Varamo excused himself, saying that he hadn’t brought his reading glasses (a
lie, since his eyesight was fine). Cigarro muttered a remark about some people’s
lack of patriotism, while the other two concentrated obediently on the task.
Varamo thought it highly suspicious that Cigarro happened
to have secret documents concerning the rally in his pocket. He had also
recognized the handwriting from the betting slips he passed on to his mother.
What this probably meant was that Cigarro had made copies in secret, to sell to
the competitors. Th at would fit in with his
various sidelines. Which is partly why Varamo hadn’t wanted to play along with
him. Th e explanation of the regularity rallies
had struck him as vaguely familiar. Th e Voices
operated in the same way, except that for them, he was both the route and the
cars. Th ere might have been some connection, in
which case the overall result of the rally might reveal the Voices’ secret. He
knew that counterfeiting was one of the anarchists’ favorite strategies. Th ere is often a causal link between apparently
unrelated events, but we are deceived by simultaneity, which suggests a mere
coincidence. Fake money and real money are simultaneous; both flow through the
capillaries of society at the same time, more or less at the same rate, and they
are not independent of each other. If there was any truth to the economic axiom
that “bad money drives out good,” there was a curious parallel with those
defeatists in the regularity rallies who came up beside the good competitors and
accelerated just to provoke them. So Varamo got up from the table and left the
dining room, saying he was going to check on the patient. He needed a
distraction, because there is a limit to the number of worries a mind can
accommodate. And, as far as distractions were concerned, he was spoiled for
choice, because he was in a house that he had never visited before, where
everything was new and unfamiliar to him.
He was in a house. But whose? He should have known
whose house it was because he passed it on his daily walk, and he had always
taken the same route because he had never lived anywhere else. Houses look
different from the outside and the inside, but he’d entered this one in such a
rush that he hadn’t registered the transition; his consciousness had failed to
take it in. He had to reconstruct the events: the accident, the corner . . . Th en he realized that he was in the house
that belonged to the Góngora sisters. Any doubts he might have had were
dispelled when one of them rushed past in front of him wearing a bathrobe, on
her way to the kitchen, and assuming that he had come to ask for coffee, told
him that they were making some and would bring it in. When he was alone again,
he looked around, with renewed interest. “ Th e
Góngoras’ house” was a rather mysterious place, at least for him. Since
childhood he had heard people in the neighborhood refer to the building and its
inhabitants in a knowing, insinuating way, which he had come to think was,
fundamentally, the product of more or less willful ignorance rather than of any
factual knowledge. Th e Góngoras were rarely seen
in public, and were not on familiar terms with anyone in the neighborhood.
Apparently, they were satisfied with their own company and happy to stay home,
or very busy with their housework. Women who live on their own always provoke
gossip, especially when they keep to themselves and no one knows where their
money comes from. And it’s worse if there is no income, or no plausible theory
about its source, because an almost supernatural element creeps in. “ Th ey live on air.” Seen from the street, the house
was an obscure edifice in the middle of a jungle-like profusion of palms and
overgrown shrubs. Although the façade was partly obscured by vegetation, the
doors and windows seemed to be permanently closed. What could be seen of the
house gave an impression of decadence and neglect. How long had the
lie, since his eyesight was fine). Cigarro muttered a remark about some people’s
lack of patriotism, while the other two concentrated obediently on the task.
Varamo thought it highly suspicious that Cigarro happened
to have secret documents concerning the rally in his pocket. He had also
recognized the handwriting from the betting slips he passed on to his mother.
What this probably meant was that Cigarro had made copies in secret, to sell to
the competitors. Th at would fit in with his
various sidelines. Which is partly why Varamo hadn’t wanted to play along with
him. Th e explanation of the regularity rallies
had struck him as vaguely familiar. Th e Voices
operated in the same way, except that for them, he was both the route and the
cars. Th ere might have been some connection, in
which case the overall result of the rally might reveal the Voices’ secret. He
knew that counterfeiting was one of the anarchists’ favorite strategies. Th ere is often a causal link between apparently
unrelated events, but we are deceived by simultaneity, which suggests a mere
coincidence. Fake money and real money are simultaneous; both flow through the
capillaries of society at the same time, more or less at the same rate, and they
are not independent of each other. If there was any truth to the economic axiom
that “bad money drives out good,” there was a curious parallel with those
defeatists in the regularity rallies who came up beside the good competitors and
accelerated just to provoke them. So Varamo got up from the table and left the
dining room, saying he was going to check on the patient. He needed a
distraction, because there is a limit to the number of worries a mind can
accommodate. And, as far as distractions were concerned, he was spoiled for
choice, because he was in a house that he had never visited before, where
everything was new and unfamiliar to him.
He was in a house. But whose? He should have known
whose house it was because he passed it on his daily walk, and he had always
taken the same route because he had never lived anywhere else. Houses look
different from the outside and the inside, but he’d entered this one in such a
rush that he hadn’t registered the transition; his consciousness had failed to
take it in. He had to reconstruct the events: the accident, the corner . . . Th en he realized that he was in the house
that belonged to the Góngora sisters. Any doubts he might have had were
dispelled when one of them rushed past in front of him wearing a bathrobe, on
her way to the kitchen, and assuming that he had come to ask for coffee, told
him that they were making some and would bring it in. When he was alone again,
he looked around, with renewed interest. “ Th e
Góngoras’ house” was a rather mysterious place, at least for him. Since
childhood he had heard people in the neighborhood refer to the building and its
inhabitants in a knowing, insinuating way, which he had come to think was,
fundamentally, the product of more or less willful ignorance rather than of any
factual knowledge. Th e Góngoras were rarely seen
in public, and were not on familiar terms with anyone in the neighborhood.
Apparently, they were satisfied with their own company and happy to stay home,
or very busy with their housework. Women who live on their own always provoke
gossip, especially when they keep to themselves and no one knows where their
money comes from. And it’s worse if there is no income, or no plausible theory
about its source, because an almost supernatural element creeps in. “ Th ey live on air.” Seen from the street, the house
was an obscure edifice in the middle of a jungle-like profusion of palms and
overgrown shrubs. Although the façade was partly obscured by vegetation, the
doors and windows seemed to be permanently closed. What could be seen of the
house gave an impression of decadence and neglect. How long had the
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