The same lack of obligation that, some fifty-five minutes before, give or take, had compelled him to get off the bus and, instead of going to work, start walking down San Martín, now induces him to continue, though his decision is supplemented by the fear that, having told the Mathematician about his intention to continue straight, the white figure chatting with an acquaintance in the middle of the plaza might turn around and, seeing him still standing on the corner, killing time or undecided where to go, would suspect that what he had said was just a pretext for unburdening himself from him. But when he reaches the opposite sidewalk this apprehension disappears. Washington’s birthday, the mosquitos, Noca’s horse, the table set under the imaginary pavilion, at once persistent and inconstant, clicking along in a unique, complex order, now make up a carousel of memories more intense, significant, but nevertheless more enigmatic, you could say, than many others which, originating in his own experience, ought to be stronger and more immediately present in his memory. And the passing distractions, the opacity of certain allusions — apparently evident to Tomatis and the Mathematician — instead of diluting those images, clarify them, the way a crevice, by forcing a ray of light to pass through its tiny opening, contributes to a greater display of its richness in the concentrated darkness. Without realizing their fantastical aspect, Leto examines them, holds them — or accepts their persistence, passively — in the white circle of his attention, the way a traveler, projecting the artificial images of his recent trip, trying to gather together everything that escaped his attention just when the picture was taken, lingers a while studying the details of some slides more than others. The complete morning, including his body crossing through it over the gray pavement, and the intangible, ubiquitous “I” he carries inside him, disappear behind the images that, now almost definitive are, though they come from his memory, permanent and more indestructible, you could say, than the breath and flesh that contain them. They are, in any case, interwoven with them in spite of coming from the impalpable, articulate, and reverberant voice which, for several blocks, has been disseminated in the external transparency through the white, even teeth and well-formed, almost mythic superhero lips of the Mathematician. Until his death, certain associations, with greater or lesser force, will recall them, so dependent on each other that at some point he will no longer know which came first, the image or the association, and in some cases, as proof of their insoluble adhesion, so to speak, they will act upon each other without even reaching his consciousness, in the form of short sparks, pulses, and anonymous, shapeless signs that will wrinkle slightly the fissures, to put a word to it, of his being — his being, no? — or rather the incomprehensible formed into a continuous presence, a sensitive lump trapped in a nameless something, a slow whirlwind that it’s simultaneously part of, a spiral of energy and matter that is at once the womb that produces it and the knife — neither friend nor enemy — that slices it open.
Leto looks back at the plaza. The white figure, at least a head taller than its interlocutor, speaks with distant and measured gestures, and as it forms part of a pleasant, blooming multitude, the plaza’s flowerbeds, the spring sun, the trees, and the blue sky, Leto thinks that it would definitely be nice to see the Mathematician again and have a conversation, less because of the Mathematician himself than because of the whole morning he is part of and because he is now a part of his life, but actually, in the coming years, they will only be together two or three times at parties where they exchange a few words and, when they meet on the street, will limit themselves to a greeting, polite of course, but without stopping to talk — and all of these encounters more and more sporadic and further and further apart. Little by little Leto will abandon his work, more and more involved in political militancy, with more and more radicalized groups, until eventually going into hiding, and not a trace will remain of the familiar Leto but for two or three brief reappearances, except with a few close friends like Tomatis, Barco, El Gato Garay, who he will visit every so often, always briefly and unexpectedly, not to discuss politics but to spend some time with people who are connected to him not just by principles, but rather, to say it again, by shared experiences and memories, since it’s possible to fight against the same oppression, with the same principles even, but for different reasons. First he will leave his job — Isabel ends up marrying Lopecito — then his house, then the city, later the country, coming and going from Europe to Cuba, to the Middle East, to Africa, to Vietnam, until he disappears completely into the exacting, silent, clandestine life of the walking dead. For sixteen or seventeen years he will sink into an order governed by such strict, specialized, closed-circuit norms that, although they were created to form an association of people who intended to modify reality, will force him into an unreality so profound that, behind his so-called impenetrable mask, into which his face will be transformed, or inside the various costumes he will dress up in to enter and exit the same comedy like an actor playing several supporting roles at once, in his own life, behind the impenetrable mask — we were saying, or rather yours truly, just now, was saying, no? — nothing will be left after the rage, the faith, the daring, but a sardonic and not even self-pitying intransigence of someone who, chased by a torrential storm, as they say, or by an uninterrupted series of explosions, runs in a straight line, without caring, and maybe without even asking, whether the direction they are running in will lead them to safety or to a precipice. In any case, at some point he will start carrying, wherever he goes, a suicide pill, well-hidden against his body in one of his pockets, and every so often he will look at it to remind himself, not of his mortality, but of his freedom. Guessing the weight of things, he will tell himself with cold satisfaction that, placed on the opposite side of a scale as the little pill encased in plastic, the entire universe would weigh nothing, and that the little pill could dispatch the immeasurable weight of the known world and make it disappear suddenly and silently in spite of its iridescent, soap bubble feel. But all of this will come little by little, after successive stages of uncertainty, violence, and deception. At some point, in the last two or three years, he won’t have anything left but the silence, the sardonic intransigence, and the pill. After confirming that the whole universe is inconsistent and futile, the pill, in its place, will become a singular object. And having realized after fifteen years that blind fighting against oppression can create more oppression rather than eliminating it, the way sometimes fighting a fire can actually increases the force of the flames, and having come too far to turn back, he will begin to trust, not in strategies or organizations or in so-called historical movements, not even in his own weapon, but only in the pill, in