Adam in Eden

Chapter 23

I can deduce many things from Adam Góngora’s visit to my office. I’ll limit myself to three observations and reactions: 1) Góngora wanted to intimidate me, to let me know that he is very powerful, as powerful as he is short, to invite an examination of his brutal track record, and to unsettle me with the question, When will it be your turn? That is, my turn.

I expected all this, and for the time being I’ll limit myself to making two things clear: a) that I understand Góngora’s intention, and b) that I am not going to step into his trap and let this diminutive person frighten me.

I need to figure out 2) what I can do to circumvent Góngora’s evil intentions?

And the unspoken aspect is that 3) Góngora showed up as the hidden lover of my wife Priscila, the Queen of Carnival, without even hinting if he knew that I myself am not faithful to Priscila, and that Priscila, in all fairness, should have the right to the same erotic privileges as I do, especially considering that for twenty-one years, our relationship has come down to playing with scapulars that she uses to cover her genitals, without ever looking at mine.

Having said that, I have no lack of hypotheses concerning the Priscila-Góngora affair. As you know, my wife is a befuddled lady who speaks freely without the constraints of logic or reason. I’m sure that certain men would get turned on by an erotic encounter punctuated with Priscila announcing “Every man for himself!” or “Colgate, for sparkling-white teeth!” or “I’m walking along the tropical path!” or, more germane to the matter at hand, “Make ready the steel and the steed!” Ladies and gentlemen, I stand accused: has the force of habit made me oblivious to the secret sexuality of a woman who was desired by the most sought-after bachelors of her time? So desired in fact that, in the end, they did not marry her, sensing, perhaps, an edge in Priscila that I, miserable me, have been too dim to perceive or have mercilessly wasted?

I study my wife, but I can’t put my finger on anything about her that would set her apart from the woman I’ve been married to for twenty-one years. Is it my fault? Could Priscila possess charms that I no longer appreciate, rendered senseless by force of habit? Do I need a new set of eyes — even eyes as myopic and unpleasant as Adam Góngora’s — to see the virtues of Priscila, which I no longer recognize but that others still do?

Because of all this doubt, I am on the verge of making a desperate decision: to rediscover Priscila. Truth be told, I have discovered that I married her without love — allow me to confess to the simple scheme known around these parts as mining for gold—only so that I might have entrée into the world of high finance, as one only can if he’s born rich or is married to a rich woman and living in the bosom of her prominent family.

This is my verdict: guilty as charged. I declare myself, ab initio, a scoundrel, a social climber, a despicable gold-digging man. And in so confessing I feel cleansed, washed clean of any sin carried out for the sake of my ascent in society, because of the feeling that maybe, if I thoroughly examined my soul, I would find the truth there, another truth: yes, I fell in love with Priscila, not with her money; yes, I desired her, and I felt victorious over the suitors who, as rumor has it, didn’t want to marry her anyway.

Let’s see, who says so? What if Priscila had been seriously courted by the Maserati boys, and had chosen the most luxurious driver? What if our history was such that — instead of me being her better-than-nothing guy who came across (by chance, by fate, by pity) his better-than-nothing gal — I had conquered her, stolen her away from the generic Maserati bachelors, and she had chosen me over the millionaires besieging her?

To quote Góngora’s frequent punctuation: “How about that?”

Over the remains of old feelings that evaporated a long time ago, we construct reasons out of illusions. We are free to reconstruct the history of our love lives with the delusions permitted us by time. We embellish with ribbons what is in fact no more than a tree that has been dried up for twenty-one years. We—

I resist the movement of my soul, which awakens today and sets off toward Priscila the way it did, perhaps, twenty-one years ago. It’s just that twenty-one years, malgré the philosophy of tango, indeed count for something, and I run the risk of inventing a sentimental life that I could never justify, because it had nothing to do with the start (and continuation) of my relationship with Priscila.

“You were never in love with her,” I mentally reprimand myself. “You just wanted to climb the social ladder. You wanted security. You wanted the protection of a rich Priscila, that’s all, you shameless son of a bitch. .”

This self-flagellation ends when I tell myself that, whatever my initial motivation may have been to marry Priscila, the fact is that I have lived with her for more than two decades. We are a couple. We are married. We are understood as such, and as such we are invited to parties, we are seated at the table, and we are forgiven — ugh! — Priscila’s foul airs because — she needs no other license! — she is Adam Gorozpe’s wife, which gives her the right to fart whenever and wherever she chooses. .

But then, how to reconcile this sentiment with another that strikes me with a vengeance, unwanted, hidden in the secret depths of my life: my relationship with L? Can I reproach Priscila for her (alleged) love affair with Góngora while I devote myself to my (proven) love affair with L?

I am seized by fear. Following my line of reasoning, I overlooked the most important condition of my life. If you study my words (and I urge you to do so), you will note that, in the beginning, I said that Góngora seems to know that I am not faithful to Priscila and that my wife has the right, and so on. . But no, Góngora has no way to know about my relationship with L. I have kept it absolutely secret; nothing in Góngora’s attitude indicates that he knows about my life with L, nothing.

Or everything? Does he know everything, the innermost details? Can we keep no secrets from Góngora? Does he have us all caught in his dark fist of silver and amethyst rings?

Nothing, nothing gives me the certainty to assume that Góngora knows. And nothing indicates beyond any doubt that Góngora doesn’t know.

Could this be the real treachery behind Góngora’s visit to my office? To torture me by letting me imagine that he may or may not know about L? Because he can sleep with Priscila, and I can remain unmoved (that would be my aim, if it were so). He knows he can go after my financial interests, and I will remain unmoved because I am impervious to any local attack: my fortune is well safeguarded in places and instruments that I don’t need to reveal here.

L is my weakest flank.

If Góngora attacks me there, he would be able to wound me. . fatally, to the extent that he can’t attack L without hurting me. .