‘No, Señora, you must understand. The incision is worse than the disease. The surest way to kill a person is to wound him in the abdomen. Even a child knows that.’
‘But I feel fine now. I’ve never felt better in my life.’
‘Señora, you can think what you like, but my duty is to take care of you and prevent a tragic ending.’”
Calm at the prospect of developing this marvel, Leopoldo opened Katz’s book and, with no impatience, looked for the chapter on the instincts of dogs. At first, moved by an unconscious desire to avoid his immediate problem, he lingered over the pages that described the pecking order of hens. How strange. One hen pecked the next that in turn pecked the next, and on and on in a succession that ended only because of fatigue or boredom. Leopoldo, with a feeling of sadness, related this distressing fact to the chain of unreciprocated peckings that can be observed in human society. He immediately realized the possibilities this sort of observation opened for writing a satiric story. He made notes. The president of some business calls for the manager and reproaches him for his slackness while he points angrily at a descending graph.
“‘You understand better than I that if things go on this way business will fall off. In that case I will be obliged to suggest at the next stockholders’ meeting that it would be appropriate to look for a more suitable manager.’
“The manager, stunned by the pecking he has been subjected to, wants to say something but his superior is already dictating and the stenographer is busily recording his words: ‘The prosperity observed in our business during the past three months obliges me to think that your threatened resignation is the result not of a natural fear on your part but a mistaken point of view. The fact that sales have declined in the past few days obeys a simple phenomenon observed by Adam Smith, that is, the variability of supply and demand. When the market is saturated…’
“The manager then calls the sales manager:
“‘You must understand better than I that if things go on this way, etc., I will find myself obliged, etc., more appropriate, etc.’
“The sales manager reacts to the pecking by turning in the direction of the head saleswoman hen:
“‘If sales don’t go up by twenty percent in the next week, I’m really afraid that you, etc.’
“Missing a few feathers, the head saleswoman pecks at her closest subordinate, who will peck at her boyfriend, who will peck at his mother, who…”
In fact, concluded Leopoldo, he could write a good story with this feeble subject. Comparative psychology was something every writer should know about. He made a note that he needed to take notes, and he wrote in his notebook: “THE PECKING STORY. Visit two or three large department stores. Make observations, take notes. If possible, talk with a manager. Get into his psychology and compare it to a chicken’s.”
Then, before he reached the chapter on dogs, Leopoldo looked carefully at a girl who came in. Now. Here was the chapter. Of course he would transcribe any useful information into his notebook. His tired eyes, encircled by deep blue shadows that gave him an obvious intellectual appearance, ran methodically across the pages. From time to time he would stop, and with a shrewd expression of triumph write a few words. Then the scratching of his pen could be heard throughout the room. His careful hand, covered with fine hair, revealed a strong, persistent character as it traced the letters firmly and decisively. Leopoldo evidently enjoyed prolonging this pleasure.
He had been writing a story about a dog for some seven years. A conscientious writer, his need for perfection had led him to exhaust almost all the extant literature on these animals. In fact, the plot was very simple, very much to his taste. A small dog from the city suddenly finds himself in the country. There, through a series of events that Leopoldo already had clear in his mind, the poor city beast finds himself in the unfortunate situation of having to fight a porcupine to the death. Deciding which animal would be the victor had cost Leopoldo many nights of unrelenting insomnia, for his work ran the risk of being interpreted symbolically by many unprepared readers. If that should happen, his responsibility as a writer became immeasurable. If the dog was victorious, it could be taken as a demonstration that city life did not diminish the valor, strength, desire to fight, or aggressiveness of living creatures when faced with danger. If, on the other hand, the porcupine triumphed, it would be easy to think (hastily, mistakenly) that his story was basically a bitter criticism of Civilization and Progress. And then where would Science be? And railroads, the theater, museums, books, learning? In the first case, it might be thought that he was opting for a supercivilized life removed from all contact with Mother Earth; the triumph of the dog would proclaim that it was possible to get by without her. In that sense a thoughtless resolution could prove awkward for him. Yet God knows nothing could be further from his thinking. He could see the heartless reviews in the newspapers: “Leopoldo Ralón, the Supercivilized Man, has written an ambitious story in which, with unlimited affectation and pedantry, he indulges himself, etc.” On the other hand, if the porcupine were to finish off the dog, many would suppose he was maintaining that a wild, hairy animal could overthrow countless years of human striving for a more comfortable, less difficult, more cultured, more spiritual life. For months the dilemma absorbed all his time. For nights on end Leopoldo turned and tossed in his insomniac’s bed, searching for the light. His friends found him preoccupied and more haggard and pale than ever. Those closest to him advised that he see a doctor, that he take a rest, but as on other occasions (the story of the interplanetary rocket, the story of the woman under the streetlight in the bitter cold who had to earn a living for her unfortunate children), Leopoldo reassured them with his peculiar resigned air: “I’m writing a story; it’s nothing.” True, they would have been very glad to see one of those stories completed, but Leopoldo did not show them around. Leopoldo was extraordinarily modest. Leopoldo was not concerned with glory. One day he saw his name in the paper: “The writer Leopoldo Ralón will soon publish a collection of short stories.” Only those words between fateful announcements that a movie star had broken a leg and a ballerina was suffering from a cold. But not even this clear recognition of his genius had made Leopoldo vain. So great was his contempt for glory that generally he did not trouble to finish his works. There were times when he did not even bother to begin them. That, too, was not something one could hurry. He had heard, or read, that Joyce and Proust corrected a great deal. Therefore, he usually left a loose detail, some unresolved subtlety, in all his creations. One never knew when one would hit the mark. Talent moved in seven-year cycles of splendor. So often weeks or months had to go by until the right word, as if by its own volition, settled in the exact spot, the one and only indisputable place!
Although Leopoldo might have opted for the death of the dog (after all, there were strong reasons for that too), he finally decided on his triumph. When one thought about it carefully, if he himself wrote with a pen that would not leak in airplanes, if with just a few turns of a disc he himself could communicate with a dear friend across three thousand miles of mountains and valleys, if with a simple request he himself could hold in his hands the work of someone who had written on wax tablets two thousand years ago, and if all this seemed right and proper to him, there came a moment when it seemed perfectly clear that the dog had to win. “Yes, dear, kind animal,” thought Leopoldo, “your victory is inevitable. I promise you that you will triumph.” And the dog stood on the brink of victory. As soon as Leopoldo finished reading Katz’s book, the dog would enjoy his definitive triumph.
But when Leopoldo reached this bold decision, he was confronted by an unexpected difficulty: He had never seen a porcupine.