Who Among Us (Penguin Modern Classics) Read online

  XXIII

  I’ve strayed from the point again. What’s all this got to do with Alicia’s journey? If nothing else, these foundational memories show how during my married life I was constantly ill at ease, my discomfort perhaps accentuated by cowardice and an absolute lack of ambition. But the problem isn’t that simple; I have to confess to myself that I’ve put the question the wrong way. The present crisis has arisen out of a gradual conviction: that Alicia has always preferred Lucas. I don’t think she was guilty of any kind of manipulation when she apparently chose me. She was terribly confused, that’s all. She couldn’t see clearly. I am the one who was responsible from the start. Even then I knew it wasn’t right; and yet I closed my eyes and pretended to believe in the unbelievable; it was a form of self-harm. It’s clear I’m the only one to blame, and that, however repentant I feel, this won’t allow Alicia to enjoy now the sense of happiness she might have had eleven years ago. She might still be able to recover Lucas (I feel so ridiculous to be wishing: if only!) but I’ve no idea how far Lucas will be the same as he was back then. I don’t know whether they’ll be able to maintain a precarious balance in their relationship, overwhelmed by daily nightmares of the past, by two real-life children who are a real-life problem, by my presence, which is bound to still weigh on them and which – despite my own best efforts – won’t be easily avoided. I’ve also thought that the only solution would be for them to feel guilty. If I were to suddenly disappear from the scene and simply leave them free to act, to them my choice would be a sacrifice. And that sacrifice would have two immediate consequences: on the one hand, their remorse and gratitude would tend to idealize my image and exaggerate the significance of my renunciation; on the other, that same idealization would spoil their mutual esteem: they would each feel objectively guilty (guilty of having done nothing) rather than complicit. Therefore it’s essential that in their eyes I should not seem to be sacrificing myself. (Am I sacrificing myself in my own eyes?)

  When the solicitor informed me that Alicia or I, or better still both of us, would need to travel as soon as possible to Buenos Aires to sell off once and for all the little house in Belgrano (my father would never have let it go so cheaply, but never mind), I thought that maybe circumstances could decide for me. If I had gone, this absurd, unresolved state of affairs would have continued. On the other hand, for Alicia to stay a short time in Buenos Aires meant an obligatory meeting with Lucas and therefore a possible turning point. I think I was suspiciously enthusiastic about accepting the solicitor’s proposal; a legal authorization in Alicia’s name would permit her some leisure time and the chance to go shopping and meant I wouldn’t be forced to cancel my appointments in Montevideo. But although I allowed myself to be tempted by this unique, unexpected opportunity, I’m convinced that otherwise I would never have taken the initiative to set up a meeting between Lucas and Alicia. I still don’t know if I did the right thing. But maybe this is the only way not to sacrifice myself in their eyes and, above all, for them to find out just how much they still need one another.

  I sent Lucas a childish message about the trip, although obviously I didn’t recommend that Alicia seek him out especially. It occurs to me now their meeting, steeped in such special circumstances (eleven lost years, loaded with desires first repressed and then forbidden, etc.) is highly likely to provoke an emotional outburst in each of them that my absence will not prevent them from expressing. In that case, yes, they will feel guilty (subjectively guilty) and above all accomplices (guilty with a shared, active role).

  Obviously, only complicity can save them. Instead of gratitude and remorse, they will feel – in the best-case scenario – mild contempt; they’ll refer to me as poor Miguel, wink gaily at each other when they comment on my eleven years of inaction.

  All in all, I think I was right to let Alicia travel without me. I think I was right to write and tell her everything.

  It’s eleven o’clock at night, and my eyes are stinging. And yet I’m content. I’ve fulfilled my aim: to be the most sincere of second-rate beings, the only one of us aware of his ordinariness.

  XXIV

  I stopped writing an hour and a half ago, convinced I’d said everything. But I’ve read over line by line everything I wrote this Sunday and … how could I be such a cretin?

  I didn’t mention Teresa even once. It’s not just that: I pompously concluded that lengthy lamentation with a ridiculous display of sincerity. But am I writing this for myself, to see more clearly, to become more aware? Or am I hoping, in a way that I’m not even able to admit to myself, that somebody will at some point discover this notebook? That makes my writing more like a belated self-justification, a defence in the eyes of that potential, imagined reader. I can recall how disgusted I was, many years ago, as I was reading María Bashkirtseff’s diaryfn1, from the point when (without saying so explicitly, in other words, keeping up the pretence of a private diary) she stops writing for herself and starts making notes for posterity. Could I also be falsifying this intimate portrait of myself, straying from the absolute truth about myself? Who do I think I’m fooling? What bloody posterity am I writing for?

  After all, my relationship with Teresa is not unconfessable. I ought to be much less ashamed about a connection like that, with a simple, elemental woman – who finds pleasure, thinks, and acts entirely through her body, who is made of the most honest, the purest sex – than about my official union with Alicia. She and I have lost the grace, that virtual blindness that love offers when it anoints us. For far too long, we have been lucid and deprived of grace.

  To plunge into Teresa’s existence, to immerse myself every four or five days in her small apartment on Calle Mercedes represents something like freedom, a rough-and-ready kind of freedom obviously, and yet the only one I can enjoy. The fact is that when, from the imitation bergère armchair, I see all the effort Teresa is making to prepare a special dish I like, or when I take in, inch by inch, all her guileless, sincere body, I know I am possessing all there is to possess of Teresa, that she is this and nothing more. I don’t know why, but I feel paternal and important, and my caresses are more or less like doing her a favour.

  The truth is that with her I feel protected against myself, my cowardice, my fear. Whenever someone convinces me that what I have to say is of value, that my opinions mean something, I’m unable to avoid a strong sensation of well-being. It’s amazing, the effect of discovering that somebody depends on me, that somebody is on the alert for my reactions, anxious for my advice. Alicia, on the other hand, doesn’t depend on me; that is, except when my presence exposes her limitations, she depends only on whatever bumps up against them; but within the boundaries this imposes on her, she lives her own life, in which I have no part to play. The greatest (and only) reproach I have is the dreadful alienation she condemns me to, the conviction that, when it really comes down to it, I am irrelevant to her.

  I do have relevance, meaning, for Teresa, but of course that’s not enough. I can’t stop mentally linking Alicia with my view of the world. At least, she is the world I wanted to conquer and where I’ve always been an outsider. Teresa belongs to me, but Teresa is a body, not a world.

  Once, with two other married couples, after we had exchanged the usual gossip and clichés, one of the women asked Alicia: ‘What would you do if one day you discovered Miguel had a mistress?’ ‘Talk to you about it,’ was her reply. Obviously that meant nothing, intended simply to throw this intrusive questioner off the scent. I’m sure that in fact she wouldn’t have been so calm: several times I’ve been on the point of telling her, via an anonymous letter, about my relationship with Teresa. But of all the fears that haunt me, it’s the fear of any violent scene that unnerves me most. I have the notion that my unfaithfulness would, paradoxically, be of merit in Alicia’s eyes: it would be the sign of a feeble machismo, of misdirected virility. And yet despite all that, she would be furious. And maybe I would be happy to see her lose her poise just once. And she would do, I’m sure of that. Not
for me, not for how much I might have loved her, but for herself, for the loss of that bogus equilibrium that even now allows her to lie to herself and comfort her spurious awareness, to condemn me, scornfully and serenely, to accept her nostalgia for Lucas.

  Maybe it was good to write it all down. This seems like hatred. At last.

  But that means sacrifice doesn’t come into it. The truth (I can see it now) makes me a scoundrel. I’ve sent Alicia away, not to help her regain Lucas, but to distance myself from her, so that I can sit comfortably in Teresa’s armchair, and free myself, thanks to her comforting ignorance, her earthy body, her simplicity. That’s the truth. I wonder whether I haven’t finally found my vocation, my raison d’être. Because (I’m the first to be amazed) I’m not perturbed to feel that I’m a fool.

  Part Two

  * * *

  ALICIA

  Dearest:

  My mind is made up. Would it have been better to discuss this face to face, as calmly as we could? Maybe, but that doesn’t matter now. Obviously I could have told you that we women are cowards, but the plain truth is I wouldn’t have been able to bear your bemusement. So here, this is my revelation: I can’t take any more. I’m leaving you for Lucas. Please don’t think the worst of me, I’m really not like that. Gradually you’ll come to loathe me, but I want to explain everything to you anyway, even if, for you, there can be no explanation.

  You and I have made lots of mistakes, but I sense now that our single greatest, our most unpardonable, error has been never to talk about them. We missed out on that chance for openness, the one most couples seize as they daily insult and curse each other, finding equal pleasure in these moments of hatred as they do in those of appeasement. Such couples are constantly retouching, revising the images they have of one another, they both know what to expect from the other – but the two of us have fallen out of touch, you as far as I’m concerned, and me as regards you. If either of us has any information at all on the other, it dates back to a time when we were frank and is therefore now so old it may as well pertain to complete strangers. Maybe it’s no longer possible to bring ourselves up to date, and we are doomed to maintain a false memory of the other, to loathe and long for what we never were, or possibly only the worst of what we were. I’m sure you don’t know me, just as I don’t know you. Who can say how much there was in you and me that was good and worthy of love? Was there happiness within our reach that we were never aware of? But it’s too late now. My mind is made up.

  It’s awful of me to say it (even I realize that) but there was a time when I really did love you. This must sound to you like a stuck record, and yet it is splendidly true. Without ever growing angry, you suspected I loved Lucas, but that I was too ashamed to admit I had made a mistake in choosing you, and was now paying for that mistake. And yet you’re the one who is wrong. When I chose you, and before that even, I liked you, a lot. I always did, and still do now.

  I can clearly see how the misunderstanding arose. I argued with Lucas, grew excited by contradicting him, as we encouraged one another to spark off each other’s provocations. On the other hand, with you, there was never any conflict, and you took that to mean I was enthralled by Lucas and his opinions, and indifferent towards you. It never occurred to you to consider the other possible interpretation (which was, in fact, the correct one), that suggested you and I were too well attuned to one another to be fighting all the time, and that I might have enjoyed arguing with Lucas, but much preferred the quiet peace of our conversations. To me, our love was always a given (the first grave mistake, the original guilty silence over something we should have said out loud, disregarding our private sense of the ridiculous: since then I’ve become convinced that love always, inevitably, has something ridiculous about it). I always felt there was no reason to cast words onto a budding joy that was still uncertain, still on the verge of collapse.

  It used to be enough for me to turn back to see you and close my eyes, and then to reach my front door knowing I could be sure of your face, your slender, touching figure, your raised arm brandishing school books behind me.

  And there was nothing to say, because the next day I would arrive late for class and you would be sitting in front of me. I used to stare at the flushed, vulnerable nape of your neck, and that was enough to renew my quiet love for you, to compel me to wait expectantly for you to walk me home, then close my eyes again and possess you once more.

  I never really understood why you insisted on bringing Lucas and me together. I saw him as an intruder and wanted to refuse him entry, to cut him down to size, before the boundless prestige you endowed him with could begin to overshadow our fragile bond. For obvious reasons, he represented all that was foreign to our private world, all the lurking dangers that could upset for ever our modest, yet very real, happiness. Before I met him, I already despised him; I hated him above all because I couldn’t avoid knowing who he was. I loathed him unerringly, scrupulously, even after I had encountered his challenging, melancholy manner, his insistent way of smiling and staying silent, the way he rocked back and forth while he was listening, hands in pockets, his chariness and his forebodings.

  Perhaps I should admire you a little because you took the risk. And yet that same risk cowed you into submission, obliged you to judge yourself harshly by comparison, to believe you were in a contest you were bound to lose. I would argue with Lucas, and as we shouted at each other, I felt, or sensed, that you were proving something imaginary to yourself, that you had discovered I don’t know what affinities or deep-seated connections and secrets that were bound to bring Lucas and me together for ever. My stubbornness consisted in not yielding to this, implacably stirring up a climate of violence, worst of all, not explaining anything to you, simply waiting and willing you to see. But you didn’t feel jealous or angry, you weren’t even impatient; you were so certain, so touchingly certain and defeated.

  I’ve sometimes wondered who or what is responsible for you living such a sideways life, what makes you so attractive and despicable at the same time. You don’t just accept things, and yet you don’t set yourself against them. You always choose the most uncomfortable path, that of the implicated witness.

  My dearest, our marriage has not been a failure, but something far more terrible: a misspent success. All our happiness, which was more subtle than the usual kind, all our love, which was more honest than our fear, proved unable to prevail over all your pent-up rancour, all those compromises of pride and apathy, all that rigid, silent shame.

  I realize I was tremendously clumsy in responding to your decision, but you humiliated me still further by accepting me without being convinced. You knew we still weren’t going to be alone, because the Other you had created, the Lucas you invented, had become part of you. Only long enough to attract my disbelieving attention. Only eleven years.

  I’ve made up my mind. This is enough, I’m going to leave you for Lucas. Eleven unremarkable years, waiting for I don’t know what. I got nothing from you. You would arrive, like you still do, in the early evening, sit by the radio, ask for a drink of mate, tell me about your work and ask about the children’s marks at school, then tell me you wrote to him last night and ask me to add a few lines, so as always I would write ‘affectionate regards to our good friend Lucas’. But the image I have of myself in your eyes is truly unrecognizable: it’s strange, coloured with an inevitable, wearisome mockery.

  It’s so absurd that we’re the same and yet have lost the courage, the ability to feel disgust or sympathy for the destiny, the fate of the other. That’s because we’re not the same, we are simply rough copies. Smudged copies.

  Eleven years with you understanding everything, anticipating my expected nostalgia, your blessed opportunity to show how generous and all-knowing you were, how horribly well informed about my desires. I know you’re not surprised when I write to you now: ‘I can’t take any more, I’m leaving you for Lucas,’ because you’ve been waiting on those words for eleven years, because that was the desire that bo
und me to you from the outset. After all, how stupid of me to have been afraid of your astonishment – you already know everything, you’ve always known it. How repugnant you are to me now, for that very reason.

  You never said to me: ‘I can’t take any more, I’m leaving you for Teresa.’ You always could have done, and yet you’d never go off with her, not now or ever. I know her, I’ve seen and spoken to her. Does that surprise you? She’s a good woman, who does what she can and gives you what she’s got: a splendid body that, when it comes down to it, you’re not interested in either. She and I promised each other never to tell you we had met, but that promise makes no sense now. Don’t disparage her, don’t hurt her. Protect her. It will do you good. You need someone to protect, and I’m beyond it. (Despite appearances, I’m not being cynical writing to you in this way. Cynicism is no more than a residue of hatred, and I don’t hate you, yet.)