I rang the bell and stayed looking at the marble staircase, on which the red carpet held in place by bronze stair-rods soaked up the sun that came through the glass of the heavy iron door.
The porter, dressed in black, came down with perfect calm.
‘What do you want?’
‘Is Señor Souza in?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Astier.’
‘As…’
‘Yes, Astier. Silvio Astier.’
‘Wait here, I’ll go and see.’ After looking me over from head to toe he disappeared through the door to the receiving room, covered with long pale yellow curtains.
I waited impatiently, anxiously, knowing that the decision that this grand gentleman Vicente Timoteo Souza took could change the whole destiny of my unfortunate adolescence.
The heavy door opened again halfway, and the porter said to me solemnly:
‘Señor Souza says that you should return in half an hour.’
‘Thank you… thank you… goodbye.’ I went away, pale.
I went into a nearby milkbar, and sat down by the table and ordered a coffee from the waiter.
‘Indubitably,’ I thought, ‘if Señor Souza agrees to see me then he’ll give me the job he promised.
‘No,’ I continued, ‘there’s no reason to think badly of Souza… Think of all the reasons he could have given not to receive me, how busy he is…’
Oh, Señor Timoteo Souza!
I had been presented to him one winter morning by Demetrio the theosophist, who was trying to improve my situation.
Sitting in the hall around a twistingly carved table, Señor Souza, his close-shaven cheeks and his bright pupils behind his round glasses shining brightly, had led the conversation. I remember he had been wearing a velvet déshabillé with mother-of-pearl buttons and beaver cuffs, all elements that added to his role as rastaquouère, a person who could give himself the freedom to talk to some poor devil simply to amuse himself.
We were talking, and with reference to my possible psychological make-up, he said:
‘A double crown, an uncontrollable temper… head flat in the occiput, a rational temperament… a rapid pulse, romantic leanings…’
Turning to the impassive theosophist, Señor Souza said:
‘I’m going to make this rat study medicine. What do you think, Demetrio?’
The theosophist, without reacting:
‘Very well… although any human being can be useful to humanity as a whole, however insignificant his social position.’
‘Ha ha; you’re always a philosopher.’ Señor Souza, turning towards me, said:
‘Well… Astier, my friend, write down what occurs to you at this very moment.’
I hesitated, then I wrote down with the expensive golden propelling pencil that the man had offered me, almost deferentially:
Limestone boils when it is made wet.
‘An anarchist, eh? Look after your brain, my friend… look after it well, because you’ll have a surmenage at some point between the ages of twenty and twenty-two.’
Because I did not know what he meant, I asked him:
‘What’s a surmenage?’
He turned pale. I still get embarrassed when I remember it.
‘It’s just a phrase,’ he said. ‘It’s important for us to control all of our feelings.’ And then he carried on:
‘Our friend Demetrio tells me that you have invented all kinds of things.’
A great amount of sunlight came in through the windows, and a sudden memory of my misery made me so sad that I took a while to answer, but eventually I did, in a bitter voice:
‘Yes, a few things… A signal flare, an automatic star counter…’
‘Theory… dreams…’ He interrupted me, rubbing his hands. ‘I know Ricaldoni,19 and for all his inventions he is still a simple physics teacher. The person who wants to get rich has to invent practical things, simple things.’
I felt like I was covered with a layer of misery.
He continued:
‘The guy who invented the diabolo, do you know who he was…? A Swiss student, bored in his room one winter. He earned a huge amount of money, just like that other guy, the North American, who invented the pencil with the rubber on the end.’
He stopped talking, took out a gold cigarette case with a bouquet of rubies on the back, and offered us cigarettes made with blond tobacco.
The theosophist refused with a small movement of the head, I accepted. Señor Souza continued:
‘Speaking of other things. From what our friend here has told me, you need a job.’
‘Yes, señor, a job where I can advance, because where I am at the moment…’
‘Yes… yes… I know, with the Neapolitan… I know… he’s a character. Very good, very good… I don’t think there should be a problem. Write me a letter that sets out all the peculiarities of your character, completely frankly, and I’m sure I’ll be able to help you. And when I make a promise, I keep it.’
And now he was negligently getting up from his chair:
‘Demetrio, my friend… a real pleasure… Come and see me soon, I want to show you some paintings. Astier, my dear young man, I will await your letter.’ With a smile, he added:
‘Careful not to try to fool me.’
Once we were in the street, I said to the theosophist with enthusiasm:
‘What a good man Señor Souza is… and all because of you… thank you so much.’
‘We’ll see… we’ll see…’
I stopped daydreaming so that I could ask the waiter in the milkbar what the time was.
‘Ten to two.’
What would Señor Souza have decided?
Over the past two months I had written to him frequently, insisting on the precariousness of my situation, and after long silences, and brief notes which were typewritten and unsigned, the wealthy man deigned to receive me.
‘Yes, it must be to give me a job, either in the municipal administration or in the government. If that’s the case, what a surprise for mother!’ And when I remembered her, in that milkbar with its swarms of flies flying around the pyramids of alfajores and pan de leche,20 a sudden tenderness brought tears to my eyes.
I stubbed out my cigarette and after paying I went off to Souza’s house.
My veins were throbbing when I rang the bell.
I immediately pulled my finger off the doorbell, thinking:
‘I hope he won’t think that I’m impatient for him to see me and that that upsets him.’
How much timidity was in that single ring on the bell! It was as if I wanted to say, by ringing the belclass="underline"
‘I’m sorry for bothering you, Señor Souza… but I need a job…’
The door opened.
‘I’m here… the master…’ I babbled.
‘Come in.’
I climbed the stairs on tiptoe after the flunky. Although the streets were dry, I had rubbed my feet on the doormat as I came in so as not to make anything dirty.
We stopped in the vestibule. It was dark.
Standing by the table, the servant arranged some flowers in their crystal vase.
A door opened, and Señor Souza appeared dressed for the street, his eyes sparkling behind the lenses of his little round glasses.
‘Who are you?’ he called to me harshly.
Disconcerted, I replied:
‘But señor, I am Astier…’
‘I do not know you, sir; don’t bother me any more with your impertinent letters. Juan, show this gentleman to the door.’
Then, turning to go, he shut the door firmly behind my back.
And once again, even more sad, under the sun, I took the road back to the cave.
One afternoon, after they had insulted each other until they were hoarse, Don Gaetano’s wife, realising that her husband wouldn’t leave the shop as he had done on previous occasions, made up her mind to leave herself.