I got home at the same time as usual. The
furniture in the same place, the smell from the kitchen, the light from the
lamp: how many times had I opened the door on this same scene? A thousand? A
hundred thousand times? How many times had I dropped myself onto the sofa,
hugging my briefcase to my chest, and slept until her voice woke me, and the
smell of boiled asparagus from the kitchen became more intense?
We would eat dinner in silence because she
didn’t like to speak with her mouth full. She had learned that from her mother:
don’t speak if you have food in your mouth.
“Don't worry, I won't tell anybody you speak
with your mouth full,” I told her, even though irony wasn’t really my style.
“I couldn’t go to school, remember that. The
only education I have is the one my mother gave me.”
“You're always so quiet,” I reproached her.
That wasn't the only advice she had inherited from her mother. There were also
notions about chewing slowly. If you were going to send a piece of meat down
your throat, it had better be very well masticated.
“God didn’t give us teeth and molars for
nothing,” said my wife.
“The stomach can digest anything, no matter
how tough it is,” I added, satisfied at having a topic for conversation and the
possibility of talking during dinner. A man needs to talk with his woman, it
doesn't matter what about.
Before going to bed I looked through my
mail. How many people had my name and address? I was wondering, because over
the last few months, a great deal of advertising circulars addressed to me had
been showing up in the mail.
“All this junk with your name on it has been
pouring in,” my wife said, as if she were reading my mind. Her slim body seemed
to melt as she slipped under the covers. She looked so harmless.
“I don't agree. If they send me their ads,
it's because they know I’m someone with buying power. They wouldn’t send these
things to just anyone.”
“Who are they?”
she asked me. My body felt hard and heavy, like a rock. I wanted to rest, get
under the covers and feel the warmth of my woman.
“I don't know who they are, but they know
very well who I am,” I answered.
“No, they don't. All you are to them is a
name and an address,” she said. I guessed her mother had also taught her to say
these kind of things. For a moment I hated her mother.
“Yes, but behind that name and that address,
there is only one person: me.”
“Well, then there are lots of people like
you, hundreds, thousands.”
My new shoes already looked old. Why did
these kinds of things happen to me? Everything became so old as soon as I
touched it.
We didn’t speak for several minutes. I was
sitting on the edge of the bed with my back to her.
“Do you really believe that, what you said?”
I asked her.
“What? Do I believe what?”
“That there are thousands of people like
me.”
“No, of course not,” she said. I got under
the covers without getting undressed. I didn't feel sad, but I found it
impossible not to cry. Without noticing my tears, she moved closer to me, she
held me, she gave me her woman's warmth.
Text by
Guillermo Fadanelli
Translation by Yolanda MartÃnez and Matt
Madden, 2000.
