The Fragility of Bodies

by Sergio Olguin

  II

  For three hours they had been in that room decorated to look like a wood cabin. A mirror on the ceiling returned the image of their bodies. They had not switched on the lights; there were just a few little yellow lamps bathing the room in golden hues. The silence was broken by the insistent ringing of Verónica’s mobile phone. She didn’t answer. A few minutes later a different sound alerted her to the arrival of a text message. She got up to read it, allowing Lucio a chance to study her body from a different perspective: the long legs and back, the round, firm backside of a girl who obviously worked out, the short hair that barely grazed her shoulders. Verónica wrote a quick text then came back to lie down beside him.

  “A friend who sounds bored.”

  Verónica ran one of her hands along Lucio’s body while he lay quietly looking into the mirror. He felt like the protagonist of a movie, or of a dream. The picture returned by the mirror seemed like something unconnected to him. An attractive girl, he himself lying beside her, his body darker than hers.

  Just before they left, Verónica made a bit of a scene. She had been adamant that she wanted to pay half the cost of the hotel. That she was an independent woman and that nobody paid for her pleasure. Lucio was not prepared to submit to the humiliation of splitting the bill. He was a railwayman and perhaps he earned less than a journalist, but he would pay for the room. She accused him of being a low-rent chauvinist. She tried to put some notes in his pocket and only relented when she saw that he was genuinely annoyed. Verónica had to resign herself to letting him pay.

  “Lucio, what shall I do with you?”

  He looked her in the eye and stroked her cheek.

  “You’re going to be a good girl and you’re going to miss me.”

  “I didn’t say be, I said do. Never get involved with a married man.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “I don’t know. Is there a time when I can call you, or send you a text message?”

  “Text me, and I’ll call you.”

  III

  The hardest moment came the next day, when he got home from work. The night before, he had got back so late that his wife hadn’t noticed him getting into bed and hadn’t heard him when he left in the morning. So they didn’t see each other until dinner time the next day. Patricio insisted on showing him his schoolbook and Fabián wanted him to look at something he had made with the Playmobil in his room. He was always exhausted by his children’s demands, but that night he felt as though they were protecting him and was grateful for the imposition. Mariana kept calling them to the table. She was already serving up a meat pie and wanted Lucio to take care of the drinks and bread.

  Lucio was scared that what he had done the evening before would show on his face. It sounded absurd, but he had stared into the mirror searching for traces of his infidelity. As an adolescent he used to study his older sister’s friends. He knew which ones were virgins and which not any more, and he used to try and discern the signs of their lost virginity in their features, their way of speaking or moving. In the same way he now found himself looking for telltale signs in his own face, or in what he might say that night.

  Mariana didn’t notice anything; she was too concerned about an episode of eczema that had suddenly afflicted Fabián. Afterwards, while Lucio washed the plates, Mariana put the children to bed and made coffee, which they drank in the kitchen the same as always. They talked about the children and Mariana told him about the problems experienced by a teacher who had asked to take some leave. They rarely spoke about Lucio’s work. Mariana had known since before their marriage that Lucio didn’t like talking about it, and she respected that. Just as she respected the silences into which he retreated after every accident. She settled for keeping him close, not leaving him too much time alone to think. She was always happy to welcome family, friends, anyone who might distract her husband and not let him dwell on the accidents. And when some nightmare woke him up in the early hours, she would go and fetch him a glass of water. Those were the only times when he talked; he told her in detail about that face that looked at him in horror, the sound of the body that broke into a thousand pieces, the smell of blood that impregnated the cabin and remained there.

  In the bedroom they undressed by the light of the television set. A soap opera they usually watched together was about to start, though he often fell asleep and the next day would have to try to work out what had happened in the previous episode. He watched his wife in her underwear, putting on a nightdress, and thought that he liked her, that he found her attractive as a woman. That night he would have caressed her. He would have made her finish on top of him. But he couldn’t bring himself to initiate sex. They settled into bed and this time he didn’t fall asleep until he could hear his wife’s breathing, slow and steady.

  IV

  Two days later he received a text that said Can we see each other? He had saved Verónica’s mobile number under the name “Víctor R”, in case his wife decided to look through his contacts. Can do Fri am, he texted back. Her next message said Call me? Lucio was driving a five formation and had just left Villa Luro. They spoke for a few minutes, until he was past Floresta and about to arrive at Flores. It was long enough to arrange to meet on Friday morning at half past ten. Lucio didn’t like the idea of stepping out of a motel into the midday sun so, as a less risky option, she invited him to her apartment. Since he had nothing to write with, she sent him a text with the details.

  On Friday Lucio left his house early. He walked along Calle Zuviría until he reached Avenida La Plata and looked for a bus stop for the number 15, a route he never usually took and which passed almost by Verónica’s door. He was lucky and quickly got a seat, positioning himself opposite the window so that he could look out at the view. He felt as though he were on a day trip or on holiday, when there is more time to observe what’s going on around you. When they passed the Parque Centenario, it was as though he were seeing it for the first time, even though he had taken his children there on various occasions. It was like stepping back in time twenty years. At that time he had taken driving lessons a few blocks away. When he got into the school’s car and they told him to take the street leading to Hospital Naval to go around the park, he had felt as though he were discovering a new city. Why had he felt like that that morning? Was it that he was at the start of a new life? Or was it simply the excitement of discovery?

  Since he was going to arrive at Verónica’s earlier than agreed, he stayed on the bus for one more stop and got out at the junction of Avenida Córdoba and Scalabrini Ortiz. He spotted a bar and went in to have a coffee. The winter sunlight had a luminous, barely warm quality. There were a few locals in the bar reading the paper or slowly drinking coffee. Time seemed to have stood still in there, and Lucio liked that. He wanted to see Verónica, but this wait in the bar was as pleasurable as the thought of their encounter. He let a few minutes after their agreed meeting time pass, then he went straight to the address that she had given him. The building’s doorman was standing at the entrance. Lucio rang the bell to her apartment. The doorman asked him where he was going just as Verónica answered, asking who it was. Lucio answered her; the doorman told him which apartment was hers. The doorman rang Verónica’s bell twice and told her that he was letting Lucio in. Her voice could be heard saying “thank you”, and the doorman ushered him in. Lucio went up in the elevator. Verónica was waiting for him, smiling, at the door to her apartment. She wore jeans with various patches that looked fake, a black pullover that was big on her and no shoes.

  “Welcome to the Rosenthal abode.”

  They walked down a short corridor in which he noticed a painting and a couple of posters. Immediately on the left was a door leading to the kitchen. He followed Verónica through it.

  “What would you like? Coffee, tea, maté?”

  He watched her light the gas on the stove top. Standing behind her, he put his arms around her, kissed her neck and she turned around. They kissed and he stroked her ass, squ
eezing it towards him.

  “I make a delicious espresso, or as good as. Or I can be your gaucho girl and brew you up a nice maté.”

  He kissed her again. Then she took his hand and led him into the living room. One of the walls was completely covered with bookshelves. On the others were photos and a poster of Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront.

  “Let me introduce you to the man in my life,” she said, pointing at Brando.

  They fell onto the sofa, scattering magazines and newspapers onto the floor, along with Verónica’s pullover. Under it she wore a white vest and, under that, a black bra. She unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the floor.

  “I like your hairy chest. It makes you look very virile.” She tugged the hairs and Lucio felt a twinge of pain. They kissed each other on the mouth and Verónica bit his lip. He turned away.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “I think I want to eat you.”

  “You’re a cannibal.”

  “I’ll show you how.”

  She pushed him back, kneeled down, undid his belt and trousers, lowered the zip and put one hand inside his boxers. She pulled out his erect penis and gave it the treatment he would like to give her nipples: kissing, licking and sucking it with increasing pressure. Lucio, leaning back into the sofa, watched her. She also looked up at him. She kept sucking and stroking until he came into her mouth. When she felt that he had finished ejaculating, she moved her mouth away, kissed him briefly around the pubis and lifted herself up to give him a peck on the lips. He held her and they stayed together like this for a few minutes before Verónica moved away to get her cigarettes and lighter, which were on a coffee table.

  “How about now? Maté or coffee?”

  “Coffee.”

  She picked her pullover up off the floor and put it on.

  “I’m not shy – just cold.”

  Lucio looked around the living room, which seemed messy at first glance; in fact, it was just that there were books and magazines everywhere. Everything else was admirably well ordered. There was a plasma TV, a DVD player and a laptop lying on a desk made of dark wood. He imagined Verónica sitting at her computer screen writing her articles, or sitting in the armchair reading one of those books.

  “Tell me something, have you read all the books on those shelves?”

  Verónica came out of the kitchen and contemplated her shelves with pride.

  “Not all of them, but a lot of them, yes.” She walked over to the shelves and put some loose books back in their places. “A large part of my life could be told through the books I’ve read.”

  “Believe it or not, I was a great reader once.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Because railway workers can’t read, you mean?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Lucio told her that as a boy he had spent all the summer holidays in Santa Teresita, where his parents had a house a few blocks from the sea. His aunt and uncle also had a house there and Lucio had spent the days with his cousin Claudio, who was two years older than him. The rest of the year they barely saw each other, but for two weeks in January they were inseparable. And Claudio was a keen reader. He was reading all the books in the Robin Hood collection. Lucio, who imitated his cousin in everything he did, set out to read them too. And he discovered that he liked reading, and not only in the holidays. Throughout the year he steadily read books which he then discussed with Claudio. He took particular pride in reading something his cousin had not yet come across, which was difficult when his cousin had a two-year advantage.

  “And which were your favourite books?”

  “Emilio Salgari’s. I loved the whole series about Sandokan and his faithful friend Yanez. Jesus, now that I think about it, Sandokan’s love interest was called Mariana.”

  “How interesting. And you haven’t come across any Verónicas in your reading? I don’t know, in a book by Poldy Bird, for example?”

  “No, not that I remember. On the other hand I do remember The Prisoner of Zenda, Tom Sawyer, a book by Verne that was called Extraordinary Voyages and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

  Verónica went to the kitchen and returned moments later with two cups of coffee.

  “Sugar, sweetener?”

  “I prefer it bitter.”

  “Me too. I think you’ve read more books than I have. As a child I read the books in the Biblioteca Billiken red collection.”

  “Totally different. Those were shorter versions. Somebody once gave me the Billiken version of One Thousand and One Nights and there were only about three or four nights in it.”

  “So when did you give up reading – if you did give it up?”

  “When I was twelve, my parents sold the house in Santa Teresita. I stopped seeing my cousin in the holidays. And after that I no longer had any interest in reading. I gradually got out of the habit.”

  Lucio put on his shirt without doing it up. He wasn’t cold, but neither was he bold enough to walk naked onto the balcony, and he was curious to know what could be seen from there. He took his coffee out with him. The two houses opposite allowed a fairly unobstructed view of that part of the city. Rooftops and grey terraces.

  “Have you always lived in Villa Crespo?”

  “No. In fact for a large part of my life I lived at my parents’ house on Avenida Callao where Juncal crosses it. So technically I’m a Recoleta girl. When I was old enough to choose, I came to Villa Crespo, my grandad’s neighbourhood. And my father’s, when he was a boy. Although my grandfather’s house was on the other side of Avenida Corrientes, on Malabia and Camargo. And I like to say that I live in Villa Crespo. I’m even an Atlanta fan. Who do you support?”

  “I like watching soccer and playing it, but I don’t support any club. I support the national team.”

  “Ah, you’ve no blood in your veins! I bet deep down you support Argentinos Juniors or Vélez.”

  They drank their coffee and then she led him to the bedroom. She took off his shirt again and they collapsed onto the bed. She got up and took a condom out of the wardrobe, leaving it on the bedside table. She took off her trousers and socks and pullover and kept only her underwear on. Lucio watched as she climbed on top of him and felt her bury her face in his neck. He caressed her back.

  V

  On Saturday mornings Lucio played soccer in Parque Sarmiento. Drivers and signalmen against warehouse and administration colleagues. As they were getting changed, a co-worker teased him about the journalist he had taken on the train.

  “Fucked her yet?” another one asked him.

  “Like he’d get a chance.”

  “His wife would hang him by the balls from the Obelisk.”

  “Mind you, those girls can be right little whores. Show them who’s boss and you’ll have them eating out of your hand.”

  “Or eating your cock.”

  “She wouldn’t give the time of day to a low life like Lucio, however slutty she is. With girls like that, you’re lucky if you get close enough to smell their perfume. They’re not for the likes of us.”

  Lucio would have loved to join in the chat. To tell them that, yes, he had fucked her and that her perfume smelled pretty good, but that the smell of her sweat-covered body after sex was even better. But he couldn’t. His throat tightened and all he did was smile in a way that could be interpreted as inscrutable or modest, depending on which workmate happened to be looking. Lucio couldn’t believe that that girl would sleep with him, either. It was like a prize, surely deserved, or perhaps it was just a part of that unreal life he led on the train. Because if one thing was true, both of the deaths on the tracks and of his relationship with Verónica, it was that he couldn’t tell anyone about them. They belonged to a dimension that ran parallel to his family life, his friendships at work and the routine which he had been following for two decades and which was interrupted only after an accident and, now, with Verónica’s arrival.

  On Saturday afternoon he went with Mariana and the boys
to his sister’s house in Liniers. That night, back at home, they ordered a pizza and he and his wife watched a movie on TV, one they had already seen, with Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker. The children had been asleep for more than an hour. Mariana hugged and kissed him. They took their clothes off and, as he caressed her, it struck Lucio that his wife’s body reminded him of Verónica’s. Not because they looked particularly alike, but because the texture of their skin and their way of moving was similar.

  On Sunday he got up early, after Fabián had woken him. They went to buy bread and churros filled with dulce de leche, a weekly ritual. Patricio had woken up by the time they came back, although Mariana was still asleep. He poured out milk for the boys and made maté. He drank two gourds of maté himself, then sweetened one to take to Mariana in bed. She got up, still half asleep, and they drank more maté in the kitchen while eating the churros. Later Mariana took the boys out to play on the sidewalk with their bikes.

  Lucio went up to the roof terrace to light the barbecue ready for the asado. A couple they knew were coming for lunch with their son, who was the same age as Patricio. As soon as the coals were burning, he went back down to the kitchen to salt the meat. Soon their guests arrived. The women started preparing salads. Lucio cut up a fontina cheese and some salami and put potato chips in a bowl. The adults drank Gancia vermouth with soda water, and the children Tang orange juice. Lucio cooked the asado in his usual order: first offal: chorizo, blood sausage, chitterlings – which had to be really crunchy – and kidneys. Then the meat: flank and short ribs. The adults swapped their aperitifs for red wine, a López, brought by the guests. For pudding they had crème caramel, which their friend had made herself.