Sunday 7 July
A splendidly sunny day, almost autumnal. We went to Carrasco. The beach was deserted, perhaps because it’s the middle of July, and people don’t have the courage to believe in good weather. We sat on the sand. When the beach is empty like this the waves become imposing; only they rule the landscape. In that way I admit I’m regrettably docile, malleable. I see that relentless and desolate sea, so proud of its foam and power, barely blemished by almost unreal ingenuous seagulls, and I immediately take refuge in irresponsible admiration. But afterwards, almost right away, the admiration disintegrates, and I start to feel as defenceless as a clam, or a pebble. That sea is a kind of eternity. When I was a child, that sea surged and surged, but it also surged when my grandfather was a child, and when my grandfather’s grandfather was a child. A mobile but lifeless presence. A presence of dark, unfeeling waves. A witness of history, useless because it doesn’t know anything about history. And what if God was the sea? Also an unfeeling witness? A mobile, but lifeless presence? Avellaneda was also looking at the sea, with the wind in her hair, and almost without blinking. ‘And you, do you believe in God?’ she asked, continuing the dialogue which I, in my thoughts, had initiated. ‘I don’t know, I would like God to exist, but I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I’m also not sure that God, if He exists, is going to be satisfied with our gullibility, which is based on a few pieces of scattered and incomplete data.’ ‘But it’s so obvious,’ she replied. ‘You make it complicated for yourself because you want God to have a face, hands and a heart. God is a common denominator, but we could also call Him the Totality. God is this rock, my shoe, that seagull, your trousers, that cloud, everything.’ ‘And you’re drawn to that? That satisfies you?’ I asked. ‘At least it inspires respect,’ she replied. ‘I’m not inspired,’ I replied. ‘I can’t imagine God being a big corporation.’
Monday 8 July
Esteban is up already. His illness has profited us both. We’ve had two or three truly healthy and candid conversations, and, on occasion, have even discussed generalities, but in a natural way, without letting our mutual irritation dictate the responses.
Tuesday 9 July
So, I’m afraid that in ten years she’ll be unfaithful to me?
Wednesday 10 July
Vignale. I bumped into him along Sarandí. I didn’t have any choice but to stop and listen to him. He didn’t sound happy. I was in a hurry, so we drank a cup of coffee at the counter. There, in a loud voice, in that thundering style of confidence he cultivates, he related the latest chapter of his romance: ‘What terrible luck. My wife caught us, understand? She caught us in the act. We were just kissing. But you can imagine the commotion she caused. For such a thing to occur in her own house, under her own roof, while we were eating her own bread. I, her own husband, felt like a cockroach. Elvira, on the other hand, took it quite calmly and stated the theory of the century: that she and I had always been like brother and sister and what my wife had seen was just that, a brotherly kiss. I felt very incestuous and my wife caused a huge scene. You’re being naïve, she said, if you think I’m going to remain passive like that idiot Francisco. She spoke to my mother-in-law, the neighbours, the grocer. Two hours later the entire neighbourhood knew that Elvira, that slut, had tried to steal her husband. For her part, Elvira had a strong words with Francisco, and told him that she was being insulted, and that she wouldn’t stay in that house for one more minute. But she stayed for about three hours, during which time she did something very nasty to me; and I mean really very nasty. Just think, Francisco believed everything she said, he wasn’t dangerous at all. But Fatso was going on and on, screaming, and two or three times tried to attack Elvira. And then Elvira, in one of those moments of terror, said … Well, I bet you don’t know what she told her. She said, who would ever think that she’d notice rubbish like me. Understand? And worst of all is that, by saying this, she convinced Fatso and she calmed down. Do you understand? I swear I’m not going to forgive Elvira for this. Her and her little cuckold of a husband should just leave. She’s not as good-looking as I thought anyway. Besides, now that I’m no longer a faithful husband, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I can have affairs with much younger, fresher women, who, above all, have no connection to my family, which for me was always sacred. That way, poor fatty doesn’t have to worry.’
Saturday 13 July
She’s here, next to me, asleep. I’m writing on a loose sheet of paper and tonight I’ll copy the text into the diary. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and the end of the siesta. I began to think about one comparison and ended up with another. It is here, next to me, her body. It’s cold outside, but in here it’s pleasant, even hot. Her body is almost completely exposed, as the sheet and blanket have slipped to one side. I tried to compare this body next to me with my memories of Isabel’s body. But, apparently, those were different times. Isabel wasn’t thin, her breasts had volume, and that’s why they sagged a bit. Her navel was large, sunken inwards, and dark, with thick edges. Her hips were her best feature, they’re what attracted me to her the most and I have a tactile memory of them. Her shoulders were well rounded and rosy white. Her legs were threatened by a future of varicose veins, but they were still beautiful, then, and very shapely. This body next to me now has absolutely no features in common with that other one. Avellaneda is thin, her bust inspires a bit of pity in me, her shoulders are covered with freckles, her navel is small and infantile, her hips are also her best feature (or could it be that I’m always aroused by hips?), and her legs are slim, but well proportioned. Nevertheless, Isabel’s body attracted me once, and now Avellaneda’s body attracts me. There was an inspirational force in Isabel’s nudity, as I would look at her and my entire being would immediately become sex; there was no reason to think about anything else. There is a sincere modesty in Avellaneda’s nudity, pleasant and unassuming, a touching helplessness. I’m profoundly attracted to it, but with Avellaneda sex is only part of the suggestion, the appeal. Isabel’s nudity was total, purer perhaps. Avellaneda’s body is nudity with an attitude. To love Isabel it was enough to feel attracted to her body. To love Avellaneda it’s necessary to love her nudity and the attitude, since that is at least half of her attraction. To hug Isabel meant hugging a body which was sensitive to every physical reaction and also capable of every permissible stimulation. To hug Avellaneda’s distinctive thinness means also hugging her smile, her gaze, her way of speaking, the repertory of her tenderness, her reticence to completely surrender and her apologies for her reticence. Well, that was the first comparison. But then came the second one, and it left me gloomy, depressed. My body with Isabel and my body with Avellaneda. How sad. I’ve never been an athlete, God forbid. But I once had muscles, strength and smooth, tight skin. Above all, though, my body didn’t have as many other features as it unfortunately has today. From my uneven baldness (the left side is more barren), my wider nose and the wart on my neck, to my chest with islands of red hair, my rumbling stomach, my varicosed ankles and my incurable, depressing mycosis. But when I’m in front of Avellaneda I don’t care, because she knows this is how I am and doesn’t know how I once looked. But it matters to me, because I care about seeing myself as a ghost of my youth, a caricature of myself. But perhaps there’s some compensation: with my head, and my heart, in short, as a spiritual person, perhaps I’m a little better today than I was during those days and nights with Isabel. But only a little better, because it’s not a good idea to over indulge in illusions. Let’s be balanced, objective, sincere and so forth. The answer is: ‘Does that count?’ God, if He exists, is probably up there crossing Himself. Avellaneda (oh, she exists) is down here, now opening her eyes.
Monday 15 July
When all is said and done, Aníbal could be right; I’m avoiding marriage more because I’m afraid of ridicule than because I’m defending Avellaneda’s future. And that isn’t right because there’s one thing that’s true, and that is that I love her. I write this for my eyes only, so it doesn’t
matter if it sounds pretentious. It’s the truth. Period. Therefore, I don’t want her to suffer. I thought (actually, I thought I knew) that I was eluding a permanent situation so that Avellaneda would always be free, so that in a few years she wouldn’t feel chained to an old man. If now it turns out that was just an excuse I made up, while the real reason was a kind of insurance against future deceptions, it’s quite clear the entire framework and outward appearance of our relationship had to be changed. Perhaps she would suffer more from a clandestine situation, always temporary, than being tied down to a man twice her age. After all, by fearing ridicule I misjudge her, and that’s terrible of me. I know she’s a good person, that she comes from good stock. I know that if she were ever to fall in love with someone else, she wouldn’t leave me in that humiliating ignorance which constitutes the affront to those who are deceived. Maybe she would tell me, or somehow I would manage to grasp the situation and have enough composure to understand it. But perhaps it would be better to talk to her about it, grant her the power to decide for herself, and help her feel secure.
Wednesday 17 July
Blanca was sad today. Jaime, her and I ate dinner in silence. Esteban was on his first night out since his illness. I didn’t say anything during dinner, because I know quite well how Jaime reacts. Afterwards, when he had left, virtually without saying goodbye (the grumbling which preceded slamming the door can’t be interpreted as ‘good night’), I remained in the dining room reading the newspaper while Blanca purposely lingered clearing the table. I had to lift up the newspaper so she could put away the tablecloth, and then I looked at her. Her eyes were a bit tearful. ‘What’s wrong with Jaime?’ I asked. ‘I had an argument with him, and Diego, too,’ she replied. Very puzzling. I couldn’t imagine Jaime and Diego joining forces against her. ‘Diego says Jaime is a queer. And that’s why we argued,’ she continued. The word hit me twice: first, because it was directed at my son, and second, because it was Diego who had made the remark; Diego, whom I trust and place my hopes in. ‘And can you tell me why your blessed Diego thinks he can be insulting in this way?’ I asked. Blanca smiled with some bitterness and replied: ‘But that’s the worst thing. It’s not an insult. It’s the truth. And that’s why I argued with Jaime.’ It was obvious that Blanca was forcing herself to say all of that, especially because it was I who was the recipient of her revelation. It even sounded insincere to me when I said: ‘And do you give more credit to Diego’s slander than to what your own brother says?’ Blanca lowered her eyes. She was holding the bread basket. It was the very image of poignancy, a moving and homely poignancy. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘it’s Jaime himself who says it.’ Until that moment I never thought my eyes could pop open so wide. My temples hurt. ‘So, those friends of his …’ I stammered. ‘Yes,’ she said. It was a hammering blow. Still, at that moment, I realized that deep down I had suspected it. And that’s the reason, the only reason why the word didn’t sound altogether new to me. ‘There’s just one thing I ask,’ she added. ‘Don’t say anything to him. He’s lost and has no sense of uneasiness, you know? He says he’s not attracted to women, that it’s not something he searched for, that each person has a God-given nature, and that he wasn’t given the capacity to feel attracted to women. He justifies himself arduously and I assure you he doesn’t have a guilt complex.’ And then, without any conviction, I said: ‘If I smash his head in with a few punches, you’ll see how fast he gets a guilt complex.’ Blanca laughed for the first time all evening and said: ‘Don’t disappoint me. I know you’re not going to do any such thing.’ Then I became discouraged, I felt horribly discouraged and hopeless. This was Jaime, my son, who had inherited Isabel’s forehead and mouth.
How much of this is my fault and how much of it is his? It’s true I didn’t take care of them the way I should have, that I couldn’t completely replace their mother. Ah, but I don’t have a mother’s calling. I’m not even too sure about my calling as a father. But what does this have to do with how he turned out? Perhaps I should have been able to break up those friendships when they first began. Perhaps if I had done that, he would have continued seeing these friends without my knowledge. ‘I have to talk to him,’ I said, as Blanca appeared to be resigning herself to the turmoil. ‘And also, you have to reconcile with Diego,’ I added.
Thursday 18 July
I had two things to say to Avellaneda, but we were in the apartment for only an hour and during that time I just talked about Jaime. She didn’t say I was totally blameless, and I appreciated that. Mentally, of course. But I also think that when a person is rotten, there is no education that will cure him, or any amount of attention that will straighten him out. Of course, I could have done more for him, that is so true, so true, that I can’t feel blameless. Besides, what do I want, what would I prefer? That he not be a queer, or that I simply feel free of all blame? How selfish we are, my God, how selfish I am. Even having a clear conscience is a kind of selfishness, of fondness for convenience and the comfort of the spirit. I didn’t see Jaime today.
Friday 19 July
I didn’t see him today either. But I know that Blanca told him I wanted to talk to him. Esteban is quite violent. It’s best he doesn’t find out. Or does he know already?
Saturday 20 July
Blanca brought me the envelope. The letter says the following: ‘Dad: I know that you want to talk and I already know what’s on your mind. You’re going to preach morality and there are two reasons why I can’t accept your preaching. The first is that I have nothing to be ashamed of. The second, that you have a secret life, too. I’ve seen you with that girl who has ensnared you, and I think you would agree that it’s not the best way to show proper respect for Mum’s memory. But that unilateral puritanism is your business. Since I don’t like what you do and you don’t like what I do, the best thing for me to do is disappear. Therefore, I’ll disappear. Now you have a clear field. I’m of age, so don’t worry. I imagine, besides, that my retreat will bring you closer to my siblings. Blanca knows everything (for more information, see her); I told Esteban myself, yesterday afternoon, in his office. For your peace of mind, I must admit that he reacted every inch the macho man and left me with a black eye. The one that’s still open enables me to see the future (it’s not so terrible, as you’ll discover), and direct a last look at my charming family, so fastidious, so formal. Regards, Jaime.’ I handed the letter to Blanca. She then read it slowly and said: ‘He’s already taken his things. This morning.’ She looked pale when she added: ‘And this woman business, is it true?’ ‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘It’s true that I’m having a relationship with a woman, a young girl almost. I live with her. On the other hand, it’s not true this represents an offence to your mother’s memory. It seems to me I have the right to love someone. I haven’t married her only because I’m not sure it would be the most convenient thing to do.’ Perhaps this last remark wasn’t necessary. I’m not too sure. Her lips were pressed together. I think she was vacillating between an ancestral loyalty to family and a very simple sense of what is human. ‘But is she a good person?’ she asked, eagerly. ‘Yes, she is,’ I replied. She breathed a sigh of relief; she still trusts me. I too breathed a sigh of relief about feeling capable of inciting that trust. And then I acted on a sudden inspiration and said: ‘Is it too much to ask you to meet her?’ ‘I was going to ask you that myself,’ she replied. I didn’t say anything, but gratitude was in my throat.
Sunday 21 July
‘Perhaps, in the beginning, when we first began our relationship, I would have preferred it. Now I don’t think so.’ I write that first, because I’m afraid I’m going to forget it. That was her reply. Because this time I was completely honest; the subject of marriage was discussed until it was exhausted. ‘Before we came here, to this apartment, I noticed it was painful for you to say that word,’ she said. ‘One day you said it, in the entrance hall of my house, and you have my deepest gratitude for having done so. It helped me to decide, to believe in you, in your love.
But I couldn’t accept it, because it would have been a false foundation for this present, which at that time was the future. If I had accepted it, I would also have had to accept that you had given in, that you had forced yourself to make a decision for which you were not prepared. Instead, I gave in, but it stands to reason that I can be more certain about my own reactions than I can be about yours. I knew that, even though I was giving in, I wouldn’t hold a grudge against you, but, on the other hand, if I had forced you to give in, I didn’t know if you would hold a bit of a grudge against me. But now that’s all past. I am no longer chaste. There is something ancestral in a woman that causes her to defend her virginity, to make demands and to demand of herself the maximum guarantees to contain her losses. Afterwards, when you are no longer chaste, you realize that everything was a myth, an old legend used to ensnare husbands. That’s why I tell you that now I’m not sure that marriage would be our best solution. The important thing is that we both be united for something: that something exists, doesn’t it? Well now, don’t you think it more powerful, much stronger, and more beautiful if what unites us is that something which really exists, and not just a simple formality; the ritual speech of a hurried and potbellied judge? Furthermore, there are your children. I don’t want to appear as if I want to compete for you with the image of your wife; I don’t want them to feel jealous on behalf of their mother. And finally, there’s your fear of time, that you’ll become old and I’ll go looking elsewhere. Don’t be so sensitive. What I like most about you is something which won’t go away with the passage of time.’ More than her truths, it was my desires she was enunciating so calmly. And how pleasant they were to hear.