Little Indiscretions

by Carmen Posadas

  One night, as it happened, two individuals were making their separate ways toward this extraordinary establishment, both hoping to relax and forget the worries of the day with a little singing, accompanied by the Gutiérrez brothers. One was strolling on the left side of the street, hands in pockets, whistling a tune as if anticipating a special pleasure. The other was walking along the right side, protected from curious gazes by an enveloping overcoat. They reached the door at the same time . . . After you. No please, madame, after you, I insist. Madame Longstaffe stepped inside, followed by Karel Pligh, who was determined to make a night of it before heading off to the Teldis’ country house. Their little exchange was marked by the cool and deferential politeness of complete strangers who have realized they belong to the same sect or secret society.

  Having taken up positions at opposite ends of the bar and ordered drinks (caipirinha for Madame, a daiquiri for Karel), each settled in for a night of pleasure. There was no one else in the club, a situation that tends to break down the barrier between staff and clients. Three caipirinhas later, René had come out from behind the bar to sit with Madame Longstaffe, while Gladys and Karel were improvising a duet on the dance floor. They had chosen one of Bola de Nieve’s songs, which, with the Gutiérrez brothers’ instrumental accompaniment, had a lilt-ing, Santiago-de-Cuba feel that delighted the clairvoyant. After this performance, Madame Longstaffe asked Karel his name, and he told her. She also invited him to try a drink from her Brazilian homeland.

  “It’s called cachaça. Try it. Does wonders for your musical intepretation.”

  So Karel gave it a try. Minutes later, all the staff were watching and listening as Karel cleared his throat, preparing to launch into heartfelt song, with Madame Longstaffe perched beside him on a bar stool.

  If Nestor Chaffino had been able to observe this scene, he no doubt would have found further confirmation of his theory that chance encounters only become coincidences if a witness puts the pieces together. Karel and Madame Longstaffe spent a wonderful evening together singing “Aurora,” “Yo tenía que perder,” “En eso llegó Fidel,” and even “The Girl from Ipanema” in Portuguese, but since they were complete strangers, it never crossed their minds that they might have friends or acquaintances in common. Despite her formidable paranormal powers, Madame Longstaffe failed to make the connection. It should have been simple for such a renowned clairvoyant to give some indication of the events that were to take place the following day at the Teldis’. Like her ancestors, the Weird Sisters, she could easily have foreshadowed Nestor’s imminent death. She also could have warned Karel about the curious circumstances in which the death was to occur. At the very least, she could have repeated the prophecy she had already pronounced for Nestor and Carlos that afternoon when they had gone to see her: Nestor has nothing to fear until four Ts conspire against him. She could have revealed all this to Karel Pligh as well as explaining how the events would result from a combination of strange forces brewing in the ether and a series of little indiscretions. But Madame Longstaffe made no mention of these things, perhaps because she was too busy teaching young Karel a pretty song by Paquita la del Barrio, perfect for a duet.

  AND YET PERHAPS, in her own crooked and darkly humorous way, she was trying to tell him something. The question still hangs in the air of the Juanita Banana, like the lyric of the song they sang together, propping each other up, their voices hoarse from the cachaça, accompanied by the Gutiérrez brothers, one on guitar, the other on piano, after Marlene Longstaffe had made Karel Pligh practice the chorus three times. It wasn’t a Cuban or a Brazilian song but a famous Mexican ranchera, and it went like this:

  I cheated on you once, I cheated on you twice, I cheated on you three times, and after those three times, I never want to see you again . . .

  5

  ERNESTO AND ADELA IN THE ELEVATOR

  THE NIGHT BEFORE they set off for their country house, the Lilies, Ernesto and Adela Teldi went over their arrangements for the party.

  “If we count Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolous, that makes a total of thirty-three. I’ve never liked that number,” said Ernesto Teldi.

  “Why? Because that’s how old Jesus was when he died? And Alexander the Great, and Evita Perón, too, no?” said Adela. “I really don’t think you should worry about it. You’re not usually superstitious, not about that sort of thing anyway.”

  They were talking on the phone. At the Palace Hotel, the couple occupied adjoining rooms with a communicating door, but neither had ever taken advantage of that discreet facility so thoughtfully provided by the management. So many secret lovers must have blessed that door, safeguarding their respectability, allowing them to make their separate exits without fear after an assignation. In this case, however, the door had precisely the opposite function: in appearance it joined the rooms, but in fact it was never opened, because the Teldis led parallel lives. Their lives were like two lines traveling through time, one beside the other, never to meet this side of infinity . . . or perhaps they wouldn’t have to go quite that far: social conventions would no doubt bring them together in the same tomb, since that is the ineluctable destination for any well-matched couple, even if husband and wife couldn’t care less about each other.

  “Did I tell you about the problem with Mr. Algobranghini, Adela? He hates Stephanopolous. I think they had a fight once over a Persian scimitar. Very touchy, the pair of them. Just make sure they don’t end up at the same table and spoil our evening.”

  Stephanopolous and Algobranghini figured alongside dozens of other exotic names on the list of guests Adela was consulting as she spoke with her husband. Next to each name, a note in Ernesto’s businesslike hand indicated the collector’s specialty: there were two knife collectors, three “Dickensiana fetishists” (so he had written), three individuals with a passion for Greek icons (so long as they featured Saint George), a “Rapanui statuette fan” (a what? wondered Adela for a moment), and the rest of the list consisted of collectors with less outlandish tastes: the letters of famous people, tin soldiers, books of ghost stories, or Fabergé eggs. Adela went through the list to see if she could recognize anyone, but none of the art world’s big names were there. She smiled, wondering which of the guests was Ernesto’s prey. Algobranghini, the knife and sword collector? The ghost-story specialist, Miss Liau Chi? Or perhaps the chosen one was the only guest whose name was not accompanied by a note, a certain Monsieur Pitou. Adela shrugged her shoulders. After many years of observing her husband exercise his dealer’s flair—making a killing from the resale of treasures picked up for a song—she had begun to find the game amusing. Especially in the last few years. Teldi was rich enough now to forget about profit occasionally and set off in pursuit of a rarity. Acquiring unique pieces and curiosities was the culmination of a lifetime devoted to art. There could be only one reason for a party with such a guest list: the capture of a piece that was presently in the possession of an eccentric collector whose reluctance would soon be overcome by her husband’s sweet-talking flattery.

  “I don’t want fixed seating arrangements, Adela. It should all seem casual, but I’m counting on you to make sure Stephanopolous and Monsieur Pitou sit with us: Pitou on my right and Stephanopolous on yours.”

  Monsieur Pitou. Adela found the name on the guest list. But what could his special interest be? Whatever it was, Adela was sure this mysterious gentleman was the prey, because Ernesto always made sure that the guest in whom he was particularly interested was seated on his right. But what was he hoping to acquire at a bargain price after the party? An especially rare Turkish dagger? A billet-doux, perhaps?

  “Anyway, don’t worry, we can talk about the details later. Leave it, Adela, there’s no time now,” said Teldi. “How long will it take you to finish getting dressed? Can we leave at nine? It takes over an hour to get to the Suarezes’ place.”

  THAT NIGHT, ERNESTO and Adela Teldi had been invited to dinner by some friends who were not involved in the art world. It was a quarter past eight. Ade
la was sitting on the bed. She still hadn’t put her face on, but she was an expert at quick makeup jobs.

  “Let’s meet in front of the elevator and go down together,” she said to her husband.

  And they met precisely at the appointed time: punctuality was the only virtue they had in common. As they stepped into the elevator, Adela took the opportunity to examine herself in the mirror. Three floors, she thought. She had three floors of delicious descent during which to ascertain that she was indeed looking beautiful—naturally, since she had dressed for him. Carlos Garcia had not, of course, been invited to the Suarezes’ dinner, but a woman in love (no, not in love, Adela, don’t even say that as a joke, a woman under the illusion of love) always dresses for her lover, even if he can’t see her. Which is why, like a bride adorning herself for her groom, she had drenched herself with perfume and emerged from her room radiant and new, bright-eyed and glossy-lipped, giving off such a powerful aura that even her husband couldn’t help noticing.

  “You’re looking very beautiful tonight, Adela. You have a very youthful glow,” he said, and she received the compliment with a smile, because she knew it was true: whatever lies the cosmetics companies come up with, love (or the illusion of love) is the one and only fountain of eternal youth.

  The elevator went down past another floor, the last before reaching the lobby: a few seconds left, thought Adela, in which to savor my happiness. Tomorrow, tomorrow, we will be together for a day, a few hours, my kingdom for a few hours. Then the elevator came to a sudden halt. The lights flickered, looked as if they would go out, but then stayed on dimly, bathing them in the sickly half-light of emergencies.

  “Christ almighty,” said Teldi, looking for the telephone. He soon found it and called reception to ask what was going on.

  “A blackout sir, we’re very sorry. It’s not the hotel, it’s the local supply. The whole block is blacked out. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Crossly, Teldi asked her to call and inform the Suarez household that they might be delayed, before adding: “And do me a favor. Call the electricity company or city hall or whoever, but keep me informed. We’re not in the third world here. They should be able to fix this right away in Madrid.”

  “Yes sir, of course. I’ll let you know as soon as we have any information.”

  The Teldis looked at each other in the yellowish light. Ernesto shrugged helplessly while Adela studied the walls and the door. Would they have enough air to breathe? Would the temperature rise sharply and ruin her makeup? What a disaster! Even faces rejuvenated by happiness can crumple in absurd situations. And this situation was absurd. To say the least.

  “If only there were a little seat, like in the old elevators,” said Ernesto. “It’s easier to be patient sitting down, isn’t it? But the worst that can happen is that we’ll be late to dinner. And that doesn’t really matter; they’re pretty boring people anyway.” Ernesto sighed and loosened the knot of his tie. It was a reflex more than a reaction to the heat. Trapped with her husband, Adela found herself thinking about him, while he was thinking about a love letter. Accustomed to dealing with unexpected situations, Ernesto remained unruffled and made use of this unforeseen holdup to go over every word of a beautiful love letter he was planning to buy the following day from one of his guests. “I want you, I trust you, I am coming to you”: so began the document, in the hand of Oscar Wilde, no less. It wasn’t an extract from the manuscript of An Ideal Husband, as one might be forgiven for thinking, but a plea written three years earlier in a letter addressed to a mysterious and unidentified Bertie. Who could the owner of that eminently Victorian name have been? Teldi had come up with a fascinating and scandalous hypothesis, but he wouldn’t be able to verify it until the letter was in his possession. I want you, I trust you, I am coming to you, he repeated to himself, savoring the words with a collector’s glee, entertaining the possibility of keeping this find for himself and declining all offers to sell it, although for such a document they would be very considerable. More and more, however, Teldi preferred possession to profit. A beautiful love letter, he thought, deeply moved, an exquisite love letter.

  LOVE AND TENDERNESS were far from Adela’s thoughts. She had become suddenly, intensely conscious of her husband’s physical proximity. They had not been so close to each other for a long time. There had been no friction between them in the almost thirty years since they initiated their convenient matrimonial arrangement (I don’t interfere with your life, and you don’t interfere with mine: all very civilized, really). Parallel lives meet only at infinity or in the grave, and at that point nothing matters anymore. Adela pondered this idea for a moment: Together for all eternity. It sounded like a punishment. She had never been able to understand why people worried so much about where their mortal remains would end up and the company they would keep: lovers’ ashes scattered over the sea or a field of daisies . . . all very romantic, even sublime, but ashes are just ashes, and dead bodies are dead for good. Adela was not so arrogant as to believe that her remains would go on loving or longing for anyone.

  Life, however, would go on administering its doses of desire, pain, love, or agony; the life she was living in the here and now would put her through all that and more . . . Suddenly she was physically aware of the distance separating her from Carlos’s body, while her husband’s, which had never bothered her particularly until then, felt far too close. And for a moment Adela considered what happens when two strangers end up in an elevator together: they move to opposite corners so that their bodies don’t touch and look at the roof so that their eyes don’t meet. They fidget uncomfortably, pretend to whistle or consult their watches, willing the door to open, come on, open, because having your personal space invaded by a stranger is unbearable.

  Teldi was leaning against the wall in one of the corners. He wasn’t bothered by the proximity of Adela’s body. Why should he have been? She was part of him, part of his identity, after all. Since they had made their implicit pact to lead parallel lives all those years ago, Adela had been as much a part of him as his hands, his legs, his skin, or the clothing covering his body. And he loved her, naturally, the way we love something we have always looked on as an extension of ourselves.

  Adela had felt the same way about their marriage until now. She had taken lovers to make her feel alive, and sometimes she had even loved them and considered leaving her husband. But in the end she had stayed. Why leave when she could already do just as she liked, when their parallel lives were functioning perfectly and their shared territory was large enough for them not to get in each other’s way: two beds in separate rooms, two bathrooms, two doors to come and go through as they pleased. One of the major and often overlooked advantages of having money is being able to dispose of a large amount of space.

  In the elevator, however, unable to distance herself from her husband, who had just undone two buttons of his shirt and was now proceeding to remove his shoes, Adela was overcome by something like nausea. As she looked at Teldi’s mustache, in which droplets of sweat were gathering, and the artificially abundant hair beginning to stick to his scalp with the heat, the memory of Carlos came back to her, and he seemed all the more handsome by contrast. She gasped as if she were running out of air, and all her muscles ached with the desire to get out of there, to flee into other arms, not Teldi’s, arms that didn’t smell of old flesh. Once again, Adela was scared: had she let herself go too far this time? Remember, dear, she said to herself (trying to remain aloof and detached despite her predicament), love is eternal, so long as it lasts. I will always love you until eight-thirty. That was the prudent strategy she had used with her other lovers. She had learned early on that the verb to love should be conjugated only in the present tense. Adela repeated these precepts to herself while trying not to look at Teldi, trying not to see how his shirt was sticking to his body. “The only way to make passion last is to ration it out in small doses and never to consume it all, so there’s always something left to desire . . .” In the past she
had always followed these sensible rules.

  It had become unbearably hot and sticky. They were breathing each other’s air. Ernesto called reception again, and in addition to his grating shouts and complaints, Adela had to put up with his physical presence: the rancid smell of his sweat and his slippery hand, which had fallen inadvertently onto her right arm. The contact sent an electric shock down her spine, precise and terrible as a revelation. She realized that she had been able to live with this old body, with a husband whose hair stuck to his scalp when he sweated, simply because she didn’t usually notice all the details she was seeing now, in the forced proximity of the elevator. They had always been independent of each other, turning a blind eye, traveling a good deal, keeping out of each other’s way, respecting each other’s territory, and expecting the same in return. But that freedom will shrink with time, thought Adela suddenly. One day, inevitably, her role as a socialite, the only thing that made her life bearable, would come to an end and she would be reduced to sharing her solitude with him. No more friends, no more travel, just more of him, more aches and pains, more illness. God, that’s what old age is: losing all of your personal space.

  Fifteen minutes. Adela would never have imagined that being confined in an elevator with her future for just fifteen minutes could spin her world around and overturn the convictions of a lifetime. When the elevator lurched into action, the movement made her feel so dizzy it was as if she were dropping down through the lobby into hell itself. And during the brief descent, with the lucidity of those who are about to die, Adela saw her entire love life flash before her in the mirror. She saw the young Adela Teldi, beautiful and remote, whose only desire was to collect lovers who would make her feel still more beautiful and more remote.