by Martin Kohan
—Women have a good choice of careers these days.
Señor Biasutto lights a cigarette with a silver-plated lighter that he quickly slips back into his jacket pocket. He blows the smoke out of his nostrils, obscuring his moustache, and his eyes wrinkle. He smiles again as he does this.
—Thanks to my mother I’m good at knitting. She knitted this cardigan I’m wearing.
Señor Biasutto raises an eyebrow: the right one.
—It’s a beautiful cardigan. And it looks very good on you.
This time María Teresa blushes so much she has to lower her head to her chest.
—Señor Biasutto!
Señor Biasutto advances a hand across the table, appears to change his mind, and leaves it inconclusively by the pile of napkins and the ashtray where his cigarette is dangling.
—María Teresa, please, don’t be so formal! Did you call me Señor Biasutto? We’re not at work now. Here you must call me Carlos.
—Carlos. What a nice name.
The waiter brings their orders: a milky coffee for María Teresa, a whisky with no ice for Señor Biasutto. María Teresa tears open two sachets of sugar and pours them into her cup. The sound is like sand falling through an hourglass, but dies away as soon as the sugar hits the pale liquid.
—You put two in, do you?
—Sugar, you mean?
—Yes, sugar.
—Yes, I put two in.
—Quite right. There’s enough bitterness in life already, isn’t there?
Señor Biasutto smiles to himself, and so does María Teresa when he hastily explains it was just his little joke. The philosophy he lives by, he explains, is in no way pessimistic. After this there is a silence they both fill with another exchange of smiles. These soon fade, however, and so María Teresa decides to add that she also thinks of herself as a cheerful person. Then they both fall silent again: Señor Biasutto smokes his cigarette, and María Teresa stirs the sugar in her cup.
—Some sugar sachets have sayings on them, wise sayings.
At this, Señor Biasutto, who had been leaning back in his chair, now bends forward again, resting his head on his hands.
—Do you like wise sayings?
María Teresa nods.
—Yes, I do. They teach us how to live.
—That’s true. I find there are some sayings that leave me thinking. Human beings are such complex creatures. The problem is I have a poor memory, I read things I think are going to be engraved on my mind forever, but when I try to repeat them they’ve gone out of my mind.
—I don’t have much of a memory either. That’s why I have a little book I call my ‘notebook for wise sayings’. Whenever I come across a memorable saying, I write it down.
—I like to hear you talking about these things, María Teresa.
María Teresa feels her cheeks flushing again. This time though she is not ashamed. Perhaps Señor Biasutto appreciates her shyness.
—Do you remember one?
—One what?
—One of the phrases you’ve jotted down in your book of wise sayings.
—I’ll have to think.
—We’re in no hurry, are we?
Señor Biasutto smiles a fixed smile, as if waiting for someone to take his photograph. María Teresa meanwhile is thinking.
—Oh yes, I’ve got one.
—Let’s hear it.
—It goes like this: ‘If you shed tears because the sun has set, you will not see the stars shining.’
—What a lovely phrase!
—It’s very wise, isn’t it?
—Yes, and very profound.
—I often say it to my mother, when I can see she is depressed.
—Is your mother a sad person then?
—She’s worried about my brother.
—That’s logical, isn’t it? But things will be all right. You have to keep faith.
—Yes.
Still staring at her, Señor Biasutto drinks from his glass. His eyebrows are so bushy they almost join in the middle. María Teresa takes advantage of leaning forward to take a long sip of her coffee in order to hide her face and try to control her nerves.
—And what other plans do you have for your life?
María Teresa was not paying attention, and so the question takes her by surprise.
—What did you say?
—I was simply curious to know what other plans you have for your life.
María Teresa blinks and says nothing. Señor Biasutto uses her confusion to stretch his hand out again. He is wearing a large ring with the initials CB on it. He rests his hand on the napkin-holder in the middle of the table.
—I mean, María Teresa, such a pretty girl like you.
María Teresa’s face immediately turns a bright red, as if someone has flicked an electric switch. She feels hot.
—Oh, Señor Biasutto, don’t say such things.
—Of course I’ll say them, María Teresa. Such a pretty, well-educated and sensitive young woman like you. Have you ever thought of getting married?
If she could bury her head in her hands and reply without being seen, as she does in the confessional, María Teresa would do so now.
—Not yet. There’s time enough.
Señor Biasutto taps his stubby fingers on the sheaf of napkins.
—Yes, I can imagine: you’re still very young. But perhaps there’s a candidate at least?
Swallowing hard and finding it difficult to speak, María Teresa merely wags a finger in denial. Shaking her head, she lowers her gaze, and although she cannot directly see him, she knows Señor Biasutto is smiling again. She sees his hand draw back towards the cigarette still burning in the ashtray. He raises it to his sour mouth. Ash falls from the tip, a light, greyish ash. Part of it falls onto the table, part onto Señor Biasutto’s clothes.
María Teresa finishes her coffee and stares at the grounds in the bottom of her cup.
Outside, the street grows quiet.
11
No, she would rather not have another cup of coffee. Not that she is worried about insomnia, which she suffers from anyway, but because too much coffee could produce stomach acidity. Señor Biasutto, though, orders another whisky, again with no ice. He insists María Teresa has something: she cannot leave him drinking on his own. She suddenly realises her mouth is dry, with a sticky taste; she feels thirsty. A soft drink perhaps? She asks for a Tab. While the waiter is removing their things and bringing their new order, they barely speak. However discreet he may be, the waiter is an intruder, and they have to wait for him to finish. When he finally moves off, leaving the soft drinks bottle and the whisky glass on the table, it is María Teresa rather than Señor Biasutto who renews the conversation.
—Your job at school must be hard, mustn’t it?
Taken by surprise, Señor Biasutto does not reply.
—I mean, being in charge of all those assistants. So much responsibility! That must make things hard, doesn’t it?
Señor Biasutto presses his back against the chair, as if someone were trying to get past behind him and he had to prevent them doing so.
— It’s a job with a lot of responsibility.
— I’m new at the school, but even I can see that.
— You’re very efficient and pay close attention.
— How long have you worked at the school?
— I took up the post in nineteen-seventy-five.
— Seventy-five? Seven years ago!
— Yes.
— When did you become supervisor of the assistants?
— So many questions, María Teresa. You’re like a journalist. Or a detective.
— It’s just that I’m curious.
— From the start, my post was as head of the assistants.
It is only now that María Teresa realises Señor Biasutto is rather put out. She reproaches herself for not having seen this earlier. She falls silent, wishing she had not asked anything. Señor Biasutto does not speak either. A bus goes along the street: they both pay
close attention to it, as though they were watching a film in a cinema and did not want to miss anything. It is a Number 29; its indicator board says it is going from La Boca out to Olivos. María Teresa fills her glass, and the black liquid fizzes. If Señor Biasutto’s whisky had any ice in it, he could stir it with a finger now, just to keep his hands busy. Since it does not have any, he takes out a second cigarette and lights it. The one he has already finished lies crumpled in the ashtray, its final shape a useless butt. When he breathes out the first mouthful of the fresh smoke, Señor Biasutto feels soothed: it has the same effect as a long sigh. María Teresa, on the other hand, is still embarrassed. An empty sachet is lying on the table: she picks it up and with manic precision starts tearing it into tiny pieces, as though it were a secret letter which, once it had been read, had to be removed from the face of the earth.
By now, Señor Biasutto feels ready to resume his former smiling state, and so decides to rescue María Teresa from her dejection.
—Don’t get me wrong, I like it when you ask me questions.
María Teresa raises her eyes, and he smiles at her.
—I like you asking me them.
María Teresa smiles back at him, although her cheeks are still scarlet.
Señor Biasutto explains.
—The thing is, when I began it was a very complicated time for our country. The fabric of our society was under threat, se we had to act with absolute determination.
It is María Teresa’s turn to let her hands wander over the table-top.
—They say at school that you were outstanding in that respect.
Señor Biasutto smiles, shrugging modestly.
—I only did what anyone in my position would have done.
María Teresa insists.
—But you were the one who did it. The others might possibly have done the same, but it was you who did it.
Señor Biasutto waves his hands either to dispel the smoke or María Teresa’s words. He wants to avoid any hint of adulation, or at least to get back to the previous topic of conversation. When he drops his hands again, he lays them on the table, inevitably close to María Teresa’s. Seeing this, she is paralysed, unable to move hers. She knows they are talking about the famous lists, and, unconcerned at his obvious reluctance to say much about the subject, feels she has been let into his confidence in an extraordinary way. Perhaps this is why she allows Señor Biasutto to do what he does next: to slowly touch her fingers.
—I can’t see any engagement ring.
As he says this, his face twists into another smile.
—No, I’m not engaged.
Señor Biasutto lowers his head. Some strands of brilliantined hair refuse to move with the rest, and stay sticking straight up.
—A pretty girl like you.
María Teresa withdraws her hand, but not hurriedly.
—Time enough for that.
He nods, thoughtfully.
—Yes, there’s a time for everything, isn’t there?
—That’s what my father always used to say: there’s no point rushing things in life.
Another silence falls between them; the street too is silent.
—I’m really sorry about your father.
—Thank you.
In the early evening, the customers in these central bars all look as if they were pressed from the same mould: office workers tired after a hard day’s work who even so cannot face the idea of returning home; pairs of people who come to tell each other what they had no chance to talk about during the day. As the evening advances, however, the clientele changes. Whereas a lot of people come to work in this part of the city, almost no-one lives here. While there is still light in the sky, wild-eyed, gloomy-looking individuals emerge from hidden corners and come into the bars to sit idly in front of a drink, waiting for a supper that will probably never arrive.
Absorbed in their conversation, at first neither María Teresa nor Señor Biasutto notices this change. They are talking about different periods in the life of Argentina: the good old days when there was respect and one’s word was one’s bond, the hippie era when filth and promiscuity threatened to take over the world, the years of terrorism and bombs planted in kindergartens. Señor Biasutto has lived much longer than María Teresa and therefore knows more about these things. The kids of today are better behaved and more docile, but that does not mean they are not at the mercy of foreign ideas or the dangers their whirling hormones lead them into. The dangers of the past were greater, and therefore all the more evident. The ones young people face now work surreptitiously and demand a stricter, more constant vigilance.
—Read history, María Teresa: that will teach you. Each time a war is won, what follows is the tracking down of the last remnants of the losing side. Snipers, lost stragglers, the desperate. It is more like a cleansing operation than a battle, but don’t be deceived, it is still war!
María Teresa listens to his words with the fervour of a disciple, although she knows she does not completely understand everything Señor Biasutto is saying. Despite appearing to be entirely caught up in his explanation, she suddenly notices that the atmosphere in the café has changed around her. She realises it is growing late even before she glances down at the loose-fitting lady’s watch on her wrist. By now she is the only woman there. Apart from her, there is Señor Biasutto sitting opposite, the manager counting change at the till, the two waiters who by now have little to do, an elderly man staring at the crust left over from a sandwich that no longer exists, an Alistair Maclean reader who does not care that his coffee is growing cold, a tea-drinker with a highly-developed sense of how it should be prepared, two grappa drinkers leaning on the bar.
—It’s getting a bit late for me, Señor Biasutto.
—It may be late for you, but you’re still calling me Señor Biasutto.
—Carlos?
—Carlos.
—It’s rather late for me, Carlos. And I have to confess something.
—A confession? Tell me.
—In my family they don’t call me María Teresa.
—Ah, no?
—No.
—What do they call you?
—They call me … they call me Marita.
—Marita?
—Yes.
—But that’s lovely!
—It is?
—Of course it is. And put away your purse, Marita, this instant. I insist on paying. And let me accompany you home.
Knowing she is blushing again, María Teresa plucks up her courage.
—I’ll agree to let you pay. But let’s leave the other for another time.
— No point rushing things, eh?
María Teresa smiles.
—Yes, that’s right.
They say goodbye at the street corner. The cold outside probably cuts the farewells and polite exchanges to a minimum. Señor Biasutto appears to be trying to find something to say, but in vain. He seems preoccupied, as though he were about to miss a train but cannot make his mind up to run for it, afraid he might not only lose the train but also his composure. Eventually he bends towards María Teresa in a sort of bow. He takes her hand, clutching her fingers in his. He kisses them, and she can feel his prickly moustache across her knuckles.
—See you tomorrow, Marita.
María Teresa returns home in a confused state of mind. She is pleased with herself for having dared to meet a man like Señor Biasutto. A real man, as her mother would call him. A knowledgeable, experienced man, courageous, a gentleman, well-educated. At the same time though she is mortified to think he must have found her very dull. Perhaps she should have told him about how she studied the piano when she was little, or tell him more of the ‘wise sayings’ she has noted down in her book, which seemed to interest him. And perhaps she should not have allowed herself to blush so often, although this was not something she could control, still less pester him with questions about his job, which obviously upset him. It troubles her to think that after this first experience Señor Biasutto will n
ot want to get to know her more. A man like him, who provided such vital services in the most difficult moments of Argentina’s history, such a thoughtful, profound man, must have found her insipid. This is what she always feels, and this evening was no exception. An extraordinary man with a drab, unimpressive girl.
It is also true, however, that he offered to accompany her home, and that she was the one who refused. Perhaps he was only being polite, because night had fallen and she is a woman. Yet when they parted he kissed her hand, like princes do, in an obvious act of gallantry. He brushed his lips against the back of her hand, even if it was not his mouth she felt, but the prickliness of his moustache. The moustache reminds her of a football player she thinks is called Angel Labruna, or possibly a tango singer, most likely Goyeneche (two men she had heard of as a girl through her father, who was a River Plate fan and followed Aníbal Troilo’s tango orchestra).
Will she get another chance to talk to Señor Biasutto alone and without the pressure of time? She would like to think so. Today she learnt he is called Carlos, like Carlos Gardel, a very manly name. In return for this, she has told him her secret: that at home she is known as Marita. As far as she can tell, this revelation pleased him; in fact, from then on that was what he began to call her (whilst she, on the other hand, out of nervousness or embarrassment, made the mistake of continuing to call him Señor Biasutto, even after he had asked her not to). It would be odd for him to be so familiar as to call her Marita, and to allow her to call him Carlos, and then not to want to meet again as they had done that evening. Odd, but not impossible, if Señor Biasutto found her boring, or had thought she was more worthwhile than she in fact turned out to be.
She arrives home late and thinks she ought to give her mother some explanation. She will tell her the truth: that she met a man in a café near the school. But she will immediately add what kind of man he is: an exceptional man. And in addition, her boss. She will not tell her about the lists, because the mother might not be able to appreciate that, but will say that at school he is regarded as a hero wreathed in modesty (like José de San Martín). She foresees in great detail how the conversation with her mother will go. She imagines her being interested and even approving, although doubtless she will give her lots of advice and warnings to take care. But when she arrives at the flat, things do not go as anticipated. Francisco has just phoned from Comodoro Rivadavia. How could she be so late that she was not there when he called? The mother talked to him. She is still too emotional to be able to remember, or to repeat, exactly what they said. Francisco explained, almost as if he were showing her a map, exactly where he was now. He is a long way south. Further south than Bahía Blanca, which is where he was before and which is still part of Buenos Aires province. Further south than Viedma, which is the southernmost limit of the province. Even further south than Trelew, a name the mother recalls because it was there years earlier that a group of terrorists tried to escape, although almost all of them were soon caught again. In the far south. And by the sea. Right on the sea. And that is what Francisco said he did all the blessed day: stare at the sea, stare at the sea, stare at the sea.