Helena is standing in front of him, with a scrap of paper in her hand.
“Here. Take it. His name is Humbert. Call him. I told you, he’s a little shy, and he won’t dare call you. Be nice. I have to go now. (Wow, it’s late!) I’m having dinner with Hipòlita, and I’ll be late if I don’t run. Big kiss.”
Heribert sticks the note in his pants pocket and plops into a chair. Since when should he (the, shall we say, established artist who hardly knows how to find the time to work and work in order to maintain the preeminent place he’s in) be the one to call the neophyte? In these cases, it’s always the one who has more to gain who calls; and the one who has more to gain, in this case, is definitely not Heribert. Still, if Helena is so insistent, it must be someone worthwhile. But he’s so shy he doesn’t dare to pick up the phone and dial? Or is it that, neophyte and all, he already has a big head? Helena lets the door slam. Heribert falls asleep, strangely certain that he will dream that he awakens after not having had a dream.
He awakens certain of not having had a dream. He thinks of calling Hildegarda to go out to dinner. Then he remembers that he hasn’t asked Helena to ask Hipòlita for the Dave Brubeck quartet record.
He’s about to call her and ask her to give it to Helena. But just the thought of hearing Hipòlita’s voice is too much for him. And if, in addition to hearing her voice, he also has to ask for the record. . If Helena lent it to her, it’s Helena who has to get it back. This is what he’ll do: he’ll wait a half hour to call Hipòlita’s house. That way, when Hipòlita answers, he’ll be certain that Helena will have arrived; he will greet Hipòlita briefly (politely, but briefly), and he’ll ask to speak with Helena, reminding her that it’s about time to ask Hipòlita to return the record.
A half hour later he dials Hipòlita’s number, thinking perhaps he’s waited too long and they may already have left. As he hears the phone ring on the other end, he thinks to himself that, in point of fact, he could buy another copy of the record and give it to Hildegarda. He’s never given her anything. Well, nothing but one of his silkscreens (after she posed for him, a little less than a month ago), but as a gift that seems pretty cheesy. Hildegarda, in contrast, had given him a set of cufflinks set with a dog’s head and an old recording of The Marriage of Figaro by Marino DelNonno. When he hears Hipòlita’s voice answer, he feels like hanging up, but the fear of having to wander through all the record stores in the city looking for such an old record stops him. Hipòlita repeats, “Hello.” Heribert decides to speak. He says his name. Hipòlita says it’s nice to hear from him. Heribert asks her how things are going. Hipòlita says they’re fine and that they should get together soon. Heribert says one of these days, and asks her to put Helena on.
“Helena?”
“Yes, Helena. Weren’t you having dinner together?”
“Dinner? Yes! We’re having dinner, but. . she’s not here yet and. .”
It is so obvious that Hipòlita is not expecting Helena for dinner that for a moment Heribert feels like going on with the conversation, forcing her to add facts and details she can’t know in order to contrast them later with the facts and details Helena will give him when he subjects her to a similar interrogation. But he prefers to say goodbye to Hipòlita and hang up the phone.
•
As he shaves, his face masked with white soap, Heribert reflects over and over on whether it isn’t strange that he’s never been jealous. He’s never doubted that Helena must be going out with other men. In the end, what does “going out with other men” mean? What does it mean that he goes out with other women? That he embraces another person, caressing her occasionally between sheets that are different from the usual ones? What he finds disconcerting is her telling a lie so flimsy that it falls apart right away. Is Helena having an affair? Of course she is. Who isn’t? What is it he finds surprising? That he hasn’t ever seen the signs? Why hasn’t he ever thought about it before? Is it because he thinks maybe it’s too petty to worry about? Or is it because now he’s so bored. .? “I’m so bored that. .” As he repeats this phrase he thinks of his easel, and the big white room where he paints, and he sees it all through a very fine dust, gold, or gray, like a fossil.
Whom was she having the affair with? An innocent adolescent? What if it was a tough guy, a sweaty truck driver with a three-day beard? Or a milquetoast? Or a priest? What if it was a girl? A salesman from a clothing store? A Mafia capo? What if it was Hug? He bursts out laughing. If it was Hug he’d buy them a bottle of champagne, if only for the show they put on pretending they can’t stand each other.
He changes his shoes. He puts on his gray jacket and his black overcoat. Out on the street, he raises his fist to hail a cab. Between the curb and the cab a river of slush is running. The driver opens the door for him. From the curb, Heribert tries to jump into the cab, but his left foot slips and he steps into the slush.
In the restaurant, everyone’s having drinks at the bar. Hilari introduces them: Hilda, Herundina, Heribert. Heribert can see that Hilari’s after Hilda by the way he takes her arm as they sit. So as he unfolds the napkin before putting it on his lap, Heribert looks at Herundina: she has brilliant eyes and fleshy lips, painted soft red. She has short hair, like so many women this winter, and she’s wearing enormous black and white plastic earrings. Hilari says:
“Even if you don’t know Herundina, you should recognize her.”
The waiter brings the menus and distributes them.
“Why?”
Herundina laughs.
“No,” says Heribert. “Why would we know each other, Herundina?”
“It’s not that you should know her,” Hilari persists, “but you should recognize her. Though I’m not sure you would actually have seen her.”
“So why should I recognize you?”
“You used to go out with my sister.”
“Don’t you see the resemblance?” says Hilari.
“Are you Henrietta’s sister?”
“No.”
“Heloise’s?”
“No, silly. I’m Hannah’s sister!”
Any other day, both to break the ice and to try and cover up for the gaffe of mentioning two names that have no connection with her, he would literally have banged his head on the table, which would have made everyone laugh and got the situation flowing to a point that would have allowed for some serious courting. How many times hadn’t he seen her! So many. Often, when he had gone to pick Hannah up and once when he had seen the two of them walking down the street together. Any other time, he would have found the perverse detail of going out with the sister of an old girlfriend exciting.
“She had to kill her sister to come to dinner with us today,” says Hilari. “She didn’t want her to come. When she told Hannah you were going to be here, too, it awakened old passions.”
Heribert usually finds Hilari’s repartee pretty clever, but today it seems old and tired. How he had always laughed at the guy’s constant jokes, his unending stream of lies and stories; now they make him sick. Hilari asks him if something is wrong. He shakes his head. The girl looks at him. Heribert feels incredibly old, and the feeling grows stronger and stronger until, at the end of the meal, he gets up from the table very slowly, hunched over, as if carrying the weight of a century on his shoulders. Hilari thinks he’s joking and congratulates him on recovering his good mood. He takes Heribert’s arm, takes him aside, and inquires—sincerely—as to how he’s feeling, and if there’s anything wrong. That’s what friends are for, he says. He also says that he’s been acting distracted and touchy for days, as if he were having problems. He goes on for quite a while about the problem thing, repeats his offer of help, and reminds him that it is precisely in these situations where you discover who your friends are because, often, the very people you thought were irreproachable friends, turn out, when push comes to shove, to be selfish bums incapable of helping someone who would have done anything for them. Heribert stoically puts up with this rant, but when Hilari puts his hand on his shoulder and pats him a few times on the back, he’s had enough: he looks him straight in the eye and in all seriousness stamps on his foot with all the strength he can muster.