— Sure, Lucía said, and looked at the time again.
— Are you waiting for someone? Nula asked.
She was about to say something, but the arrival of the waiter interrupted her. When he left, they kept talking. Nula felt incredibly impressed to be at a table using tú with her, and reconciling himself to what he’d gained up until that moment, a thousand times more than what he’d dared to hope for fifteen minutes before, he felt content with the exchange of pleasantries that didn’t even seem like pleasantries to him because in fact they satisfied him completely. Even though the arrival of the waiter had kept her from answering his question, it was obvious that she was waiting for something or someone; she drifted in and out of the conversation, checking the time every so often, and never lost her grave demeanor even when she said things that seemed cheerful. They discussed the neighborhood, the good weather, the city, and though every so often Nula would bring up personal details, more so out of his childishly inflated sense of himself than as an actual seduction tactic, she didn’t seem to hear them, or in any case she didn’t seem inclined to tell him more about herself than the two or three things she’d said at first and which had more to do with her husband than with herself. More and more frequently, Lucía would look out at the street, scrutinizing the people who passed, as though she were looking for someone in particular, drifting off for several seconds before returning to the conversation. Her laughter, when she laughed, was always abrupt and not exactly happy, and a few times, Nula, confused, had to admit to himself that no matter how much he thought about it, he wouldn’t find, at that moment in the conversation at least, anything to laugh at. His worries from the week before returned, although she appeared calm and relaxed, with no trace of mental disarray in her focused and attractive expression. She was friendly and warm, and though she didn’t seem inclined to offer him any special favor, she treated him in a friendly, intimate way, possibly because she didn’t take him very seriously, but Nula, growing slightly bolder, so as to not lose heart, told himself that it wouldn’t be the first time that he’d managed to sleep with someone who hadn’t seemed to take him very seriously at first. Even though that bravado wasn’t quite convincing, he already knew that what might happen there didn’t matter much, that he couldn’t decide anything, that whatever Lucía might do, he’d already gotten caught in her aura and he was trapped there.
Eventually, it started to get dark. Lucía asked if he wanted to go for a walk and Nula followed her out. They crossed to the opposite sidewalk, hurrying to avoid the quickly approaching headlights from the next block, but rather than heading for her house, Lucía, saying that she still had some time, suggested that they take a walk around the block. When they reached the entrance to Nula’s building, Lucía went up the stairs and started looking curiously at the two rows of apartments and the central garden, where the white-globed nightlights had already been lit. Forgetting Nula, she studied the entrance for a few moments and then, to disguise her excessive interest, came down the stairs to the sidewalk and asked him, So this is your building?
— Yes. The third apartment on the right, Nula said, gesturing in its general direction with a vague nod and thinking, She’s starting the same circuit she took the other day, but this time, whatever her reasons, I’m taking it with her, and for a while still, I think. And they turned at the corner of the ice cream shop: La India’s ice cream friend (he’d opened after Nula moved to Rosario for medical school), who was filling a cone, looked up, surprised to see him with someone, but Nula, watching him covertly, acted as though he didn’t see him so as to not have to say hello. They turned onto the cross street, shaded darkly under the trees, and walked in silence to Doctor Riera’s office, the dark interior of which she stopped to inspect, and then they kept walking, turned north on the street parallel to 25 de Mayo, and Lucía stopped halfway down the block, outside the same house as the week before, gazing inside through the half-open door with the same blatant indiscretion, and though the lights were on and apparently there were people inside, after a few seconds Lucía started walking again, more quickly than before, a severe look on her face. While up until then Nula had wished that she had been less distracted from the conversation, he now knew that he’d been relegated by Lucía to a kind of nonexistence and completely forgotten. The warm aura he’d have liked to settle into indefinitely aspirated and expelled him at intervals, without warning, and he couldn’t tell if she was doing it in a calculated or a careless way. Finally they turned the last corner and reached her house. Lucía opened the door. The house was dark, and it was obvious there wasn’t anyone there. Nula thought she’d invite him in, but just the opposite happened.
— Well, Lucía said. Thanks for the tea and the conversation. It was nice to meet you. Now you know the house, so you can visit me whenever you want. No need to call ahead.
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Nula, overwhelmed, started to babble something, but she turned around, flipped on the light in the entryway, and closed the door. A few seconds passed before he heard the small metallic sound of the lock which for the last week, and for many years afterward, had echoed in his memory, familiar, translated from the hollowness of pure circumstance to the metonymic ether where things, dissected and reordered, producing both anguish and consolation, restore and represent the flawed and ephemeral experience. He took a few steps down the sidewalk, toward 25 de Mayo and his house, but he stopped suddenly, stood motionless for a few seconds, and then turned and started walking in the opposite direction. He passed Lucía’s house and, without stopping, noted that the entryway light was still on. He reached the corner, turned right, and when he was halfway down the block, in front of the house that Lucía seemed to have a problem with, stopped and briefly studied the door that was now closed but which, like the Persian blinds over the side window, where a few parallel rays slipped through the bars, allowed the light from inside to filter out. Finally he decided to ring the doorbell; he hadn’t been hesitating, actually he’d been standing there for no reason, not really knowing what to do, when suddenly, without thinking about it, and without knowing what would happen if they answered, he rang the bell. Almost immediately, as though he’d been waiting behind the door for someone to ring, a five- or six-year-old boy opened it and looked up at him.
— I think I’ve made a mistake, Nula said. Does the Anoch family live here?
The boy looked at him and without saying a thing closed the door again, possibly because they’d taught him not to speak to strangers, or maybe he’d surprised him in the middle of a solitary game, and unable to distinguish the game from reality, he’d acted in a certain sense deliriously, his abrupt behavior belonging to the character he was playing in the game and not to the normal way he’d act outside of it, or following, on the contrary, an accelerated logic whose intermediate stages he short-circuited, he’d figured that since that family didn’t live in that house there wasn’t any more reason for the door to be open. Shuffling through these possibilities, laughing to himself, Nula continued his circuit. He was deliberately doing things that made no sense to him, he thought, and he remembered a conference he’d attended at school. The speaker had said that humanity, after the death of the gods, forsaken to the magma of the material, had begun to realize that its actions lacked significance, but that each individual could, if he wanted, give them meaning and assign his own value. And he told himself that, in their reproduction, Lucía’s enigmatic intentions would ultimately reveal their meaning. But he didn’t learn anything more about them when he stopped at the nameplate that read Doctor Oscar Riera, Clinical Medicine, which he was able to read thanks to a streetlight between him and the trees. As before, the office was dark and silent, so after trying to peer inside without seeing much, he continued walking, turned at the corner with the ice cream shop without looking inside, and soon reached the entrance to his building. He went up the stairs that led to the entrance and was already walking to the apartment when suddenly the place where he’d lived since he was born looked strange to him, the garden where he’d played as a kid, the two rows of apartments separated by the hibiscus and the rosebushes, the glassy planters and the blooming hedges, fragrant in the evenings. Lucía’s curious gaze had displaced his own, and explained the apparently permanent alienation he felt, which translated into words would have been more or less the following: The strangeness of the world isn’t in its unthinkable or distorted sectors but rather in the immediate, the familiar. It just takes an outside gaze, which can sometimes come from ourselves, however fleetingly, to reveal this to us.