Asunta’s discourse kept fading until it turned into a distant echo. She continued speaking about Monroy, his enterprises, our companies. I became more and more lost in contemplation of her. Words were lost. Life as well. I don’t know why at that moment, before this woman, for the first time, I had the sensation that until then childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood were like a long, slow river flowing with absolute certainty to the sea.
Now, looking at her as I embarked on this new occupation dictated by the lawyer Sangines-and I didn’t know then whether to thank or reproach him for his attentions and painstaking care toward me and Jerico-I felt that, far from rowing peacefully to the sea, I was moving upstream, against nature, in a cascade of short, abrupt movements, violating the laws that had so far ruled my existence in order to escape into a vital-or was it fatal?- velocity that moved backward but in reality flowed toward an unfortunate tomorrow, toward a growing brevity that, as it approached its origin physically and violently, was, in reality, announcing to me the brevity of my days as of today. We all come to know this. I learned it now.
Was Asunta the person who would, when she touched me, at least give sense and tranquillity to the “great event,” Henry James’s “important” thing: death? I don’t know why I thought these things as I sat across from Asunta this morning in an office in Santa Fe. Did the feeling of fatality authorize another, apparently opposite one, the desire I began to feel in front of her?
Had my conversation with Miguel Aparecido the night before been prolonged into this morning of leaden sun? Against my will my mood darkened because of the mission the prisoner had charged me with: avenging the mother of our buddy Bald Errol Esparza.
I was silent. One does not speak of these things here, under pain of being irrelevant to Max Monroy’s great entrepreneurial machine, because if I intuited anything with certainty it was that the entrepreneurial world into which Licenciado Sangines had thrust me, taking me out of a childish, studentish, irksome, brothel-going, crepuscular semiseclusion in a middle class that had abandoned its values to let itself be carried along by the current-I was thinking of Lucha-this “new world” excluded everything that was not self-referential: the enterprise as origin and purpose of all things.
And Antigua Concepcion? I asked myself then. Was she a madwoman or a super-magnate? Or both?
Asunta, as I have said, was sitting so I could not avoid an occasional, discreet glance at her legs. I began to believe it was on the basis of those extremely beautiful, long, depilated extremities, encased in flesh-colored stockings, silky to mortal eyes, that my feeling of passion was born.
I say passion. Not affection, or love, or gratitude, or responsibility, but passion, the freest, least bound of obligations, the most gratuitous. A feeling that flowed from Asunta’s legs to my falsely distracted, deceptively discreet gaze…
The world is transformed by desire. While she continued to enumerate the companies of Max Monroy for which I would begin to work starting now, all the times of my life-past, present, future, along with the prestigious names of the emotion: memory and desire, recollection and premonition-engaged with one another now and in the person of this woman.
I thought that life goes by rapidly. I never had thought that before. Now I did, and associated fugacity with fear and fear with attraction. Never, I admitted, had a female attracted me as much as Asunta Jordan did at that moment. And the dangerous thing was that passion and the woman who provoked it were, without my permission, beginning to transform my own desire, which in some way was no longer mine but was not yet-would it ever be?-hers.
From now on-I already knew it-my entire future would reside in that question. Asunta was turning me, without wanting to, into an inflamed man. Careful, careful! I told myself, to no avail. I felt conquered by the attraction of this woman and at the same time, without wanting to, without realizing it, I knew my life with the helpless Lucha Zapata was coming to an end.
The attraction of Asunta Jordan was inexplicable. It was instantaneous. Mea culpa? Because while she seemed desirable to me, she also seemed tiresome.
WAS LUCHA ZAPATA a fortune-teller? I didn’t say anything to her when I returned that night to Cerrada de Chimalpopoca. I found her dressed as an aviator again. I noticed her resemblance to the celebrated Amelia Earhart, the valiant Gringa lost forever in a flight without a compass over the South Pacific. I hadn’t realized it. They were alike in something. Amelia Earhart was freckled and smiling, like those North American fields of wheat that laugh at the sun. She wore her hair very short, I suppose in order to fly better and set the aviator’s helmet firmly on her head. She wore pants and a leather jacket.
Just like Lucha Zapata now.
“Take me to the airport.”
I hailed a taxi and we both got in.
I let her talk.
“Don’t ask me anything.”
“No.”
“Remember what I told you one day. In this society you’re in perpetual debt. Whatever you do, you always end up losing. Society makes certain you feel guilty.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking. I didn’t correct her or indicate that in my opinion people were what they did, not what they were obliged to do. She was who she was, I thought at that moment, through her own will, not because a cruel, perverse, villainous society had determined it.
“What will you choose, Savior?” she asked suddenly, as if to exorcise the implacable ugliness of the city crumbling along the length of its cement escarpments.
“It depends. Between what and what?”
“Between the immediate and what you leave for another day.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t look outside. Look at me.”
I looked at her.
“What do you see?”
I felt an unexpected desire to cry. I controlled myself.
“I see a woman who wants to fly again.”
She squeezed my arm.
“Thank you, Savior. Do you know what I’m going to do?”
“No.”
“I’m free and I can choose. A ranchera singer? A poet?”
“You decide.”
“Do you know I’ve been invited to be on a reality show?”
“No. What’s that?”
“You have to show the most humiliating aspect of your character. You ask to eat on your knees. You fall down drunk.”
El Salto de Agua. Los Arcos de Belen. Jose Maria Izazaga. Ancient domes. Modern ruins. Nezahualcoyotl. La Candelaria.
“You pretend,” Lucha Zapata continued. “Don’t pretend. It’s like living in a Nazi concentration camp. That’s television. An Auschwitz for masochists. You deprive yourself. You animalize yourself. You eat rancid food. Your towels are smeared with shit. Your clothes are infested with bugs. They don’t let you sleep. Ambulance sirens sound day and night.”
She shouted: “They turn night into day!”
The driver didn’t stop driving but turned to look at me.
“What’s wrong? Is the senora all right?”
“It’s nothing. She’s just sad.”
“Ah,” the driver said with a sigh. “She’s going on a trip.”
He whistled some of “Beautiful, adored Mexico, I die far from you.”
I calmed her. I caressed her.
