— My art form is recitation, Ruth concluded. Interpreting genius! Right now I’m rehearsing Melpomene.
— What? cried Adam, scandalized.
— The poem Melpomene.
— You can’t be serious!
Adam’s eyes expressed disappointment and reproach.
— Ruth, he said. I would never have expected that from a sensible girl like you!
Ruth confused, Ruth chastised, blushed suddenly. On her face, a rush of crimson joined battle with the whiteness of her face until the two reached a truce in a pink as delicious as dawn’s rosy fingers. Ruth faced up to her client, twitched her little nose, and slapped his hand — oh, but not very hard!
— It’s marvellous poetry! she protested. You can’t deny it: when the poet, terrified, is chasing Melpomene through the autumn forest, you can practically hear the dead leaves crunching under foot. And when he finally catches up to her…
— That’s not what happens, Ruth! Adam interrupted. That’s a lie!
— A lie?
— It certainly is. The poet doesn’t reach Melpomene. He chased her, yes, there’s no denying that. But catch up to her? Never!
Ruth stared at him, astounded.
— How do you know? she asked ingenuously.
— Melpomene told me so herself. And she was fit to be tied.
— Liar!
— It’s the absolute truth. Look at it this way, Ruth. They haven’t had even the slightest quarrel, and the poet takes off after his Muse. It’s totally outrageous! And if you pause to consider that we’re talking about a placid doctor from Córdoba,10 the affront is simply beyond comprehension.
Coming out of her stupor, Ruth looked at him both amused and scandalized.
— Naughty! she warbled. You’re so naughty!
— Believe me, I’m not lying. The doctor started chasing her, but after half a block he was puffing so hard, he stopped to undo five bottons of his fancy waistcoat and loosen his tie, then sat down on the curb-stone of a well to wipe his brow with a big checkered handkerchief.
The golden ant laughed once more.
— Naughty! she repeated. I know, I know. This is how you poets tear a strip off each other at your literary get-togethers.
— It’s Melpomene’s solemn declaration, Adam insisted. If she’s lying, it’s not my fault.
Ruth threatened him with a friendly wag of her finger.
— Listen to what I’m going to recite. We’ll see if you find this funny, too.
She turned her back on him and walked toward the glass counter, her clogs tapping on the floor. She was in motion! Beneath the material of her dress, hitherto invisible forms were bursting into view, unsuspected roundnesses and hollows. Trembling lines formed and broke apart, according to the rhythm of her steps. When she reached the counter, Ruth stopped and raised her arms toward the upper shelf. Adam could see the grotto of her underarm, with its honey-coloured fleece, and the tips of her breasts cutting soft wakes as they rose beneath the cloth. “Devil of a girl! Temptress, like Circe!” But Ruth came back with a book from the shelf.
— Anthology of Passages for Recitation, she announced with pride. Now, what page was it on? Ah, here it is.
She began to read aloud:
– “I have tarried, I have tarried, but the hour did strike! I wounded him, all is concluded. Indubitably, I acted when he was without defence. First I wrapped him in a web from which there was no escape, in a fine-meshed fish net, in a veil delightful but mortal. Twice did I wound his body, twice he cried out, and he has lost his strength! Upon seeing him laid low, I smote him a third time, and Hades, guardian of the dead, rejoiced…”
“Hell’s bells! Adam recognized the voice of Aeschylus in that hair-raising fragment. He had to admit that Ruth was a very convincing Clytemnestra. She stood erect and rigid as a column. But in relating her crime, she parcelled herself out in gestures, dispersing them in all directions — one eye to the north, the other to the south, an ear to the east, another to the west. Her astonishing dissipation made Adam fear for an instant that she might evaporate completely. But Ruth put herself back together by looking into the mirror above the store counter; a single glance was enough for the reflection to gather her up whole. Then she proceeded:
– “He has sprinkled me with bubbling jets of gore from his wound. Dark dew, his blood, no less sweet to me than the rain of Zeus upon the wheatfields when the spike breaks through its sheath…”
Ruth was again suddenly transfigured. Her cruel eyes were like knives still penetrating Agamemnon, who lay in a heap at her feet. Her nostrils flared with relish at the bitter smell of blood. Acrid brass jazz from the other room underscored Clytemnestra’s harsh declamations, and Adam, standing near her in that cave-like ambience, began to feel an uncanny fear, an inchoate ancient terror.
Ruth must have seen his face change.
— What’s the matter? she asked, closing the book. Didn’t you like it?
Instinctively, as if in self-defence, Adam felt in his pocket for his Blue-Bound Notebook.
— Amazing, Ruth! I don’t give much for Agamemnon’s chances when he falls into your clutches. Brrr! You’ve given me goose bumps.
But Ruth hadn’t missed Adam’s movement.
— Hmm! she intoned, raising her eyebrows.
Her index finger, childlike, suddenly pointed at her visitor’s pocket:
— And that notebook?
“I’m done for!” thought Adam. “Nobody takes liberties like she does!”
— They’re notes, he answered vaguely.
— Written by hand?
— That’s right.
Ruth stretched out an imperious hand.
— Give them here, she said. I want to see your writing. I know a bit about graphology.
— Not on your life! exploded Adam, alarmed.
— And why not?
— Because you might guess right.
The golden ant started to laugh. “Her wolf teeth, her gums of wet coral!”
— The notebook! she wheedled. Right now!
— Impossible! Adam was laughing with her now. To read this notebook is to read my heart.
Ruth’s open eyes went huge.
— Really? she exclaimed, clapping her hands like a child. Let’s have that notebook! I want to read your heart.
— What if you read it out loud? Adam observed prudently.
She stamped her foot, then threatened, half joking, half in earnest:
— Either you give it to me or I’ll have to take it from you.
— Take it from me? Over my dead body!
It was the wrong thing to say. Without further ado, Ruth threw herself like a cyclone at Adam Buenosayres. Shrieking with glee, she tried to wrest the notebook from him by brute force. Adam took it out of his pocket and hid it behind his back. So Ruth grabbed him around the waist, pinned his arms, and tried to reach his hidden hands. In the process, her head came to rest against the shoulder of her enemy; Adam breathed the aroma of that coppery hair (astringent and clean like wild bushes) and his agitation reached new extremes. Finally he broke free of her chain-link arms and lifted the notebook above his head. But Ruth stood on tip-toe and tried to reach it, her whole body leaning into Adam’s chest. What did he do then? He passed the notebook behind Ruth’s back: now she was a prisoner in his embrace. Truth be told, the golden ant did not give in without a fight. But Adam held her tighter and tighter. Their eyes met, their breath commingled. A great seriousness suddenly descended upon them. Just at the moment when in shared rapture they were about to lurch over the edge, they heard shuffling steps coming from the back room. Through the green curtains poked Doña Sara’s gruesome head. The Bogeyman! Adam and Ruth separated as quickly as if a sword of ice had fallen between them. Adam forced an awkward “Good afternoon” in the direction of the Bogeyman; Ruth busied herself picking up some coins her client had tossed on the counter. A gruff bark was Doña Sara’s response to Adam’s greeting, a bark that sounded like an invitation to beat a full-scale retreat. That’s how Adam understood it, at least. Without a word, he turned on his heels and fought his way through the oppressive silence to the door. But before he was gone, he heard Doña Sara’s loathsome voice yelling: