Álvaro stood up abruptly, got dressed without a word. The concierge covered her naked body with a robe; she asked him if he’d be coming back tomorrow. While adjusting the knot of his tie in front of the mirror, Álvaro said no. He peered out through the peephole to make sure the entrance hall was empty. The concierge asked him if he’d be back another day. Álvaro answered: ‘Who knows?’ He left.
He waited for the lift. When it arrived and he was about to step in, he noticed Señora Casares, weighed down with packages as well as her shopping trolley, struggling with her key in the lock of the main door. He rushed to her aid. He opened the door and picked several of her bags up off the ground.
‘Thank you so much, Álvaro, I’m so grateful,’ said Señora Casares, almost laughing at the situation she found herself in.
Instead of it making him uncomfortable, Álvaro was flattered by her informal way of using his first name, although he couldn’t help but be surprised by it, given that it was the first time they’d ever spoken. By the time they got to the lift, it had gone back up. Señora Casares joked about being a housewife; Álvaro joked about being a housekeeper. They laughed.
Irene Casares is slight, of medium height and with a neat, meticulous appearance. Her manners seem studied, but not false, perhaps because her naturalness comes from a sort of delicate discipline. The features of her face seem strangely toned down, as if softened by the sweetness that emanates from her gestures, her lips, her words. Her eyes are clear, her beauty humble. But there is within her an elegance and dignity that her somewhat vulgar appearance doesn’t quite disguise.
Álvaro acted kind. He asked questions and received replies. On the landing they stood a while chatting. Álvaro bemoaned the impersonal relations among the residents of the building, launched into a fervent defence of neighbourhood life, which he admitted to having always avoided; to win the woman’s sympathy, he joked maliciously about the concierge. Señora Casares claimed she had to go and make lunch and they said goodbye.
Álvaro took a shower, made some lunch and ate. After three, he waited by the peephole for Señor Casares to leave for work. Shortly, Enrique Casares left his apartment. Álvaro left his apartment. They met in front of the lift. They said hello. Álvaro began the conversation: he said that very morning he’d been chatting with his wife; he bemoaned the impersonal relations between residents of the building and launched into a fervent defence of neighbourhood life, which he admitted to having always avoided; to win the man’s complicity, he joked maliciously about the concierge. Señor Casares smiled soberly. Álvaro noticed he was a bit fatter than he seemed at first glance and that it gave him an affable air. He asked him how he got to work. ‘By bus,’ Casares answered. Álvaro offered him a lift in his car; Casares turned him down. Álvaro insisted; Casares eventually accepted.
During the drive conversation flowed easily between them. Álvaro explained that he worked as a consultant in a legal agency and that his job only took up his afternoons. With a profusion of gestures that betrayed an exuberant though perhaps rather fragile vitality, Casares described his work at the factory and, not without pride, revealed certain knowledge of motors to which he had access, thanks to the relative responsibility of the position he held. When they got to the Seat plant, Casares thanked him for taking the trouble of driving him there. Then he walked away, towards the huge metal premises, through the full car-park.
That night, Álvaro dreamed he was walking across a green meadow with white horses. He was going to meet someone or something, and felt as if he were floating over the fresh grass. He was going up a gentle slope with no trees or shrubs or birds. At the top a white door with a golden doorknob appeared. He opened the door and, despite knowing that what he was looking for lay in wait on the other side, something or someone tempted him to turn around, to stand at the crest of the green hill, turned back towards the meadow, his left hand on the golden doorknob, the white door half open.
IV
Over the following days his work began to bear its first fruits. The novel was advancing steadily, though it diverged in parts from the outline arranged in the drafts and the previous plan. But Álvaro let it flow freely within that precarious and difficult balance between the instantaneous pull that certain situations and characters imposed and the necessary rigour of the general design that structures a work. As for the rest, if the presence of real models for his characters facilitated his task and provided a point of support where his imagination could rest or derive fresh impetus, at the same time it introduced new variables that would necessarily change the course of the tale. The two stylistic pillars upon which the work was being raised were nevertheless intact, and that was the essential thing for Álvaro. On the one hand, the descriptive passion, which offers the possibility of constructing a fictive duplicate of reality, by appropriating it; moreover, he considered that, while the enjoyment of sentiment is merely a plebeian emotion, the genuinely artistic enjoyment comes from the impersonal pleasure of description. On the other hand, it was necessary to narrate events in the same neutral tone that dominated the descriptive passages, like someone recounting incidents he hasn’t entirely understood himself or as if the relationship between the narrator and his characters was of a similar order to that which the narrator maintained with his toiletries. Álvaro frequently congratulated himself on his immovable conviction of the validity of these principles.
He also checked the efficiency of his listening post in the bathroom. Although on several occasions his neighbours’ conversations got all mixed up together, they came through clearly through the little ventilation window that gave on to the courtyard, and it wasn’t difficult to distinguish those of the Casares, not only because in the mornings the other apartments remained plunged in silence, barely disturbed by the sounds of saucepans colliding or glasses clinking, but because – as he soon realized – the Casares’ little ventilation window was located right next to his own, so their voices always came through clearly.
Álvaro would sit down on the lid of the toilet, hold his breath and listen. Mixed in with the rest of the general morning buzz of the building, he’d hear them get up, wake the children, wash and fix themselves up in the bathroom, get breakfast ready and eat it. The man took the children to school and returned a little while later. Then the two of them would put the house in order, do the domestic chores, joke around, go shopping, get lunch ready. In the silence of the nights, he’d hear her pleased laughter, conversations whispered in the quiet darkness of the room; later, agitated breathing, moaning, the bed’s rhythmic creaking and soon silence. One morning he listened to their giggles as they showered together; another time Señor Casares pounced, in the middle of the housework, on Señora Casares, who, in spite of protesting feebly at first, gave in almost immediately without offering the slightest resistance.
Álvaro listened attentively. He was annoyed that all these conversations were of absolutely no use to him. He’d purchased several blank tapes in order to record, plugging the machine into the bathroom socket, everything that came through the neighbours’ ventilation window. But why should he record all this useless material? He would hardly be able to use any of it in the novel. And it was a shame. Álvaro surprised himself – at first slightly perplexed – at regretting the lack of disagreement between the couple next door. All couples go through difficult periods every once in a while and he didn’t think it much to ask that they too should abide by this norm. Now that the book was going well, now that the knots of the plot were beginning to get nicely tied up, was when he most needed a real fulcrum that would spur him on to take the story line firmly in hand to the denouement. The tension of one or two arguments, provoked by some trivial domestic or conjugal event, would be enough to simplify his task extraordinarily, to help him continue with it fearlessly. That’s why he was exasperated to the point of paroxysm by the laughter and whispers he heard through the neighbouring ventilation window. From the look of things, the Casares were not willing to make the slightest concession.
At twelve noon the next day, Casares turned up at Álvaro’s apartment. They sat down on the sofa in the dining room. Álvaro asked him if he’d like something to drink; Casares politely declined. To assuage the tension his neighbour had written all over his face, Álvaro spoke of the happy proximity of the summer holidays. Casares practically interrupted him, no longer hiding his embarrassment.
‘It’d be best if we got straight to the point. I’m going to be frank with you.’ Álvaro said to himself that, although he still addressed the couple with the formal usted, they had both now definitively adopted the friendlier tú. The fact did not make him feel uncomfortable. ‘If I’ve resorted to this it’s only because I find myself in a bind and because I think I can trust you. The truth is I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t inspire confidence.’
Casares looked him frankly in the eye. Álvaro cleared his throat, prepared to offer all of his attention.
Enrique Casares explained that his company had begun a process of downsizing. This restructuring of the workforce affected him directly: they were now processing his redundancy. As he would have read in the papers, the workers had gone on strike, the union had broken off talks with the company and the ministry. For the majority of workers affected by these measures, the situation was hopeless. His own case, however, was different. Casares outlined the details that made his situation special. He said he wondered whether it might be possible to appeal against his dismissal with some chance of success and that, to avoid getting lost in a jungle of unfamiliar laws and decrees, he was going to need the help of a lawyer.
He added, ‘Of course, I’ll pay whatever it costs.’
Álvaro remained silent in his armchair, without the slightest gesture of assent or refusal. His visitor seemed relieved of a terrible burden. He said that he’d now gladly accept the beer Álvaro had offered earlier. Álvaro went to the kitchen, opened two beers, which they drank together. More relaxed, Casares said he couldn’t exaggerate the importance of the matter, since his salary from the factory was his family’s only source of sustenance. He begged him not to mention the matter to anyone: he’d been keeping it secret so as not to worry his wife unnecessarily. Álvaro promised he’d investigate the case thoroughly and assured him he’d communicate any concrete result as soon as he had one. They said goodbye.
V
For some time, the writing of the novel was put on hold. Álvaro spared no effort in studying Enrique Casares’ case. He obtained all the relevant information, examined it carefully, studied it, revised it several times, checked the case against other analogous ones. He arrived at the conclusion that, in effect, it would be possible to appeal against the redundancy, with a virtual guarantee of success. In the worst case, the severance pay the company should be obliged to provide if the dismissal was carried out was almost double the paltry sum his neighbour had been offered.
Once the situation was clarified, he reflected cautiously. He considered two options:
a) If he appealed the dismissal it was very likely Casares would manage to keep his job or, at least, that the damage would be far less – on the hypothesis that the company might choose to resort to a paragraph of the law which stated that they had no obligation to readmit a dismissed employee to his post. In this case – Álvaro continued – I will have won Casares’ gratitude, but I will also have lost time and money, since I have no intention of sinking so low as to charge him a fee.
b) If he allowed events to take their natural course, without intervening in them, he would still gain his neighbour’s friendship and appreciation, given that he would understand and respect all the disinterested attention Álvaro had devoted to his problem. Besides, Álvaro wouldn’t charge him a cent for all the time generously spent on it. On the other hand, it was certain that the loss of his job – their only source of sustenance – would have repercussions on the couple’s relationship, which might deteriorate in such a way as to make possible that he, Álvaro, might be able to expect to hear, from his surveillance post by the ventilation window, the vicissitudes of that process of deterioration, which he’d undoubtedly be able to use in his novel. This would facilitate his work enormously as he would enjoy the possibility, so long nurtured, of obtaining from the couple the material he needed to proceed with and conclude his work.
He arranged to see Casares. He explained the steps he’d taken, his investigations at the ministry and the union, illustrated the situation with analogous examples, clarified various juridical details, added data the factory had supplied. Finally, he invented interviews and lied coldly.
He concluded, ‘I don’t think there’s the slightest chance they’ll accept the appeal.’
The expression on Enrique Casares’ face had passed from expectation to despair. He loosened his tie, knotted his hands together, rested his elbows on his knees; his breathing sounded laboured. After a silence during which Casares’ eyes stung, Álvaro offered him all his support and, although theirs was only a recent acquaintance, all his friendship at such a difficult time. He told him he must, now more than ever, keep calm, that a man’s measure is revealed on occasions like this, that no good would come from losing hope. He also assured him that everything in life had a solution.
Casares looked out the dining-room window. A pigeon landed on the sill. Álvaro noticed that his neighbour was stunned. Casares stood up and walked to the door, apologizing for all the trouble he’d caused and thanking him for all that he’d taken. Álvaro modestly brushed aside his words and said don’t mention it, that’s what friends are for. By the door, he rested a friendly hand on his shoulder and reiterated his support. Casares left with his head hanging.
Álvaro immediately took a chair, a little table and a microphone into the bathroom. He set up the microphone on the table, where there was also a notebook and pen. He sat in the chair. Whenever he began a listening session, the building swarmed with indistinct noises: his ear had to adjust to that murmuring to be able to distinguish between them. Now he clearly heard the voices of the couple next door. He was explaining the situation to her: he said he now had no solution, they’d just have to accept it. At one point, the roar of a cistern interrupted the dialogue. Álvaro stopped the tape and swore. When silence was restored he turned the tape recorder back on and heard the woman reassuring the man, comforting him affectionately. She said, ‘Everything in life has a solution.’ He mumbled that Álvaro had tried to comfort him with the very same words. The woman asked what Álvaro had to do with all this. He confessed that he’d consulted their neighbour because he knew he was a lawyer, and begged him for help. The woman didn’t reproach him; she said that Álvaro inspired her confidence. The man praised h
is generosity, the sincere interest that he’d shown in his case, all the trouble he’d taken. Besides, he hadn’t charged him a single cent for all the work. From the next flat came a blast of music: the spotty-faced journalist was listening to Bruce Springsteen at full volume.
Álvaro didn’t get annoyed. For the moment he was satisfied. He thought he’d be able to take full advantage of the dialogue he’d just recorded for his novel. With a few details modified, others improved, the conversation could sound extraordinarily energetic and lifelike, with its eloquent silences, pauses and hesitations. Spurred by his initial success, he considered the possibility of installing a permanent recording device in the bathroom to pick up the conversations from the neighbouring apartment, especially since, starting from next week, they would also talk to each other during the hours when he was absent.
The next day he resumed work on the novel. He stitched up the plot concerning the married couple without difficulty: events were now practically writing themselves. As for the part concerning the old man, however, there weren’t too many reasons for optimism. Unlike what was happening with the young couple, here Álvaro felt he hadn’t a leg to stand on or any reference from which to continue with the story. Without them, his imagination wallowed in a hesitant swamp of imprecision: the character as much as his actions lacked the solidity of real life. It was urgent, therefore, to establish contact with the old man as soon as possible. This would smooth out the difficulties that part of the novel was posing. But the problem lay in how to strike up a friendship with him. Because although it was true that their paths crossed in the supermarket almost daily, it was no less true that they barely exchanged a laconic greeting: the old man’s surliness wouldn’t permit a whiff of affability.
The Tenant and The Motive Page 10
