•
I wanted to leaf through court documents and cut myself off from the world.
I regained my affinity for the law. I regaled myself with all the laws that bore a connection to my favorite subjects at university, along with the new ones—they had accumulated unread for months! —whose logic advanced so implacably, paragraph by paragraph, that having read the first two or three, I could predict everything that followed.
I had to be prepared to make my mark in Buenos-Ayres. Peru was next in the line of my aspirations; the most longed-for, the culmination, was Spain.
In all these schemes, Marta was present, Marta was with me, in the old prosperity of the life we once shared, the days of study and concentration.
•
At moments I would detach myself from the law. Without rising from my bench, I lost myself in complex associations.
Once, my sword, hanging from a nail nearby, reminded me of the night the dogs attacked. That, I thought, was the only blood ever to wet that blade—a gift from my brother-in-law when I embarked on the Río de la Plata. I dubbed myself “dogslayer.”
Those disemboweled beasts, forever linked to the encounter in the hospital ruins. . . . How I hungered for the like once more! For all my single-minded study of the law, I still desired another night as upending as that one. It had brought me peace. But a single glass of water does not sate a lifetime’s thirst.
Then Luciana found her way into my retreat and the memory of her would often make the printed pages go blank. When, lying in bed, I was visited by a recollection of her liquid kisses, I lunged for my books to regain my composure.
I did not succeed.
To ward off temptation, I made no attempt to see Luciana. I was passive, though I yearned for her to summon me.
Perhaps it was the sense of order that emanated from my new way of life and the apparent recuperation of my decorum that led Don Domingo Gallegos Moyano to invite me to share his table over the holidays. This was a custom, long since abandoned, that dated back to the early days of my residence in his house.
I relished those meals with their powerful condiments and the lavish sweets that, along with sewing, were the constant preoccupation of the household’s young ladies. To be included in a family meal was the greatest pleasure of all.
Not since the tearful episode had I approached Rita. We sat near each other during these meals and that obligated some measured conversation between us. I detected no sign of aversion in her, only an air of sorrow that others did not seem to note.
But the most precious discovery granted by our proximity was the appearance, on her forehead, of those tiny spots that are certain indicators of virtue.
I was afflicted by the knowledge that she was in pain and by my ignorance of the cause of her suffering. Had Oficial Mayor Bermúdez abandoned her? Had she voluntarily extracted herself from his influence, adopting a new stance of repentance and fortitude?
After one Sunday meal I invited her for a stroll in the garden. She did not reject me.
Her need to probe the wound was greater than mine.
Without looking at me, as if telling the story to herself, she made her confession, her shame yielding to a courage that allowed her to put it on display.
Bermúdez was a demanding individual, devoid of respect, from whom she could not detach herself, nor did she want to, though she’d become aware of his egotism and was in some doubt as to the true nature of his feelings.
Rita wanted to make me believe she was torturing herself over a purely theoretical doubt, but I did not play along, nor was she able to keep all her unvoiced distress to herself. I forced her to complete the confession she pretended to have finished.
Oficial Mayor Bermúdez was out of love. He would let weeks go by without making the slightest attempt at any encounter, not even in the streets or after mass, and still less, of course, in furtive nocturnal escapades.
Rigid to the point of exploding, Rita told me this, and then, stifling a sob, wounded and despairing, explained in all candor, “Bermúdez is not a man to live without a woman’s love.”
Rita sensed that she’d been replaced. She waxed indignant and condemned the faithless male. To calm her, I offered, with utmost sincerity, to help restore order to her life. If need be, I would confront Bermúdez and demand that he go back to her and make an open request of her hand in marriage. Should he do otherwise, I would slap him in public, thereby forcing a duel.
Rita was horrified by this plan, which I’d launched in a single vehement breath. She implored me not to intervene, not to harm her man, not to make her humiliating situation known to all. She wept and pled so ardently that I felt my own eyes moisten at the sight of this woman, so fully subjugated, so eager for her subjugator to continue to enjoy, in all freedom, whatever pursuits he had a mind to.
Rita made a great show of resignation and I could do no less than yield to her will. But I was stirred and full of mettle and it pained me not to respond immediately with an action that would attest once more to the daring of my character and the strength of my arms.
I feasted at the banquet of manliness. Yet as I vowed restraint to Rita, there filtered into my spirit the tranquillity that comes of being exempted from a perilous obligation.
19
Very soon thereafter, something more powerful and of more direct interest caused my preoccupation with Rita to wane. Though my dealings with her became more frequent, they were not again as intimate as during that Sunday siesta. I made a pretense of fearing that my constant inquiries about the development of her conflict might disturb her, and so left her to endure it without hope of even the minimal respite that communication with me might have afforded.
Luciana presented herself at my office.
There was nothing to forewarn me. My only notice was a request for an audience. When it came, she stood already in my ante-chamber.
She left her maid there and entered alone.
I lay in wait for her behind the door and wrapped her in my arms, kissing her passionately, shaken and stripped of all control by the gift of her presence, this bold visitation.
She responded with tenderness but, better prepared than I, took care to maintain the appearance of an ordinary audience.
Driven to distraction by the sight of her, I heard her out as she explained her scheme.
The mestiza who, in my presence, had held the embroidery for her, was a free woman. A mule driver from the Piñares hacienda sought to marry her, to ensure that his children would also be free. So eager was he for liberty that he perceived no obstacle in her condition. In early youth, he’d served a different master, a tobacco grower. To escape, he had plunged into the river, making for the Gran Chaco. He wanted to join the Guaicuru, though he knew they were savages. But men sent by his señor tracked him down. As punishment and to keep him from fleeing again they cut open the soles of his feet and smeared the wounds with the sap of a poisonous plant. Ever since, his feet perpetually burned and walking was a torment.
Luciana and her husband had consented to the mule driver’s matrimonial plan, which was not unusual. However, a question had since occurred to her. Since the mestiza was mute, would her consent be valid? Piñares had failed to assuage her doubts and she told him the case required a consultation with the learned councillor at the Casa de la Gobernación. Her husband was annoyed. This marriage, he said, was causing too many complications, and now he opposed it. Luciana persisted until he was persuaded to tolerate the match once more and to authorize her to visit me and learn whether the prospective bride’s muteness constituted an impediment.
I gazed at her, stupefied by her resourcefulness and in a state of some consternation that she should take pleasure in toying with the respect that her husband was due. How could he accept Luciana’s effort to persuade him to reach an understanding with me? I had watched his wife bathing in the river and he had called me a “filthy snoop.” How could he allow her to pay me a visit, alone?
I abstained, however, from inqui
ring as to what in heaven’s name had led her to bring my name into this business with her husband. Her machinations disturbed me; they discredited Luciana and put me at risk.
With no need to consult any book, I expounded freely upon the question of disabilities and presented her with the legal remedy.
Luciana hung on my every word with great satisfaction. I could see in her face an image of Zama, the eminent jurist, as if in a mirror. When I had concluded, she narrowed her eyes and said, “You deserve a kiss.”
But she did not move from her seat or summon me to her side.
I would receive the kiss I deserved. Not here but at her house, tonight. That was the promise.
Honorio Piñares was a loud sleeper and Luciana was sensitive to the noise, which sent a pain shooting through the right side of her head. Only the right side, but the pain was terrible. By her husband’s consent, she slept in another bedroom, though not when he had just returned from the hacienda, for understandable reasons to which Luciana, naturally, made no allusion.
That night she would be in the second bedroom, all the way across the house from where her husband snored, in the opposite gallery and on the upper floor. Just after midnight, I was to slip in silence down the neighboring alley. When the time came, she would put a candle in her window. Then a trusted slave would unbar the door.
A rather elaborate preliminary to a single kiss, I thought, glimpsing greater recompense.
•
That night, the moon, indifferent to my convenience, glowed jubilantly with all its light.
I took shelter in an abandoned house nearby, without doors or roof; it was the only viable hiding place to the north of Luciana’s abode, where the land had yet to benefit from much construction. To the south were two or three other dwellings, in a line with the Piñares home, and a few more stood behind them. But the one house that interested me rose tall and alone.
I waited for her signal, petrified with resolve to keep my eyes and attention fixed to her window, yet keenly aware of my surroundings and on the alert for any sound or shadow that might betray an ambush.
In the distance I heard the night watch, heading so unerringly toward where I was hidden that I muttered an oath between my teeth. I retreated into the semi-ruined house and wedged myself into its darkest corner. Cobwebs clung to my beard; to keep them from sticking to my lips I spat into my hands.
The squad of soldiers went past.
As if he had peeled off from it, an individual in a cape now stood there, his neck rigid with effort as he lifted his gaze to Luciana’s window.
I emerged. The sound of my footsteps on the rubble betrayed my presence. We exchanged glances, both nailed to the spot. Then, as if in perfect agreement, we both put hand to pommel. We remained there, on guard, considering one another.
The moon, straight overhead, cast the shadows of our hats over our faces, preventing any identification, however much we tried. For my part, I made every possible effort. But we drew no closer to each other and our eyes strained in vain.
Nevertheless, it was clear from his sword and attire, and the feather in his hat, that this was a gentleman. He was certainly not a bandit, nor could I have given him the impression of being one.
He had to be an aficionado of Luciana, like myself. Perhaps her lover.
I didn’t care who he was, nor did I care to have contact of any sort with him, be it verbal clarification, greeting, or quarrel.
I resolved to proceed down the street, turning my back on the both of them: the nocturnal rival and the offerer of kisses. I hesitated a moment longer, fearing that after our prolonged immobility he would take any movement from me as a sign of attack, in which case I would be forced into combat.
But I could stand there no longer; maintaining my balance on the irregular shards of adobe grew ever more difficult.
I shot a final glance at the little window.
He, ever attentive to each of my gestures, followed the inclination of my head and appeared to understand. Then his face swung back toward me; he lifted his fingers to the brim of his hat as if saluting me in camaraderie and turned away. I watched him move off toward the streets along the port.
He was renouncing Luciana with a gesture that expressed contempt for her, not capitulation to me.
I could do that, too. I needed to say so to the stranger. I wanted to shout, call out to him that we could go and drink together. I did not.
I tried to stamp my heels loudly against the ground as I walked away, to let Luciana know I was turning my back on her. But the accursed, indifferent sand muffled all sound.
I was appalled, outraged.
My rival was evidently a gentleman, and he and I had both been made objects of mockery. If, that is, Luciana had deliberately set out to taunt our illusions by arranging an encounter designed to make us ridiculous in each other’s eyes.
I thought even worse of her than that and abhorred and degraded her the more, for I had no doubt that the man specially invited for that night in particular was myself, while the other had happened by only out of old habit, which must often have profited him well.
20
Two days later a slip of paper was delivered to my office. Replete with errors of grammar and spelling, it read, in what might pass for Castilian, as follows: “Honorio has gone to the estate for a month. I expect you today, at six o’clock. If you are offended and hesitate to come, I want you to think about this: Do you believe I would open my bedroom to a man who is not my husband?”
•
Astonishing woman! What could her note mean? That on that moonlit night she’d had no intention of giving me a signal and still less of granting me access to her house? That she’d lied to test my respect for her virtue?
But how could she rebuff me on account of her honor even as she allowed me to kiss her, and when she herself kissed me, and furiously? There is no virtue, then, when bodies join, but when lips do, there is? Perhaps so, I told myself. And thereupon found tranquillity and freedom from guilt at the remote possibility that I would, in some future moment, have to respond to the accusations of my wife.
•
She received me as if eager to buy whatever I might be selling, with no words, only a kiss I didn’t ask for; she’d already served it up on her lips, an initial offering.
Liqueurs and preserves sat on a side table. The pavita hissed and steamed on the hot coals, and the gourds and yerba maté were at the ready. The message was clear: No maidservant would be interfering.
I did not reproach her for her ruses or demand to know why the stranger had been there, looking up at her window. I did not discuss her virtue or beg pardon for having supposed it to be nonexistent when I accepted her mendacious offer of a nocturnal tryst.
I could not speak; she would not allow it. She filled my mouth with sweets, with jams, with kisses. Naturally she did not serve the maté for that is a lengthy ritual, conducive to conversation.
Gathered into my arms at last, as if to recover from the effort of all the passion she’d delivered through her lips, she offered them up to me once more. “Husband, my husband,” she said.
Husband! My husband, she called me. And she would open her bedroom only to. . . .
Amid the lulling tenderness of these caresses, she gradually pulled away. Then she placed her lips next to my ear and just as I thought she was about to bestow some new and strange indulgence asked, “Will you come again tomorrow?”
Her words dragged me back from afar. The sound of a voice was not to my taste at that moment, and to speak in my turn seemed a vast endeavor requiring that I break myself in two or exercise a faculty I had momentarily lost the use of. Nevertheless, the question remained in her eyes. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
I said yes.
No, I should have said: No. And stayed where I was.
•
The next afternoon, as I crossed the threshold, I was met with an unexpected sight: all the parlor and dining-room furniture was heaped in the gallery. These two room
s, and only these, out of the whole section of the house that was visible to me, were being painted. And the parlor and the dining room were the only rooms to which a visitor who was not a member of the family was allowed access.
Luciana waited for me in the garden. Seated side by side on a wooden bench, we conversed and drank maté. She explained the meaning of the figures carved in the back of the bench and I said I found the maté to my liking, thereby unintentionally giving her an opening to speak at length of her husband’s yerba fields and the various agricultural techniques he employed to improve the crops. From that, she drifted into a peroration on the general characteristics of the hacienda and even the details, and their minute particulars.
That day I grazed her skin with a single kiss on the hand as I took my leave.
Painting the two rooms took infinitely longer than was normal, days and days. When I complained of the slow progress, Luciana, who continued to entertain me in the garden, explained that she’d first had them whitewashed, then learned that flies avoid rooms where the walls are painted blue. She was waiting for the whitewash to dry before applying a coat of sky blue.
Making a calculated display of a determination that she could not thwart, I said, pausing to let my warning sink deep, “I shall return to this house, tonight.”
Calmly she studied my eyes. “Who will open the door?”
“I’m fully capable of causing trouble. You will see.”
She tried to distract me. Within two days, she announced, we would resume our intimate tertulias in the parlor.
Exasperated, I rose to my feet. I repeated my declaration in a hiss as penetrating as a knife: “I shall return. Tonight.”
“Don’t,” she warned.
Suddenly she grew severe, even—perhaps, I wasn’t sure— displeased.
•
Zama Page 9
