Hypothermia

DUMBO’S FEATHER

I’m a really first-rate writer. Nobody knows it, but it’s true — that’s what I said to my son yesterday. It wasn’t the first time; I usually say it when I’ve had too much to drink. What you are, he responded, looking me straight in the eye, is a run-of-the-mill pen pusher at a second-rate newspaper. He’d also had too much to drink. I’m a writer, I repeated. Maybe I’m a lousy one, but I’m still a writer. I’d never used that one before. But his retort left me in the shade. With cocksure cruelty, he smiled — a smile I’ve lived with since he was a boy — and said: Yeah, right. You ever gonna get a book published? Real writers publish books.

I left the table and went and locked myself in the bathroom where I sat down on the toilet to have a smoke. I could hear Estela scolding my son. She was reminding him—Allow me to remind you, she said, which meant that they’d already argued about it before — that I’d stopped working on my own writing full time the minute she told me she was pregnant. He wanted you to have the same privileges your grandfather gave him, my wife continued. Your father never could’ve paid for all the things you’ve had just by writing essays. Not to mention books. Well, they were so good nobody wanted to publish them.

Estela’s version of things isn’t entirely accurate, but by now it’s become a set piece in our family mythology. We all like to believe that’s the way things went. But, first off, I’ve always had a steady job. How else could I support the intensely literary life we’ve led all these years? It’s impossible to even dress like a writer, for example, on what you earn from writing. We never lived off my writing. At the most the stuff I published provided us with drinking money — and they were pretty cheap drinks at that. And then, it was only one of my books that nobody wanted to publish, for the simple reason that it was the only one I ever finished. But at that moment, locked in the bathroom, smoking, I was in no mood to quibble over little things like the truth.

I finally came out when I was sure that Sebastián had left the apartment. Estela was washing the dishes. Without saying a word, I poured myself another glass of anís then came and sat down at my desk here in the den and lit another cigarette. The unspoken rules of the house state that I can smoke all I like when I’m sitting here. However much it stinks up the house, it’s tolerated because it would be worse if I closed the door behind me. Also, here I can drink alone without arousing suspicion. I take refuge in the myth that alcohol and writing go hand in hand.

Thirty or thirty-five years ago, anyone would’ve been surprised if you’d told them that I would end up dedicating myself to something other than literature. Our whole circle of friends was quite familiar with my vocation, and given the speed with which I had risen in literary circles, most of them thought that I had a good chance of achieving some success. A few, Estela chief among them, were sure that I’d become really famous. Back then, she was a naïve, dazzling young thing, and I had plenty of charisma — I still do, in fact, but I’ve got no interest in dusting it off. One day at dinner with some quasi-distinguished guests — nobody really special — a very drunken acquaintance described Estela and me as a Renaissance couple. And to a certain extent we were: we frequented vintage booksellers, attended concerts and exhibitions, and took long trips around the country. We could talk cinema and dance gracefully. We didn’t have much money — very little, in fact — but we never wanted for very much. Our families helped us out, as much as they could, but we never abused their generosity.

Estela still believes, or maybe she’s just in the habit of believing, or perhaps she’s only allowing me to believe that she believes, that I will one day manage to write a publishable book. I also believed it, at least until yesterday when I saw that cruel, familiar smile. It’s true that my son has given me the best moments in my life, even if getting at them has sometimes been like pulling teeth. Perhaps the only thing left for him to give me was this entirely unappreciated, yet totally decisive, liberation.

When Estela finished washing the dishes she came to the den to say goodnight. She had something to tell me but kept it to herself: seeing me in front of the computer makes her curiously respectful, as if I were really capable of writing something worthwhile.

Naturally, this wasn’t the case: I was working on the article that I turned in today for the Living section. My editor loved it. With his repulsive, petulant, faggoty pronunciation, he once again recommended that I quit Personnel and dedicate myself to real writing. It’s never too late, he told me. I told him that I’d wait until retirement to start writing full time. I said this out of habit, without even thinking about it. He offered to help me whenever I took the plunge: he had friends with inside connections. I kept my scoffing to myself; what could his friends offer a man like myself? As I was leaving his office, my right hand touched the gold fountain pen in my shirt pocket, a gift from my sister when I finished my B.A. We call it la pluma de Dumbo, which is to say — because pluma is plume is feather is quill is pen — Dumbo’s feather, because until today it’s always been my good-luck charm: I’ve used it to write the first page of every one of my unfinished novels. As I walked along the hallway I tapped the pen against my palm a few times, thinking ahead to the afternoon and the tequila I was going to have for an aperitif. Sebastián would order a vodka tonic. It’s always the same: I drink Herradura and he drinks Absolut. I pick the wine for dinner. For a nightcap, he has Carlos I brandy and I have dry Chinchón anís on the rocks.

After I finished typing the article that the idiot from Living loved so much, I went to bed. Estela was still awake. She must have assumed I was depressed about what Sebastián had said and was feeling the need for some well-deserved consolation: the truth was that neither wife nor son knew that after mulling over Sebastián’s comments, I couldn’t help but agree with him. She hugged me tightly and we ended up making love like a couple of elephants; we’re too old and out of shape to do it any other way. We finished, and as she lay there panting she told me that Sebastián had asked me to forgive him for being rude. He wanted to take me out to eat at Los Alamos, a place I really like.

He’s a good-hearted kid. And even if he isn’t, at least he keeps his word. He called me at eleven-thirty, when I had just come back from turning in my article. After we said hello, he asked me how I was doing. Between sighs I said that I was fine. Well, it doesn’t sound like it, he told me. Without softening the rueful tone in my voice I mentioned that I was having problems at work. Anything serious? he asked. Just the usual stuff. He suggested that we have lunch together so that I could tell him about it. I said that I’d love to but I couldn’t because on days when I’m in a bad mood I prefer to eat alone at my desk. He begged me to go to Los Alamos with him to see if that would cheer me up. We agreed to meet at three-thirty.

I had a bit of work to finish but no real desire to do it, so I locked the door, drew the blinds, and settled into an armchair to wait for lunch, planning my new life. At three o’clock on the dot I got up, slapped on some cologne, and headed out. We arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes of each other. He had obviously been hard at work until the very last minute, and he showed up looking nervous: he only remembered to take off his jacket when he was already sitting down.

Unlike me, Sebastián is the kind of person who loves and respects his job. Thanks to which we have ammunition for another of our endless arguments. He says that his profession demands a great deal of responsibility — I can forget to sign a check and it’s no big deal: a slight delay for some anonymous payee; whereas if he miscalculates the weight of this or that material going into some structure, his oversight could cost countless lives. Whenever he mentions it, I remind him that I was opposed to his studying engineering. A career like that, I always told him, will bring you nothing but problems and frustrations. But in spite of the never-ending sarcasm that I heap on him, he often seems proud of having succeeded in his profession. Once he even told me that if I’d let him watch television like other kids, he would’ve studied humanities; he’s sure that the torturous afternoons I spent expounding on the virtues of the Young People’s Treasure Chest Encyclopedia turned him away from culture for good. Today I tell myself that he might actually have a point, but it’s far too late for regrets.

While I watched him struggling to get his jacket off without standing back up, it occurred to me that I might be able to make him suffer just a little bit more if I pretended to be depressed. Then again, that might suck all the life out of the act I was about to perform. I put on a radiant expression. Sebastián said that I seemed to be in a much better mood than when we’d spoken on the phone. I told him that things had gotten better at the office, and then I signaled the waiter. Your usual? he asked. Yes, I answered with satisfaction, then said nothing. After a rather uncomfortable silence Sebastián said, I see you’ve got Dumbo’s feather. Are you starting a new novel? Such a blatantly conciliatory reference to my literary problem meant that he really was worried about his idiotic comments the night before. No, I replied, and lapsed back into silence, enjoying his nervousness.

There was nothing more to say until the waiter returned with our drinks. Sebastián’s vodka was served on the rocks along with a small bottle of tonic. I threw back my tequila in a single gulp. Another, sir? the waiter asked. The same. Sebastián was alarmed: he’d never seen me drink like that. He mustered his courage, took the bull by the horns, and said: I went too far last night. Instantly I raised my hand, cutting him off: Before you say another word, just pour your tonic. To his credit, he obeyed me, which — it’s worth saying — he’s almost always done, except when it came to engineering. While he poured the tonic water into his vodka I took Dumbo’s feather out of my shirt pocket and ceremoniously unscrewed the cap right under his nose. If that startles you, I said to him, I don’t even want to imagine what you’ll think about this. And for my next act I sank the pen right into his glass. The ink billowed out, rising toward the ice cubes like a plume of smoke from a cigarette. He looked scandalized, I’m not sure whether this was on account of my strange behavior or because I was spoiling his vodka. Then I stirred his drink with my personal swizzle stick, saying: Here, this is a gift. Dumbo’s feather, especially for you. I’m only a run-of-the mill pen pusher at a second-rate paper but I’m doing just fine. Then I got up and walked straight out of the restaurant, right past the astonished face of the waiter who was just coming back with my second tequila.

Estela didn’t bring it up during dinner, so I have to assume Sebastián is so confused he hasn’t even called her. Maybe he actually thinks his rude remarks last night killed off what remained of my sanity. He might be right. Here I am sitting in front of the computer with my anís and my cigarette, and the words are flowing like never before. Perhaps tomorrow after dinner I’ll feel like a smoke, and not in the bathroom. I’ll plant myself here, and to justify my drinking I’ll begin some story; nothing literary, just a sad little story, to be followed by others like it. They’ll be stories about people who aren’t working through difficult questions or pathetic feelings; minor characters — people who’ve never visited Paris, people nobody cares about. Gringos, for example. Normal, everyday gringos like the tourists you see on the street in their Bermuda shorts. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll donate all the books that I’ve taken such pains to collect. I’ll give away my computer and sell my writing desk. Then I’ll buy myself a soft, overstuffed couch and a big screen TV, and I will make this den my masterpiece.