by Hebe Uhart
Sometimes he apologized, but quickly and in a low voice, as if to erase the apology. He didn’t write letters or notes, either. He left no traces and was blind to the impact of his sermons. When he was nasty he reminded me of those characters from Wuthering Heights: rural landowners who unleashed their dogs on visitors. The visitor froze, unable to believe his eyes, and waited to make a move until someone came to lock up the dogs, but you never knew when things would calm down. Miguel’s didactic side was very sweet and witty: he imitated Brazilians, artfully exaggerating that judgmental cadence; his arguments culminated in hilarious nonsense. I already felt his disapproval because of the sardine incident and also because of my yellow raincoat, which was ill-fitting. He thought it was hideous—as if I were someone else when I wore it, a strange apparition. And every time I waited for him at a café I played the role of a specimen. I arrived beforehand so I could get used to the space. I checked my hair and face in the bathroom to make sure I looked good, and then I would read a book so he would think I was just sitting there, as natural as can be. Plus, that way, in case there was any sort of conflict, I would simply be doing what I had always done: reading a book in a café.
I was tempted to reveal my true self—even if it was just once, out of the blue, unveiling my ugliest features. For example, by brushing my hair into my eyes and wearing colors that clashed in every way. But I was afraid of conflict. My plan ended up coming to fruition, but not in the way I had expected. I kept getting uglier without even trying, but not like a strange apparition. I was ugly in a humble way. I’ve never done anything out of the ordinary, but one sweltering afternoon, dressed in an old shirt and underwear, I invited him into my house. I told him:
“I’m sorry I didn’t put on anything nicer, it’s really hot.”
He said:
“At home, one should feel free to do as one likes.”
So he could be easygoing and free. On another occasion, after long and complicated deliberations, I asked his advice on how to give some things away, and to whom. He said:
“Oh, one should give whatever one wants to whomever one chooses.”
I felt like he enjoyed a mysterious sense of freedom, and I wasn’t about to inquire any further. But, now that I knew him better, how could a person contemplate the facts with such noble indifference (no doubt resulting from an honorable upbringing), and at the same time drown himself in a glass of water, tormenting the both of us for an hour about a can of sardines? How could he be such a generous, happy teacher, filled with such a vast range of knowledge, and, at the same time, a gruff man with all that fucking angst that hardened his face and got the best of him? The more I got to know him, the more clueless I became as to who he really was, as if he had shattered into a million little pieces. I only had a vague notion, like an animal instinct, on how to keep things from going sour.
Once I tried walking like him, just to see what it was like. His stride was slow but steady, seemingly relaxed but very constrained. It was much like his attitude toward paying the bills. When it came to the bills we got along just fine. I did have a bourgeois streak—I had well-defined limits which he went along with. My bourgeois streak had already led to a break-up with a previous boyfriend, who’d said: “One must have strength of character and common sense. He who resists, wins.”
When I ran into Miguel again after one of our break-ups I decided to share my new ideas about possible business ventures; but on that particular day all he wanted to do was teach me the Russian alphabet. I was annoyed by his notion that this was a productive use of our time. What was the point of learning Russian for just one day if we were never going to use it again? I agreed because he was so enthusiastic, as if in a previous life he had been Russian; I accepted. It was as if he were a heavy drinker coaxing me, a teetotaler, into having a drink. That’s when the non-drinker ends up drinking with complete abandon, partaking in something entirely meaningless in her life. And that’s how we ended up eating pizza and sardines and drinking wine again. I got used to him coming over every night for long stretches of time; then he would disappear. When he came back, it was like he’d never left.
I missed out on the perfect opportunity to express myself when he asked me one New Year’s Eve: “Are you happy?”
I hesitated: happiness is something so generic and diffuse, you can’t really know if you’re happy or not. Besides, the notion of happiness is outdated. I wanted to tell him some of the things that upset me, mostly because I’d remembered an old boyfriend asking me one day: “Don’t you set down any ground rules for a man?” I had answered no. Because the truth is that rules seem made to get broken—even when it comes to dogs. An owner tells their dog, “Sit down. Stay here. Stay…” and within two minutes the dog is jumping up and down, happy as a clam. Imposing rules is easy; what’s difficult is getting people to abide by them. Thinking all this over, I told him:
“Yes. I’m happy.”
And I missed my chance again when—not having laid down any ground rules—I’d gotten used to telling him irrelevant bits of gossip, the kind that make life more bearable and make time stand still, because nothing changes after a bit of small talk. One day, when I was rambling on about nothing in particular, he shut one eye and looked at me with the other. It was an eye that wanted to know more. It was powerful. It made such an impression on me that I didn’t ask him why he was doing it. I wanted that test—or whatever it was—to be over with. I wanted to pretend he had never looked at me with just one eye.
We kept holding hands, but it was different now, always in the midst of fighting or making up. When we got back together he would become overly passionate, and I was confused by the way he played it up. I thought: It’s gotten too intense, this can’t last forever. I wanted something more lighthearted, but also more stable. Then, after talking so much about plumbers, boyars, social classes, advantage, and disadvantage, he started to show a little interest in learning something about me. Somewhat distractedly, as he uncorked a bottle or opened a can (he was always in charge of opening the cans), he’d casually say, “So, how did you end up living in…”
And I’d answer quickly, saying any old thing, because by now our conversations had become almost scripted and it was hard to switch things up. Besides, I didn’t want to answer those types of questions anymore—he should have asked me earlier. I also felt that personal questions should be asked using a special tone of voice, and he treated me as if I were a coworker, or just some incidental traveling companion that fate had set in his path.
I took pleasure in working myself into an animal rage. As I waited for him at a café—and sometimes he didn’t show up—I would say to myself, “It’s for the best.” Or, if he announced that he had to leave early, I’d think, thank goodness. I had become as jaded as a little orphan girl, and although he didn’t notice it, I had become grouchier than he gets when he’s nasty and obnoxious. I was like an orphan girl who’s been trained to follow very strict rules. For example, one must be polite to guests—but the guest could be anyone. Besides, I couldn’t spend my whole life without any guests because then I would end up alone in the world.
Eventually we started seeing less of each other, and we avoided entering into any type of confrontation. Without these bursts of anger we became grateful, like people who are happy just because the sun comes out: that’s all they need. We started to walk a lot; when we were on a walk we didn’t fight. One night in January we were walking in a neighborhood with jasmine plants. I asked him timidly: “What’s your favorite tango?”
And he sang:
Íbamos tomados de la mano
bajo un cielo de verano.
We were walking hand in hand
under summer skies.
It was truly beautiful, but I had a premonition. We were under summer skies and I wanted to tell him, “Don’t leave me.” But he was already pointing to a pink house, giving me explanations, and I missed my chance to say it. Once the mo
ment to say something slips by, I can no longer get it out. I would have had to ask him to stop walking and that request would have seemed melodramatic: all those old houses around us, gaping at me in surprise.
Not long ago, I dreamed of Miguel. I was blocking out his shadow with my own—his was a civilized, discreet, and proper shadow. Mine got bigger the longer I looked at it. He was right, but I didn’t want to let him twist my arm. I told him: “It’s not my fault that I’ve got this shadow.”
For a moment he looked mortified, in pain. I wanted to make up. He said something complicated, as if he were talking about a legal protocol, and held up one finger: “Should we end this once and for all?”
Emboldened, I said: “Yes. Alright. Let’s.”
I knew that anything definitive, anything that was once and for all, would cost me dearly. Then the dream faded.
Dear Mama
DEAR Mama,
Here goes the third time I’ve written this letter to you. I didn’t like the first one and I lost the second. These days when I don’t like something, I don’t throw it out, I misplace it—then later, when I regain interest, I know it will make its way back to me. These days I always try to do two things at once. For example, when I dust the shelves, I end up finding something I’ve been looking for, and when I sweep, I listen to the radio. If I’m out enjoying the sunshine I tend to the plants. I used to get so upset when you told me, “As long as you’re at it, why don’t you do this or that.” I didn’t want to do anything else while I was engaged in one task; I wanted to focus on the main activity. Now I don’t know whether the main activity is sweeping or listening to the radio. And now I understand what you meant when you used to say to yourself, “Sí, sí, sí…,” as if something were taking shape, like how life has its own momentum regardless of one’s intentions.
I know you won’t believe this, but I try to get rid of everything I don’t need now too. I’ve amassed so many papers and exams from the students, because ever since democracy returned, I’ve been working at the university. But you left before the democracy. Let me fill you in: the military junta went to war with England; they occupied the Malvinas, and then the entire British fleet came at us. We lost the war, the military junta lost its prestige, and they had to relinquish power. Then Alfonsín became president, but he was forced to step down before his term was up because of the economic situation: the price of things kept skyrocketing over the course of a single day. Now Menem is president, in case you didn’t know. It’s like we’ve been pissed on by elephant seals. Money is tight, but I get by. I don’t live in the apartment on Calle Gascón anymore. I moved to a place with a big balcony, I filled it with plants, and I have an arbor I call the grapevine. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Once I forgot to sweep the leaves off the balcony, the drain clogged, and my whole apartment was flooded. I used a bunch of old student papers and cardboard boxes to soak up the water, but water is so evasive and uncontainable—it seeped out all the way to the elevator. That kind of thing doesn’t happen to me anymore. And there’s not a single cockroach because I’ve become a real neat freak. Sometimes I do the laundry to avoid smoking so much or I grade papers to keep myself from spending money. At the end of the month I automatically start to look for some money I hid in a book once and have never found. But that only goes on for two or three days. Times were worse during the military dictatorship. Once there were seven of us for dinner, and when we pooled our money we only had enough to buy flour and a can of tomato sauce. Luis, Lea’s husband, the artisan, rolled out tagliatelle for the first time in his life. He set us up cutting noodles, we worked all in a line, and ended up eating the most delicious meal. Mama, I have a cat whose name is Andrés, Marabú, Misho, and Catito. He’s adorable; his coat is white, gray, and tawny. I feed him fish to make his coat shiny. He sinks his claws into a rug you never saw, into my jeans, and every so often he goes after me, when he’s really frustrated. He sleeps at my feet—and don’t say “Santa Madonna,” because he doesn’t have fleas, and even if he did he wouldn’t pass them on to me, and even if I’ve got them they don’t bite. He eats off the china dishes you left me, the ones you always saved for special occasions. But it feels right to me. It only seems a little strange when someone points it out, and just so they don’t think I’m out of my mind, I promise myself I’m going to buy a cat bowl, but then I forget. I still have some of the wine glasses, but they keep breaking one by one at different parties or just because. As for the tea sets, there’s nothing left. I had to sell almost all the china one summer to pay the bills. Once I even sold a china plate to a gypsy. The linen tablecloths I gave to my cousins. You were right—linen tablecloths are not for me, and anyway now they make cheap washable ones out of synthetic fabric, in different colors. You just throw them out when you want to change things up a bit. You were right about so many things I’ve only realized now. For example, when I used to go lie out in the summer sun right after lunch and you would say to me, “How can you bear this heat!” Now I, too, wonder how I used to do that, because now I take a nap after lunch whenever I can. You were right that naps are a beautiful thing. And you were also right that time when I asked you to fire the cleaning lady, the one who made the house dirtier instead of cleaner, and you didn’t want to. You said, “Let her stay, the beating she’ll get if she loses her job!” Now I’ve got this Bolivian woman who comes, she’s new to the city. I had to teach her how to use the elevator—I don’t know how she does this, but every now and then she still gets stuck in it. If she finds the bottle cap from a container that’s been thrown away, she stacks it on top of another container like a little hat, inventing a pointless decoration. Sometimes she annoys me, but I also like seeing someone else’s hand at work in the house, innovations, different ways of tidying up. Oh Mama, how I wish you could come sit under the grapevine with your cane! I wouldn’t pick any fights with you, like when you’d get paid and buy yourself a bottle of port and a bag of candy. Do you remember how I used to go along with you, impatient and upset, and ask, “Why do you want all that candy if you don’t even eat it?” And you’d say to me hesitantly, “Just because, just in case someone comes over.” Mama, all the fights we had, all the love—after you were gone, I thought: How is it possible that everything we once shared is gone, and now she’s unaware of everything that’s happening to me? Black or white, it makes no difference. I think this letter is so hard for me to write because I don’t want to cry. I don’t know why I don’t want to cry, it’s been so long since I cried and it would be good for me. Maybe if I watched a sappy movie. Mama, I cried my eyes out when you left; and then over that boyfriend, the one you only ever spoke to on the telephone. One morning I wept thinking about you, and then a little later in the day, thinking about him. Since I live alone now I don’t think I want a boyfriend, or maybe what we want is just what we’re used to, like anything else. And speaking of what I want—because I try to do too many things at once, I put them off or let them slip away—I wanted to ask you a favor. I sense I might be deserving of some small sort of grace, a gift. But the fact that I’ve got a lot of memories weighing me down could make things difficult. Since you were a believer, I’d like to ask you to entrust God with your memories. That way I’ll only have to look after my own. And once I feel lighter, I’ll be able to receive my grace.
From your daughter, who has given you so much work, but who also loved you so much.
archipelago books
is a not-for-profit literary press devoted to
promoting cross-cultural exchange through innovative
classic and contemporary international literature
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