eyes melancholy, and she looks even younger. I like Avellaneda; I think Iâve already written this down at one time or another. I asked her what was wrong. She approached my desk, smiled (how well she smiles), but didnât say anything. âOver the last few days Iâve noticed that youâve been very quiet, almost sad,â I said, and so that my remark would carry the same
weight as my thought, I added: âBut sadness becomes you.â She didnât take it as a compliment, but her eyes brightened nevertheless, and she said: âYouâre very nice, Mr Santomé.â My God, why the âMr Santoméâ? The first part sounded so nice ⦠The âMr Santoméâ bit reminded me of being almost fifty, inexorably took me down a peg, and left me with just enough strength to ask in a false, paternal tone: âAnd your boyfriend?â Poor Avellanedaâs eyes filled with tears, she shook her head in what appeared to be an affirmation, mumbled âsorryâ, and then ran to the toilet. For a while I remain seated in front of my documents not knowing what to do; I think I was moved. I felt agitated, as I havenât felt in a long time. And it wasnât the instant nervousness of someone who sees a woman crying, or about to cry. I was agitated about myself, and only about myself. Witnessing my own emotional upheaval was what made me agitated. All of a sudden it became clear in my head: Iâm not dried up! When Avellaneda returned, having finished crying already and looking a little embarrassed, I was still egotistically enjoying my new discovery. Iâm not dried up, Iâm not dried up. Then I looked at her with gratitude, and, because Muñoz and Robledo were returning at that moment, we both went back to work, as if complying with a secret accord.
Tuesday 30 April
Letâs see, whatâs wrong with me? All day long just one sentence was passing through my head, like a recurring slogan: âSo, she had a fight with her boyfriend.â And then, immediately, my breathing pattern would fluctuate excitedly. On the same day I discover that Iâm not dried up, I feel, in turn, restlessly selfish. Well, I think that in spite of everything, this is a step forward.
Wednesday 1 May
The dullest International Workersâ Day in world history. To make matters worse, it was a grey, rainy and prematurely wintry day. There were no people, buses or anything in the streets. Just me in my room, in my single bed, in this dark, heavy silence of seven-thirty. I wish it were nine oâclock in the morning and I were at my desk, looking to my left every now and then to find that sad, concentrating, defenceless little figure.
Thursday 2 May
I donât want to talk to Avellaneda. First, because I donât want to scare her; and second, because I really donât know what to say to her. Before I do so, I have to know exactly whatâs happening to me. It canât be that, at my age, this young woman, who isnât very pretty, could suddenly appear and become the focus of my attention. I feel like a nervous teenager, this much is true, but when I look at my flabby skin, the wrinkles under my eyes, the varicose veins on my ankles, when I cough like an old man in the morning â which is absolutely necessary in order for my bronchial tubes to begin their work day â then I no longer feel like a nervous teenager, but simply ridiculous.
The entire machinery of my emotions came to a halt twenty years ago when Isabel died. First there was pain, then indifference, then, much later, freedom, and then, finally, tedium. Long, lonely, constant tedium. Oh, I remained sexually active during all these stages, but pick-ups were my technique. Today, an amorous passenger on the bus, tomorrow the accountant who audited us, and the next day, the cashier for Edgardo Lamas, S. A. Never twice with the same woman â a kind of
unconscious resistance to committing myself, to
weight as my thought, I added: âBut sadness becomes you.â She didnât take it as a compliment, but her eyes brightened nevertheless, and she said: âYouâre very nice, Mr Santomé.â My God, why the âMr Santoméâ? The first part sounded so nice ⦠The âMr Santoméâ bit reminded me of being almost fifty, inexorably took me down a peg, and left me with just enough strength to ask in a false, paternal tone: âAnd your boyfriend?â Poor Avellanedaâs eyes filled with tears, she shook her head in what appeared to be an affirmation, mumbled âsorryâ, and then ran to the toilet. For a while I remain seated in front of my documents not knowing what to do; I think I was moved. I felt agitated, as I havenât felt in a long time. And it wasnât the instant nervousness of someone who sees a woman crying, or about to cry. I was agitated about myself, and only about myself. Witnessing my own emotional upheaval was what made me agitated. All of a sudden it became clear in my head: Iâm not dried up! When Avellaneda returned, having finished crying already and looking a little embarrassed, I was still egotistically enjoying my new discovery. Iâm not dried up, Iâm not dried up. Then I looked at her with gratitude, and, because Muñoz and Robledo were returning at that moment, we both went back to work, as if complying with a secret accord.
Tuesday 30 April
Letâs see, whatâs wrong with me? All day long just one sentence was passing through my head, like a recurring slogan: âSo, she had a fight with her boyfriend.â And then, immediately, my breathing pattern would fluctuate excitedly. On the same day I discover that Iâm not dried up, I feel, in turn, restlessly selfish. Well, I think that in spite of everything, this is a step forward.
Wednesday 1 May
The dullest International Workersâ Day in world history. To make matters worse, it was a grey, rainy and prematurely wintry day. There were no people, buses or anything in the streets. Just me in my room, in my single bed, in this dark, heavy silence of seven-thirty. I wish it were nine oâclock in the morning and I were at my desk, looking to my left every now and then to find that sad, concentrating, defenceless little figure.
Thursday 2 May
I donât want to talk to Avellaneda. First, because I donât want to scare her; and second, because I really donât know what to say to her. Before I do so, I have to know exactly whatâs happening to me. It canât be that, at my age, this young woman, who isnât very pretty, could suddenly appear and become the focus of my attention. I feel like a nervous teenager, this much is true, but when I look at my flabby skin, the wrinkles under my eyes, the varicose veins on my ankles, when I cough like an old man in the morning â which is absolutely necessary in order for my bronchial tubes to begin their work day â then I no longer feel like a nervous teenager, but simply ridiculous.
The entire machinery of my emotions came to a halt twenty years ago when Isabel died. First there was pain, then indifference, then, much later, freedom, and then, finally, tedium. Long, lonely, constant tedium. Oh, I remained sexually active during all these stages, but pick-ups were my technique. Today, an amorous passenger on the bus, tomorrow the accountant who audited us, and the next day, the cashier for Edgardo Lamas, S. A. Never twice with the same woman â a kind of
unconscious resistance to committing myself, to
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