The two ladies strolled arm in arm. They walked slowly with their heads down and stopped in front of every store window to say how pretty, how expensive, there's a better one up the street, look at that one, how nice, until they got tired and walked into a café, where they picked out a good table, away from the entrance, where the lottery-ticket venders peered in and the dry, thick dust swirled, and far from the lavatories, and they ordered two Canada Dry orangeades. The mother powdered her face and stared at her amber eyes in the compact mirror, contemplating the progress of the bags that had begun to appear under them, and quickly snapped the cover shut. The two of them observed the bubbling of the soda water mixed with food coloring and waited for the gas to escape before drinking it in little sips. The girl secretly slipped her foot out of her shoe and rubbed her sore toes, and the lady, seated before her orange drink, recalled the separate rooms of the house, separate but contiguous, and the noises that managed to pass through the closed door each morning and each night: someone clearing his throat, shoes falling on the floor, the sound of keys landing on the mantel, the hinges on the closet door that needed oiling, at times even the rhythm of someone's breathing while asleep. A chill ran down her spine. She had gone to the closed door that very morning, walking on tiptoe, and had felt a chill run down her spine. It surprised her to think that all those insignificant, normal sounds were also secret sounds. She had gone back to bed, wrapped herself in the covers, and fixed her eyes on the ceiling, where a fan of round, fleeting lights was spreading: the sparkles created by the shadow of the chestnut tree. She had drunk what remained of her now cold tea and slept until the maid awakened her and reminded her that they had a day full of chores ahead of them. And only now, with that cold glass in her hand, did she remember those first hours of the day.
He leaned back in his desk chair until the screws creaked and asked his secretary: "Is there a single bank that would take such a risk? Is there a single Mexican who believes in me?" He picked up his yellow pencil and pointed it into his secretary's face: let him make a note of it; let him, Padilla, be a witness: no one would take a chance and he was not going to let that wealth rot in the jungle down south; if the gringos were the only ones willing to finance the explorations, what was he supposed to do? The secretary reminded him what time it was, and he sighed and said enough for today. He invited his secretary to lunch. They could eat together. Did he know any new places? The secretary said he did, a new place that specialized in appetizers, very pleasant, very good quesadillas-cheese, flor, huitlacoche; it was right around the corner. They could go together. He felt tired; he didn't want to go back to the office that afternoon. In point of fact, they ought to be celebrating. Why not? Besides, they had never eaten together. They went out together in silence and walked toward Avenida Cinco de Mayo.
"You're still a very young man. How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"When did you get your degree?"
"Three years ago. But…"
"But what?"
"Theory is very different from practice."
"And that makes you laugh? What did they teach you at the university?"
"Lots of Marxism. I even wrote my thesis on surplus value."
"The discipline must be good for you, Padilla."
"But the real world is very different."
"Is that what you are, a Marxist?"
"Well, all my friends were. It was a kind of phase we all went through back then."
"Where is this restaurant?"
"We're almost there, just around the corner."
"I don't like walking."
"It's right over there."
They divided up the packages and walked toward Bellas Artes, where they were to meet the chauffeur. With averted eyes, they walked on, glancing occasionally at the shop windows, attracted as though by antennas. Suddenly the mother clutched the daughter's arm and dropped a package: directly in front of them, two dogs were growling in frozen rage; they pulled apart, they growled, they bit each other's necks until they bled, they ran into the street, they started to fight again, with sharp bites and growls-two street dogs, mangy, foaming at the mouth, a male and a female. The young lady picked up the package and led her mother to the parking lot. They got into the car, and the chauffeur asked if they were going back to Las Lomas, and the daughter said yes, that some dogs had frightened her mother. They lady said it was nothing, she felt fine now: it was all so unexpected and so close to her, but they would come back that afternoon, because they still had lots of shopping to do, lots more shops to visit. The young lady said they still had time, more than a month. Yes, but time flies, said the mother, and your father isn't doing a thing about the wedding, he's leaving all the work to us. In any case, you just have to learn something about social differences, you can't shake hands with everyone you meet. Besides, I want to get this wedding business over with, because I think it'll make your father realize that he's finally reached a certain age. At least it should teach him that. He doesn't seem to understand that he's fifty-two years old. I hope you have children right away. Anyway, it'll be a good lesson for your father to have to sit next to me both during the civil ceremony and during the religious marriage, hear people congratulate him, and see that everyone treats him like a respectable middle-aged man. Maybe all that will have an effect on him, maybe.
I feel that hand touching me and I would like to pull away from it, but I don't have the strength. What useless affection, Catalina. How useless. What can you say to me? Do you think you've finally found the words you never dared to say? Today? How useless. Just keep quiet. Don't allow yourself the luxury of an empty explanation. Be true to the façade you always put on; be true right to the end. Look: learn from your daughter. Teresa. Our daughter. How hard it is. What a useless word. Ours. She doesn't pretend. Before, when I couldn't hear, she probably said to you: "I hope it's all over soon. Because he's perfectly capable of pretending to be sick just so he can make our lives miserable." She must have said something like that to you. I heard something like that when I woke up this morning from that long, peaceful sleep. I vaguely remember the drug, the tranquilizer they gave me last night. And you probably said: "Oh, Lord, I hope he doesn't suffer too much." You would have wanted to give your daughter's words a different shade of meaning. And you don't know what shade of meaning to give the words I whisper: