Inside the building, the line took on a different shape: it zigzagged. When my turn finally came, I said to the clerk, “I’d like to change my name.” “What name?” she asked, not understanding. “Mine,” I said, “I want to change it.” “And may I ask why?” she retorted. “The reason is personal. I want to change it.” “But that’s a public request and we need to know why. If you don’t want to declare your reason, keep your own name.” Those words seemed to end the conversation. She was not a beautiful woman, that is, her expression, which had become her features, hid a prior, perhaps more lively, face. “Wait,” I said. “If I tell you, is there a chance?” “That depends,” she asserted. “Depends on what?” “Depends on the reason.” “What sort of reason could it be?” I asked. “Oh, I can’t tell you that,” she said. “But I need to know if I can do it or not,” I insisted. “All right, tell me your reason, and I’ll tell you if you can. But not the other way around, because if I tell you, you’ll just pick one.” According to the card she wore clipped to the pocket of her uniform, her name was Mirta del Soto. “Listen,” I said, emphasizing my porteño accent and leaning in as though I were about to tell her a secret, “I want to change my name, and don’t care what reason I give. What I want is to do it quickly.” “All right,” she replied, in a weary voice, “tell them that you discovered that your parents aren’t your parents. We’ll verify it and you can have it changed.” “No, that won’t work.” “Oh, you don’t say,” she snapped. “It can’t be just any name. It has to be a specific one,” I explained. “In order to do that, we need to know the reason,” she raised her voice, “it’s the reason that justifies taking that specific name instead of any other.” “But what are the reasons?” “I can’t tell you that.” “There must be some sort of code, some rule book, where they’re all written down.” “Yes,” she said, “but I don’t know where it is.” “So how do you know if a reason is valid or not?” “I don’t worry about that; I just take the forms. But I’m telling you: without a reason, it won’t get looked at.” She seemed agitated, but she wasn’t; it was just her way of doing her job. She would probably forget all this right away, but I tried to make sure that didn’t happen.
When I try to remember Mirta del Soto’s face now, it is as though it had dissolved, leaving only the indifferent recollection of an equally unassuming ugliness. Her features, barely defined, appeared to be subject to the order of weariness that had imposed itself on her other traits—traits that, at one time, might have flattered her—flattening, for example, the intonation of her voice or repressing any lively movement of her eyes. Her smock, the identification card, the counter at chest height, and, behind it in the half light, rows of desks, many of which were empty: all these things made her, in my moment of need, seem like a vaguely liturgical figure placed there to perform the ritual of changing my name. But she also appeared to me, more and more tangibly, as an individual, precisely because of her negative traits. (Features, a face: a mystery. I say this in general, beyond the case of Mirta del Soto. A person’s face is something brutish, a landscape waiting to be revealed with neither a before nor an after, only what is there in the moment of its discovery, overlooking its enigmas.)
Her way of speaking, inseparable from her foreign-sounding voice and the way her reflexive common sense did away with people’s—or, in this case, my—urgency, or at least the importance of their reasons: in her, all of this spoke to me of a sound and self-sufficient universe in which there was no doubt about names, colors, or memories. The unwavering simplicity embodied by Mirta del Soto did not reveal the advantages of a simple truth, nor did it possess the power of minor wisdom, but I was affected by the efficacy of her even, uncomplicated logic that worked like a portable magic kit, turning something complex into something simple and making the obscure transparent. Over the course of two weeks, I went to see her three more times, and on the fourth she let me wait for her near the exit of the registry.
I saw her without her uniform. She dressed carelessly, wearing a brown rain jacket over a red sweater. She wanted to go somewhere far from there, where her co-workers wouldn’t see her (she said colleagues: “where my colleagues won’t see me”). We walked along Uruguay toward Rivadavia. On the way, Mirta talked about her family, or what had become of it. She lived alone with her mother, who was bedridden. She had no husband and no children; her father, who had abandoned them in the distant past, was just a hazy memory. (Right away, I could tell she was lying; something indefinable, impossible to calculate, convinced me of it.) For some time, Mirta had wondered whether her mother might not have been pleased to have her, the daughter, all to herself after her father left. What is more, she could be two, like during the stretches of time when her mother would call her Mirto, as though she were a boy. “So you see,” she said, making a gesture in the air, “there are always reasons to want to change your name,” alluding to my reticence to give my own. Once we got to Corrientes, it became harder for us to talk—I should admit that it didn’t really seem necessary, either—we could not walk next to one another on the narrow sidewalks, so instead we walked with her in front and me behind, our way often blocked by people waiting for buses or leaving stores and buildings.
We went to a café on the avenida de Mayo. As soon as we sat down, Mirta covered the side of her face with her hand, warning me, “That guy over there is the section manager at the registry. If he sees me with you, I’m done for.” Far from concealing her, the gesture made her stand out, as did my spontaneous reaction of turning my head to watch him walk past. Mirta was out in the open, but the section manager, surprised and guarded because of our movements, did not recognize her. She loved scenes like that; in those moments she did not just imagine herself to be another, but many others at once; the others were also different—they could be other, too. After a while we cut to the chase: She told me that the only chance I had was to demonstrate my “longstanding use” of the new name, for which I was going to need proof. This proof would be in the form of documents, that is, I needed to present documents that made it clear that I had been called by the name that I wished to adopt. Personal documents like letters could help later on, but what mattered were the public ones: an extended and habitual use of the name that left no doubt as to its suitability to identify me. For example, she said, a photo of your graduation that shows you with the new name. Graduation photos, I thought. It was unthinkable; Mirta seemed to be from another planet. The only photo like that I could remember—and that, on the other hand, I was sure I did not have—was one from seventh grade, which of course showed me with my original name. I told her this, but her fatigue had latched on to the first opportunity to take over her mind and, having proposed a solution, even one that was of no use, she felt absolved of having to think of another. She looked out at the street, and it was as though she were sleeping with her eyes open. I observed the almost imperceptible down that covered her face, glowing in reflection from the window, as it grew more dense around her lips to form a delicate plush. Her neck was rough. Maybe it was true, what she said about her mother, I thought; next to her problems, the idea of changing my name with no justification must seem capricious to her. In that case, it would make sense that she would not want to offer alternatives. Until the very end, I wondered if I should tell her the truth. She might really be able to help me, I thought, but realized right away that it could ruin everything. After a while we left the café and walked in the direction of Congreso.
We got all the way to Montevideo without saying a word. I was thinking about M, about how different that walk would be if he were there, how different the city would be. One did not walk with Mirta; it was an operation that resembled being dragged, as though something had us in tow—if not with our participation, at least with our consent. Mirta acted pensive, but she made an effort to talk even when she had nothing to say, which was, after all, why she had been quiet. Whenever the car motors would allow it, I listened to the plastic rustling of her jacket as she walked. A few meters past Montevide
o she said, “Well, this is me. This is where I catch the 56.” “All right,” I answered, “well, thanks a lot, Mirta.” She looked off to one side and hesitated: I watched the thought that had been forming over the past two blocks take shape in her head. “I thought you were going to take me somewhere else,” she finally said. In that moment, I understood that Mirta could not help me if I remained a stranger. We continued on toward a hotel on Rincón.
Once there Mirta’s skin radiated heat; it burned and yet, I don’t know why, the body did not seem to belong to its owner. A mix of desire and restraint impeded any externalization or connection, creating, as a result, a pitiable delay in movements and gestures, as though she were following orders sent from far away and each maneuver, gesture, or thought were broken down into so many specific, repetitive commands that it was impossible to accomplish anything in an efficient way. Mirta’s torpor in bed—which at times was frighteningly ecstatic, as though she were on the verge of unconsciousness or sleep—was similar to her silence as she walked, when she seemed to be at the mercy of lethargy, hard-pressed to move herself. At that moment I was another; not who I thought I was or who she thought I was. Her surrender was so disproportionate compared to my desire or my feelings that I was left with no choice but to concede: to be less, different, a third person. Mirta would get excited to the point of collapse, only to immediately trail off into languor. There was no connection between her breathing and any of this, and her fluctuations produced in me a vague sense of shame. In a moment of particular tumult, I caught sight of her credentials, her identification card, on the rug. “Mirta del Soto, Assistant,” it said. I imagined that fate had put her title in front of me to instruct me on the many possible meanings of the word assistance.
Afterward, I walked her to calle Moreno, where she could catch the 56. We had fallen quiet again, but now, as you can imagine, the silence was different. Mirta’s availability was no longer as passive; it had become obsequious. She could say the first thing that came to mind, as long as it corresponded to the tone of affectionate gratitude that she felt compelled to express. At the bus stop, across from a hospital, there was a shop that made shirts. As soon as we arrived, Mirta said, “I want to buy you one,” and set about looking at the different samples in the window. I stared at the wall in front of me; I sensed the vague memory of something having to do with M. Mirta, for her part, noticing that I had not so much as turned to look at the shirts, as she had hoped, turned and immediately remarked, “The bus is taking forever.”
I should say that Mirta’s help was essential, though I never did achieve my objective. We met on two other occasions, aside from the days when I went to visit her at the registry. It was impressive, how she could make a routine out of nothing; this certainly derived from a deep-seated need. She fell in love with the café, where we would sit in the same place and order the same drinks, and of course with the hotel, where she never actually managed to ask for the same room. Until the very end, I debated whether to tell her the truth, but I was sure that, for one reason or another, I would regret it. It might even be, I thought, that something similar had happened to Mirta, in fact, it was very possible; at the end of the day, the story about the crippled mother and the absent father could absolutely be one of those that cover up other, more painful, events and, as such, might be no more than the modified version of a less general tragedy. If that were true, however, if someone close to her had disappeared, my wish might be offensive to her.
I know that passivity, I said to myself as I watched her get on the crowded 56 bus as though stepping into a cave of shadows, that dream of peace that seeks out the void, assimilates it, but is flustered by the slightest discord. My confession would be like a thunderclap, which meant there was no room for the truth, though at least I didn’t lie: to this day, Mirta does not know why I wanted to change my name. If at any point she had directed the power of her portable magic kit at me, I might either have confessed to her or given up the idea of taking another name; but if, as I have said, I sometimes believed myself to be other, or less, or different, then these states are so fleeting and so autonomous, in their way, that I might not have been subject to her influence.
Once, resting my head on her back, I listened to the sound of Mirta’s heart beating; as an echo of her diffuse ugliness, it seemed even more unreal. There is nothing more enigmatic than someone’s back, a personal plain that one never sees in its entirety, upon which all strength, weariness, and betrayal converge, and where grease accumulates as it does on a face that’s been covered up. Mirta’s heartbeat sounded far away; it seemed to reach me from across not one, but many bodies, or at least to come from the depths rather than just a few centimeters beneath her skin. From the other side, I thought, against her breasts all it takes is a bit of attention to hear her pulse, but from this side her heartbeat is relegated to the distance. Lying on her stomach, Mirta did not speak. How I wanted to go on like that, to hold on to the silence for as long as possible and forget that it was her skin under my ear (it was no use).
I did not have to get in line when I went to visit her at work. I skirted along the side of the front door and walked toward the end of an empty counter, where it was darker. Mirta had already seen me come in, and a few minutes later she was with me, though on the other side. She got up on some sort of stool and projected her entire body forward—her arms and chest on the counter, her face in her hands—and looked at me. It was obvious that she was eager to speak. She asked me what I had done that day, commented on the weather, her job, and things of that nature. Her tone was trivial, but it would be a mistake to call it that because, although it was, it is also true that Mirta took great pains to explore the most intricate possibilities of any topic or situation; this, too, spoke of a kind of depth. At one point, she said to me, “I was thinking: since you’re a writer, why don’t you write a book and sign it with the other name?” I was stunned. It was a brilliant idea: publish a book and then later present it as my justification. Some time earlier, I had told her that I was a writer; despite her great propensity for wringing every word out of any conversation, she reacted, strangely, as though she had not heard me. “She doesn’t believe me,” I thought; but, at the end of the day, I didn’t believe the story about her parents, either.
Maybe she still didn’t believe me, and she gave me this idea to bring my deceit out into the open, I thought, as she distractedly folded the back cover of a book, a novel I had with me, as though it were any other piece of paper. As was the case with M, I have great respect for novels, but derive no pleasure from reading them; (in general) I only read for brief periods at a time. Furthermore, the story—like so many others, not worth repeating—did not interest me; yet something, maybe habit, kept me from putting it down, sort of like Mirta, so I carried it around with me anyway, reading it to little effect. How could Mirta do that? I thought. Apparently, books meant nothing to her. She racked her brain for another topic of conversation as she took hold of the back cover, folded it in half, and ran a fingernail along the edge to deepen the crease. Since she couldn’t think of anything, she would start in on the cover. The idea she had given me was a good one, the best. What is more, it came from someone familiar with the matter; as such, though there are no guarantees in life, it had a high probability of success. But when I saw her distractedly quartering the book—she was already on her fifth fold—I wondered whether Mirta might not embody an excessive simplicity, a simplicity so dimensionless that her intervention might affect the value and meaning of my endeavor and, along with it, M’s memory as a whole. It is true that this very simplicity was, itself, her portable magic kit, the combination of startling qualities behind which I had glimpsed the possibility of a certain freedom, but if I was inclined to change in that direction, to allow that change to take place in the part of me where M was and is kept, that also meant betraying his memory. So I took the book from her hands and said, “Mirta, I have to go.” She wanted to know if I would wait for her, she could leave early today. I can�
��t, I said. The idea about the book was a good one, the best, I told her; I never would have thought of it. That made her happy. “All right, get out of here. We’ll get together another day,” she said, by way of goodbye. When I left the registry, there was a wedding going on across the street, in an annex or something of the kind; they were taking pictures. I turned on to Córdoba and walked west.
Once more I felt, as I wrote several pages back, the lassitude and dissimilation that flowed from people’s faces. I knew that I would not see Mirta again; this did not affect me much, but I found it paradoxical that once a solution, the best reason, had been found, I would withdraw without making use of it. I turned right on Rodríguez Peña. I wanted to walk past the Education Library, where M and I often went to consult manuals. At the corner of Paraguay I stopped to observe the plaza. It was veiled in a green and orange mist; behind it, though it was no more than a hundred meters away, avenida Callao looked like the distant backdrop of a landscape, vaguely impressionistic in its colors, the grey stone of the buildings along the avenue and the dappled effect of the branches and leaves intermingled along my line of sight. It wasn’t worth it to go into the library, I thought; I was not going to request a book, nor did I have any intention of speaking with the employees there, and I had no doubt that the sight of the furniture, windows, and display cases—and, most of all, breathing in that smell (libraries have a smell)—would depress me. On the sidewalk outside, a long line of people was waiting for the 150 (Lugano or Villa Crespo to Retiro). After spending a while in the library, M and I would light our cigarettes in the doorway, facing the plaza, as soon as we stepped outside. A passive channel of wills: that is what the line of passengers waiting for the 150 was, standing beside the curb. The bus arrived and idled there a few moments; when it pulled away, the line had disappeared. Two or three people remained, at the most.
The Planets Page 21
