Zama

by Antonio Di Benedetto

  I lingered in the garden. For some time I faced the space she’d disappeared into. I must have stood there witlessly, rigid and engrossed.

  Then, reacting at last, I lay down on the fragrant grass. For a while longer I would savor the charm of the night’s outdoor adventure. An opportunity had presented itself beneath my own roof. A Spanish girl, white, very young. My hands knew she was not pure.

  6

  A supper party at the home of Don Godofredo Alijo, Ministro de la Real Hacienda.

  His wife had announced that the occasion would commence in the English fashion at five o’clock. The guests were served steaming chocolate, accompanied by jams and tiny glasses of liqueur. It was, everyone said, “very English,” and I kept my opinions to myself, having observed along the Pacific coast that the only Englishmen who habitually drank chocolate with their meals were sailors. It would not have displeased the company, or certainly not the men, to know that chocolate was the drink of sailors. Our ways are very simple here. But to know that for the sailors it was no delicacy but merest nourishment would not have gladdened them. In the end, as an alternative and so as not to neglect local custom, the lady of the house also generously provided maté, which found greater favor than the chocolate.

  Before the evening meal was served, someone who had avoided the “English reception” joined us. I saw her the moment she came through the door, and from that moment on the gathering was transformed into a subtle play of expectations.

  It was the wife of the meteor from the sun, Luciana, spouse of Honorio Piñares de Luenga, a colleague of Godofredo Alijo. The absence of Piñares himself went unremarked, for his wife generally appeared on social occasions without him and the small circle of government officials had grown accustomed to this state of affairs.

  Naturally Luciana was not unknown to me; a conversation or two had occurred between us. In the days since her husband’s challenge had revealed that she was the woman bathing in the stream, I had accorded occasional intervals to imagining her body, which was more comely than her clothing gave to suppose. Still, I took for granted that this was a forbidden and impossible thing.

  Even in Piñares’s absence, her presence hampered my movements and made me awkward, all the more so because she directed no glance my way and left not the slightest opening for a greeting, which I would not, in any case, have known how to offer.

  •

  I cursed myself for having failed to foresee the encounter, which was entirely predictable, given that Alijo and Piñares were members of the same governing body. But in the days since receiving the invitation, my mind had been fastened exclusively upon Rita.

  I’d begun to remain at home as never before. I listened for her footsteps and observed from afar her excursions to mass, continually looking for some sign of warmth in recompense for keeping her secret. But she haughtily dispensed with me.

  I grew feverish, as if my feverish thoughts of Rita and the plans I was making for her had infected the rest of me.

  The supper party had promised to afford me a respite.

  Three hours of convivial talk between the chocolate and the meal had perforce expanded the familiarity that the smallness of our circle gave rise to in our everyday encounters, repeated over many months and long years.

  We permitted ourselves a great deal with respect to one another. I, however, allowed the others more leeway than my natural decorum authorized me to take with respect to them.

  One of the men in the group proposed that when supper was over and the women had dispersed to their hearths, a gathering be convened with some free mulattas in a certain house on the city’s edge. The others mostly approved, their lascivity observable in the corners of their mouths. A man of initiative, an acknowledged organizer, went around to make a count of who would join the party in order to arrange for the impending escapade.

  In my vacillations I did fierce violence to myself. Then, when my turn came, I made my excuses.

  One of the men, aware as most were of my resolve, asked without malice, “Only if she’s white, then?”

  “And Spanish,” I haughtily replied.

  My conclusive tone cut off all further comment.

  The organizer continued to jot down his list.

  But the one who had questioned me did not relinquish his curiosity. He went so far as to take me aside, respectfully, discreetly, to say he was amazed by the exclusivity of my preference. He begged me to honor him with my confidence and reveal whether it was in fulfillment of some religious vow that I maintained my stance.

  I told him the truth. “I fear the Gallic disease. I fear the loss of my nose, eaten away by the sickness.”

  He left me in peace.

  I hadn’t confessed all my reasons, only one that was chief among them. Never had I imagined I would unveil my apprehensions and the motives for my conduct to a person with whom I was not on intimate terms. Until I did precisely that.

  •

  But he was a gentleman. Later, at the table, no look or gesture of his even hinted at the mockery he could well have indulged in. The master of the house, addressing those nearest at hand, some ladies among them, perorated with approval upon men of virtue and hinted at those of us who might be considered such.

  I found myself within his sphere of influence, as was Luciana, though she gave no sign of listening to his moralizing discourse. Nevertheless, when this pontificator indicated his views on the question of who among us endured the burden of the white and sanctifying torment of purity, as he called it, Luciana allowed her eyes to rest briefly upon mine. All the burning mettle of her glance penetrated me, as if she were willingly responding to the call of something new and strange.

  At once I softened and became benign. I had no difficulty eluding the flattery of other silent glances of esteem, and anchored myself only to this fleeting look from a woman whose admirable nudity I already conceived of, though without sensuality and in disregard of the evidence that she, amid the other women around the table that night, was in no way superior to any of them.

  She did not concern herself with me again for the remainder of the meal. Her distance attracted me all the more. I drank to excess in the aim of emboldening myself to brilliance. Luciana, I could see, was not seduced.

  Once more I concealed my anxiety in prudent silence.

  •

  I was not aware of how fully I’d betrayed myself but realized with some dismay that I’d done so when, along with all the others, I pushed my chair back from the table, and Bermúdez, the Oficial Mayor, leaned close to my ear as if to make some friendly, humorous confidence. He murmured, “There is a new jest going around. Someone near me pointed to Luciana Piñares and exclaimed, ‘There’s the woman with the most beautiful body Zama has ever imagined.’ ”

  This seemed deliberately calculated to set off a fit of ill temper. But it so happened that at that very moment and not a second later the imaginer of beautiful bodies received another glance from the woman whose body was the most beautiful he’d imagined. A glance that sang, “If only I knew you better. . . .”

  If, on my way home, I’d encountered His Majesty in the street with the following proposal on his lips, “Zama, do you want a post in Buenos-Ayres with greater status and higher pay, but only if you agree to set out tomorrow?” I would have said, “Not yet.”

  No man, I told myself, disdains the prospect of illicit love. It is a game, a game of dangers and satisfactions. If victory is his, then he has won his mock trial and prevailed over society, that unwelcome duenna, while an interested third party looks on.

  7

  Moreover, that night seemed foreordained for love with Rita, too. My plan was to enter from the back gate and give chase to her in the garden. I would be implacable this time and perhaps she would yield. The appeal of the Gallegos Moyano family’s youngest daughter was now far inferior to Luciana’s, however. In the outline of the future that with the moon’s assistance I was sketching, Rita played a merely accessory role.

  But the clo
ser I drew to the house the more important she grew: My desire for love was urgent, even if satisfaction were come by too easily. Forearmed with resignation though I was, I could not bear for my hopes to be cheated by an empty kitchen garden.

  My hopes were cheated.

  The perennial fury returned, undiminished.

  Through the courtyards I strode, heedless of the noise I made, and reached my own in a single impulse, ready to disturb Rita’s tranquil repose with a great slam of the door.

  My door stood open. A steady glow emanated from the room. I wanted it to be her in there, waiting for me, and knew that was impossible. I cursed myself for the clamorous footsteps that had shattered all silence and slumber, and tried to remedy my own commotion by drawing near on featherlight feet.

  On the table was a burning candle. Next to it stood a tin box, secret repository of my silver coins.

  A thief.

  The fit returned. I knocked things over and sputtered with rage.

  First to require my attention was the box: Three or four coins lay strewn across the table, the rest remained inside. My scrutiny was swift but the intruder, who until then had escaped my notice, was swifter. Emerging from the shadow of my bed, he edged past me with considerable agility and darted toward the gallery, taking full advantage of my surprise.

  He was a fair-haired boy, barefoot and bedraggled.

  I went to the door. The dark gallery had swallowed him up. A lone boy, I supposed, could not have been so daring. I conjectured an accomplice, still concealed. Sword unsheathed I turned back inside, crying out loudly in order to threaten whomever might still be within and sound the alarm to the world without.

  I charged into the shadows, impetuous, stabbing fruitlessly. Candle in hand, I made a closer and more prolonged inspection of the bed’s nether regions.

  Meanwhile Don Domingo had arrived, his veteran wheel-lock pistol at the ready, but without much in the way of steadiness or aim to put it to effect.

  •

  Three slaves, still hastily donning their shirts, carried out our peremptory order—“Find them! Find them!”—and searched the arcades and courtyards, disappearing behind plants and giant urns. They returned, not having found a thing and so confused that only then did they realize they’d rushed off to search for something without knowing what it might be.

  Don Domingo explained what I’d seen, should they be able to offer any enlightenment. “A fair-haired boy of about twelve, raw-boned, barefoot, almost naked, who must have slept several hours here in Don Diego’s bed.”

  The slaves exchanged glances and murmured warily among themselves.

  One of them, a sambo, rendered what might be deemed their opinion. “It must be a dead boy, mi amo.”

  If Rita were listening, from one of the several rooms that now distilled faint light, I preferred that she share the Negro’s superstition. Otherwise she might consider me worthy of every sort of derision.

  In the morning, a second search of the house and all its outbuildings was conducted. Only my room had been visited. Nothing of value was missing.

  The suspicion that this was some malevolent prank seized me, but I could establish no suspects. Why did my thoughts turn to Ventura Prieto? It was in no way plausible that he would disturb me in this manner. Nevertheless, turbulent and unstable as my mind was, I could not help but monitor his expressions during my hours at the office, alert lest he betray himself by alluding to the night’s business in any way. But no. Nothing.

  That afternoon as I wondered where to stow my paltry trove of silver coins more securely, I received a most welcome summons: to maté prepared and served by Rita.

  We sat on small, low chairs in the shade of an old plane tree and she served me the first maté in silence. It was sugary and very weak. I sipped it slowly and felt, along with the warm liquid, the slow awareness of a great affection flooding through me.

  She raised her eyes, as if in response to this limpid new sentiment, seeking in mine some sign that she could trust me. I was moved: I saw her there, beautiful and delicate, victim of a love consummated in mystery, in all the solitude of her great secret, and I supposed— and was firm in this conviction—that she had been, was, and would always be the possession of a single man.

  We spoke not a word all the while and I was unsure of how to convey my sudden mood of fraternal affection. Indirection was my chosen tactic. Deliberately awkward, I told her I felt immensely grateful to her. Surprised, she asked why. I explained with great warmth that when anyone showed pity for me, a man without family, far from his own land, it struck such a strong chord in my bosom that there was no concealing it. And my emotion was indeed visible, in the form of a slight wateriness of the eye.

  My words and tears were out of proportion to the favor Rita was bestowing on me, one her sisters had often done me before. She must have understood that, must have perceived that my fervor grew out of remorse and perhaps even compassion, inspired by her secret love affair and her belated but abject approach to me. She burst forth in copious tears, biting her fingers to keep from sobbing aloud. I caressed her head, which reclined against my leg, and urged her to regain possession of herself quickly, fearing with justification that we might be discovered.

  She calmed down and dried her tears until her demeanor was sad but serene once more.

  She served me another maté, then sipped one herself. The calm, luminous atmosphere washed over us, and we allowed it to transform us into tranquil objects.

  She attempted conversation, asking about the fair-haired boy of the previous night. She had adopted a different tone, and my unease over the possibility that it was all a prank was exacerbated. As I explained how he leaped from the bed and dashed past me, eluding me like a bird in flight to merge with the shadows as if he belonged to them, a doubt nettled me: Had Rita and her man arranged it all? They wanted to frighten me, or to drive me mad, perhaps, in punishment for my late-night homecomings, which had disrupted their wooing.

  My tenderness for her came to an abrupt end. It required utmost effort to maintain my decorum and not wound her deeply with an accusation. Obstinately holding to my belief that Ventura Prieto must be behind the boy’s incursion, I became convinced that Rita’s lover was none other than he. Whether this was in fact the case did not matter. All I cared to know was whether that grotesque nocturnal muddle was in any way attributable to Rita.

  I declared that I believed I at least had the right to know the name of the individual I was protecting with my discretion.

  Indignation narrowed her almond eyes, she clenched her teeth, then released them to say, with conclusive precision: “Oficial Mayor Bermúdez.”

  And with a moan she fled back to her room.

  I remained there in fixed contemplation of a small, low chair that now stood empty, the gourd growing cold in my hand.

  8

  Only at that point did Bermúdez begin to occupy a definite place in my thoughts. Until then he had merely figured as a receiver and redistributor of papers at the Casa de la Gobernación.

  For others, I gathered, he represented something rather spectacular, at least from the neck up.

  He had been a captain in the King’s army until a deep stab wound near the heart barred him forever from the violence of military life. Still, there was nothing to deny him the use of a helmet. His was the most highly polished specimen I ever saw. He sported it whenever a solemn occasion, civil, military, or religious, provided the opportunity. It so happened that the upper part of his skull was entirely devoid of hair—prematurely, for he was no older than thirty-five—and people said that with or without the helmet his head gleamed all the same. Bermúdez seemed quite vain about this.

  •

  Work soon brought us together and his presence filled me with sorrow and regret over the previous afternoon’s events. This inconsequential individual was, after all, for someone I knew, an incitement to sin, to anguish, to delight. I pictured Rita’s small hand tenderly stroking that burnished pate.

&nbs
p; Bermúdez, who had never approached me except bearing papers, or only that once with his ironic prattle at the supper party, made a rare gesture of friendliness. He asked whether at noon we could take lunch together at the inn. He gave no reason and I felt obliged to consent, supposing that Rita had been quick to inform him of her chagrin over my conduct.

  I felt a reborn inclination to be of use to the lovers and went so far as to indulge in the illusion of elevating their relations to a more decorous level. No aggression was apparent in Bermúdez’s invitation and I arrived all unsuspecting to share his table.

  •

  Even so, his way of broaching the subject stung me. He told me he had something to confide, for my own safety’s sake, and prayed me not to take offense. As I thought his only objective was to air the matter of his amours with Rita, I inferred that, after acknowledging them, for he had no alternative, he intended to issue a threat. I assessed the situation and calculated that his endangered heart left him ill equipped for a duel. I could offer him the compliment of my patience. I would listen to him speak for a while.

  Even the most acute observer of humanity does not know what the man sitting at his side, sharing succulent helpings of grilled meat, may hide or hold within himself.

  I pressed Bermúdez to explain. He declared, “Señor Doctor, your position is seriously compromised.”

  I began to tremble and clenched my fists. So I was the compromised man, then, and not Bermúdez?

  Very rapidly, without leaving me time to react, he described the logic that underlay his concern. I, born in America and the only americano in the provincial government, had certainly proven my loyalty to the monarch. Yet at the party I had proclaimed that I would accept only Spanish women. My wife, in addition to being far away, was also born in America. In consequence, my words could mean one thing alone: that I hungered after or perhaps already possessed one of the colony’s Spanish women—in flagrant adultery, for I was married. And if the female were married as well, the dereliction was double.