The Tunnel

  These sentences, individually and in combination, formed a confused, constantly shifting jigsaw puzzle, until I realized that it was pointless to worry about what to say; I remembered that it was she who would have to take the initiative in any conversation. From that moment I felt idiotically calm. I think the thought even crossed my mind – also idiotically – ‘Now we’ll see how she manages to pull it off.’

  Meanwhile, and in spite of my rationalizations, I felt so nervous and distraught that I could think of nothing to do but follow her progress down the opposite sidewalk, completely overlooking the fact that if I wanted to offer her the hypothetical opportunity to ask me about me about an address, I would have to cross the street and make myself available. Could there be anything more grotesque than to expect her to shout across the street to ask how to get somewhere?

  What should I do? How long before I would have to make a move? I felt unutterably awkward. We continued this way for several blocks, she still walking purposefully.

  I was depressed, but I had to follow through to the end: it was unthinkable that after waiting months for this moment I would let the opportunity slip away. Walking so rapidly while my mind was in such a whirl produced a strange sensation: my thoughts were like a blind and clumsy worm being borne along in a speeding automobile.

  At Calle San Martín she turned the corner, walked a few steps, and entered the offices of the T. Company. I realized I would have to react quickly, and I followed her inside, although I felt that in those seconds I was committing an unbalanced and monstrous act.

  She was waiting for the elevator. No one else was in the lobby. Someone more audacious than I inside my body asked this incredibly inane question:

  ‘Is this the T. Company building?’

  A sign with letters several meters high and covering a large portion of the building’s facade proclaimed that this was indeed the T. Company.

  Nevertheless, she turned quite naturally and answered that it was. (Later, reflecting on my question and the naturalness and calmness of her answer, I came to the conclusion that you do not always see signs when they are that large; therefore, my question was not as hopelessly stupid as I had first thought.)

  As soon as she saw who I was, she blushed so deeply that I knew she recognized me. A variation that had never occurred to me, yet one that was entirely logical, because my photograph frequently appeared in magazines and newspapers.

  I was so overcome with emotion that all I could manage was a second blundering question. I asked abruptly:

  ‘Why are you blushing?’

  She blushed even more and was opening her mouth to reply when I blurted, now completely out of control:

  ‘You’re blushing because you recognize me. And you think this meeting is a coincidence, but it isn’t. There are no coincidences. I have been thinking about you for months. Today I saw you on the street and followed you. I have something important to ask you, something about the small window, do you understand?’

  She looked frightened.

  ‘The small window?’ she stammered. ‘What small window?’

  I felt my knees buckle beneath me. Was it possible she did not remember? Then the window had not been of the slightest importance to her; she had felt nothing more than casual curiosity. I felt grotesque. My head was whirling; everything I had thought and planned during all those months (including the present moment) was ridiculous beyond belief, another of my typical imaginings, as preposterous as the recreation of a dinosaur starting from a single broken vertebra.

  The girl was near tears. I felt my world collapsing about me, with no shred of calm or hope to cling to. I found myself saying something that now I am embarrassed even to write:

  ‘I see that I have been mistaken. Good afternoon.’

  I rushed from the building; I walked, almost ran, not knowing what direction I chose. I was a block from the building when I heard a voice behind me calling:

  ‘Wait, wait!’

  It was she. She had followed me, not daring to stop me. But she had, and now did not know how to justify what she had done. In a low voice, she said:

  ‘Forgive me, please … Forgive my stupidity. I was startled …’

  Seconds before, the world had been a chaos of meaningless objects and beings. Now I felt it falling into place, obedient to logic and order. Mutely, I listened.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were asking about the scene in your painting,’ she said tremulously.

  Unconsciously, I seized her arm.

  ‘Then you remember it?’

  She stood a moment without speaking, staring at the ground. Then she said, slowly:

  ‘It is never out of my mind.’

  Then she did something very strange. She seemed to have regretted what she had said, because she turned abruptly and hurried away, almost running. After a surprised instant, I ran after her, until I realized what a ridiculous figure I cut. I looked all around, and then continued at a fast but more normal pace. This decision was determined by two factors. First, it was grotesque for a well-known man to be chasing down the street after a woman. Second, it was not necessary. The latter was primary: I could see her anytime, going in or out of the office. Why charge down the street like a madman? What mattered, what really mattered, was that she remembered the scene in the window: ‘It is never out of my mind.’ I was happy. I felt that I could accomplish anything, and my only regret was having lost control while waiting for the elevator, and then a second time, now, running after her like a lunatic when it was clear I could find her at her office anytime I wanted.

  VII

  ‘At her office!’ I almost screamed, once again feeling the strength drain from my knees. And who said she worked in that building? Does everyone who goes in work there? The idea of losing her again for months, perhaps forever, made me dizzy, and without any thought for convention I began to run like a desperate man. Soon I was back at the entrance of the T. Company building, but she was nowhere to be seen. Had she taken the elevator? I considered asking the elevator man, but what could I say? By now many women could have ridden the elevator, and I would have to give him specific details. What would he think? For a while I walked indecisively back and forth in front of the building. Then I crossed to the other sidewalk and examined the facade of the building, heaven knows why. Perhaps with the vague hope of seeing the girl looking from one of the windows? It was lunacy to think that she might look out and wave to me or make some sign. All I saw were the enormous letters proclaiming T. COMPANY.

  Judging by eye, I hazarded that the sign covered some twenty meters of the facade; this calculation increased my uneasiness. But I had no time to yield to that sentiment now; I would have plenty of time later to torture myself. For the moment I saw no solution but to go into the building. Dynamically, I strode into the building and stood waiting for the elevator to descend. But with every floor it passed I could feel my determination dwindling and, in inverse ratio, my habitual timidity growing by leaps and bounds. By the time the elevator door opened I was very clear about what I must do: not utter a word. In that case, why take the elevator at all? Because it would have been too conspicuous not to, when several people had seen me waiting. What would they think? The only solution was to take the elevator but hold to my decision not to utter a word: a goal easily achieved, since not speaking was more normal than speaking. No one has the obligation to say anything in an elevator, that is, unless he is a friend of the operator, in which case it is natural to chat about the weather or inquire about a sick child. But as I had no relation at all to the man, in fact, had never seen him until that moment, my decision not to open my mouth could not produce the slightest complication. That I was not the only passenger made what I planned even simpler: no one would notice me.

  Calmly, I stepped into the elevator, and everything went as I had foreseen, without difficulty. Someone mentioned the humid weather to the operator, and this pleasantry increased my sense of well-being, because it confirmed my reasoning. I felt a moment’s nervous
ness when I said ‘eight,’ but no one would have noticed unless he knew the plan I had in mind at that moment.

  When we reached the eighth floor I saw that another passenger was getting off with me, which complicated things slightly. I walked very slowly down the hall, waiting until he went into one of the offices. Then I could breathe easily. I walked the length of the corridor a few times, paused at a window to look out on the panorama of Buenos Aires, then went back and rang for the elevator. In a few minutes I was again at the entrance to the building without any of the unpleasant scenes I had feared (unusual questions from the elevator operator, for example) having occurred. I lighted a cigarette. I still held the lighted match in my hand when I realized that my calm was absolutely absurd: it was true that nothing unpleasant had happened; it was equally true that nothing at all had happened. To be blunt, I had lost the girl, unless she worked in this office building. If she had come to run a simple errand, she could already have gone in and out without meeting me. ‘Of course,’ I rationalized, ‘it’s also possible that if she went to do an errand, she isn’t through yet.’ This thought gave me heart, and I decided to wait opposite the entrance.

  For one hour I stood watching, without results. I analyzed the possibilities:

  1. The errand was taking a long time; in that case I should continue to wait.

  2. After what happened, she had been upset and decided to walk awhile before doing her errand; this also meant I must wait.

  3. She worked here; in this case, I would have to wait until closing time.

  ‘So if I wait until closing,’ I reasoned, ‘that will cover all three possibilities.’

  This logic seemed ironclad, and I felt calm enough to wait comfortably in the sidewalk café on the corner; from there I could see anyone coming out. I ordered a beer and looked at my watch: it was three-fifteen.

  The longer I waited the more sure I was of the last hypothesis: she worked there. At six I left my table; it seemed more prudent to wait at the entrance. Large numbers of people would be leaving at the same time and I might not be able to see her from the café.

  A few minutes after six the employees began to leave.

  By six-thirty nearly everyone had left – an inference made clear by the fact that as the minutes passed, fewer and fewer people came out. By six forty-five there was almost no one, only an occasional executive. Unless … She might be an executive (‘Absurd,’ I thought), or secretary to an executive (‘That’s it.’ I felt a flicker of hope).

  By seven it was all over.

  VIII

  Going home; I was deeply depressed, but I made an effort to think clearly. My brain is in constant ferment and, when I get nervous, ideas roil in a giddy ballet. In spite of that – perhaps because of it – I have learned to control my ideas and arrange them in strict order. If I could not do that, I think I would soon go mad.

  As I said, I returned home in a state of deep depression, but that did not prevent me from filing and classifying ideas; for I knew I had to think clearly if I did not want to lose the only person who had understood my painting.

  Either she had gone into the building to do an errand, or she worked there; there was no other possibility. Obviously, I preferred the latter hypothesis. If that were true, when she left me she had been upset and had decided to go home. I should wait for her the next day, then, across from the entrance.

  I considered the second possibility: the errand. Upset by our chance meeting, she had returned home and postponed the errand until the next day. In this case, too, my best bet was to watch for her at the entrance.

  These were the two acceptable possibilities. The third struck fear in my heart: she had completed her errand during the time I was returning to the building, or during my adventure in the elevator. That is, we both had gone in and out, but not seen each other.

  I had been only a while, and it was unlikely, although possible, that that was what had happened. The errand, for example, could have consisted of delivering a letter. Under those conditions, there was no point in going back the next day to wait for her.

  Two of the possibilities were favorable, nevertheless, and I clung to them with desperation.

  My mood by the time I reached my house was mixed. On the one hand, every time I thought of what she had said (‘It is never out of my mind’), my heart thudded violently and I felt an obscure but vast and powerful panorama opening before me. I felt intuitively that a great force, dormant until that moment, was being unleashed within me. On the other hand, I suspected it might be a long time before I found her again. I must find her. I found myself repeating aloud, ‘I must, I must!’

  IX

  Early the next morning I was standing across from the entrance to the T. building. The last of the employees entered the building, but she was not among them. Obviously she did not work there, although the slim chance remained that she was ill and had not come to work.

  I had not eliminated the possibility of the errand, so I decided to spend the morning watching from the corner café.

  I had lost all hope (it must have been about eleven-thirty) when I saw her coming out of the subway. Elated, I leapt to my feet and hurried toward her. When she saw me she stopped as if turned to stone; it was clear that she had not counted on such an apparition. It was curious, but the sense that my mind had worked with steely exactitude caused a surge of uncommon energy. I felt strong: I was possessed by manly decisiveness, ready for anything. I was so much in command that I grasped her arm almost brutally and without a word marched her along Calle San Martín toward the Plaza. She seemed devoid of will, and went along silently.

  When we had gone a couple of blocks, she asked:

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Plaza San Martín. We have a lot to talk about,’ I replied, walking resolutely ahead, still propelling her by the arm.

  She murmured something about the T. building but I paid no attention, still pulling her along. I repeated:

  ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

  She offered no resistance. I felt like a raging river sweeping along a tree limb. When we reached the plaza I looked for an isolated bench.

  ‘Why did you run away?’ was my first question. She looked at me with the same expression I had noticed the day before when she said ‘It is never out of my mind.’ It was a strange look, unwavering, penetrating; it seemed to come from somewhere in the past. That look reminded me of something; I had seen those eyes before, but I couldn’t remember where.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied finally. ‘I would like to leave now.’ I tightened my grip on her arm.

  ‘Promise me you will never leave me again. I need you. I need you very much.’

  Again she stared at me as if studying me, but said nothing. She fixed her eyes on a distant tree.

  In profile, she did not remind me of anything. Her face was beautiful, but there was something hard in her expression. Her hair was long and chestnut-colored. Physically, she seemed not much more than twenty-six, but there was something about her that suggested age, something reminiscent of a person who has lived a long time. Not gray hair or any purely physical indication, but something undefined, surely spiritual. It may have been her expression, but how physical can an expression be? Was it something about her mouth? Because although the mouth and lips are physical, the way of holding them, even certain lines around them, are spiritual. I could not be sure at that moment, nor can I define now, what it was precisely that gave the impression of age. It may have been the way she spoke.

  ‘I need you very much,’ I repeated.

  She did not reply, but continued to stare at the tree.

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’ I asked.

  Never taking her eyes from the tree, she answered:

  ‘I’m nobody. You are a great artist. I don’t see why you need me.’

  I shouted, almost brutally:

  ‘I tell you I need you! Don’t you understand?’

  Eyes still on the distant tree, she murmured: br />
  ‘Why?’

  I did not immediately reply. I dropped her arm and sat there thinking. In fact, why did I need her? Until that moment I had not asked myself that question, but merely obeyed a kind of instinct. With a small stick I began to trace geometric patterns in the dirt.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I murmured after a long pause. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  My mind was racing as I added more and more complex designs to the drawing.

  ‘My mind is a dark labyrinth. Sometimes there are flashes, like lightning, that illuminate some of the passageways. I never know why I do certain things. No, that isn’t right …’

  I felt almost stupid. This was not at all like me. I made a concerted mental effort. Was I saying I was not a rational person? On the contrary, my mind is like a calculating machine, constantly computing. For example, in terms of what was happening that minute, hadn’t I spent months reasoning and analyzing and classifying hypotheses? And, in a way, wasn’t it my capacity for logical thought that had finally led me to María? I felt I was getting close to the truth, very close, and I was afraid I would lose it. Again I made a concerted effort. I cried:

  ‘It isn’t that I don’t reason things out. Just the opposite, my mind never stops. But think of the captain of a ship who is constantly charting his position, meticulously following a course toward an objective. But also imagine that he does not know why he is sailing toward it. Now do you understand?’

  She glanced at me for an instant, bewildered, then again turned to stare at the tree.

  ‘I feel that you are somehow essential to something I have to do, although I am not yet sure why.’

  Again I doodled in the dirt with the stick as I continued to order my thoughts. After a few moments I added:

  ‘For now, I know that it has something to do with the scene in the window: you were the only person who paid any attention to it.’

  ‘I’m not an art critic,’ she said softly.