Thursday 27 June
I think that today must have been the most hectic day at the office ever. I’ve never seen a more complicated and useless request for reports. And the balance sheet is already due.
Esteban did not develop a fever. Fortunately.
Friday 28 June
I finally left the office at seven-thirty and went to the apartment. She had arrived earlier, opened with her key, and had settled in. When I arrived, she greeted me happily, without any inhibitions, and once again with a kiss. We ate, talked, laughed and made love. Everything went so well, it’s not worth writing it down. I’m praying: ‘May it last’, and to put pressure on God I’m going to knock on wood, on any wooden object without legs, for good luck.
Saturday 29 June
It looks like Esteban’s illness isn’t that serious. The X-ray and the tests contradicted the doctor’s poor diagnosis. That doctor likes to terrify his patients by announcing the likelihood of at least serious complications and undefined and relentless dangers. Afterwards, if the reality isn’t too dreadful, suddenly there is a great sense of relief, and it’s this relief felt by the family that usually provides the best scenario for paying an abusively high bill without a fuss, and even with gratitude. When one humbly asks, almost embarrassed, and clearly feeling the shame of bringing up such a trivial and coarse subject in front of someone who sacrifices his life and time for the welfare of fellow human beings: ‘How much is it, doctor?’ he always says, his words accompanied by a generous and understanding gesture of discomfort: ‘Please, my friend, there will be plenty of time to talk about that. And don’t worry, you’re never going to have a problem with me.’ And, in order to redeem the human dignity of this sordid pause, he immediately changes the subject and launches into a lecture about the broth the convalescent will be eating tomorrow. Then, when the time finally comes to talk about the doctor’s fee, the inflated bill arrives, on its own, by mail, and one is somewhat stunned by the amount, perhaps because, at that moment, the pleasant, paternal, Franciscan smile of that austere martyr of science isn’t present.
Sunday 30 June
From breakfast time on, it was a busy day for us. When I arrived I was anxious to check and verify everything. What happened on Friday was a unique but overwhelming occurrence. Everything happened so quickly, so naturally, so happily, that I couldn’t even make a single mental note. When one is in the very centre of life, it is impossible to reflect upon it. And I want to reflect, to take the most approximate measure possible of this strange thing which is happening to me, to recognize my own signals, and compensate for my lack of youth with an excess of conscience. And among the details I want to verify is the tone of her voice, its nuances, from extreme sincerity to ingenuous pretence; her body, which I virtually didn’t see, couldn’t discover, because I preferred to deliberately pay that price provided there would be less tension that way, so that her nerves would yield space to her senses. I preferred that the darkness really be impenetrable, light-proof against any illuminated crack, provided that her trembling embarrassment, fear, what do I know, would gradually change into other warmer, normal and natural forms of trembling submission. Today she told me: ‘I’m happy that everything is behind us,’ and appeared, judging by the force of her words and the light of her eyes, to be referring to an exam, childbirth, an attack, or anything of a more major risk and responsibility than the simple, ordinary prosaic act of a man and his woman going to bed together, much more simple, ordinary and prosaic than the act of a man and a woman going to bed. ‘I would even say I don’t feel guilty, that I’m free of sin.’ I must have made an impatient gesture because she quickly elaborated: ‘I know you can’t understand it, that it’s something which is beyond the grasp of the masculine mind. For you men, making love is a kind of normal transaction, a hygienic obligation, rarely a matter of conscience. It’s enviable how you can separate that detail called sex from everything else that’s essential, from all other areas of life. It was you men who invented the theory that sex means everything to a woman. You invented the theory and then you distorted it, converting it into a caricature of what it really means. When men say this, they think of women as being vocational revellers, unrepentant. Sex means everything to a woman: her entire life, her cosmetics – her art of deception, her burnishing of culture, her quick tears, and all her tools of seduction – is dedicated to trapping her man and turning him into the keeper of her sexual life, sexual demands and sexual rituals, is dedicated to sex.’ She was excited and even appeared annoyed with me. She was looking at me with such an assured irony that she looked like the provider of all the feminine dignity of this world. ‘And none of that is true?’ I asked, just to provoke her, because she looked so pretty with her aggressive attitude. ‘Some of that is true, sometimes,’ she replied. ‘I know there are women who are like that and nothing else. But there are others, the majority, who aren’t like that, and still others, who, even if they are, are more than that; they are complicated human beings, egocentric and extremely sensitive. Perhaps it’s true that the feminine ego is synonymous with sex, but one has to understand that a woman identifies sex with conscience. That’s where the most guilt, the greatest happiness and the hardest problem might lay. It’s so different for you men. Compare, if you like, the case of an old maid and that of an old bachelor, who on the surface might appear to be kindred human beings, like two frustrated parallels. What are the reactions of one and the other?’ She took a breath and continued: ‘While the old maid becomes irritable, less and less feminine, fussier, and more hysterical and unfulfilled, the old bachelor, on the other hand, turns to his outward appearance, and becomes exciting, loud and obscene. Both of them suffer from loneliness: for the old bachelor it’s only a problem of domestic help, of a single bed, but for the old maid loneliness is a heavy blow to the back of the neck.’ It was very inopportune of me, but at that moment I laughed. She halted her speech and looked at me inquisitively. ‘I find it amusing to hear you defend old maids,’ I said. ‘It pleases and surprises me to see you so preoccupied with formulating your theory. You must inherit this from your mother. She has her theory about happiness, and you have your own; one that could perhaps be defined as “of the bond between sex and conscience in the average woman”. But now tell me, where did you get the idea that men think that way, that it was men who invented that wholesome nonsense about sex meaning everything to a woman?’ She became embarrassed, knowing she was cornered, and said: ‘What do I know? Someone told me. I’m not a scholar. But if a man didn’t invent it, then he deserves to have invented it.’ Now I was really beginning to recognize her again, in that posture of a little girl who is found out and resorts to a twist of seeming naiveté just to absolve herself. After all, I don’t much care for her feminist outbursts. In short, she had said all of this in order to explain why she had stopped feeling guilty. Well, that was the important thing, that she should believe that she was not culpable, that the tension should ease that she should feel comfortable in my arms. The rest is embellishment, justification; whether it’s there or not, it’s all the same to me. If she likes to feel justified, if she turns all of this into a serious problem of conscience, and wants to talk about it, wants me to understand, to hear her say it, well, then let her speak and I’ll listen. She looks very pretty with her cheeks flushed with excitement. Furthermore, it’s not true that this wouldn’t be a matter of conscience for me. I don’t know which day I wrote it, but I’m sure I placed my uncertainties on the record, and what is vacillation if not an evasion of one’s conscience?
But she’s amazing. All of a sudden she became silent, put aside her militancy, looked at herself in the mirror, not in a flirtatious manner but as if making fun of herself, sat on the bed and called me: ‘Come, sit here. I’m an idiot who’s wasting time with such a speech. Anyway, I know you’re not like the others. I know you understand me, you know why this is a real matter of conscience for me.’ I had to lie and said: ‘Of course, I know.’ But at that point she was in my arm
s and there were other things to think about, old plans to carry out, new caresses to attend to. Matters of conscience also have their tender side.
Wednesday 3 July
It’s hard to believe, but I hadn’t seen Aníbal since he returned from Brazil, at the beginning of May. I was glad he called yesterday. I needed to talk to someone, confide in someone. Only then did I realize that up to now I had kept my entire relationship with Avellaneda to myself, that I hadn’t told anyone. And it makes sense. Who could I have discussed it with? My children? I get goosebumps just thinking about it. Vignale? I think about his mischievous wink, his pat on my shoulder, his abetting laugh, and I immediately become unwaveringly reserved. My co-workers? It would be a horrible misstep and, at the same time, make it an absolute certainty that Avellaneda would have to quit her job. But even if she didn’t work at the office, I don’t think I would have the strength to talk about myself that way. There are no friendships in the workplace; there are fellows who see each other every day, complain together or apart, tell jokes and laugh, exchange gripes and convey their grudges, mumble about the Directorate in general, and flatter every director in private. This is called coexistence, but only through a mirage can coexistence manage to look like friendship. After so many years in an office, I confess that Avellaneda is the first true object of my affection. The others have the disadvantage of the unchosen relationship, of the bond imposed by the circumstances. After all, what do I have in common with Muñoz, Méndez and Robledo? Still, we laugh together sometimes, have a drink occasionally, and are pleasant to each other. Deep down, though, they’re strangers to each other, because in this type of superficial relationship one talks about many things but never about the essentials, the truly important and decisive things. I think that work itself is what impedes another kind of trust from evolving; work, that kind of constant hammering, morphine or toxic gas. On occasion, one of them (Muñoz particularly) has approached me to initiate an actual conversation. He begins to talk, candidly outlining his self-portrait, and synthesizing the parts of his drama, that moderate, stationary, baffling drama which poisons everyone’s life, regardless of how average one feels. But there is always someone who beckons from the counter. For half an hour Muñoz has to explain the inconvenience caused and the levy imposed for late payment to a delinquent client; he argues, shouts a bit, and surely feels degraded. When he returns to my desk, he looks at me and doesn’t say anything. He makes a strenuous effort to smile, but the corners of his mouth fold downwards. Then he takes an old payroll document in his hands, carefully crumples it, and throws it in the waste basket. It’s a simple substitute; that which is no longer useful, what he throws in the waste basket, is trust. Yes, work muzzles trust. But there’s also derision. We’re all derision specialists. The availability of interest towards our neighbour has to be utilized in some way, otherwise it becomes cystic, and then claustrophobia and neurasthenia, who knows, inevitably ensue. Since we don’t have enough courage or honesty to interest ourselves amicably in our neighbour (not the nebulous, biblical, faceless neighbour but the neighbour with a first and last name, the nearest neighbour, the one who writes at the desk in front of mine and hands me the calculation of the profit gains so I can review and initial it), since we voluntarily renounce friendship, well then, let’s derisively interest ourselves in that neighbour who is always vulnerable for eight hours. Furthermore, derision provides a kind of solidarity. Today this is the target, tomorrow that one, and the day after it will be me. The one who is mocked curses silently, but quickly becomes resigned, knows it’s only part of the game, and that in the near future, perhaps in an hour or two, he can choose the form of revenge which best coincides with his vocation. The mockers, for their part, feel united, enthusiastic and effervescent. Every time one of them adds an incisive element to their derision, the others celebrate, nod at each other, and feel lustful with complicity; all that’s left is to embrace each other and shout hurrah. And what relief it is to laugh, even when one has to hold back laughter because the manager has appeared in the back, showing his watermelon face, and what retaliation against the routine, the paperwork, that sentence which entails being ensnared in something unimportant for eight hours, something which inflates the bank accounts of those useless people who sin by the mere fact of being alive, of allowing themselves to live, of the inane who believe in God only because they don’t know God stopped believing in them a long time ago. Derision and work. After all, how are they different? And how much work derision is, how tiring! And what a mockery this job is, what a bad joke.
Thursday 4 July
I spoke to Aníbal for a long time. It’s the first time I mentioned Avellaneda’s name to someone, that is to say, the first time I mentioned her name together with the sincere feelings I have for it. At some moment, while I was telling him, it looked as if he were observing the situation from the outside, like a profoundly interested spectator. Aníbal listened to me with religious attention. ‘And why don’t you get married?’ he asked. ‘I don’t quite understand the meaning of your hesitation.’ It was hard to believe but he didn’t understand, it was so clear. I went back to the explanation, the stereotypical explanation I’ve been giving myself since the beginning: my age, her age, me in ten years, her in ten years, my desire not to hurt her, the other desire not to look ridiculous, the enjoyment of the present, my three children, etc., etc. ‘And you think this way you’re not hurting her?’ he asked. ‘Of course I am, that’s inevitable, but, in any case, I’m hurting her less than I would be by shackling her,’ I replied. ‘And what does she say? Does she agree?’ he continued. That’s called an awkward question. I don’t know if she agrees. When she had the chance, she said yes, but the truth is I don’t know whether she agrees or not. Could it be that she would prefer a stable situation, officially stable and sacred? Could I be telling myself I do it for her, but in reality be doing it for myself? ‘Are you afraid of looking ridiculous, or is it something else?’ he asked. Apparently, the guy was determined to put his finger on the sore spot. ‘What do you mean by that?’ I said. ‘You asked me to be candid, didn’t you?’ he replied. ‘I mean, the entire problem seems clear to me: you’re afraid that in ten years she’s going to be unfaithful to you.’ How ugly it is to be told the truth, especially if it’s one of those truths one has avoided telling oneself even during one’s morning soliloquies, when one is just awakening and mumbling bitter and profoundly nasty nonsense, full of self-rancour, which must be dispelled before completely waking up and putting on the mask that, for the rest of the day, others will see, and that will see others. So, I’m afraid that in ten years she’ll be unfaithful to me? I answered Aníbal with a curse word, which is the traditional manly reaction to being treated like a cuckold, even if it is from a long distance and postdated. But the doubt continued to spin around in my head and at the moment of writing this I can’t avoid feeling a little less generous, a little less poised, and a little more vulgar and surly.
Saturday 6 July
It rained buckets during the afternoon. For twenty minutes we waited on a corner for the rain to subside and looked discouragingly at the people running by. But we were inevitably getting cold and I started to sneeze with menacing regularity. Finding a taxi was virtually impossible. Since we were only two blocks from the apartment we decided to walk. Actually, we, too, ran like crazy and reached the apartment in three soaked minutes. For a while I remained very fatigued and lay useless on the bed. Before that, however, I had the strength to find a blanket and wrap it around her. She had taken off her dripping jacket and her skirt, which was in a pitiful condition. Little by little, I regained my composure and half an hour later began to feel warm. I went to the kitchen, lit the kerosene stove, and started to boil water. She called me from the bedroom. She had got out of bed, just like that, wrapped in the blanket, and was standing near the window watching the rain. I approached, also looking at the rain, and we didn’t say anything for a while. All of a sudden, I realized that that moment, that slice of every
day life, was the highest degree of well-being, it was Happiness. Never before had I been so completely happy than at that moment, but still I had the cutting sensation I would never feel that way again, at least at that level, with that intensity. The pinnacle of happiness is like that, surely it’s like that. Furthermore, I’m sure the pinnacle is only a second long, a brief second, a flashing instant, and there’s no right to an extension. Down below, a dog wearing a muzzle was slowly trotting along, hopelessly resigned. All of a sudden, the dog stopped, and, obeying an odd impulse, raised one of its legs and then very peacefully continued his trot. Actually, it looked like the dog had stopped to make sure it was still raining. We looked at each other simultaneously and started to laugh. I assumed the spell had been broken, that the arrival at the famous pinnacle had passed. But she was still with me; I could hear her, feel her, kiss her. I could simply say: ‘Avellaneda’. ‘Avellaneda’ is, furthermore, a world of words. I’m learning how to inject it with hundreds of meanings and she’s learning to remember them. It’s a game. In the morning, I say: ‘Avellaneda’, and it means: ‘Good morning’. (There is an ‘Avellaneda’ that is a reproach, another that is a warning, and yet another that is an apology.) But she purposely misunderstands me to make me fume. When I say the ‘Avellaneda’ which means: ‘Let’s make love’, she, very cheerfully, replies: ‘You think I should leave now? But it’s so early!’ Oh, the old days when Avellaneda was just a surname, the surname of the new assistant (just five months ago I wrote: ‘The girl doesn’t seem too interested in work, but at least she understands what is explained to her’), the label with which to identify that small person with the wide forehead and the large mouth who looked at me with enormous respect. And there she was now, in front of me, wrapped in her blanket. I don’t remember what she was like when she seemed insignificant to me, inhibited, nothing more than pleasant. I only remember what she’s like now: a delicious young woman who captivates me, makes my heart absurdly excited, and conquers me. I blinked intentionally, so that nothing would impede us afterwards. Then she was wrapped in my gaze, which was much better than her blanket; actually, it wasn’t independent of my voice, which had already started to say: ‘Avellaneda’. And this time she understood me perfectly.