reptile is there before our very eyes. I remember that day: as I approached the room in the pension in which Iglesias had been living since his accident, I experienced an odd sensation of malaise, a vague apprehension that grew stronger and stronger as I drew closer to his room, becoming so intense that I hesitated a moment before knocking on his door. Then, almost trembling, I called out: “Iglesias” and something answered: “Come in.” I opened the door and there in the darkness (for naturally there was no need for him to have a light on when he was alone) I heard the breathing of the new monster.
9
But before that crucial moment arrived, other things happened that I must recount, for they were the ones that allowed me to enter the universe of the blind before Iglesias’s metamorphosis was complete. I was like those desperate wartime messengers on motorcycles who must cross a bridge that they know is about to be blown up at any moment. Since I could see the fateful moment approaching when the metamorphosis would be total, I tried to race along even faster. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t make it; the bridge would be blown up by the enemy before my mad race could get me safely across to the other side of the chasm.
I watched the days go by with growing anxiety. Iglesias’s inner transformation seemed to me to be following its inexorable course, and yet I saw no sign that they had appeared. I had dismissed (on the grounds that it was too absurd to believe) the hypothesis that the blind might not be aware of the fact that a person had lost his eyesight and that therefore the time had come to seek that person out and put him in contact with the Sect. The uneventful round of the days and my growing anxiety nonetheless made me seriously consider this hypothesis once again, along with others that were even more preposterous, as though my emotions were clouding my ability to reason and, moreover, causing me to forget everything I already knew about the Sect. It is quite probable that emotions favors the writing of a poem or the composition of music, but it is disastrous to the workings of pure reason.
I blush at the memory of the wild ideas that came to me when I began to fear that I would not succeed in crossing the bridge. I even went so far as to conjecture that a man who had gone blind might possibly go on living as though he were a little island in the middle of an immense, indifferent ocean. By that I mean to say: what would become of a man who, as in Iglesias’s case, became blind by accident and because of his particular quirks of personality neither desires nor actively seeks any sort of contact with other blind people? One who, out of misanthropy, despair, or timidity does not care to have anything to do with those societies that are the visible (and superficial) manifestations of the forbidden world: the Library for the Blind, Choral Societies, and so on? On first reflection, what could prevent a man such as Iglesias from keeping entirely to himself and not only failing to seek out, but even actually fleeing the company of his fellows? Such an idiotic notion made my head swim the moment it occurred to me (for even idiotic notions can thoroughly upset us). I tried immediately to reassure myself. Iglesias is poor, I said to myself, he is obliged to work for a living, he cannot sit around doing nothing. How does a blind man work for a living? He must go out on the streets and engage in one or another of those activities traditionally reserved for the blind: selling combs and trinkets, photos of popular singers and renowned jockeys, the famous collar stays: something, in a word, that makes him easily visible, and likely sooner or later to be co-opted by the Sect. I did my best to hurry the process along by urging Iglesias to set himself up in one or another of these little businesses. I spoke enthusiastically of collar stays and how much money he could take in just one subway station. I painted a rosy picture of the future that lay before him, but Iglesias just sat there, silent and mistrustful.
“I still have a few pesos left. We’ll see later on.”
Later on! The very words filled me with despair. I suggested a newspaper stand, but this prospect did not arouse his enthusiasm either.
There was nothing I could do but watch and wait, until such time as necessity forced him to go out into the streets.
I repeat that I blush for shame today at having been reduced to such a state of utter imbecility out of sheer terror. Had I been in my right mind, how could I have supposed that the Sect would need an event such as Iglesias’s setting himself up in business at a newspaper stand in order to learn of his existence? What about all the people who had seen Iglesias being carried out on a stretcher after the accident? And the doctors and nurses at the hospital? Not to mention the powers that the Sect possesses and the immensely complex intelligence and espionage network that covers the entire world like an awesome invisible spider web. I must say, however, that after several nights of ridiculous uneasiness, I concluded that these theories were utter nonsense and that there was not the slightest possibility that Iglesias had been abandoned or overlooked by the Sect. The one thing to be feared was that their getting in touch with him would come too late for me. But there was nothing I could do about that.
As it was no longer possible for me to be with him every moment, I looked for a way of keeping him under surveillance without actually being in his company myself. I took the following steps:
I gave a considerable sum of money to the woman who ran the pension, a certain Señora Etchepareborda who, fortunately, appeared to be more or less mentally retarded. I asked her to take care of Iglesias and to notify me of the least little thing out of the ordinary that happened to him, using, naturally, his blindness as the reason for my particular concern about him.
I asked Iglesias not to do anything without advising me beforehand, since I was eager to be of help to him in any way possible. I did not expect very much to come of this variation of my basic plan, since I imagined (and rightly so, as it turned out) that he would want to see less and less of me as time went by and come to mistrust me more and more.
Insofar as was possible, I tried to set up a system of surveillance that would allow me to keep track of his every move if he went out, as well as to keep close watch of the movements of those individuals who presumably would try to get in touch with him. The pension was in the Calle Paso. Luckily for me, there happened to be a café only a few steps away, where like so many idlers I could spend long hours, pretending to be reading the newspaper or chatting with the waiters whom I made it my business to become friendly with. It was summer, and as I sat at a table next to the open window I could keep an eye on the entrance to the pension.
I used Norma Gladys Pugliese, my purpose in so doing being twofold: to avoid arousing the suspicions that a lone man keeping watch for long hours was certain to arouse, and to alternate talk of football and Argentine politics with the mild pleasure of corrupting this little schoolteacher’s mind and morals.
10
The five days that followed plunged me into despair. What could I do except cogitate and chat with the waiter and leaf through newspapers and magazin
es? I seized upon the opportunity and read two things that had always fascinated me: the advertisements and the crime page. The only things I’ve read after reaching the age of twenty, the only things that shed light on human nature and great metaphysical problems. In the sixth edition: MAN SUDDENLY LOSES MIND, MURDERS WIFE AND FOUR CHILDREN WITH AX. Nothing is known about this man, except that his name is Domingo Salerno, that he is honest and hardworking, that he has a little shop in Villa Lugano, and adored his wife and children. And then out of the blue he hacks them to bits with an ax. A profound mystery! What is more, what a vivid ring of truth the crime page has after one reads the declarations of politicians! All of the latter seem to be charlatans and international confidence men, peddlers hawking hair tonic. How can one compare one of these frauds with a pure soul such as Salerno? I find the advertisements exciting reading too: TOMORROW’S WINNERS STUDY AT PITMAN SCHOOLS. Two glorious, glowing adolescents, a boy and a girl, smiling and proud, head arm in arm toward the Future. Another ad shows a desk with two telephones and an intercom; the empty chair is all ready to be occupied and bright little rays of light seem to be coming out of the telephone; the caption says: THIS PLACE IS WAITING FOR YOU. Another ad whose demagogic tone appeals to me is the one for Podestá Optical Company: YOUR EYES DESERVE THE BEST. Those for shaving cream take the form of little stories with a moral; in the first box, Pedro, who clearly needs a shave, invites María Cristina to dance; in the second box, in the foreground, one sees Pedro’s doleful countenance and María Cristina’s expression of profound distaste as she dances with him, trying to keep her face as far away from his as possible; in the third box, she comments to a girlfriend: “How repulsive Pedro is with that five-o’clock shadow!” and her friend replies: “Why don’t you come right out and tell him so?”; in the next box, María Cristina answers that she doesn’t dare, but that perhaps she, her girlfriend, could tell her boyfriend so that he in turn could drop a hint to Pedro; in the next-to-last frame, one can see the boyfriend whispering something in Pedro’s ear; in the last frame, Pedro and María Cristina are shown dancing together, happy and smiling now that every last whisker is gone, thanks to the famous close shave provided by Palmolive; the caption says: THROUGH INEXCUSABLE CARELESSNESS HE MIGHT HAVE LOST HIS SWEETHEART.
Variants: in one, Pedro loses a splendid opportunity for employment; in another, he never gets promoted; at the back of a large room full of desks and employees, among whom it is easy to spot Pedro with his five-o’clock shadow; the boss is looking at him from across the room with an expression of loathing and disgust. Deodorant creams: engagements, marvelous positions in wonderful companies, invitations to parties, all foolishly missed out on because of not having used Odorono.
Ads with men who look like the type who go in for sports, carefully groomed and smiling, but at the same time vigorous and determined, with huge square jaws like Superman, pounding on their desks with their fists, amid numerous telephones, thrusting their torsos forward toward their invisible, hesitant conversational partner, exclaiming: SUCCESS IS WITHIN REACH OF YOUR HAND. In other ads, the Superman does not pound on the desk but instead points his finger straight at the reader of the newspaper, a lazy, spineless sort, in the habit of wasting his Time and his Remarkable Talents in stupid ways, and says to him: EARN FIVE THOUSAND PESOS A MONTH IN YOUR SPARE TIME, urging him to write his name and address inside the dotted lines of a little square coupon.
Stripped of skin, showing his powerful, ropelike muscles, Mister Atlas summons the weaklings of the world: in just seven days there will be Progress, anyone can have a splendid physique if he makes up his mind to, in no time one can have the build of Mister Atlas himself. The ad says: EVERYONE ADMIRES YOUR BROAD SHOULDERS. YOU’LL GET THE PRETTIEST GIRL AND THE BEST JOB!
But there’s nothing like the Reader’s Digest to promote Optimism and Good Feeling. An article by Mr. Frank I. Andrews, entitled “When Hotel-Keepers Get Together,” begins: “Getting to know the distinguished hotel-keepers who arrived in the United States to represent their colleagues in Hispano-American countries was one of the most moving moments of my life.” And hundreds of other articles destined to raise the morale of the poor, the leprous, the lame, the oedipal, the blind, the deaf and dumb, the epileptic, the consumptive, the victims of cancer, the crippled, the macrocephalic, the microcephalic, the neurotic, the sons or grandsons of raving madmen, the flatfooted, the asthmatic, the backward, the stutterers and stammerers, those with bad breath, the unhappily married, the rheumatic, painters who have lost their sight, sculptors who have had both hands amputated, musicians who have gone deaf (remember Beethoven!), athletes paralyzed by war injuries, victims of poison gas attacks in the Great War, women so ugly they frighten people, hare-lipped children, men with twanging voices, timid salespersons, people too tall, people too short (practically dwarfs), men who weigh over four hundred pounds, and so on. The titles: THEY KICKED ME OUT OF MY FIRST JOB; OUR ROMANCE BEGAN IN THE LEPROSARIUM; LEARNING TO LIVE WITH YOUR CANCER; I LOST MY EYESIGHT BUT WON A FORTUNE; YOUR DEAFNESS CAN BE AN ASSET, etc.
On leaving the bar, and after making my nightly visit to the pension to see Iglesias, I found myself absorbed in rapt contemplation of the big billboard for Saint Catherine vermicelli on the Plaza del Once, and although I didn’t remember exactly who Saint Catherine had been, it seemed to me quite likely that she had suffered martyrdom, since martyrdom is the usual end of the professional careers, so to speak, of saints; and at that point I couldn’t help but ponder that characteristic facet of human existence whereby someone who is crucified or skinned alive is in time converted into a brand of vermicelli or canned goods.
11
I believe it was her resentment toward me that led Norma to appear in the café one day in the company of an epicene creature named Inés González Iturrat. She was huge, with bulging muscles, a visible moustache, and gray hair, and was dressed in a severe tailored suit and wearing men’s shoes. At a quick glance, if it hadn’t been for her prominent full breasts, I might have made the mistake of addressing her as “sir.” She was very energetic and decisive, and had Norma completely under her thumb.
“I’ve met you before,” I said.
“Who, me?” she commented, surprised and annoyed, as though she found such a possibility offensive, since Norma had naturally told her a great deal about me.
I did in fact have the vague impression that I had seen her somewhere before, but it was not until the very end of this meeting in the café, throughout which I was very ill at ease (I was obliged to look past her enormous bulk in order to keep an eye on number 57) that I managed to solve this little enigma.
Norma was giving signs of an eager desire to see the two of us cross swords: Norma’s repeated defeats at my hand made her anticipate with vengeful pleasure the idea of a lively debate between this atomic physicist and me, in which I would be ingloriously vanquished. But my mind was elsewhere, since I had necessarily to concentrate all my attention on number 57, and hence I did not give evidence of the slightest interest in arguing with this creature. It was unfortunately impossible for me simply to get up and leave, as I surely would have done in any other circumstances.
Norma’s breast was heaving like a bellows.
“Inés was my history teacher, as I’ve told you.”
“Ah, yes, so you did,” I commented politely.
“We girls who studied with her are still very close. We’ve formed a study group and Inés is our mentor.”
“An excellent idea,” I said, in the same polite tone of voice.
“We discuss books and visit art galleries and attend lectures.”
“Very good.”
“We go on field trips.”
“Magnificent.”
She was becoming more and more irritated and added, almost indignantly:
“We’ve been going on guided tours of painting exhibitions, led by Inés and Professor Romero Brest.”
She looked at me with blazing eyes, waiting to see what I would say to that.
/> “That’s splendid,” I said in my most urbane manner.
“You think women ought to do nothing but stay home and scrub floors, wash dishes, and do the housework,” she replied, almost shouting now.
A man carrying a ladder had stopped outside number 57, and seemed to be on the point of going inside, but after having taken a good look at the number he went on to the house next door. Once this anxious moment was past and I felt a bit calmer, I asked her please to repeat her last remark, because I hadn’t heard her very well. This made her even more furious.
“Of course you didn’t hear!” she exclaimed. “You don’t even listen to what I say. That’s how much my opinions interest you.”
“They interest me a great deal.”
“Liar! You’ve told me a thousand times that women are different from men!”
“That’s all the more reason for me to be interested in their opinions. People are always interested in what’s different or unknown.”
“Ah, so you admit then that you take a woman to be something entirely different from a man!”
“There’s no point in getting all excited about anything as obvious as that, Norma.”
The history professor, who had followed this exchange with an ironic, hostile expression on her face, having no doubt been forewarned that I was an obscurantist, spoke up then:
“Do you really think so?” she asked.
“Do I think what?” I asked ingenuously.