The days passed with no improvement. “Be patient, these things take time, we’ve already told you that, wait a little longer.” But he began to notice fairly evident things: the doses of medicine being reduced or becoming mere sedatives; very few X-rays, fewer electrocardiograms; the doctors’ visits growing ever shorter and without comment; the permission to see his secretary and deal with the most urgent business with her; the noticeable worry that appeared on the faces of his wife and sons; the exaggerated solicitude they showed by hardly wanting to leave him alone, their gazes filled with tenderness . . . For several days his wife had left the door open between their adjoining bedrooms, and several times during the night she would walk between them with the pretext of seeing if he needed anything. One night when he wasn’t sleeping he heard her sobbing. He had no more doubts then, nor did he harbor any further hopes. He understood everything at once: there was nothing to be done and the end was perhaps near. Again he felt as though he were being torn apart, deeper still than what he’d felt during his attack. The limitless, hopeless pain of the man who suddenly hears his sentence and has nothing to await now but death, of the man who has to leave it all behind when he least expected it, when everything was organized for life, for physical and economic well-being, when he had managed to lay the foundations of an enviable situation, when he had three intelligent and handsome sons who were about to become men, when he had found a girl like Raquel. Death had never been in his plans or his thoughts. Not even when some friend or relative died had he thought about his own disappearance — he felt full of life and energy. He had so many projects, so many deals planned, he wanted so many things! He ardently desired, with all his soul, to find himself in some other day, sitting at his desk dictating into the recorder, running here and there, running to beat time. If only it were all an awful nightmare! But the cruelest part was that he couldn’t lie to himself. With each passing day he had observed that his body was growing less and less responsive, that his fatigue had become overwhelming, his breathing more labored.
This discovery plunged him into a deep depression. He spent several days this way, not speaking, not wanting to know about his business, caring about nothing. Then, almost without realizing it, he began, after so much thinking and thinking about death, to grow familiar with it, to adapt to the idea. There were times when he almost felt lucky to know his end was near, that it hadn’t happened to him the way it did to those poor people who die all of a sudden and don’t even give you the time to say “Jesus help you”; those who die in their sleep and pass from one dream to another, leaving everything in disarray. It was preferable to know it, preferable to prepare things himself, make his will correctly, and also — why not? — make the arrangements for the funeral. He wanted to be buried, first of all, the way a man who had worked all his life to attain a respectable social and economic position deserved, and secondly, according to his own tastes and not the tastes and convenience of the rest. “It’s all the same now, why so much ostentation? Those are vanities that mean nothing now” — that’s what dead people’s relatives tended to say. But for the person who was leaving it all behind, it did mean something for these last few formalities to be carried out according to his wishes. He began by thinking about which cemetery would be best. The English cemetery was renowned as the most distinguished, and that would make it the most costly. He’d been there before, to bury two friends, and he didn’t find it bad, or depressing; it seemed more like a park, with many statues and well-groomed lawns. Nevertheless it emanated a certain established chill: everything symmetrical, orderly, exact, like the English mentality, and to be honest with himself, he had never liked the English, with their eternal mask of serenity, so methodical, so punctual, so full of periods and commas. He’d always had a hard time understanding them when he’d had to do business with them; they were meticulous, sticklers for detail, and such good bankers that they annoyed him profoundly. He who was so decisive in everything, who often played his business deals purely on a hunch, who upon making a decision had given his final word, who closed one deal and went straight to the next — he couldn’t stand those types who circled back to the beginning of the matter, made a thousand observations, established clauses, imposed a thousand conditions. What a pain! . . . He’d do better to think about another cemetery. Then he remembered the Jardín, where his aunt Matilde was buried. There was no doubt that it was the prettiest: outside the city, on the mountainside, full of light, air, sun (incidentally, he’d never found out how his aunt’s monument turned out; he had no time for such things, not for lack of interest, of course! His wife had told him it came out quite well). Pepe Antúñez was there too — such a good friend, and what a drinker! He never folded, he held out until the end. When he was in high spirits, he liked to listen to Guty Cárdenas songs, and no matter how much they told him to lay off the bottle he never paid attention. “If it weren’t for this,” he’d say, lifting his glass, “and one or two other things, life would be so boring!” And he died of it. But he hadn’t been too shabby a drinker himself: a few whiskeys to whet his appetite, a bottle of wine with dinner, then some cognac or a cream liqueur, and if he hadn’t been so busy with work all the time he might have ended up like poor Pepe . . . He also thought about the French Cemetery. “It has class, no doubt about that, but it’s the one that looks the most like a cemetery, so austere, so depressing. Strange that it’s like that, since the French always seem so full of life and good cheer . . . especially the women . . . Renée, Denise, Viviàne . . .” And he smiled in satisfaction: “Pretty girls!” When he was around forty he had thought having a French lover was very stylish — and it provoked a certain envy among one’s friends, since people believe that French and Italian women know all the mysteries of the bedroom. Later, with age and experience, he learned that erotic ardor and wisdom aren’t national traits but entirely personal ones. He’d had two French lovers back then. Viviàne was nothing serious. He had been introduced to Renée at a cocktail party hosted by the French Embassy:
“I just arrived . . . I’m very disoriented . . . I don’t know how to begin my studies, you know how it is, such a foreign country . . .”
“What you need is a godfather to give you some orientation, something like a tutor . . .”
The look with which she accepted the offer was so loaded with meaning that he knew he could aspire to be something more than a tutor. And so it was — without preamble, without beating around the bush, they became involved. As naturally as other women took a bath or brushed their teeth, those girls went to bed. He had given her a small but pleasant and cozy apartment: a little studio with a bar, a kitchenette, and a bathroom. In the studio there was a red velvet couch that served as seat and bed, a table, and two bookshelves. Renée brought only a few books, a typewriter, and her personal items. He gave her a record player so she could listen to music while she studied. She never cooked in the apartment, saying she didn’t have time, she was taking so many classes, and she always complained that she ate poorly, in any old cheap place. Her siblings were still in school; her father, a lawyer who was old already, didn’t practice much. They sent her barely anything for her expenses. He couldn’t stand seeing Renée live that way, and he gave her a Diners Club card so she could eat in nice restaurants. Before long he had to exchange her apartment for a larger and, of course, more costly one. She constantly complained that the apartment was too cramped, that she felt herself asphyxiating, that her neighbors made a lot of noise and kept her from working . . . Then he had to buy her an automobile, because she wasted lots of time going to and from school, the buses were always full of filthy people and uncouth louts who besieged her with impertinent remarks, sometimes to the point that she needed to ask someone for help — and of course he couldn’t allow that! He had been very attracted to Renée, but he never became passionate about her. The relationship lasted about a year. Then at one point she stopped letting him see her so often: “I have a lot of studying to do, I failed a class, and I want to
pass the proficiency exam, a classmate said he would help me with it . . .” When she had to study, which was almost every night, he would stop by to bring her a box of chocolates or some snacks; she would open the door and accept the gift but wouldn’t let him come in: “With you here, I won’t be able to study, and I have to pass the exam.” She’d give him a quick kiss and close the door with an au revoir, chéri. A little annoyed, he’d go off in search of a friend to see a show with, or have a few drinks before going to sleep at his house . . . That day he brought her the chocolates as usual. They had said goodbye and he was already leaving, when he noticed that his shoelace was untied, and he crouched down to tie it, right next to the apartment door. That was when he heard their laughter and a few remarks: “Look, he brought us our chocolates.” “Poor old fool!” said the boy. Then more laughter, and then . . . What he’d felt! All the blood rushed suddenly to his head, he wanted to fling open the door and surprise them, dish out blows, bellow in rage; and he wasn’t in love, it was his pride, his vanity, that had been injured for the first time. That little French girl had really played him! He lit a cigarette and inhaled a few puffs. It wasn’t worth it, he reflected suddenly, he would only end up looking ridiculous, or maybe he’d go too far and kill the boy, and what then? What a scandal that would be for the newspapers! A man of his position cuckolded by an undergraduate, what a laugh! His friends would mock him for the rest of his life, he could imagine it already. In addition, his whole family would find out, the clients who considered him such a serious and honorable person . . . No, in no way would he compromise himself with a matter of this sort. He took the elevator, left the building, parked his car a short distance away, and waited, smoking cigarette after cigarette. He wanted to know what time the boy would leave, to be completely sure. He waited until seven in the morning, when he saw him walk out smoothing back his hair, yawning . . . After that she’d come looking for him many times — she called him at his office, waited for him at the entrance, sought him out in their usual bars. He remained unapproachable; she no longer interested him: there were thousands like her, or better. Denise didn’t mean anything, he slept with her two or three times, and that was plenty. All of his friends and almost half the city had passed through her bed at least once; she was extremely boring and obsessed with marrying whoever would have her, plus she was long and scrawny, she didn’t have anything . . .
He decided finally on the Jardín Cemetery; he would lie near his aunt Matilde. After all, she was like his second mother, she had taken him in when he was left an orphan and had given him love and protection. He would order them to place an elegant and understated marker on his grave: a marble tombstone with his name and the date. He would buy a plot for the entire family and have them bring Aunt Matilde and his brothers there. Buying a plot had its advantages: it was a solid investment, since land always goes up in price, even in cemeteries; it also ensured that his sons and wife would have somewhere to be buried; it wouldn’t be at all difficult for them to run through the inheritance he was going to leave them with — he’d seen so many cases of generous inheritances painfully squandered! His coffin would be metal, big and durable; he didn’t want to repeat what had happened to Pancho Rocha: when he went to the wake, he had the unpleasant impression that they had put Pancho in a box that was too small for him. He would ask for the most elegant and expensive hearse so that the people who saw his funeral procession passing by would think: That must have been someone very important and very rich. As for the funeral parlor where they would hold the wake, that was no problem — Gayosso was the best of them all. These arrangements would be included in the will he had decided to give to his lawyer, which would be opened as soon as he died, giving his family time to observe his last wishes.
The days began to seem shorter. With so much thinking and thinking, the hours flew by unnoticed. He no longer suffered waiting for his friends’ visits; on the contrary, he wished that they wouldn’t interrupt him, and that his secretary wouldn’t drop by with a report or consult him about his business. His family began to speculate about what might have caused this change in him after so many days sunk in dejection. He was visibly excited by his plans; his eyes sparkled as before. True, he stayed silent, but he was occupied with something very important. They began to think he must be planning one of those big business deals he was always making. This change was a relief for his family: his depression had made the sentence hanging over his head even harder on them.
He began by writing his will; he would leave his funeral arrangements for last, now that they were completely planned and decided. His fortune — property, stocks, cash — would be divided equally between his wife and his three sons; his wife would remain executor until the boys had finished with school and were ready to begin working. To Raquel he would leave the house he had given her and enough money to start a business of some kind. To his sister, Sofía, some shares of petroleum stock — the poor woman was always strapped for cash, with so many children and with Emilio, who was terrible at business and was always losing money. To his secretary he would give the house in Colonia del Valle: she had been so patient with him, so faithful and obliging, she had worked for him for almost fifteen years . . . His brother, Pascual, didn’t need anything, being just as rich as he was. But his aunt Carmen did, although it was true that he’d never felt much affection for that old neurasthenic who was always scolding and criticizing him; still, that’s just how she was, and she was already so old that she couldn’t have many years left, so she might as well have whatever she desired.
It took him several days to write the will. He didn’t want anyone to find out about its contents until the time was right. He wrote during the brief moments when they left him alone. When someone came, he would hide the papers in his desk and lock the drawer. Everything had been laid out with perfect clarity, so as not to allow for confusion or disputes; it was a well-organized and very fair will, nobody would be cheated by it. All that was left were the arrangements for his funeral, which he would add as soon as he had a chance.
There were two things he wished before dying: to go out into the street one last time, walking on his own, with no one watching and without anyone in his house knowing about it, to move about like one of those poor people who stroll along in peace without knowing that their own death is already by their side, and that when they cross the street a car will run them over and kill them, or those who die reading the newspaper while waiting in line for the bus; and he also wanted to see Raquel once more — he had missed her so much! The last time they were together they had dined outside the city; the restaurant was intimate and pleasant, very low lighting, the music subdued, slow . . . After three drinks Raquel wanted to dance; he had refused: it seemed ridiculous at his age, he might see someone he knew, dancing wasn’t for him anymore; but she insisted and insisted until he could no longer refuse. He still remembered the contact of her so amply endowed body, her clean scent of a young woman; and as if feeling a premonition, he had drawn her closer to him.
When he dropped her off at her house, he didn’t stay with her; he wasn’t feeling well, he had an unfamiliar feeling of anxiety, something strange that oppressed his chest, suffocated him and made breathing difficult. He had barely managed to reach his house and open the garage . . . He would fulfill these wishes without telling anyone beforehand; he would escape. It would be easy to do after the afternoon meal: his wife always took a short nap and the servants always stayed to chat around the table long after they finished eating. He always spent his afternoons in the library, which had a door that opened onto the garage; he would slip through it without being seen. In the library’s closet he kept a coat and a rain jacket . . . When he returned he would explain everything — they would understand. In his situation nothing could harm him anymore, his death was irremediable. Sitting still like a log or going out for a stroll, it was all the same at this point . . . At that moment his wife came in: the afternoon was cold, it was drizzling, it would be best for
him to go to bed. He willingly agreed and let himself be led there. Before falling asleep he thought again with great joy that tomorrow he would make his last excursion outside. He felt as excited as a boy sneaking out of the house for a night on the town: he would see Raquel, he would see the streets again, he would walk through them . . .
He was in the library, as usual, sitting in his eternal reclining chair. He didn’t hear the slightest sound; there didn’t seem to be a soul in the entire house. He smiled, satisfied: everything would be even easier than he’d expected. It was nearly four o’clock when he decided to go out. From the closet he took the rain jacket, a wool scarf, and a hat. He bundled up properly and pressed his ear to the door, but there wasn’t the least sign of life in the house — everything was silent. He calmly left through the garage door, not without first donning a pair of dark sunglasses so he could pass through the streets unrecognized. He wanted to walk alone. The afternoon was gray and chilly, an autumn afternoon turning to winter. He adjusted his scarf and turned up the collar of the jacket; he hastened from the house as quickly as possible. Then, confident, he slackened his pace and stopped to buy cigarettes. He lit one and savored it with delight: it had been so long since he’d smoked! At first he’d asked his friends to bring him cigarettes; they never did, and eventually he stopped asking. He walked aimlessly for a while, until he realized that he was slowly heading in the opposite direction from Raquel’s house; he changed his path. Arriving at a corner, he stopped: a funeral procession was coming and he didn’t have time to cross the street in front of it. He would wait . . . First, several buses full of people dressed in mourning passed by; they were followed by a black hearse, nothing ostentatious, a common, everyday one without flourishes: “It must be a modest funeral.” Nevertheless, behind the hearse, several trucks went by bearing large floral offerings, huge and expensive wreaths: “Then it must have been someone important.” Then came the family members’ automobile, a black Cadillac of the latest model, “just like mine.” When the car passed, he could make out inside it the pale and grief-torn faces of his sons and of his wife who, wracked with sobs, covered her mouth with a handkerchief so as not to cry out.
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