Monday 19 August
Today I started my last leave before retiring. It rained all day, so I spent the entire afternoon in the apartment. I changed two sockets, painted a little cabinet, and washed two nylon shirts. Avellaneda arrived at seven-thirty, but stayed only until eight o’clock. She had to go to an aunt’s birthday. She says that Muñoz, as my substitute, is unbearably bossy and pedantic. There’s already been an incident involving Robledo.
Tuesday 20 August
It’s been a month since Jaime left home. Whether I think about it or not, the truth is that the problem is always on my mind. If only I had been able to talk to him at least once!
Wednesday 21 August
I stayed at home and read for I don’t know how many hours, but only magazines. I don’t want to do it again. It leaves me with a horrible sensation of time wasted, as if stupidity was anaesthetizing my brain.
Thursday 22 August
I feel a little strange without the office. But perhaps I feel like that because I know this isn’t really retirement, it’s only a limited leave of absence, once again being threatened by the office.
Friday 23 August
I wanted to surprise her. I waited for her a block away from the office. At five past seven I saw her approaching. But she was walking with Robledo. I don’t know what Robledo was telling her; but the truth is that she was laughing freely, very amused. Since when is Robledo so amusing? I went into a café, let them pass by and then started to follow them some thirty steps behind. When they reached Andes they said goodbye. Then she turned towards San José. She was going to the apartment, of course. I went into a grimy little café where I was served a cortado in a cup that still had lipstick on it. I didn’t drink it, but I didn’t complain to the waiter either. I was agitated, nervous and uneasy, but, most of all, annoyed with myself. Avellaneda laughing with Robledo. What was wrong with that? Avellaneda in a simple human relationship, not merely professional, with a man other than myself. Avellaneda walking along the street with a young man, someone from her generation, and not an old weakling like me. Avellaneda far away from me, Avellaneda living on her own. Of course, there was nothing wrong with any of that. But perhaps this horrible sensation stems from the fact that this is the first time I consciously foresee the possibility that Avellaneda could live, develop and laugh without my help (not to mention my love) being necessary. I knew that the conversation between her and Robledo had been innocent. Or maybe not. Because Robledo has no way of knowing she’s not available. How idiotic, how pretentious, how conventional I feel when I write: ‘She’s not available.’ Available for what? Perhaps the essence of my uneasiness is having verified the following, and nothing else: that she could feel very comfortable with young people, especially with a young man. And another thing: what I saw is nothing, but, on the other hand, what I glimpsed was quite a bit, and what I glimpsed was the risk of losing everything. Robledo doesn’t interest her. Deep down, he’s a frivolous man who would never interest her. Unless I don’t know her at all. Well, do I know her? Robledo doesn’t interest her. But what about the others, all the others in the world? If a young man makes her laugh, how many others could win her love? If one day she loses me (her only enemy could be death, the malicious death which has all our numbers), she will have her whole life, time on her hands, she would have her heart, which will always be new, generous and splendid. But if one day I lose her (my only enemy is the Man, the Man who is young and strong and holds promise), I will also be losing the last opportunity to live, the last respite of time; because if my heart now feels generous, happy and renewed, without her it would return to being an unquestionably old heart.
I paid for the cortado that I didn’t drink and headed for the apartment. I was carrying a shameful fear of her silence, especially because I knew beforehand that even if she didn’t say anything, I wasn’t going to pry, ask or reproach. I was just simply going to swallow my bitterness, and, that was certain, begin a period of small storms without relief. I have a particular distrust for my grey periods. I think my hand was shaking when I turned the key in the lock. ‘Why are you home so late?’ she shouted from the kitchen. ‘I was waiting for you to tell you about Robledo’s latest crazy act, what a character! It’s been years since I’ve laughed so much.’ And she appeared in the living room with her apron, her green skirt, her black jersey, her eyes clear, warm and sincere. She could never know how she was saving me with those words. I pulled her to me, and, as I hugged her, as I breathed in the tenderly natural scent of her shoulders through that other, universal, scent of wool, I felt the world was beginning to turn again, that I could once again relegate that real threat that had been called Avellaneda and the Others to a distant, still nameless future. ‘Avellaneda and I,’ I said slowly. She didn’t understand the reason for those three words at that particular moment, but some obscure intuition made her realize that something important was happening. She moved away from me a little, but still without letting go, and said: ‘Let’s see, say it again.’ ‘Avellaneda and I,’ I repeated, obediently. Now I’m alone, here at home, and it’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Every now and then, for no other reason than it gives me strength, uplifts me and anchors me, I keep repeating: ‘Avellaneda and I.’
Saturday 24 August
I rarely think about God. Nevertheless, I have a religious background, a yearning for religion. I would like to convince myself that I truly have a definition of God, a concept of God. But I don’t have anything like that. I rarely think about God, simply because the concept exceeds me so amply and eminently that it provokes a kind of panic, a general dissipation of my clarity and rationality. ‘God is the Totality,’ Avellaneda often says. ‘God is the Essence of Everything,’ says Aníbal, ‘that which keeps everything in balance, in harmony; God is the Great Coherence.’ I’m capable of understanding both definitions, but neither is my definition. It’s likely that they’re right, but that’s not the God I need. I need a God I can talk to, a God I can turn to for refuge, a God that will answer to me when I question Him, when I strafe Him with my misgivings. If God is the Totality, the Great Coherence, if God is only the energy that keeps the Universe alive, if He’s something so immeasurably infinite, why would He care about me; an atom crudely perched on an insignificant louse of His Kingdom? I don’t mind being an atom of the last louse of His Kingdom, but I do care that God be within my reach, I care about grabbing hold of Him, not with my hands, of course, not even with my reasoning. I care about holding Him with my heart.
Sunday 25 August
She brought me pictures of her childhood, of her family, of her world. It’s proof of love, isn’t it? She was a skinny child, with somewhat frightened eyes, and long, dark hair. An only child. I too was an only child. And it’s not easy. One ends up feeling helpless. There is a delightful photograph in which she appears with an enormous police dog, and the dog is looking at her with an air of protection. I guess that everyone always must have wanted to protect her at one time or another. She isn’t so defenceless, however, she is quite sure of what she wants. And besides, I like that she’s sure. She’s sure that her job suffocates her, that she’ll never commit suicide, that Marxism is a serious mistake, that she likes me, that death isn’t the end of everything, that her parents are splendid, that God exists, and that the people she trusts will never let her down. I could never be that categorical. But the best thing is that she’s not wrong. Her certainty even helps her to intimidate fate. There is a photograph of her and her parents when she was twelve years old. Based on that photograph, I also dare to form an impression of that singular, harmonious and different marriage. Her mother has soft features, a delicate nose, black hair and very light skin, with two moles on her left cheek. Her eyes are serene, possibly too much so; perhaps they’re of no use to completely commit to the spectacle they’re witnessing, to what they see existing, but they seem capable of understanding everything. Her father is a tall man, with rather narrow shoulders, a baldness which has already begun to sprea
d, very thin lips, and a very sharp but not aggressive chin. I worry quite a bit about people’s eyes. His are a little unbalanced. But certainly not because they’re alienated, but because they’re strange. They are the eyes of a man who is surprised by the world, by the mere act of finding himself in it. They’re both (you can see it in their faces) good people, but I like her kindness better than his. The father is an excellent man, but he isn’t capable of communicating with the world, so that one can’t possibly know what would happen on the day he finally manages to establish that communication. ‘They love each other, I’m sure about that,’ says Avellaneda, ‘but I don’t know if that’s the kind of love that I like.’ She shakes her head to accompany her doubt, and then is inspired to add: ‘In relation to feelings, there are a series of neighbouring, similar areas which are easy to confuse. Love, trust, pity, camaraderie, tenderness; I never know in which one of these areas my parents’ relationship exists. It’s something which is very hard to define and I don’t think they themselves have defined it. On occasion, Mum and I have briefly discussed the topic. She believes there is too much serenity in her union with my father; too much balance for love to really exist. That serenity, that balance, which could also be called lack of passion, perhaps might have been unbearable if they had something to blame each other for. But there is nothing to blame each other for, nor any reasons for reproach. They know themselves to be good, honest, generous. They also know that all of that, magnificent as it is, still doesn’t signify love, nor does it signify that they burn in that fire. They don’t burn, and that which unites them lasts even longer.’ ‘And what about you and me? Are we burning?’ I asked. But at that precise moment she was distracted, and the look in her eyes was also like that of someone surprised by the world, by the mere fact of finding herself in it.
Monday 26 August
I told Esteban. Blanca had left to have lunch with Diego, so he and I were alone at midday. It was a great relief to learn that he already knew. Jaime had told him. ‘Look, Dad, I can’t completely understand it, nor do I think that getting involved with a woman who is much younger than you is the best answer. But one thing is true: I don’t dare judge you. I know that when one sees matters objectively, when one is not involved in them, it’s very easy to proclaim what’s good and what’s bad. But when one is up to one’s neck in the problem (and I’ve been in that position many times), things change, the intensity is different, and deep convictions, inevitable sacrifices and renouncements appear, which can seem inexplicable to the mere observer. I hope you have a nice time, not superficially, but in a deeper sense. I hope you feel like the protector and the protected at the same time, which is one of the most pleasant feelings human beings can allow themselves to have. I remember very little about Mum. Actually, she’s a true image on to which the images and memories of others have been superimposed. I no longer know which one of those memories is exclusively mine. Well, perhaps just one: her in the bathroom, combing her hair, her long, dark tresses falling down her back. You can see that there’s not very much I remember about her. But over the years I’ve become accustomed to thinking of her as something ideal, unreachable, almost ethereal. She was so pretty, wasn’t she? I realize that maybe my portrayal of her has little to do with what she was truly like. Nevertheless, that’s how she exists for me. That’s why I was a bit shocked when Jaime told me that you were involved with a young woman. It shocked me, but I accept it, because I know you were very lonely. And I realize it even more now, because I’ve followed your progress and I’ve seen you become renewed. So I don’t judge you, I can’t judge you; and, furthermore, I would very much like it if you’ve made the right choice and get as close as possible to good luck.’
Tuesday 27 August
Cold and sunny. Winter sun, which is the most affectionate, the most benevolent. I went to Plaza Matriz, found a bench, spread a newspaper over the bird droppings, and sat down. In front of me a city worker was raking the lawn. He did it very slowly, as if it were a function that was above all impulses. How would I feel if I were a city worker raking the lawn? No, that’s not my calling. If I could choose a profession other than the one I have, a routine other than the one that has worn me out for the last thirty years, then I would choose to be a waiter in a café. And I would be an active waiter with a great memory, an exemplary waiter. I would use mental tricks so that I wouldn’t forget anyone’s order. It must be wonderful to always work with new faces, to talk freely with a man who walks into the café today, asks for a cup of coffee, and never returns. People are terrific, entertaining and energetic. It must be great to work with people instead of numbers, books and payroll accounts. Even if I were to travel, even if I were to leave here and have the opportunity to marvel at landscapes, monuments, roads and works of art, nothing would fascinate me as much as People, seeing People pass by and scrutinizing their faces, recognizing, here and there, signs of happiness and bitterness, seeing how they rush headlong towards their destinies, in insatiated turbulence, with splendid haste, and how they move along, unaware of their brevity, their insignificance, their life without reserves never feeling cornered, never admitting they are cornered. Until now I don’t think I’ve ever been aware of the existence of Plaza Matriz. I must have crossed it a thousand times, and perhaps on many occasions I even cursed all the detours one has to make to circle the fountain. I’ve seen it before, of course I’ve seen it, but I had never stopped to observe it, to hear it, to draw out its character and examine it. I spent a good while contemplating the aggressively solid soul of the Cabildo, the hypocritically scrubbed face of the cathedral, and the discouraged swaying of the trees. I think that at that moment one of my convictions was definitely affirmed: I am from this place, this city. In this (and probably in nothing else) I think I’m a fatalist. Each one of us IS from only one place on earth and it’s there that one should pay one’s dues. I am from here. I pay my dues here. That man passing by (the one with the long overcoat, the protruding ear, the terrible limp), he is my fellow man. He still ignores that I exist, but one day he’ll see me from the front, from the side or from the rear, and he’ll have the feeling there’s something secret between us, a hidden bond that unites us, that gives us the strength to understand each other. Or perhaps that day will never arrive, perhaps he’ll never notice this plaza, this air that makes us fellow men, pairs us off, connects us. But it doesn’t matter; at any rate, he’s my fellow man.
Wednesday 28 August
I have four days of holiday. I don’t miss the office. I miss Avellaneda. Today I went to the cinema alone. I saw a western. I enjoyed myself until halfway through; after that, I became bored with myself, with my own patience.
Thursday 29 August
I asked Avellaneda to miss a day at the office. I, her boss, authorized her to do it and that’s enough. She stayed in the apartment with me all day. I can imagine how angry Muñoz must be, with two fewer people in his section, and all of the responsibility resting on his shoulders. Not only can I imagine it, I can understand it. But it doesn’t matter. I’m at an age when time seems to be, and is, irretrievable. I have to desperately hang on to this reasonable happiness that came to look for me and found me. That’s why I can’t become magnanimous, generous, and start thinking about Muñoz’s problems before my own. Life runs out, it’s running out right now, and I can’t bear that feeling of escape, of expiration, of finality. This day with Avellaneda isn’t eternity, it’s only a day, a poor, insignificant, limited day, which we’ve all, from God on down, have denounced. It’s not eternity, but the instant which, after all, is its only true substitute. So I have to clench my fist, I have to use up this abundance without any reservations or foresight. Then maybe afterwards, the real leisure will arrive, the guaranteed leisure, and perhaps later there will be more days like this one, and then I’ll think about this distress, this impatience, as a ridiculous waste of energy. Maybe, just maybe. But this ‘meanwhile’ has the comfort and guarantee of what is, of what it’s becoming.
It w
as cold. Avellaneda spent the entire day with her jersey and trousers on. She looked like a boy with her hair tied back. I told her she had the face of a newsboy, but she didn’t pay much attention to me. She was busy reading her horoscope. About a year ago someone read her horoscope and predicted her future. Apparently, her current job, and me, especially, would be playing a role in that future. ‘A very kind, mature man, a little reserved, but intelligent.’ How about that. That’s me. ‘What do you think? Can the future be predicted just like that?’ Avellaneda asked. ‘I don’t know if it’s possible, but, either way, it seems like a trap to me,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want to know what is going to happen. It would be horrible. Can you imagine how frightening life would be if one knew when one was going to die?’ ‘I’d like to know when I am going to die,’ said Avellaneda. ‘If it were possible to know the date of one’s own death, one could regulate the rhythm of one’s life, exhaust oneself more, or less, according to the remaining balance.’ That would seem frightening to me. But the prediction says that Avellaneda will have two or three children, that she’ll be happy, but that she’ll end up a widow (humph), and that she’ll die of a circulatory illness, in her eighties or thereabouts. Avellaneda is quite worried about the two or three children. ‘Do you want to have children?’ she asked. ‘I’m not too sure,’ I replied. She realizes that my response is caution in the flesh, but when she looks at me I know she would like to have children, at least one. ‘Don’t become sad,’ I say, ‘if you become sad I’m capable of ordering twins.’ She knows what I think, suffers because of it, and clings to the prediction. ‘And don’t you care about widowhood, even though it would be a clandestine widowhood?’ I asked. ‘I don’t care, because my faith doesn’t extend that far,’ she replied. ‘I know you’re indestructible, that predictions pass near you and don’t touch you.’ Nothing more than a young woman perched on the sofa, with her legs curled underneath her, and the tip of her nose red from the cold.