The Tunnel

  That infuriated me, and I shouted:

  ‘Don’t mention those cretins to me!’

  She turned, startled. I lowered my voice, and explained why I had no faith in art critics, my theory of the scalpel, and all that.

  She listened, still not turning to look at me, and when I was through, she commented:

  ‘You complain, but the critics have always praised you.’

  I was indignant.

  ‘Worse luck for me! Don’t you understand? That is one of the things that has embittered me and convinced me I’m on the wrong track. Just remember what happened in that show. Not a single one of those charlatans appreciated the importance of that scene. There was only one person who saw how important it was – you. And you’re not a critic. No, I’m wrong. There was one other person who reacted to the window, but negatively. He upbraided me for it. It made him apprehensive, he said, almost nauseated. In contrast, you …’

  Eyes straight ahead, she said quietly:

  ‘But … couldn’t it be that … that I had the same opinion?’

  ‘The same opinion?’

  ‘The opinion the other person had.’

  My nerves were raw. I strained to see her expression, but her face in profile was inscrutable, her jaw tightly clenched. I replied confidently:

  ‘You think what I think.’

  ‘And what is it you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t answer that question, either. Maybe it would be better to say that you feel what I feel. You looked at that scene as I would have had I been in your place. I don’t know what you think, I don’t know what I think, but I know you think the way I do.’

  ‘Does that mean you don’t plan your paintings?’

  ‘I used to plan every detail. I constructed them the way you construct a house. But not that scene. I felt I had to paint it that way, even though I didn’t know why. And I still don’t know why. The truth is that it doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of the painting. I have to admit that one of those idiots pointed that out to me. I am groping my way in the dark, and I need your help because I know you feel the way I do.’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure what you think.’

  I was growing impatient. I replied curtly:

  ‘Haven’t I been telling you I don’t know what I think? If I could say in words what I feel, it would be almost the same as thinking clearly. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  Now I was silent. I was thinking, trying to see things clearly.

  Then I added:

  ‘Maybe you could say that all my previous work was superficial.’

  ‘What previous work?’

  ‘The work before the window.’

  I was concentrating, refining my thoughts.

  ‘No, no, it isn’t that. That isn’t it. It isn’t that my work was more superficial.’

  What did I mean, in fact? Never, until that moment, had I put my mind to this problem. Now I was beginning to realize how close I had been to being a sleepwalker when I painted the scene of the window.

  ‘No, it isn’t that it was more superficial,’ I repeated, as if thinking aloud. ‘I don’t know. All this has something to do with humankind in general, you know? I remember that just days before I painted it, I had read that a man in a concentration camp had asked for something to eat and they had forced him to eat a live rat. There are times I feel that nothing has meaning. On a tiny planet that has been racing toward oblivion for millions of years, we are born amid sorrow; we grow, we struggle, we grow ill, we suffer, we make others suffer, we cry out, we die, others die, and new beings are born to begin the senseless comedy all over again.’

  Was that really it? I sat pondering the idea of the absence of meaning. Was our life nothing more than a sequence of anonymous screams in a desert of indifferent stars?

  María had not commented.

  ‘The scene on the beach frightens me,’ I added, following this long silence. ‘Although I know that it is something more profound than mere fear. No, I think what I’m trying to say is that it says something more profound about me … I mean … Now I think I’ve hit on the key. The message is still unclear, but it says something profound about me.’

  I heard her say quietly:

  ‘Maybe a message of despair?’

  I peered at her anxiously.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it is a message of despair. You see, you do think like me.’

  She thought a moment, and asked:

  ‘And do you think a message of despair is commendable?’

  This was not a question I had expected.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I guess it isn’t. What do you think?’

  She sat for a palpably long moment without answering. Finally she turned and looked directly at me.

  ‘The word commendable isn’t relevant here,’ she said, as if answering her own question. ‘What is relevant is the truth.’

  ‘And do you think the scene is truthful?’ I asked.

  She nodded, and said with an edge in her voice:

  ‘I believe it is truthful.’

  The hardness in her face and eyes disturbed me. ‘Why is she so cold?’ I asked myself. ‘Why?’ Perhaps she sensed my anxiety, my hunger to communicate, because for an instant her expression softened, and she seemed to offer a bridge between us. But I felt that it was a temporary and fragile bridge swaying high above an abyss. Her voice was different when she added:

  ‘But I don’t know what you will gain by seeing me. I hurt everyone who comes near me.’

  X

  We agreed we would meet soon. I was ashamed to tell her that I wanted to see her the very next day, that I wanted her to stay with me right then, that she must never leave me again. In spite of my astounding memory, I do have sudden inexplicable lapses. I do not know now what I said to her, but I remember her saying that it was time for her to go.

  That same night I called her. A woman answered. When I told her I wanted to speak with Señorita María Iribarne she seemed to hesitate a second, but then said she would see if she was in. Almost immediately I heard María’s voice, but her formal, businesslike tone gave me a start.

  ‘I must see you, María,’ I said. ‘I’ve been thinking about you constantly, every second since I left you.’

  I paused, trembling. She did not answer.

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’ I asked, growing increasingly nervous.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said.

  I heard her put down the receiver. Then after a few seconds I heard her voice again; now it was her true voice. She sounded as if she was trembling, too.

  ‘I couldn’t talk,’ she explained.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are a lot of people around.’

  ‘Then how can you talk now?’

  ‘Because I closed the door. When I close the door they know I am not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I must see you, María.’ My voice was harsh. ‘Since I left you at noon I’ve done nothing but think of you.’

  No reply.

  ‘Why don’t you answer me?’

  ‘Castel,’ she began hesitantly.

  I shouted at her, indignant. ‘Don’t call me Castel!’

  Then, timidly, ‘Juan Pablo …’

  I felt that those two words were the beginning of infinite happiness.

  But María had stopped again.

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

  ‘So have I,’ she half whispered.

  ‘So have you what?’ I insisted.

  ‘So have I, been thinking of nothing else.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing else,’ I asked. I was insatiable.

  ‘About everything.’

  ‘What do you mean, everything? Tell me. What?’

  ‘Oh, how strange all this is … your painting … our meeting yesterday … and today … I don’t know …’

  Imprecision has always irritated me.

  ‘Look! I told you tha
t I have done nothing but think of you,’ I said. ‘But you didn’t say you’ve thought about me.’

  A long moment. Then she said:

  ‘I told you, I’ve been thinking about everything.’

  ‘But what? I want you to tell me in detail.’

  ‘But it’s all so strange, it’s all been so strange … I find it disturbing. Of course I thought about you.’

  My heart lurched. But I needed details. I thrive on details, not generalities.

  ‘But how, how?’ I was more and more agitated. ‘I’ve thought of everything about you. About your profile when you were staring at the tree, about your chestnut hair, about how hard your eyes were and then how suddenly your expression softened, about the way you walk—’

  ‘I have to hang up,’ she interrupted. ‘Someone is coming.’

  Desperately, I managed to say, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, early.’

  ‘All right’ was her abrupt reply.

  XI

  I spent a restless night. I couldn’t sketch, I couldn’t paint, although I tried many times to start on something. I went out for a walk and suddenly found myself on Calle Corrientes. Something very strange was happening: I was seeing the world through sympathetic eyes. I think I remember saying that I intended to be absolutely impartial in telling this story, and now I am going to offer the first proof of that by confessing one of my worst faults. I have always looked on people with antipathy, even revulsion – especially crowds of people. I have always despised the beach in summer, soccer games, the races, demonstrations. I have felt affection for a few men, and an occasional woman; for some I have felt admiration (I am not an envious man), for others, true sympathy. I have always had tenderness and compassion for children (especially when through supreme mental effort I have tried to forget that one day they will be adults like anyone else). In general, however, humankind has always seemed detestable. I do not mind telling you that there have been times after I observed a particular character trait that I could not eat for a day, or paint for a week. It is incredible to what degree greed, envy, petulance, vulgarity, avarice – in short, the entire spectrum of traits that compose our miserable condition – can be revealed in a face, in a way of walking, in a look. It seems only natural that after such an encounter a person would not want to eat or paint – even live. Nonetheless, I want to make it clear that I take no pride in this trait. I know it is a sign of pride, and I also know that greed and petulance and avarice and vulgarity have often found a welcome spot in my heart. But I said that I would tell this story with complete impartiality, and that is what I intend to do.

  That night my scorn for humanity seemed nullified, or at least temporarily absent. I went to the café Marzotto. I suppose you know that people go there to listen to tangos, but to listen to them the way a true believer listens to Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion.

  XII

  About ten the next morning I called María. The same woman answered the telephone. When I asked for Señorita María Iribarne, she told me she had left that morning for the country. I was stunned.

  ‘For the country?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes, sir. Are you Señor Castel?’

  ‘Yes, I am Castel.’

  ‘She left a letter for you. She said to say she was sorry, but she didn’t have your address.’

  I had counted so strongly on the idea of seeing her that day, and had hoped for such momentous results from the meeting, that this news left me totally deflated. A series of questions rushed through my mind. Why had she decided to go to the country? Evidently she had made this decision following our telephone conversation because, if not, she would have said something about a trip to the country, and certainly she would not have agreed to talk to me the next morning. But if her decision was subsequent to the telephone conversation, was it also a consequence of that conversation? And if so, why? Was she running away from me again? Was she afraid that we would meet accidentally, as before?

  This unexpected trip to the country awakened my first doubts. As always, I began to recall suspicious details I had ignored at the time. Why the change of voice the day before on the telephone? Who were the ‘people’ who were ‘around’ and who prevented her from speaking normally? Furthermore, the change of voice proved she was capable of pretense. And why had the maid hesitated when I asked for Señorita Iribarne? But more than any other, one sentence kept eating into my brain like acid: ‘When I close the door they know I am not to be disturbed.’ I realized that there were dark shadows around María.

  These thoughts were forming in my mind as I hurried toward her house. It was strange that she had not found my address. By contrast, I already knew both her address and her telephone number. She lived on Calle Posadas, almost at the corner of Seaver.

  By the time I reached the fifth floor and rang the bell, I was shaking with emotion.

  The door was opened by a servant who seemed to be Polish, or some such nationality, and when I gave him my name, he led me to a study filled with books. Bookshelves lined the walls to the ceiling, but books were also piled on the two small tables, and even one of the chairs. I was struck by the abnormal size of many of the volumes.

  I had got up to take a closer look around the library when suddenly I had the sensation that someone behind my back was silently watching me. I turned and saw a man at the opposite end of the room. He was tall and thin, with a handsome head. He smiled in my direction, but only in my general direction. Though his eyes were wide open, I realized he could not see. That explained the unusually large books.

  ‘You are Castel, right?’ he said cordially, extending his hand toward me.

  ‘Yes, Señor Iribarne,’ I replied, taking the proferred hand. I was bewildered; I wondered what his relationship to María might be.

  As he motioned me to a chair, he smiled with slight irony. ‘My name is not Iribarne, and you must not call me Señor. I am Allende, María’s husband.’

  Accustomed to appraising, and perhaps interpreting, silences, he immediately added:

  ‘María always uses her maiden name.’

  I stood frozen as a statue.

  ‘María has told me a lot about your painting. Since I became blind fairly late in my life, I can still envision things rather well.’

  It was as if he were apologizing for his blindness. I did not know what to say. All I wanted was to be alone, out of this room, somewhere I could digest this new information!

  He removed a letter from a pocket and handed it to me.

  ‘Here is your letter,’ he said simply, as if there were nothing extraordinary about his delivering a letter to me.

  I took the letter and started to put it in my pocket, but the blind man added, as if he had seen what I was doing:

  ‘Go ahead, read it. Although, since it’s from María, it can’t be very urgent.’

  I was trembling. As he lighted a cigarette – after offering one to me – I tore open the envelope. I removed the letter. It consisted of a single sentence:

  I think of you, too.

  María

  When Allende heard me folding the sheet of paper, he asked:

  ‘Nothing urgent, I imagine.’

  Making a supreme effort, I replied:

  ‘No, nothing urgent.’

  I felt like some kind of monster when I saw the blind man smile, gazing toward me with wide open eyes.

  ‘That’s just like María,’ he said, as if thinking aloud. ‘People often mistake María’s impulses for urgent need. She does things spontaneously, but without changing very much of anything. How can I explain it to you?’

  He gazed abstractedly toward the floor, as if seeking a clearer explanation there. After a moment, he said:

  ‘As if someone stranded in a desert suddenly moved with great speed to a different location. You understand? The speed is really unimportant; the person is still in the same desert.’

  He smoked and meditated a moment longer, as if I were not there. Then he added:

  ‘Although I’m not sure that’s
exactly it. I don’t have a gift for metaphor.’

  I could not think how to escape from that damned room. The blind man seemed to be in no hurry at all. ‘What kind of ridiculous farce is this?’ I asked myself.

  ‘Today, for example,’ Allende continued. ‘She gets up at dawn and tells me she’s going out to the estancia.’

  ‘To the estancia?’ I repeated hazily.

  ‘Yes, our estancia. I mean, it was my grandfather’s, but now it’s in the hands of my cousin Hunter. I suppose you know him?’

  This new revelation added to my anxiety, and also made me peevish. What could María possibly see in that womanizing, cynical imbecile? I made an effort to be calm, reassuring myself that she had not gone to the estancia to be with Hunter, but because she liked the solitude of the country and because it was the family estate. Nevertheless, my heart sank.

  ‘I know who he is,’ I said bitterly.

  Before the blind man could reply, I added unceremoniously:

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that,’ Allende remarked. ‘I hope we will be seeing each other again.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I answered.

  He walked me to the door. We shook hands and I fled. As the elevator was descending, I repeated with rage: ‘What kind of ridiculous farce is this!’

  XIII

  I needed to clear my mind, to think calmly. I walked down Posadas toward one of the parks near La Recoleta cemetery.

  My brain was in pandemonium: swarming ideas, emotions of love and loathing, questions, resentment, and memories all blended together or flashed by in rapid succession.

  What, for example, could she have had in mind by having me come to her house to pick up a letter and then have her husband deliver it to me? And why hadn’t she warned me she was married? And what the hell was she doing at the estancia with that bastard Hunter? And why hadn’t she waited until I called? And that blind man, what kind of character was he? I have already said that I have a miserable opinion of human beings. Now I must confess that I do not like blind people at all, and in their presence I have the same feeling I get when I see certain cold, clammy, voiceless creatures like snakes. If you add to that the effect of reading in front of him a letter from his wife that said ‘I think of you, too,’ it will not be difficult to imagine the revulsion I felt at that moment.