The Things We Don't Do

BATHTUB

MY GRANDFATHER took off one item of clothing after another until he was naked. He looked at his ailing body, emaciated yet erect. The bathroom mirror had darkened with him over the years: what remained was a precarious patina flecked with dots, and a forty-watt light bulb above it. My grandfather folded his clothes neatly. He placed them on top of the toilet lid. He paused for a moment, his woollen slippers dangling from his fingers, and decided to put them out in the corridor. Then he locked the door from the inside.

It wasn’t cold. He felt much more comfortable naked. Then he felt self-conscious and turned on the taps. The tiles began to steam up. My grandfather dipped his hand into the water and stirred it. He modified the temperature several times. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and waited.

The gushing taps stopped rippling the surface. The water turned from opaque to clear. Slowly, my grandfather dipped one foot in, then the other, testing the temperature with his buttocks. He remained sitting in the tub with his knees bent and his arms wrapped round his legs. He sighed. Far-off episodes came back to him: a boy in short trousers on a bicycle delivering bread; an obese, bedridden lady giving him instructions and demanding breakfast; a tall, fair-haired gentleman, vaguely foreign, patting his head on the quayside of the port; a gigantic, red, white and black liner sailing into the distance; green, open fields, a house with no chimney; the small library an erect boy explored at night, amid the obese lady’s cries; an unattended funeral, an enormous coffin; a different house, with more light, a beautiful young woman smiling at him; a boy in short trousers, on a bicycle, who would never have to deliver bread at dawn; another girl doing her homework in the kitchen; a factory, scores of nameless shadows and a few friendly faces; a boy and a girl, no longer on bicycles, no longer with exercise books; a wedding; another wedding; an empty house, less light; a companionable, soothing voice; the identical walks on identical mornings; a bittersweet peace; the consulting room at a clinic; a doctor talking nonsense; an old woman going out shopping; an oblong envelope handwritten in blue ink on the dining room table; a naked old man, curled up, surrounded by still water.

There was no sound, apart from the soft dripping of one of the taps. Drop by drop he counted up to ten, twenty, thirty, fifty, reaching a hundred drops. He unfolded his arms, and, holding his head, he lay back until his spine was pressing against the marble bottom. Under the water, amid opaque reflections, my grandfather pressed his lips firmly together so no air would escape and forced himself to lie still.

But then something unforeseen happened, something I have imagined: all of a sudden my grandfather sat up energetically and began gasping. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair turned into a jellyfish; but he was still breathing. This time, no image appeared in his mind. He was alone with the water, the taps, the tiles, the bathtub, the steam and the mirror, his naked body. I know that at that moment, breathless and alone, my grandfather must have given a half-smile and attained a final well-being.

It was then, yes, that he sealed his lips and eyelids once more, lay back until he could feel the marble, and my grandfather ceased to be my grandfather.

POISON

KENZABURO would pay the best fisherman in Tokyo to set aside a globefish for him. The government regulated its fishing, sale and distribution. The official price was high, so coastal restaurants would buy only a small amount each morning. The guidelines for cleaning it were strict and the penalties harsh. And all for nothing, reflected Kenzaburo, who once a week would sit in his apartment in Shinagawa and wait for the fishermen to deliver his globefish. And all for nothing, Kenzaburo told himself, for eating takifugu involved a decision that had nothing to do with the government or health and safety. Not even with hunger.

Kenzaburo had breakfasted on tea and bitter fruits. His maid, Yakomi, had discovered him standing quietly beside the wooden lattice, caressing a green and yellow vessel with his fingertips. Kenzaburo sensed he was being watched, turned his head and looked with polite disdain at Yakomi. “There is a bird,” he told her, “a white bird as fluffy as rice on the fountain in the courtyard. It pains me to see it because I know the rain will soak its feathers and it won’t be the same anymore, do you see?” Yakomi didn’t reply, she removed the black and gold tray with the breakfast things and vanished through the sliding panel.

At nine-thirty the two fishermen arrived. Yakomi ushered them in, but they bowed their heads and told her no, they mustn’t cross the threshold of such a worthy dwelling, much less dressed in rags. One of them glanced uneasily at the polished stone steps leading up to the entrance, and also at Yakomi’s ankles. She asked them to wait. She went to Kenzaburo to explain the fishermen’s qualms. Kenzaburo flew into a rage (a measured, whispered, sardonic rage, the way violence always manifested itself in him) and he ordered her to show the fishermen in at once, and to offer them bamboo tea, as well as two of his finest kimonos.

Seated on the tatami mat in the reception room, Kenzaburo contemplated the designs on the lampshades. Silence prevailed, save for the occasional sound of metal or porcelain from the kitchen. The wooden flooring had grown darker. At the back of the room, on a folding table, there was a picture of a young woman. The photograph had aged despite its immaculate silver frame. The girl’s blurred face was smiling with an air of forgetfulness. Kenzaburo looked away from the portrait, and thought about the fishermen who had just left his house having scarcely tasted their tea.

Instead of rejoicing, the fishermen had seemed distressed by the apparent burden of being entertained by such an honourable gentleman, when they knew they could never return the compliment. Perhaps by bringing more fish, Kenzaburo had joked, but one of the men shook his head. Noticing their timid voices, their skins scoured by the salt, Kenzaburo had felt sad. To cheer himself up, he asked them about the day’s catch, and the fishermen told him that, as it was Sunday, they had caught mainly mackerel and herring, so that they could return to their families sooner. When Yakomi had brought in the tea, Kenzaburo noticed one of the fishermen shift uneasily. At that moment, another tedious silence had descended, and then Kenzaburo observed how curious it was that the words in French for fish and poison were almost identical. Neither of the two fishermen showed much interest in this coincidence, but one of them said that the globefish they had brought him was the finest specimen they had ever had the honour to catch thanks to the divine intervention of the almighty Amaterasu. The other nodded. Kenzaburo’s gaze wandered up to the rafters for a moment, and then he had felt cold all of a sudden. Thanking the fishermen for their careful selection of his globefish, he had paid them too much, had acknowledged their flustered bows, called Yakomi, watched the three figures slip through the red sliding panel, and then solitude.

At about eleven o’clock, Kenzaburo ordered the kitchen staff to start. Then he picked up the wicker basket and from between the bamboo leaves removed a cool, moist parcel, which he unwrapped until he could feel the gelatinous skin of the takifugu whose eyes remained intact and open, the eyeballs tensed as though still able to see. The upper membranes were black, with brown streaks that matched the protective spines. Kenzaburo could have sworn the globefish looked tired, as if it had welcomed death as a relief after many years. Yet he knew that was not possible, because globefish lived only a few months before they sacrificed themselves by bursting the poisonous glands in their own stomachs. In the fish’s imperceptible white mouth, with its almost human lips, translucent sputum glistened. Kenzaburo wrapped the fish up again and called Yakomi, who took rather longer than was appropriate to appear behind the printed screen. “Take the fish to the cook,” he told her without averting his eyes from the lattice window, “and tell her to have it ready by twelve-thirty.” Yakomi gave the impression of wanting to say something, but then walked away, her feet gently tapping the floor.

The globefish was wonderful when seasoned with oregano. Although it was more of a Western tradition, Kenzaburo always insisted on a pinch of oregano warmed in oil to take the edge off the globefish’s initial bitter taste, which always chafed the roof of his mouth slightly before dissolving completely and oozing a kind of sweetened sandstone. Yes, the initial taste was the problem, that hostility takifugu showed towards life and mankind, even after death. Why was a deadly fish so delicious? Kenzaburo reflected on the idea of punishment and rose from the mat to light some incense. But rather than sit down again, he stood next to the lattice, listening to the trickle of the fountain. Was there any point in regulating the fishing and sale of globefish? He couldn’t see any. After all, there were plenty of other species in the seas around Japan that were equally nourishing and much cheaper. Surely anyone ordering globefish for lunch knows full well what they are exposing themselves to? Chefs had to know how to extract the poisonous bile before seasoning the fish, but what could the government do about that? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. Kenzaburo shook his head.

At twenty past twelve, Yakomi slipped between two shafts of light to inform Kenzaburo that his lunch was almost ready, and to ask him if he would be so kind as to take a seat at the dining table. From there only a corner of the courtyard was visible, and he was scarcely able to hear the flow of the fountain. Through the bars of the dining room window he could see a cherry tree in blossom, like pink mist beneath the sky. It was hot. The chink of cutlery and glasses reached him from the kitchen. He called Yakomi. He demanded they make less noise, but she told him they had just finished. “Then let them bring it to me,” said Kenzaburo.

The pottery dish was placed in the exact centre of the table. Encircling it, a fruit and rice salad. Yakomi filled his cup with sake. Kenzaburo smiled, for the first time that morning. The young woman was slightly alarmed and swiftly turned her head away. He looked at the globefish, lying on its side whole on the dish, surrounded by vegetables. Then he had a premonition. He took a sip of sake, and called Yakomi back as she made to return to the kitchen. “Yakomi,” he whispered, “tell the cook that I am giving the two of you the rest of Sunday off. Take a stroll around Tokyo, you never leave the house. Go on.” Yakomi stammered her appreciation and vanished, sliding her feet softly as though trying not to awaken Kenzaburo from some unusual dream. Soon afterwards came the sounds of the front door and the garden gate.

Kenzaburo poured himself some more sake, but he did not drink it. The globefish seemed to pulsate and glint through the black buttons of its eyes. He sighed. Then he sat listening to his own sigh echoing in his memory. He closed his eyes, and saw before him the phantom of a pale-skinned young woman smiling at him from afar. He returned to the centre of the table, to the dish, the rice salad, the cup, maroon on the outside, cream-coloured on the inside. He drew the dish closer to his plate and thrust the knife into the globefish’s stomach, helping himself to the portion between the middle of the abdomen and the start of the tail. The flesh yielded passively. A thick, fragrant effluvium seeped through the incision. Kenzaburo began cutting the portion into tiny pieces, waiting for it to cool. He soon realized he could no longer hear the fountain, and everything was sweeter.

MAN SHOT

WHEN MOYANO, hands tied and icy-nosed, heard the command “Ready!”, he suddenly remembered his Spanish grandfather had told him that in his country they usually said “Load!” As he recalled his deceased grandfather, it seemed to him unreal that nightmares should come true. That’s what Moyano thought: that we usually invoke, possibly out of cowardice, the supposed danger of realizing our desires, yet we tend to omit the sinister possibility that our fears may also come true. He did not think this as a matter of syntax, word for word, but did feel the sour impact of its conclusion: he was about to be shot, and nothing seemed to him more implausible, in spite of the fact that, in his circumstances, it ought to have seemed to him the most logical thing ever to happen in Argentina. Was it logical to hear “Aim”? To anyone, at least to anyone decent, that order could never sound rational, even though the entire squad was lined up, their rifles perpendicular to their bodies like branches to the trunk of a tree, and no matter how often during his captivity the general had threatened that exactly this would happen to him. Moyano was ashamed at the lack of sincerity in this reasoning, and of the sham of appealing to decency. Who, at the point of being shot, could worry about such a thing? wasn’t survival the only human value, or perhaps less than human value, that now really mattered to him? was he trying to lie to himself? to die with some sense of glory? to make a moral distinction between himself and his executioners, as a pathetic form of the salvation in which he had never believed? Moyano didn’t exactly think all this, but he intuited it, he understood it, mentally nodding as if at somebody else’s dictation. The general bellowed “Fire!”, Moyano shut his eyes, screwing them up so tightly that they hurt, trying to hide from everything, from himself as well, behind the eyelids, it seemed to him ignoble to die like this, eyes closed, his last gaze should at least be vengeful, he wanted to open them, but didn’t, he remained motionless, thought of shouting out something, insulting somebody, he searched for one or two suitable offensive words, but they did not come. What a clumsy death, he thought, and then immediately: What if we have been fooled? Doesn’t everybody die this way, as best they can? The next sound, the last Moyano heard, was the click of triggers. Far less disturbing, more harmonious even, than he had ever imagined.

That ought to have been the last sound, but he heard something more. To his amazement and confusion, things went on making noise. His eyes still shut, glued by panic, he heard the general shouting, “Sissy, weep, sissy!”, he heard the firing squad convulse with laughter, heard the birds singing, hesitantly sniffed the delicious morning air, savoured the dry saliva between his lips. “Weep, sissy, weep!” the general was still shouting when Moyano opened his eyes, as the squad was dispersing, their backs to him, chatting about the joke, leaving him sprawled there, kneeling in the mud, panting, all dead.

OUTSIDE NO BIRDS WERE SINGING

THE USUAL LIGHT was falling on the furniture in the study. The blinds shuffled the shadows like playing cards. Next to several scrupulously lined-up files, a water jug cast distortions and reflections. In the centre, Doctor Freidemberg’s neat, pale hand was scrawling on one of the sheets. The stark white of her coat was playing chess with the black leather armchair.

The telephone interrupted her writing.

Yes? Doctor Freidemberg, Doctor! Yes, what is it? Doctor, this is the end! I’m sorry, who’s calling? It’s me, Castillo! Ah, how are you, Castillo? what can I do for you? I’m calling to tell you I’m going to kill myself. What’s that, Castillo? I’m planning to kill myself the moment I put the phone down, I’m calling because I promised to tell you before I did it, apart from that, I haven’t got much else to say. But, Castillo, you must be aware that… Absolutely, doctor, absolutely. Let’s see, Castillo, why don’t you have a spot of lunch instead, then come to my consulting room this afternoon and explain everything to me in person. You’re forgetting that my appointments are on Thursdays, Doctor. But this is an emergency, Castillo, we can bring Thursday’s session forward to today. On the contrary, it’s extremely simple, all it involves is to thank you for your understanding all this time and to inform you I’m going to hang myself in my daughter’s bedroom, you’ve been a great help to me, Doctor, you can’t imagine how calm I feel now I know I have to die. Listen to me, Castillo, you’re to take a taxi this instant and come straight here, I’ll be expecting you in half an hour, and anyway, what are you thinking of, hanging yourself in your daughter’s bedroom? My daughter left home a fortnight ago, as you know very well. Caramba, I know that, but all the same! do you think it would be nice for your daughter to find out that her father hanged himself in the same room where she slept so often, how do you think that would make her feel? You’re right there, Doctor, it’s just that the only suitable light fitting is in my daughter’s room, I’m not trying to hurt her feelings, quite the opposite, I’ve just left her a long, long letter explaining everything in great detail. You’ve written a letter? Yes, Doctor, and I can assure you that it is sufficiently emotional for my daughter not to take my suicide as something personal. But Castillo, how long have you been thinking about this? Well, I couldn’t tell you exactly, in fact if you think about it carefully you come to the conclusion that you’ve been thinking about it more or less your whole life, this sort of thing isn’t done on an impulse, Doctor, don’t try to convince me, because it’s a matter of principle, we’ve talked about it often enough, so I don’t know why you’re so surprised. But this last month we haven’t so much as touched on the subject! Precisely, Doctor, precisely, my mind was already made up, so there was nothing more to say about it. There is always a great deal more to say, believe you me. Oh, yes? such as what, for example? Such as for example your wife’s unfaithfulness, until now we’ve been analysing your wife’s faults more than your own. I don’t need you to remind me of them, Doctor, I’m paying for my own faults myself, and I’m doing a good job of it, there’s the rope, just waiting for me. But aren’t you afraid of death, Castillo? Death is beautiful, Doctor. How do you know? I know, believe me, I know. I can’t believe you, because you and I are alive, thank heavens. It’s such a poor thing to be alive, Doctor. What are you saying? I’m saying that a corpse is a body that has known life, whereas we don’t know what it means to be dead, and so we are missing something. They are the ones missing something, they’re missing life, Castillo, life, which is what enables you to talk such nonsense to me on the telephone! The dead are wiser. Wisdom is memory, Castillo! Yes, but the most perfect memory is the one the dead leave behind. All right, listen, I’ll make a deal with you: from now on we’ll devote our sessions to discussing the idea of death, we can spend hours analysing books, films, our own and other people’s experiences related to death and then, after some time, we’ll be in a position to say we know as much or more about death as the dead do about living, except with one marvellous advantage: we’ll still be here to tell the story, whereas they won’t: what do you reckon?

Answer me, Castillo, what do you reckon? You’re trying to persuade me, damn it, you’re always trying to persuade me of something, I’m sick and tired of your making me think I’ve got it wrong. Oh, it’s life itself doing the persuading. No, Doctor, life has persuaded me I should hang myself, you can’t understand it because things are going so well for you, but there is no reason why wretches like me have to go on suffering the humiliation of getting up every morning and avoiding mirrors so that we don’t weep with shame over the dreams we had when we were young. How would you know how many dreams I’ve had to give up on, Castillo? You’re right, I don’t know, but I do know that at this moment you’re in your consulting room, with a wall full of diplomas, a fulfilling vocation and a good income, a damned good income! as if I didn’t know how much you steal from your patients… Castillo! Of course, it must be comforting for you to spend your days listening to other people’s troubles, then arrive home and say to yourself: peace at last! and go out to dinner or to see a film with a pleasant companion, and afterwards go for a stroll in the centre, thinking: what a lovely night…! You’re making a mistake, Castillo. And then arriving home again and pouring yourself a nightcap, putting some music on… I tell you, you’re mistaken! And then you go into your bedroom, you let them slowly undress you… Now listen to me… And fuck like a bitch in heat until dawn… Castillo, how dare you!

Doctor Freidemberg lit a cigarette.

Doctor, forgive me for intruding into your sex life, I’m rather on edge, although let’s admit that you know all there is to know about mine, well anyway, a thousand pardons, I don’t want to die with a bad conscience. Listen very carefully: I’m glad you withdrew your comment, but that’s not the point, Castillo, you need to stop thinking about yourself so much and to open up to others, you think you know about life but you only ever focus on your own, it’s natural you think you’re unhappy because it never occurs to you to consider the problems other people have. The thing is, my problems are more serious than other people’s, Doctor. We all have conflicts, Castillo. You don’t say: what serious problems could a woman like you have, for example? Look, to start with, since you’re so curious, let me tell you that I’ve been divorced for seven years, and that ever since I have seldom had the opportunity to have a candlelit dinner, as you describe it. I didn’t say that, I simply said you had a drink and put some music on, you see, you see, at least you can enjoy the privilege of a romantic night from time to time, you have no right to complain. And what have you to say about enjoying the privilege of two further separations, as well as losing the lawsuit with my husband over the divorce settlement, does that sound romantic to you? I’m well aware of what it means to split up with someone, Doctor, and to be the one cheated on. Well, I haven’t had that pleasure, instead I had the honour of leaving the man who used to beat me up. What, your husband used to beat you? No, not my husband: the other one I used to enjoy candlelit dinners with. Goodness! So, Castillo, as you can see, you need to learn to think of other people. I’m not sure, Doctor, all I can think now is that we should commit suicide together. I’ve never thought of taking my own life, Castillo. That’s your business, in my case other people’s problems are no consolation for my own. But your problems aren’t that serious, Castillo, you’ve told me them all and I can assure you that I know a lot of patients in your situation, and some even worse off! So you think it’s interesting to compare other people’s misfortunes? From a strictly professional point of view, yes, I do. In other words, the more we patients suffer, the better for you. Don’t talk nonsense! The worse it is for us, the more money and experience you accumulate, is that it? I’ve just shown you that I know what personal pain is, Castillo. Fine, so why don’t you analyse yourself and let the rest of us hang ourselves in peace? Castillo, I’m starting to feel that I should give up and let you do something stupid… Oh, is that so? Yes, it is. Well, I’m not going to give you that pleasure, you cow! Please don’t insult me. All I’m doing is calling you by your name, you whore of deception, you witch of madness, will you shut up for once. Castillo! So I should hang myself, is that it, so that on the day of my funeral you can think: we did all that was professionally possible, but in the end he deserved it? How on earth could you imagine such a…! Too bad, I’m not going to hang myself after all, and that’s that, too bad for you! who do you think you are? and anyway, I’m going to screw you twice over: you won’t get to go to my funeral, and you won’t have a patient at six on Thursdays either, have a good life, witch!

Doctor Freidemberg held the telephone in her hand for several seconds. She could hear a monotonous buzz coming from the receiver. Finally she put it back on the cradle, searched for a key in her pocket and opened one of the drawers. She picked up one of the filing cards, wrote some notes on it, put it back in the drawer. An amber grid of light scraped the desk and her coat sleeves. Outside no birds were singing. Almost empty, the water jug cast glinting distortions and reflections.

THE LAUGHING SUICIDE

IT’S ALWAYS THE SAME. I load the weapon. I raise it. I stare down the barrel for a moment, as if it had something to tell me. I point it at my left temple (yes, I’m a lefty, so what?). I take a deep breath. Screw up my eyes. Wrinkle my brow. Caress the trigger. Notice that my first finger is moist. I slowly release my strength, very cautiously, as if there was a gas leak inside me. Clench my teeth. Almost. My finger bends back. Now. And then, as always, the same thing happens: a burst of laughter. An instantaneous laugh so raw and meaningless that my muscles quiver, forces me to drop the gun, knocks me off the chair, prevents me from shooting.

I don’t know what the devil my mouth is laughing at. It’s inexplicable. However downhearted I feel, however ghastly the day seems, however convinced I am that the world would be a better place without my annoying presence, there is something about the situation, about the metallic feel of the butt, the solemnity of the silence, my sweat dripping like pills, what can I say, there is something impossible to define that I find dreadfully comic in spite of myself. A millimetre before the trigger gives way, before the bullet travels to the source of rest, my guffaws invade the room, bounce off the window panes, scamper through the furniture, turn the whole house upside down. I’m afraid my neighbours also hear them, and to add insult to injury, conclude I am a happy man.

Devote your life to humour, a friend suggested when I told him of my tragedy. But except when I’m committing suicide, I don’t find any jokes funny.

This problem of mine, this laughter, is going to test my patience to the limit. I am ashamed of the ridiculous euphoria that ripples through my stomach as the weapon falls to the floor. Each time this mishap occurs, and although I’ve always been a man of my word, I offer myself a brief postponement. A week. Two. A month, at most. And in the meantime, of course, I try to have fun.

AFTER ELENA

AFTER ELENA’S DEATH, I decided to forgive all my enemies. Our belief that important decisions are taken gradually, that they evolve over time, reassures us. But time doesn’t make anything evolve. It only erodes, retracts, ruptures.

I switched the furniture around. I cleared out her things. I gave her study a thorough clean. A week later, I donated all her clothes to a hospice. I didn’t even feel the consolation of charity: I had done it for myself.

I had always imagined that losing the person you loved would feel like opening up a bottomless hole, starting off a permanent absence. When I lost Elena, the exact opposite happened. I felt closed off inside. Without purpose, or desires, or fears. As though each day were the postponement of something that had in fact ended.

I carried on going to the university, not so much to safeguard my routine or my salary. The ridiculous savings we had set aside for who knows when, together with the money from the insurance, would have allowed me some unpaid leave. I went on teaching simply in order to find out whether the obvious youthfulness of the new students could persuade me that time was still ticking by, that the future still existed.

One afternoon, browsing through my contacts list in search of a friendly name, I made two simultaneous decisions: to start smoking again and to tell my enemies that I forgave them. The first was an attempt to show myself that, although Elena was no more, I was still breathing. To draw my attention to the fact that I survived each cigarette. The second was unplanned. It wasn’t an act of kindness. I regarded it as something inevitable, a fait accompli. I simply saw the names Melchor, Ariel, Rubén, Nora. At first I tried to resist the idea. But as I lit each match (I have always preferred the leisureliness of matches to the instancy of lighters), I thought: Melchor, Ariel, Rubén, Nora.

Melchor hated me because we were alike. Two people whose ambitions are similar constantly remind each other of their own pettiness. I hated him from the start. Although I admired him too, something I doubt he reciprocated. Not because I was better than Melchor, but out of vanity: I admired in him everything that, in some way, I myself took pride in. And it upset me that Melchor didn’t acknowledge the same thing in me. I fooled myself for a while into believing this was because I was nobler than he. As the university years and departmental meetings went by, I came to realize that my unrequited admiration was based on a brutal coherence on Melchor’s part. To him, we were enemies, and that was that.

The most despicable about him was his fake disinterest. I couldn’t stand the way he coveted everything with a look of humility. Such a deception, as unmistakable to me as an umbrella on a sunny day, won him numerous supporters. More than half the department was on Melchor’s side, and his acolytes would religiously repeat the same old tired refrain about what a principled man he was, incorruptible and far-removed from the traffic of influences the rest of us were caught up in. That, and not his academic recognition, was what most exasperated me. In the early days I made a few attempts at rapprochement, whether out of weakness or tactically, I am not sure. But Melchor was unbending, he rebuffed me harshly, and left me in no doubt on two counts. He would never stoop to diplomacy where I was concerned. And, deep down inside, he feared me as much as I did him.

Over the past few years we had scarcely exchanged two words. The odd, sardonically courteous greeting at this or that meeting. On those occasions, the moment I went anywhere near him, Melchor would hurriedly surround himself with his crowd and do his best to look nonchalant. My strategy was different: I would stop to speak to his lackeys, be extremely friendly to them and, as I moved away, relish the thought that I had sown a few seeds of doubt among his camp.

The enmity between Ariel and me was quite different. Perhaps it was more violent. Although for that precise reason it was more innocuous. Ariel was, so to speak, a classically envious person. And, like all people of his kind, his fury turned against his own interests and slowly ate away what little happiness he had. Because he was capable of arousing a certain aggression in me that was out of character, many assumed I considered him my worst enemy. And yet I sensed something purifying about my fits of rage at Ariel, and I thought I perceived beneath my hostility a tiny, surprising hint of compassion. Tormented beings enjoy that advantage: they obtain from us, perhaps unfairly, greater goodwill than those whose capacity for pleasure is intact. Needless suffering in others never upsets us as much as well-earned happiness.

While Ariel languished in the lower echelons of academia, he made life impossible for three or four of us who were his colleagues. When at last he obtained his tenure, he appeared to calm down and we formed one of those relationships of false camaraderie that came so naturally to me. Of course, I never lowered my guard. I continued to observe his movements, and tried to make use of his supposed complicity whenever a conflict arose in the department. I am sure Ariel did the same. I know that, years earlier, he was the one responsible for the rumour about me sleeping with a student reaching Elena’s ears. Since communication between Elena and me (our treasure) enabled us to set things straight, I never let Ariel know that I had discovered his ruse. I let the matter pass and went about watching with satisfaction and pity the way, forever single, forever deprived of love, he continued to be consumed with envy. When he called to offer his condolences, Ariel’s parting words stuck in my craw: “I can’t even imagine how it must feel to lose a woman like Elena.” I still don’t know whether it was a movingly honest gesture, or the cruellest jibe.

What can I say about my enmity with Rubén? It was lacking in passion. Devoid of fireworks. More than an act of war, our mutual hatred was a habit. There was something mysterious and fascinating about the way in which, from the very beginning, we calmly recognized each other as rivals. Elena insisted on introducing us one winter morning, with that joyful enthusiasm it was impossible to resist. Rubén and I shook hands, looked each other in the eye and knew we would never be friends. He played his cards, I played mine. He gave a grimace of disgust, the same one he always wears, and I smiled at him with my most exemplary hypocrisy.

Although from that day on we never ceased to wish each other the worst, I think it is fair to add that neither of us lifted a finger against the other. We were like a couple of funambulists walking along parallel ropes: it was about seeing who would be the first to fall. At Elena’s request, we even lunched together fairly often. Needless to say, Rubén always wanted to sleep with her, assuming he didn’t actually succeed. Precisely for that reason, because I know he desired her so much, I am sure that when he came to the house to offer me his condolences, his grief was genuine.

*

I couldn’t fail to include Nora in my list of enemies. I think I am a man who, for the most part, has got along well with women. By that I mean: who has known how to listen to women, to enjoy their company beyond or besides having sex with them and to sense what might wound their self-respect, which is probably the only important thing. That was what Elena always told me anyway, she who believed I was far better than I really am. But with Nora none of those supposed qualities appeared to work. My unwise decision to sleep with her for some time when we were students was enough for me to have to wrestle with her intelligent ghost for the rest of my days. Nora would resurface once or twice a year, apparently reserved and secretly resentful. She would inform me, with a knowing look, that someone had done me down behind my back. She would remind me, as if in passing, of the treachery of one of my ex-colleagues. She would allude, chuckling, to any time when I had behaved shamefully. She would bemoan how much she had loved me and how little I had loved her. She would ask me about my marriage. She would disappear for a while. And I would be left with a vague sense of unease. When at last that began to dissipate, Nora would write to inform me of some fresh personal misfortune or fill me in on her latest conquests. I recall the way Elena, who rarely disliked anyone seriously, felt repelled whenever she greeted Nora. She said Nora would clench her teeth when their cheeks brushed.

At this point, the pitiful question arises: why did I not then reject Nora? Why, instead of passively keeping up the distant friendship of our youth, did I not have the courage to banish her from my life? There are several reasons, and none of them absolves me. In the first place, guilt had the effect on me of a sordid brake. I had hurt Nora once. That weighed me down. With a mixture of fear and vanity, I preferred not to tarnish my image any further in the eyes of a person as potentially vengeful as her. Elena used to disapprove of my excessive compassion towards Nora. She was mistaken in that regard. Guilt is incapable of compassion: the guilty only help others for their own relief.

Secondly, Nora had a vulnerability about her which, in an instinctive and, I suppose, arrogant way compelled me to help her. I have always tried in the main to avoid being patronizing. Elena never allowed it. But somehow Nora managed to arouse that in me. Lastly, I confess that, despite everything, I still desired Nora. I desired her with a kind of carnal resentment. Her behaviour outraged me and her presence excited me. There are some people who possess the virtue of making us more luminous, like Elena. And others, like Nora, who have the unsettling ability to remind us of how dark we are. In a sense, that is a virtue.

The day I decided, I didn’t give it a second thought. And, striking one match after another, I rang Melchor, Ariel, Rubén, Nora.

Their initial scepticism seemed entirely logical to me. I would have been even more wary of them than they were of me. Perhaps the loss of Elena contributed to their believing me. The memory of death makes us touchingly susceptible to the yes, and painfully fearful of the no. So no matter how much they despised me my enemies pitied me. Perhaps that proves how relative hatred is.

As soon as she heard my voice, Nora asked whether I was still on my own. I breathed in and told her that I just needed to talk. At first she went on the defensive, as though afraid I might reproach her. But within two hours of meeting at a café, she confessed tearfully what she had kept to herself for twenty years. All I had to do was mention a few of my mistakes, show her that I knew I hadn’t been honest with her and confess how miserable she had made me, for Nora to launch into an admirable and, at times, fierce, exercise in self-criticism. I don’t know which of us felt more taken aback by the situation. Rather than risk prolonging our meeting, we cautiously said goodbye just before dinnertime.

Of my other three enemies, Ariel was the most receptive. Perhaps because inside every classically envious person is a frustrated admirer. To begin with, Rubén didn’t seem particularly sympathetic or inclined to open up. But my reasoning was so brusque and to the point that he couldn’t help but be visibly moved when he left, no matter how much he tried to hide it, including in the discreet embrace he gave me on parting. My conversation with Melchor was more devious. I even thought my efforts would fall on deaf ears. If I had to pick a few words out of all those I said to him during our meeting, perhaps I would choose these: “I’m telling you the truth precisely because you’re the one I hated most of all.” Melchor understood that the motive behind such a declaration of hostility could only be sincere.

I encouraged my four enemies to admit they considered me a hateful person. That they had on many occasions wished me the worst. That they had rejoiced at each of my failures. But, above all, I made them realize that I understood them perfectly because I had felt exactly the same way towards them. I had gone so far as to dream they would suffer, lose their jobs or have some sort of accident. I had tried to justify all of that by pretending I was morally superior, or that my motives were somehow more acceptable than theirs. And that there was no use denying those things or feeling ashamed of them, because in the end, they and I, us and our worst enemies, would soon die. And to live hating was far worse than to die loving.

I didn’t feel happy after my talks with Melchor, Ariel, Rubén and Nora (happy isn’t the word after Elena), but I did feel more in control of my grief. On all four occasions, I wept at some point in front of my enemies. And each time, with the exception of Melchor, they cried with me. As if to make up for it, Melchor was the first to reach out to me. A week after we met, he came by my office to invite me to lunch.

What is more harmful to us? If one isn’t prepared to love others, that mutilated love, that failure of our well-being, does it console or torment us? I couldn’t say exactly how long it was before I felt bad again, and I decided to have that get-together at my place.

It was painful, and at the same time oddly reassuring, to see for the first time Melchor, Ariel, Rubén and Nora, at whose hands I had suffered so much in the past, gathered at my house, smiling. At the same house where I had loved Elena, and had spoken ill of them in a confiding tone. In order to ease the rapport between my four guests, I made sure there was lively music and plenty to drink. They were all more or less punctual (Nora arrived last) and I casually introduced them to each other. Apart from Melchor and Ariel, of course, who knew each other from the university. Perhaps that was the first time they had met up in the evening.

After some initial awkwardness, I confess that the conversation became pleasant and, at times, jovial. As the hours went by, we even allowed ourselves to joke about our old quarrels. Melchor was droll, and unusually loquacious. To the point where I would even say that Ariel felt sick with jealousy and desperately sought my approval. Rubén maintained his guarded manner, though that didn’t stop him from being friendly and polite. Nora veered between pensive silence and fits of unbridled euphoria. During one of these, she made as though to kiss me. She corrected her own gesture without my having to recoil, and ended up planting her lips on my cheek.

In the early hours, slightly the worse for drink, I drew the attention of my four guests. I raised my arm and declared a toast to all those who truly know each other, that is, without innocence. Melchor, Ariel, Rubén and Nora seconded my toast amid applause. We continued opening bottles. Nora and Rubén started to dance, pressed against each other. It startled me to see them. Ariel sat down beside me and spoke in hushed tones about academic disputes. Melchor started browsing through my books and records. I smoked until I had a hole in my throat.

A little later, I don’t recall exactly at what time, I announced I was going down to buy cigarettes. Nora walked over to me, draped her arm round my neck and, putting on one of her sad little faces, asked me to bring her a packet as well. I said I would. I smiled. I looked at them all. Melchor, Ariel, Rubén, Nora. Then I left the house and locked the door.

A CIGARETTE

VÁZQUEZ CLEARED his throat, rolled up his right sleeve and slammed his knuckles into Rojo’s forehead. Rojo’s head disappeared for a moment, seemed to touch the back of the chair and bounced into place with an elastic shudder.

“Go easy,” Artigas warned.

“He’s a sonofabitch,” retorted Vázquez.

Artigas looked straight into Vázquez’s bulging eyes.

“Yeah, but go easy,” he said.

Vázquez gave a heavy sigh and examined his knuckles, which had begun to sting. He had forgotten to take off his wedding ring. Vázquez had just separated: he had been forced to teach his wife a lesson, and then leave her, the whore. He made to strike Rojo again, but Artigas intervened, gently raising his hands. Vázquez observed Rojo’s half-open bleeding lips. He whispered into his ear:

“Sonofabitch, I’m going to pull your teeth out one by one, you piece of shit.”

Contrary to what Artigas was starting to suspect, Rojo had heard that last remark as well as all the previous ones. He had noticed, as his face became disfigured by the punches, that his hearing had grown more acute. While the bridge of his nose, his throat, tongue and cheeks were becoming a shapeless pulp, Rojo heard with perfect clarity Vázquez’s raucous abuse and his hawking, the rushing sound of his own blood, the pounding of his veins, the electric buzz of the lamps trained on him, Artigas’s measured interventions, his own muffled groans, the endless alarm clock in the house which had gone off at seven o’clock sharp as it did every morning and had not alerted him to the danger. Behind the blinding haze of the lamps, he heard Vázquez’s voice:

“This piece of shit can’t hear a thing any more, Artigas.”

Rojo understood that Artigas responded in the affirmative and agreed they should finish things off, although he no longer recalled what it was they had to finish off, nor was he capable of connecting what they were saying to himself. He knew they were talking, talking about someone who had to talk and hadn’t talked, someone they had to beat up and find out, or find out and beat up, or something of the sort. What were they talking about? They were shouting so loud and he could only just see out of one eye. He tried to open it more, felt the pain of a seam being pulled off his eyelid and then the stab of real light, from the lamps, not his memory of the lamps. He saw Vázquez’s hulking back, and, above his shoulder, peeping out as from on top of a wall, Artigas’s perfectly shaven face, eyebrows and lips moving. Now the sound had gone out of everything. The room was like a television with the volume turned down. Closing his eyelid again, Rojo discovered Beatriz’s face offering comforting, healing words. For a moment his ribs no longer ached and he felt like smiling.

Suddenly Vázquez turned towards him. His shirt and tie were spattered with stains. What had Vázquez hurt himself with? Why was he shouting so much?

“Playing the tough guy, huh, Rojito?”

The sound had come back.

“Anyone would think you’re enjoying yourself, sonofabitch.” Rojo felt a grenade explode next to his mouth, somewhere soft. He tasted the bitter-sweet density of the blood and spat some of it out. Another grenade exploded on his chest: his throat became a spiralling corkscrew. The lamps dissolved and Rojo was on a very high swing, daydreaming, his face turned towards the sky, as if he were about to fall asleep. The sky was overcast and his mother was calling out to him. Then, for a split second, his mother had Beatriz’s naked form, her generous breasts. Then someone turned on the two lights and the ceiling came together again. Artigas was speaking to him very slowly:

“Listen, Rojo, we’re going to have to kill you.”

Vázquez was leaving the room.

“Believe me, I’m sorry,” Artigas added. “It goes with the job, you know that better than anyone.”

Rojo had a sudden flash of clarity. He opened his good eye, raised his head as much as he could and recognized Artigas’s sharp nose, his clear blue eyes, his perfect shave.

“Where’s Vázquez?” Rojo burbled.

Artigas grinned. He placed a hand on Rojo’s shoulder.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked; Rojo shook his head and Artigas grinned again. “You’re one of a kind, Rojo, one of a kind. You don’t miss a trick, do you? Vázquez went for a piss. That’s why I’m being honest with you, Rojo: it pains me to see you like this. I would have preferred to mow you down with the car when you left the house, but that idiot got it into his head we could worm something out of you if we were patient enough. Everyone has their breaking point, it’s just a question of finding it, Vázquez told me, he’ll have to spill the beans some time. And I replied: You don’t know Rojo, Vázquez, you don’t know him. And you can see, I was right.”

During Artigas’s speech, Rojo had recovered his sense of time and, above all, the awareness of what was being said to him and why. Absurdly, he remembered it was Sunday the 16th and that the following day the pet dog he had as a child, an enormous Saint Bernard, would have been thirty-seven. Instantly his mind returned to the room: Vázquez and Artigas were going to kill him. His old partner, and his old partner’s new partner were going to kill him because he hadn’t talked. If he had talked they would have killed him anyway, but have felt more gratified. Fuck their curiosity then. While his goon was taking a piss, Artigas was apologizing, and he was a motherfucking sonofabitch and a true professional. It was understandable that they wanted revenge, Rojo reflected, but it was absurd to try to humiliate him as well by turning him into an informer. They had tied him to a chair in the living room, they had broken his wrists on the same table where two days earlier he had made love with Beatriz, they had blindfolded and unblindfolded him several times, they had kicked his knees and his shins, they had burned his ear lobes with a lighter and they had asked him the same question a thousand times. A thousand times Rojo had said nothing, not out of bravery: he was simply aware that it made no difference if he confessed. He was familiar with his old partner’s methods, and so had decided to give himself the satisfaction of messing up their business. He too was a professional. A far better one than Vázquez, needless to say. Perhaps not much better than Artigas, although certainly more resolute. Artigas liked to take his time over everything.

Rojo heard the door go behind him. Vázquez was in front of him again. He was staring at him with a mocking expression.

“Damn it, Artigas, it seems the patient has improved! What did you do to him?”

“He fucked me up the ass,” Rojo replied.

Artigas celebrated Rojo’s wisecrack with a guffaw. Vázquez made a face like he hadn’t quite understood and thought someone had called him a queer.

“I’m going to slice your balls off, you piece of shit!” he bawled at Rojo.

“Vázquez,” Artigas declared abruptly. “Enough, Vázquez. Thank you.”

Vázquez stared straight at Artigas, who held his gaze until Vázquez lowered his eyes. Then he shrugged and, tucking his stained tie into his trousers, said:

“Well, he’s your friend, not mine.”

And he started to leave. Before he reached the door between the living room and the hallway, he added:

“At least I don’t kill my friends.”

Unflappable, Artigas corrected him:

“You’ve never had any friends, Vázquez.”

Rojo heard a door slam behind him. When he looked back at Artigas, he noticed he was no longer grinning at him. Artigas was silent now and was staring into his eyes. A trickle of blood escaped from between Rojo’s lips when he admitted:

“It hurts, Artigas. It hurts all over.”

But he wasn’t exactly complaining. Artigas understood.

“I can imagine,” said Artigas. “Don’t worry. You’ve held out long enough.”

“A lot longer than you would have,” said Rojo.

Artigas, pensive, replied:

“Probably.”

Then he plunged his hand into his jacket and Rojo concentrated on the glare from the lamps, on clenching his jaw and waiting for the shot. Yet the way Artigas’s arm moved seemed odd, and, feeling his neck crack, he attempted to turn his head: Artigas was offering him a cigarette.

“Thanks,” Rojo said opening his fleshy lips.

Artigas lit Rojo’s cigarette and then another for himself. In the midst of a comforting silence, Rojo slowly carried out the simple act of breathing in smoke. Apart from the pain in his ribs, beyond it, Rojo felt as though water from a spring had returned to the dried-up riverbed of his chest, as though something had softened the channels flowing into his lungs and now everything was air, air at last. The second puff made breathing in and out feel almost normal again. By the time he was about halfway through the cigarette, a sleepy well-being had pervaded his muscles. He imagined he and Beatriz were lying in bed smoking, that they had just made love and were taking a rest before making love again. His hands tied behind his back, Rojo sucked on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of one corner of his mouth and, partially, through his blocked nose. The lamps ringed the thick blue cloud. Artigas was watching him carefully as he was about to finish his cigarette.

“Delicious, Artigas. Is it the same as usual?”

“The same as usual, Rojo,” said Artigas.

“How odd,” he said, “the tobacco tastes different.”

He figured he had two long puffs left and possibly a third short one. He decided to take the first two quickly and wait a few seconds. Then he filled his lungs, unhurriedly, exhaled all the air and drew deeply one last time on the cigarette, noting the taste of the burning strands and the burnt paper. Then he parted his lips and let the filter drop onto his trousers. A pleasantly familiar sourness had formed on the back of his tongue. With his good eye he glanced at Artigas, who was no longer smoking.

“Do you want another one?” Artigas asked.

“No, thanks,” he replied. “One is enough.”

Rojo saw that Artigas was grinning. He detected no trace of resentment in his voice when he heard him murmur:

“You’re one of a kind, Rojo, one of a kind.”

Then Artigas slipped his hand into his jacket and did his job.