“Okay, so Pedro leaves. Then what?” Berta asked.
“Pedro doesn’t leave, Berta, he doesn’t. Because leaving isn’t a good solution, either. What would he gain with that? Nothing. On the contrary, he’d lose everything. It would be a good solution if Rosa depended on him economically, at least she’d have that reason to mourn his absence, but I forgot to tell you that she has her own fortune (rich parents, family assets, whatever), so she could do very well without him. Besides, Pedro isn’t so young anymore, and it would be difficult for him to start a new life in a new country. Obviously, his departure would only benefit his wife, who would finally be rid of Pedro, she would expand her relationships with her lovers and start up with others if she wished. But the main reason is that Pedro, even if he did manage to settle down in a new and faraway city and prosper, as they say, ‘make a new life,’ would always be tormented by the memory of his unfaithful wife and the pleasure she would still be deriving from her relationships with her lovers.”
“That’s true,” Amalia said. “The idea of disappearing is stupid.”
“But the idea of him taking flight has a variation,” Armando continued. “A variation that attracts me. Let’s say that Pedro doesn’t disappear without a trace but rather that he simply moves to another house after a calm discussion with his wife and an amicable separation. What might happen then? Something that seems possible, at least theoretically. But it will require a fair amount of explanation. With your permission? I think that lovers are rarely superior to husbands, not only intellectually or morally or as human beings, but even sexually. What happens is that the relationship between a man and wife gets contaminated, corrupted, and degraded by daily life. Hundreds of problems of married life contribute to this and are sources of constant disagreements, from how the children are raised—if there are any—to the bills that need to be paid, the furniture that needs to be bought, what to have for dinner . . .”
“The guests to invite or invitations to accept,” Oscar added.
“Exactly. Those problems don’t exist in the relationship between the woman and her lover, for their relationship exists only on the erotic level. The woman and her lover meet only to make love, to the exclusion of all other concerns. The husband and wife, on the other hand, bring home and constantly confront all the burdens of their shared life, which prevents or makes difficult a romantic connection. That’s why I say that if the husband left, the barriers between him and his wife would disappear, which would make room for a pleasant relationship. What I mean is that an amicable separation would have, for Pedro, the advantage of burdening the lovers with the daily problems, along with everything else that is disruptive and destructive to romantic passion. Pedro, by distancing himself from his wife, would actually draw closer to her when her lovers take on the role of the husband, and he, that of the lover. By living more closely with her lovers, thanks to Pedro’s departure, and by seeing him only occasionally, the situation would be reversed and from then on the lovers would get the thorns and the husband the roses. That is, the Rosa.”
“All of that sounds very eloquent and well expressed,” Oscar said. “Reverse the roles through a strategic retreat. Not bad! What do you all think? In my opinion, it’s the best option.”
“But it’s not,” Armando said, “and believe me it bothers me that it’s not. The author, no matter how cold and detached he may be, always has his preferences. Oh, how marvelous it would be if things could turn out like that! To keep being the husband but at the same time be the lover. But there are one or several problems with this solution. The main one, in any case, is that Rosa is probably sick of Pedro and can’t stand him either from close up or far away, as a husband or as a lover. Everything related to him is saturated with the dregs of their shared life, which means that even if they don’t live together, all she’ll have to do is see him for the phantoms of their domestic experience to haunt her. The husband carries with him the burden of his marital past, which will always prevent him from getting close to his wife as a stranger would.”
“It’s true,” Carlos said. “I see Pedro running out of options . . .”
“No, there are still a few other possibilities. Simply, to not do anything, accept the situation and carry on his life with Rosa as if nothing had happened. This solution seems to me to be intelligent and also elegant. It would show understanding, realism, a sense of what’s expedient, even a certain nobility, a certain wisdom. That is, Pedro would accept wearing on his head a pair, or rather, four pairs, of magnificent horns and would resign himself to joining Cuckolds Incorporated, which is, as you know, an infinitely large organization.”
“Huh!” Carlos said. “I disagree with that. Of course, it shows a certain elevated spirit, and absence of prejudice, as you say, but I think it would lack dignity, it would be humiliating. I, for one, couldn’t tolerate it.”
“I couldn’t, either,” Oscar said. “Pay attention, Amalia. Just in case, just so you know.”
“Oh, what husbands we have!” Amalia said. “True phallocrats.”
“But this alternative has its advantages,” Armando insisted. “The main one is that by accepting the situation, Pedro would keep his wife by his side. A wife who cheats on him, it’s true, and who physically and spiritually belongs to others, but in the end she’s there, within reach, and he might sporadically receive some random gesture of affection from her. He would have neither her body nor her soul, but at least he would have her presence. And this seems to me to be a marvelous proof of love, on his part. A proof that deserves a tip of our hats.”
“A hat that wouldn’t fit on Pedro’s highly decorated head,” said Oscar. “No, obviously I don’t like this business about accepting the situation. To go along with it, in this case, is to diminish himself as a man, as a husband.”
“That may well be,” Armando said, “but I still think that it would be a thoughtful solution and one that requires a certain largesse of spirit. Perhaps it’s better to be unhappy next to a woman you love than happy away from her . . . But ultimately, we have to admit that it is not the best option.”
“He can’t kill the lovers,” Carlos said. “He can’t throw her out of the house or disappear, or get a divorce, or accept the situation. What’s left to him? You have to admit that your character is in a terrible mess.”
“There is still one more option,” Armando said, “straightforward and clean: suicide.”
Irma, Amalia, and Berta voiced their protest in unison.
“Oh, no!” Irma said. “No suicides! Poor Pedro! The truth is, I like him. And you, Berta? You have some influence over Armando, convince him not to kill him.”
“I don’t think he’ll kill him,” Berta said. “It would turn the story into a vulgar melodrama. Anyway, Pedro is too intelligent to commit suicide.”
“I don’t know if he’s intelligent or not,” Oscar said. “After all, that’s just your assumption. But the situation is so complicated that maybe it would be best for him to shoot himself. What do you think, Armando?”
“Shoot?” Armando repeated. “Yes, shoot . . . But what would that resolve? Nothing. No, I don’t think suicide is the answer. And not because it would be too melodramatic, as Berta says. I love melodrama and I think our lives are made out of one melodrama after another. The thing is that this solution would be just as bad as disappearing without a trace. And with the aggravating factor that it would be a disappearance without any possibility of return. If Pedro leaves home there’s always the hope that he can return, and even for a reconciliation. But not if he commits suicide!”
“That’s true,” Carlos said. “I always prefer to have my return ticket in my pocket. But it’s not really an absurd solution. If Pedro commits suicide, he is erased from the world, and he also erases Rosa, her lovers, that is, all his problems. Which is one way of solving it.”
“There’s something in what you say,” Armando said, “and I’m going to consider this hypothesis. Though there’s a big difference between solving a probl
em and avoiding it. And anyway, who knows! Maybe Pedro’s suffering is so great that it will pursue him beyond the grave!”
“To a large extent, your character is screwed,” Oscar said, yawning. “I see you haven’t found a solution for your story. But our story is that it’s after midnight and we have to go to work tomorrow. And we do have a solution: to leave now.”
“Wait,” Armando said. “I forgot one other possibility . . .”
“There’s another one?” Berta asked.
“And one of the most important ones. In fact, I should have mentioned it first. It’s also possible that Pedro will reach the conclusion that Rosa is not cheating on him, that all the evidence he has gathered is false. You all know, when it comes to something like this, the only proof is flagrante delicto. All the rest—letters, pictures, witnesses—can be disqualified. There could be a mistake in the interpretation, they could be apocryphal or falsified documents, malevolent witnesses, circumstances that lend themselves to baseless accusations. And the truth is, Pedro doesn’t have absolute proof.”
“That’s it!” Oscar said. “You should have started with that. You’ve had us puzzling over a problem that in reality never existed. Shall we go, Irma?”
“Can I offer you a cognac, some mint tea?” Berta asked.
“Thanks,” Carlos said. “Armando’s story has been enormously entertaining, but Oscar’s right, it’s late. In any case, Armando, I hope that by the time we meet again you will have finished your story and you can read it to us.”
“Oh!” Armando said. “The stories that interest us most are usually those that we can never finish . . . But this time I’ll make an effort to finish it. And with a good solution.”
“Berta, can you get our things?” Amalia said.
“I’ll get them,” Armando said. “Arrange with Berta for our next get-together.”
Armando walked toward the back while Berta and the two couples said goodbye. Where will we have dinner next? At Oscar’s? At Carlos’s? In two weeks? In a month? A sharp, urgent sound came from the back of the house. They froze.
“Sounded like a gunshot,” Oscar said.
Berta was the first to rush down the hallway, just when Armando reappeared carrying a purse, a scarf, and a coat. He was pale.
“Interesting!” he said. “This is the kind of coincidence that is very disconcerting. Looking for a pill in my nightstand I knocked my gun, and I don’t know how, but it fired. It shot through the table and bounced off the wall.”
“You really gave us a fright,” Oscar said. “That’s how accidents happen. That’s why I never have guns around. Be a little more careful next time.”
“Bah!” Armando said. “No need to exaggerate. After all, nothing happened. I’ll walk you out the door.”
The esplanade was sunk in fog. Armando waited until the cars had driven off, and when he returned to the house, he bolted the door and returned to the living room. Berta was carrying the dirty ashtrays to the kitchen.
“The maid will straighten out tomorrow. I’m too tired now.”
“I, on the other hand, am not tired at all. The conversation gave me some new ideas. I’m going to work on my story for a while. You didn’t say what you thought . . .”
“Please, Armando, I’m telling you I’m tired. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Berta walked away, and Armando went to his office.
He was looking at his manuscript for a long time, striking out, adding, correcting. Finally, he turned off the light and went to the bedroom. Berta was sleeping on her side, her bedside light still on. Armando observed her blond hair spread out on the pillow, her profile, her delicate neck, the shape of her body under the quilt. Opening the drawer of the nightstand, he pulled out his gun and, stretching out his arm, he shot her in the neck.
NUIT CAPRENSE CIRIUS ILLUMINATA
AS ALWAYS, Fabricio arrived in Capri in the middle of September, to the small house he had rented for years on the Via Tragara. In his opinion, it was the best time of year to holiday on the island. In the meantime, his wife and son, who had spent July and August there, had returned to Paris, leaving the small house wholly at his disposal, and for a few weeks he would be able to enjoy the precious boon of solitude, tranquility, and freedom. By then, the middle of September, the flow of summer holidaymakers had ebbed, above all the children and young people, who not only jammed up and disrupted the alleyways of Capri with their games and their dalliances but were also a physical reminder to Fabricio of the burden of his own years. Also, as summer waned, it was a bit cooler, there were fewer mosquitoes, and the day often dawned with clouds or drizzle, a preview of Capri’s dark, secret, wintry face.
Also, as usual, the little house was impeccably clean, orderly, and well-stocked. His wife always made sure to leave it set up for his immediate use: the refrigerator and pantry filled with enough provisions for fifteen days, the bathroom equipped with all necessary washing and medical supplies, his seasonal wardrobe washed and ironed in the closet, and the bar with his usual liquor and sodas—though this time Fabricio found, in delicate deference to his particular preferences, three bottles of an excellent Bordeaux, Chateau Pavie 1965.
Finally, as usual, Mina, the housekeeper who worked for them during their holidays, appeared in the afternoon to see if he needed anything and to remind him that, as in previous years, she would come every morning a little before noon—except on the weekend—to tidy up and prepare him something to eat.
Hence, Fabricio could devote himself entirely to what had become, in the last fifteen years, his own Capri holiday. By virtue of repetition, this had been purged of everything incidental and had acquired a simplicity that contained a certain dose of tedium. For the first few years, it’s true, he would descend happily every day to the beach of the Faraglioni, climb Mount Solaro, visit the ruins of Tiberius’s villa, patronize bars and restaurants, and wander through the labyrinth of alleyways out of simple curiosity or with the vague hope of a romantic encounter that would liven up his solitary state on the island. With the years, however, he abandoned these efforts and whims, and spent most of his time in seclusion in his small house on Via Tragara, lying in the sun on the small terraza, reading, listening to music, or at times attempting to write something without any illusions, merely to satisfy an old literary vocation that had foundered during the twenty years he had spent working in Paris for an international organization. His only outings were around noon to buy Le Figaro and Corriere della Sera, which he leafed through while drinking an aranciata at the café on the Piazzetta, and in the evenings to have an aperitif at one of the many bars along the Via Camerelle, before dining at home on leftovers from the lunch that Mina had prepared. All of this was flat, petty, and lacking in fantasy—Fabricio was the first to admit it—but at least it gave him the satisfaction of avoiding any surprises or difficulties, all thanks to the good governance of routine.
One morning, while sitting at the Gran Caffè de la Piazzetta and, as usual, leafing through the newspaper, a woman walked by and caught his eye. In fact, there were many women who caught his eye during his mornings of aranciatas, with their elegance, their beauty, or their sensuality, but he only ever registered their passage before burrowing back down into his reading. But this woman made his heart beat very fast. Something about her—her profile, the expression on her face, the way she walked—felt familiar, something he had already seen at one time in his life, but his memory was hazy. Then, suddenly, a detail he had seen and then recalled once she was gone, a mole at the corner of her lips, enlightened him. “C’est elle, mon dieu,” he said to himself in French, without knowing why. The woman had already crossed the Piazzetta on her way to Via Camerelle. Fabricio called over the waiter, paid his bill, and rushed out of the café.
It was Saturday, when small groups of Neapolitans take the aliscafo to Capri for the day, and the small streets were packed. Fabricio made his way through the crowds, stretching out his neck from time to time to see if he could catch a glimpse of the fleeting fig
ure. According to his calculations, she was probably about two hundred meters ahead of him. From her passage through the Piazzetta, he remembered her chestnut hair tied with a ribbon at her neck, a beige summer dress, and a blue purse hanging off her shoulder. For a moment he thought he glimpsed her among the pedestrians turning onto Via Tragara, and he walked faster, but foot traffic stopped to let pass an electric cart loaded down with suitcases and then he bumped into an orderly but inopportune group of Japanese tourists, who blocked his way so they could listen obediently to the guide’s explanations. Finally, Via Tragara—his street—cleared, and Fabricio could continue his search, which seemed more like a pursuit as he passed holidaymakers taken aback by his hurried and anxious expression, as he flew past his own house without even a glance, until he reached the belvedere, at the end of the street, without finding the woman he had glimpsed.
The belvedere had an iron railing and a magnificent view of the Faraglioni. There were only two ways to go from there: down the very long staircase that zigzagged to the beach or along the narrow Pizzolungo footpath that winds around the island and returns to the center of Capri after passing through the Matromania Grotto. Fabricio was confused, not knowing which path to take. Finally, remembering the woman’s summer dress and her blue bag—perhaps a beach bag—he started down the stairs. He arrived in a sweat at the rocky beach, where only some twenty beachgoers were lying in the sun in their lounge chairs next to the small huts used as dressing rooms. He had made the wrong choice: she wasn’t there. Now he had no choice but to climb back up—frustrated, out of breath—the thousand steps of that infernal hill that would take him back to the belvedere. Once again, Yolanda had slipped out of his arms.
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