I’ve been thinking about certain streets and sidewalks: if the soles of my shoes were paint brushes, by this time my footsteps might have completely covered their surfaces. Absurd, as absurd as so many true ideas. And so, with my foot-brushes, these shoe-markers, I express the autobiographical city, the city whose body my own body has covered.
Yesterday, Julia called, and today, I’ve gone with her and Javier to a shopping center with stores that boast about their prices in Barceloneta. The drive took longer than it should have because, distracted, we didn’t catch sight of it from the highway and got as far as Arecibo before doing a U-turn and backtracking.
I’ve experienced every extreme with Julia. Over a short lapse of time, we could go from a fulfilling life together to a sense that a sudden breakup was brewing. If she hadn’t had a miscarriage, we would have a five or six year old son. I’ve heard this inanity from couples who would probably have become terrible parents, but it might have been good for us if that child had lived.
Answering Julia’s calls, seeing her now and then, and not caring that she has a son by a man who shows up every once in a while — all this makes me wonder. I don’t think fooling people into thinking we’re a family over a whole afternoon helps any of us. Yet there we were, still going out together because yesterday was Saturday and we had nothing else to do.
We went into stores where Julia tried on whole racks of clothes, leaving me to watch Javier. We went to look at furniture as if we were thinking about redecorating a house that didn’t exist. I bought Javier a new robot. We lingered in front of jewelry stores and at a travel agency window; we remarked how expensive tickets had gotten to cities that we’d never visit. Before heading back, we swung by the fast food court.
When I stopped at her house, I helped her with the stroller and the sleeping child, and in the end, I went up to the half of the upstairs apartment where she lives. We made love out of habit, almost indolently. Afterward, I fell asleep even though I knew Julia wouldn’t want to have me there the next morning when Javier woke up.
In the early dawn half-light, we shared a pot of coffee. On the stairs, in parting, I gave her money to buy her child another toy. Much more than she would have needed.
It was odd to be up on a Sunday at that hour. San Juan was empty. The silence and solitude of the rising light created the impression of the aftermath of some unknown disaster. The sun was coming out in force, and the day would be hot, as always. I had all the hours of Sunday ahead of me and didn’t know what to do with them. For a moment, I was tempted to make a U-turn, go back to Julia’s house, say I was sorry for something, no idea what, and stay there. But the day promised to be too hot, and I wanted to sleep.
The next weekend we went out again. This time, we went to Naguabo to have dinner by the little dilapidated pier.
Julia was happy. We had talked over the phone during the week and were looking forward to Saturday with some anticipation. On the way to the coastal village, we had a conversation without falling into the old traps, and I drove for quite a while with her hand on mine.
As we were driving into the village, I committed the indiscretion of mentioning the messages.
— So there’s a crazy woman out there stalking you, she said without weighing the effect of her words, as if an emergency alarm had started howling in her head, stifling any playfulness, irony, or trust.
— That’s not what I’m saying. Besides, I don’t even know whether it’s a woman, I replied.
— That’s not what you just said.
— I don’t think it’s that simple.
— It’s obvious. I don’t know what you’re telling me this for.
The truth is that I didn’t either. The easy answer was, well, I had to tell somebody. No sooner had I come up with this miserable explanation than I realized something inside me was rebelling against the possibility of starting a new relationship with Julia. The fact that everything might turn out fine on this day was no relief; it would only mean draining the bitter cup of disaster a second time.
At the restaurant, wrapped up in our mute turmoil, we pretended to be the family we weren’t. I remembered the photos in the shoebox, her face captured by men she had given herself to and who had left. There are some people destined never to find peace, and I was sure Julia was one. Nothing, no one, could stop this process, which had begun who knows when. Our life together had been a constant grind, and there on the rooftop terrace of the restaurant, I clearly saw we’d never amount to anything but a tangle of impossible demands. We wouldn’t change. I never again wanted to hear complaints about a grief that was not my own.
I watched how, almost turning her back to me, she slowly stripped the fish of its meat. She cut small pieces to put in her son’s mouth while looking at the boats in the fishing harbor and out to the sea that spread from here to Venezuela with nothing in between. We both knew that this outing had been a mistake.
After lunch, obstinately refusing to admit how deeply we were frustrated, we went to the beach in Humacao. Javier played in the sand while, without looking at each other, we exchanged brief phrases that brought no relief.
Later, when night was falling, the highway became an enormous tunnel that I entered rather than having to contend with the people in the back seat. Sometimes Julia would say something, and I’d answer reluctantly, not caring whether she could hear me. The day had been shot for hours, and I was beyond communicating with Julia or anybody else. This was a sensation I’d known before, one that always hit me with alarming exuberance. I knew that nothing but sleep, whenever it finally came, would calm me.
Getting out of the car in front of her two-story building, Julia took the boy and the stroller out and went upstairs without saying good-bye.
I drove around the city in the drizzling rain. The houses, the low-paying jobs, the women came back to me. On these ribbons of pavement, I had experienced dreams and disappointments, but at my age now, it was all too much.
I stopped at a gas station to buy a beer. Next to the cash register they had cigars. I almost bought one but didn’t. Smoking is a way to fill your life, and tonight it wasn’t even worth trying to fool myself with such a hope.
Sunday. Another Sunday in the life of an invisible man. It sounds worse than it is; these twenty-four hours are normal and harmless to someone who doesn’t cast a shadow. I could even say that I like these circumstances, that there are moments in them that I’m fond of, in which I recognize myself.
I haven’t received any messages for days. The city is unchanged; I’m the same as ever. Just life. I watch vast quantities of ants crawling over the ground.
Clouds scud across the night sky. I’ve climbed on to the rooftop. Now and then a cool, humid breeze blows by ahead of the rain that will fall early tomorrow morning. Far off, the office buildings are almost completely dark.
Tomorrow will be the same, which is almost good news. I don’t want to be somewhere else. That would be worse. It’s too late now. This is what’s left. This city is all I have.
My car’s AC gave out. The streets smell again.
Days went by before an envelope appeared under the windshield wiper. I flattened out the sheet of unlined paper, which had been folded and refolded. Just above the center, in perfect miniscule handwriting (so, no slanted capital letters), was the message: “You haven’t figured out anything. Calle Pointcaré. Grandma’s Attic. Keep looking till you find me. S.W.”