As he did every night, Marcelo arrived at his one-room apartment. He slowly began to unwind: on top of the little table he placed his key ring, ballpoint pen, glasses, wallet, a little box of condoms (he always carried one, just in case, although generally, it ended up broken or wrinkled from vegetating so long in the front pocket of his pants), his briefcase, comb, calendar watch, a plastic toothpick, the pepsin and pancreatin pills, a handkerchief, and his identity card displaying a face with very few friends.
There was a very dense, foul smell in the room so he switched the air conditioner on, not setting it to the highest cool setting (every time he switched it on he ended up feeling cold), but to the lowest and quietest setting. He removed his jacket and tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and opened the window. Vaporous heat was emanating from outside. He looked toward the other section of apartments in the building. Almost all of the windows and Venetian blinds were closed. It was very difficult for him to close his Venetian blinds. “I’m going to have to replace the latch.”
Adding up the two sections, the building had sixty-four apartments. In reality, he had little or no interaction with the other residents. Sometimes, when he attended a meeting of the apartment owners, he conversed with one or the other for five minutes, long enough to offer or accept a cigarette or together mourn the calamitous condition of the pipes.
What he did know (he found out by chance) was that in an apartment in the other section, precisely the one that was located in front of his, lived a woman by herself, middle-aged but still very presentable. During the meetings she was addressed as “Mrs. Galván.” Since each section had its own elevator, they never came across each other in the same one, but on some rare occasion they had simultaneously carried out the ritual of opening or closing windows and Venetian blinds, and had greeted each other with a discrete movement of their heads: his semi-bald, hers red-haired.
Marcelo turned on the television set and started to switch through the channels. On the first channel a blond and almost heavenly couple was running gracefully through the springlike half of the forest, ending, at the end of the rigorous thirty seconds, with the promotion of a shampoo that is, without a doubt, marvelous. (He had seen the wintry half of the forest the night before while watching a commercial about high-top and low-cut boots). Another channel: The Pink Panther. A quick change of channels. Now there’s a chubby gentleman, with a falsetto voice, compellingly interviewing a tall and slim industrialist who pronounces his monosyllables like an illustrious citizen. It’s obvious that the chubby gentleman feels frustrated in the presence of that terseness that didn’t figure into his plans. In his desperation he formulates questions that are increasingly longer and more complex, but the industrialist continues to respond with monosyllables that, although they may sound foolish, are increasingly brief. A treacherous close-up shot shows the chubby gentleman’s forehead; what do the boxing reporters call it? Ah yes, “pearls of sweat.” Marcelo would like to feel pity but he can’t, and hopeful, switches to the next channel. Television theatre, finally. He consciously selects the offering. He could never avoid being fascinated by those sentimental struggles, to a greater extent jellylike. He has learned the secret. From March to October all the love affairs are unrequited, but at the beginning of November the majority of them start to become requited. And it’s logical, because the soap opera should end, before Christmas, with an enlightened outcome. Marcelo conducts a test, which on other evenings has obtained amusing results. He lowers the sound of the television set and starts to imagine the dialogues. The actor is a little stiff, leaning against the prop wall (perhaps his apparent stiffness is just fear of a possible collapse) and the expression of the actress, who is one-and-a-half meters away, is of great excitement. The words that, as a pastime, Marcelo places on the lips of the actors are persuasively seductive. The words that he then places in the mouth of the actress are distressing and increasingly respectful. What passion, damn! Hopeful, the young woman approaches the man who, confident, doesn’t even move his little finger; he only looks. ”That’s it,” Marcelo thinks, “now they’ll hug.” But no. The slap was so tremendous that, even without sound, Marcelo seemed to feel it. “At least one thing is clear: I would never be any good as a television scriptwriter.”
As a homeopathic treatment for alienation, it’s already sufficient, so he turns off the television set. The room now seems cooler without the combustion of blessed violence that the little screen was portraying. Marcelo undresses and showers in silence—years earlier he would have sung “The Last Organist,” ideal for accompanying the rinse—and returns like that, naked, to his single room, still drying himself with the checkered towel.
He faces the wardrobe mirror and, as always, the image of his own stomach disheartens him. He no longer knows what to stop eating or drinking: he eliminated bread, carbonated beverages, ravioli, salt, and desserts. All in vain. His waist barely decreased three centimeters in five months. Five months that were, in regards to nourishment, the most boring of his thirty-nine years. At that precise moment, he decides that the sacrifice isn’t worth it, and for tomorrow promises himself a lunch with pastas, red wine, and peach melba dessert. He realizes that the decision is cowardly but also stimulating.
He looks at himself in the mirror again and seems to notice a certain lump on his groin. He moves closer to the mirror but he is unable to determine its cause because the area is covered by soft hair. He puts on his glasses and then goes back to examining himself: “Eh, it’s like a boil that’s still soft.” He calms down.
He performs breathing exercises for five minutes in front of the closed window and then stops because he doesn’t want to sweat. He makes a move to put on his pajamas, but he ceases. With this heat it would be better to sleep naked. He turns on the portable radio and the old and beloved Troilo accordion sounds. As if mocking himself, he dances a few tango steps (what a disaster!), just the way he is, alone and naked, with cutting moves and everything.
But the accordion gives way to the Major News Report (what would a minor news report be?) and for now the news report isn’t danceable. It might be when Franco dies, but will he die? Then, he lies down, reads for a while, but the detective novel from the Seventh Circle series isn’t very entertaining. He quickly switches on his alarm clock, turns off the portable radio, and tries to sleep. Soon afterwards, he is seized with a very familiar cramp in his left foot. His toes contract, as if wanting to tickle the bed sheet. He curses a little, with the weak conviction of someone addressing no one in sight. There is no other choice but to turn on the light, get up, hop on one foot—absolutely ridiculous—and massage the cramped area for a long time until the five hooks become toes again.
He lies down again, and now in fact falls asleep immediately, as if evading the next cramp. The nightmare isn’t too terrible: he’s walking on a bridge that isn’t suspended over a river, but rather over land, and below, next to a reddish shrub, is Mabel, his old girlfriend from the province. He wants to scream at her, call her, but despite moving his lips to do so, his voice doesn’t sound. Meanwhile, she stubbornly looks in a different direction, as if searching for or awaiting someone who, of course, isn’t him.
The alarm clock doesn’t cause him to stir, in reality the light of the new day wakes him up. At first he thinks he’s waking up from a long siesta, but immediately realizes his mistake and is suddenly frightened when he sees what is causing so much light: the Venetian blinds are open, or rather, they opened after he closed them; “that shitty latch.” It’s worth mentioning—and here the gesture of disgust is significant—that all of his nonsense of the day before, or that is to say, the search for the boil, the tango steps, the breathing exercises, the little hops when the cramp seized him, all of that could have been seen by his front neighbor in the building opposite. Now he imagines Mrs. Galván telephoning all of her good friends at midday: “Would you believe that last night there was a guy stark naked in the front apartment? You can’t imagine all the things he did! He danced, hopped, and was scratching around down there in front…understand?” And the friend would reply: “Might it be an exhibitionist?” And Mrs. Galván would say no, that she knows him—only by sight, of course—and he’s a serious guy, a grown man. And the friend would tell her that those are the worst kind. Aha! But, what if Mrs. Galván says that she had not thought about it, but that he could very well be an exhibitionist, how is he going to face her from now on? Because stripping down and undressing a beautiful, young woman is one thing—like that it’s great—but that the same fool put on a stupid show with the Venetian blinds open, that simply seems like a revolting act.
He dresses quickly, then washes his face and brushes his teeth. During the summer he always likes to shower at night. Furthermore, he wants to leave as early as possible in order to avoid meeting Mrs. Galván in the hallway of the building. Before leaving, he almost closes the Venetian blinds. Why? After all, it’s too late now.
He descends in elevator number two, but when the door opens on the ground floor, he sees Mrs. Galván. Evidently, their meeting is a shock to her. As for Marcelo, he can’t look at her directly. He excuses himself and remains at the door to the street, waiting for no one. The woman remains next to the elevator door for a moment and looks at him. When she notices that Marcelo is also looking at her or is about to look at her, she averts her eyes. Finally, Marcelo senses that she is going to approach. He’s on the verge of running off, terrified, but opts to clear up the situation. One has to go right to the root of the problem.
Mrs. Galván stands next to him: “Sir, I want to tell you that I perfectly understand why you would be frightened, stunned, and not even look at me or hardly say hello.” “Me?” stammered Marcelo. “Yes, you. But I don’t want you to think badly of me. I’m absent-minded, I admit that, but nothing else, you know? I was secretly hoping that you hadn’t noticed, but your body language is quite eloquent, sir. And even though you have every right to think that I’m nervy or a liar, I assure you that last night I thought that I had closed my Venetian blinds.”