until the door opens and Fernando leaves. Duchess says goodbye to him from the doorway, where she continues to stand as she watches him disappear around the corner. That’s when Mole crosses the street and rings the doorbell.
I thought you’d never come. Well, here I am. You sure took your time. I had things to arrange. You’ve been spying on me? A little. Are you going to invite me in or are you going to bring the chairs out here for us to sit on in the street? Come in. Fernandito is old. Yeah, so are we. Time waits for no man. What are your plans? I have some business to take care of…
They’re both thinking that some things, no matter how you look at them or twist and turn them around, simply can’t be fixed.
… Look, I don’t want to know anything, but this can’t go on. But I haven’t said anything yet. When you say you have some business, I know I’ll soon see your picture in the papers. I’m tired of this, Duke, of living with a lump in my throat and a prayer on my lips. This time it’ll be different. Don’t give me that crap, it’s always different and it’s always the same. No, Duchess, I swear, this time’ll be different. I’m going to start a business, we’re going to live well, without all the hullabaloo, on this side of the law. A business… what kind of business? You’ve never been in business. I’m going in with a guy… don’t look at me like that, he’s got nothing to do with that world, he’s a Jew who imports kitchen appliances. We’re going to open a first-class shop downtown. You’ve got to believe me. Are you staying? I don’t know, are you inviting me? You hungry? A little. Come to the table.
While Duchess is in the kitchen preparing him a bite to eat, Miranda notices she’s wearing her high heels. She was waiting for him. She knew. Duchess always knows. This is the woman he wants, hers the body he desires, she his partner, his perfect fit, with whom two becomes one. His memory brings back everything now hidden under that tight dress, which is a bit bold, provocative and modest all at once. Miranda knows that when that dress comes off, the other Duchess appears. Wise, receptive, generous, a duchess who’s not disgusted by anything and can do it for what seems like an eternity, capable of carrying him to the highest peaks of arousal only to lower him gently, again and again, as many times as she wants, leading him from the valleys to the mountains with sure hands through the steep curves, boldly bordering the cliffs until finally she releases him and lets him come inside her — open, satisfied, languid, happy, adored. He can imagine nothing better than coming in her arms. Miranda has been with many women in his life, but not one gives of herself so fully in bed. She offers up her entire being because she is one of those rare women who derives her own pleasure from the other’s pleasure, her happiness from that of her companion.
What are you looking at? I’m looking at you. Don’t get your hopes up, it’s not going to be easy. I’m hooked on you. We’ll have to correct that. You’re right, when do we start? Get your hand out of there. Remember when you used to say, “You’ve got half an hour to get your hand out?” Now you’ve got half a second. A minute? Get it out. Just a little, sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much. No, really, we have to talk. I don’t want to live this way any more. Me, neither, I swear. I found out about Noelia’s illness. How? The last time Screw came to bring me money he was almost collapsing, and all I had to do was say one word and it all came gushing out like a broken water main, the whole story in one big burst. Poor guy is a mess. He also told me you were about to get out and that I probably wouldn’t see him for a while. He seemed afraid. Of course, how could he not be afraid? I mean, not about his daughter, but about you. Me? Why would he be afraid of me? I think he spent all your money. I saw Screw, I know everything, and everything’s been worked out. Yeah, but you don’t have any money. What are you going to use to start your precious business? Someone’s going to loan it to me. Listen, Duke, I don’t want to know anything about it. I love you, you know that, but I can’t take it any more. I can’t stand knowing your life is in danger or that you’re going to spend the next few years in jail. We’re not twenty any more. Eduardo, promise me, swear to me that you aren’t going to arrive home with the police following you. I live with my heart in my mouth. Every time the doorbell rings I think they’re coming to tell me you’ve been killed. You know I’ve forgiven you foreverything, but I would never forgive you if they killed you in front of Fernando. I know I can’t ask you to go buy the newspaper and look for a job. Duchess, you’ve got to trust me. I love you and Fernando more than anything else in the world. Give me a chance to sort things out, then I’ll stop forever, all I want is a peaceful life. Oh, Duke, I’m so worn down I don’t even have it in me to think things through…
Silence settles over the kitchen, one of those marital silences that hovers in the air like the poisonous vapours from a swamp. It’s an uncomfortable, painful silence that conjures up all past frustrations, allowing all the disappointments and sorrows to appear one by one, while amnesia makes all the once-shared joy vanish. Duchess is looking at him as if from behind a glass wall or from a thousand miles away, and all she feels is fear. Fear of her own feelings, fear of having regrets, fear of what she’s going to say and, more than anything, fear of continuing to feel fear. She feels as if she still doesn’t have the words she wants to say to this man she loves so much. She feels all dried up, dry and tired. Her voice is pleading.
Right now I want you to go. Don’t do this to me, Duchess. What do you think, that I don’t want it too? For four years I haven’t had any either. Sort things out, as you say, then come back and we’ll see. Okay, you’re right. Just remember one thing: this is the last time, Duke, the very last time.
Her words evoke the possibility that he’ll be gunned down one day by the police, an echo of his own conviction about his fate, the one he usually manages to shunt away. He also understands what Duchess didn’t say, but the message, a stern warning, was right there, behind her words. If what she said were to happen, she would let the city bury him, she’d never mention him to their son and, when his flesh rotted away, his bones would be thrown into a common grave, without a flower or a tear, without anything. That, for Mole, would be worse than death itself. The life he has led has kept him away from his son for long stretches at a time, and that’s what has always troubled him most about his profession as a bank robber. If, in addition to this, he were forever erased from Fernandito’s memory, even he would never forgive himself.
13
Maisabe is rushing around; she wants to leave before Leonardo arrives. The ringing of the telephone makes her nervous, she picks it up, says hello several times, but nobody’s on the other end. There are more and more of these dead calls every day. Her husband says it’s the communists, who have come back. She walks across the living room and looks out the window to see how people are dressed, if it’s hot or cold outside. She looks in at the door to Anibal’s bedroom: he’s sitting at his desk looking at a picture book. He’s so little and always so serious, so absorbed in whatever he’s doing, so quiet, so indifferent. The child seems not to even notice her presence, but when she walks away down the hallway, he noiselessly gets up and watches her as she enters her bedroom. He takes four steps and stops in the precise spot where the mirror of the coat rack reflects off the one on the closet door, in which Maisabe is looking at herself. She takes out a red paper bag and empties it on the bed. Out falls a pink lace bra and panties. She stops and stares at them, a strange smile on her face. She drops the shower towel she has wrapped around her, puts on the underwear and looks at herself in the mirror, making a pout that wants very much to be sensual. The boy returns to his room. Maisabe finishes getting dressed. From the back of a drawer she pulls out a small blue perfume bottle and a blood-red lipstick and puts them both in her purse. She puts on a jacket and calls to Anibal. They leave the building. Sitting at a table at the bar on the corner, Leonardo Giribaldi watches them cross the street and turn the corner toward the stop where they’ll catch the bus to the parish church. He doesn’t want to see them or for them to see him. He pays for his coffee, walks out, crosses the street and enters the building.
Ten minutes later Maisabe and Anibal enter the patio of the parish church. Father Roberto, who prefers to be called just plain Roberto, is conversing with some other mothers. As usual when she sees him, Maisabe feels a shiver up and down her spine and a hot blush on her cheeks. He notices it and gives her a scintillating look. Anibal lets go of her hand and walks toward the catechism classroom, as if he were on his way to the gallows. Graciela is hogging Roberto’s attention, jabbering on and on like a blonde parrot. Maisabe walks toward them but Leonor stops her on the way. She wants to invite Anibal to her son’s birthday party. She hands her an invitation decorated with little teddy bears and colourful balloons. Roberto is wearing jeans and a white shirt. The jeans are bell-bottoms, already out of fashion, but they look fantastic on him. Maisabe imagines him naked and herself in her new underwear, in front of him, under him, on top of him. As if he’d heard her summons, he starts to walk toward her. Her knees are shaking. Roberto touches her arm gently, Maisabe’s skin absorbs the warmth from his hand as desert sands do from the sun. She blinks slowly — in fact, she wants to close her eyes so as to better hear the music of his
