had always been Sundays, free of tension, the two of us sheltered from the rest of the world and luxuriating in a glorious combination of sex, naps, reading, cold beer, and occasionally some Ron Viejo de Caldas.
I don’t know why, but Sundays have always worked for me with Agustina; even at the rockiest moments they’ve been havens of concord and truce for the two of us, times when Agustina simply acts like what she is, a girl, a clever, pretty, naked, passionate, happy girl, and why Sundays? Well, according to her own explanation, it’s because it’s the only day I agree to shut doors and windows, unplug the telephone, and leave the rest of the world outside; she makes me laugh because she claims that if the universe were the size of our room and the two of us were its only inhabitants, her head would run as well as a Swiss watch. So after reading
Baltasar and Blimunda
, I couldn’t wait to get home and find my own Blimunda there, she of the future-seeing eyes, still in her pajamas and perched on the ladder, brush in hand and singing along with the Stones at the top of her lungs, out of tune as always, because god knows Agustina can’t sing to save her life and the funny thing is that she doesn’t even realize it, maybe her family never pointed it out to her, or maybe the problem is hereditary and all of them are tone-deaf, for all I know.
I was happy and lighthearted knowing that the downpour that was already loosing its first volleys would soon burst in full over the city and that when I got home I’d watch it through the big windows from bed, with my girl in my arms, or later sitting in my cane rocker beside the heater with my feet up on the leather chest, safe from the deluge, reading the paper, and out of the corner of my eye checking every once in a while on Agustina, who would be doing exactly the same thing she’d been doing four days ago, which was painting the walls moss green according to the recommendations of feng shui for couples like us. And now it surprises me to remember that when I opened the door to my apartment that day, I was absolutely certain that the moment of my arrival would mesh perfectly with the moment of my leaving, in one continuous motion. Maybe that’s why, although my first reflex was to lift my hand to press the buzzer, I changed my mind and decided to use the key, so as not to disturb what had been going on inside without interruption since my departure, which is why not finding Agustina made me so vexed and upset and even made me feel a stab of fear, and yet it wasn’t the fear of someone who senses misfortune but the fear of someone who’s been counting on a happiness that suddenly doesn’t seem so assured. Only four days had passed, four days of absence during which anything might have happened. When I left for Ibagué, there was only half a green wall in the apartment, and upon my return the whole living room was green, by which I deduced that my wife must have stayed at home painting walls not only all of Wednesday afternoon but also all day Thursday. By the time I picked her up on Sunday at the Wellington Hotel, her mind had gone to pieces, so what I have to find out is what happened on Friday and Saturday. Not four days, but two; forty-eight hours of life erased from every clock in existence.
WHO KNOWS WHAT the people of Sasaima must say when they see Nicholas Portulinus sitting at the café in a corner by himself, a wool scarf wound tightly around his neck despite the heat, his gaze lost in space. But is there really a café in rural, rainy Sasaima, a remote mountain village? Of course not, it only shimmers amid the memories of a foreigner from another continent; it’s probably a feed store or a bar, an ice-cream shop at best, and those who enter must say, It’s the German, or It’s the teacher, and then leave him alone with his bottle of beer in his hand, taking for granted that all Germans, or at least all German musicians, are like this, strange and
I don’t know why, but Sundays have always worked for me with Agustina; even at the rockiest moments they’ve been havens of concord and truce for the two of us, times when Agustina simply acts like what she is, a girl, a clever, pretty, naked, passionate, happy girl, and why Sundays? Well, according to her own explanation, it’s because it’s the only day I agree to shut doors and windows, unplug the telephone, and leave the rest of the world outside; she makes me laugh because she claims that if the universe were the size of our room and the two of us were its only inhabitants, her head would run as well as a Swiss watch. So after reading
Baltasar and Blimunda
, I couldn’t wait to get home and find my own Blimunda there, she of the future-seeing eyes, still in her pajamas and perched on the ladder, brush in hand and singing along with the Stones at the top of her lungs, out of tune as always, because god knows Agustina can’t sing to save her life and the funny thing is that she doesn’t even realize it, maybe her family never pointed it out to her, or maybe the problem is hereditary and all of them are tone-deaf, for all I know.
I was happy and lighthearted knowing that the downpour that was already loosing its first volleys would soon burst in full over the city and that when I got home I’d watch it through the big windows from bed, with my girl in my arms, or later sitting in my cane rocker beside the heater with my feet up on the leather chest, safe from the deluge, reading the paper, and out of the corner of my eye checking every once in a while on Agustina, who would be doing exactly the same thing she’d been doing four days ago, which was painting the walls moss green according to the recommendations of feng shui for couples like us. And now it surprises me to remember that when I opened the door to my apartment that day, I was absolutely certain that the moment of my arrival would mesh perfectly with the moment of my leaving, in one continuous motion. Maybe that’s why, although my first reflex was to lift my hand to press the buzzer, I changed my mind and decided to use the key, so as not to disturb what had been going on inside without interruption since my departure, which is why not finding Agustina made me so vexed and upset and even made me feel a stab of fear, and yet it wasn’t the fear of someone who senses misfortune but the fear of someone who’s been counting on a happiness that suddenly doesn’t seem so assured. Only four days had passed, four days of absence during which anything might have happened. When I left for Ibagué, there was only half a green wall in the apartment, and upon my return the whole living room was green, by which I deduced that my wife must have stayed at home painting walls not only all of Wednesday afternoon but also all day Thursday. By the time I picked her up on Sunday at the Wellington Hotel, her mind had gone to pieces, so what I have to find out is what happened on Friday and Saturday. Not four days, but two; forty-eight hours of life erased from every clock in existence.
WHO KNOWS WHAT the people of Sasaima must say when they see Nicholas Portulinus sitting at the café in a corner by himself, a wool scarf wound tightly around his neck despite the heat, his gaze lost in space. But is there really a café in rural, rainy Sasaima, a remote mountain village? Of course not, it only shimmers amid the memories of a foreigner from another continent; it’s probably a feed store or a bar, an ice-cream shop at best, and those who enter must say, It’s the German, or It’s the teacher, and then leave him alone with his bottle of beer in his hand, taking for granted that all Germans, or at least all German musicians, are like this, strange and
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