He arranged to see Casares. He explained the steps he’d taken, his investigations at the ministry and the union, illustrated the situation with analogous examples, clarified various juridical details, added data the factory had supplied. Finally, he invented interviews and lied coldly.
He concluded, ‘I don’t think there’s the slightest chance they’ll accept the appeal.’
The expression on Enrique Casares’ face had passed from expectation to despair. He loosened his tie, knotted his hands together, rested his elbows on his knees; his breathing sounded laboured. After a silence during which Casares’ eyes stung, Álvaro offered him all his support and, although theirs was only a recent acquaintance, all his friendship at such a difficult time. He told him he must, now more than ever, keep calm, that a man’s measure is revealed on occasions like this, that no good would come from losing hope. He also assured him that everything in life had a solution.
Casares looked out the dining-room window. A pigeon landed on the sill. Álvaro noticed that his neighbour was stunned. Casares stood up and walked to the door, apologizing for all the trouble he’d caused and thanking him for all that he’d taken. Álvaro modestly brushed aside his words and said don’t mention it, that’s what friends are for. By the door, he rested a friendly hand on his shoulder and reiterated his support. Casares left with his head hanging.
Álvaro immediately took a chair, a little table and a microphone into the bathroom. He set up the microphone on the table, where there was also a notebook and pen. He sat in the chair. Whenever he began a listening session, the building swarmed with indistinct noises: his ear had to adjust to that murmuring to be able to distinguish between them. Now he clearly heard the voices of the couple next door. He was explaining the situation to her: he said he now had no solution, they’d just have to accept it. At one point, the roar of a cistern interrupted the dialogue. Álvaro stopped the tape and swore. When silence was restored he turned the tape recorder back on and heard the woman reassuring the man, comforting him affectionately. She said, ‘Everything in life has a solution.’ He mumbled that Álvaro had tried to comfort him with the very same words. The woman asked what Álvaro had to do with all this. He confessed that he’d consulted their neighbour because he knew he was a lawyer, and begged him for help. The woman didn’t reproach him; she said that Álvaro inspired her confidence. The man praised his generosity, the sincere interest that he’d shown in his case, all the trouble he’d taken. Besides, he hadn’t charged him a single cent for all the work. From the next flat came a blast of music: the spotty-faced journalist was listening to Bruce Springsteen at full volume.
Álvaro didn’t get annoyed. For the moment he was satisfied. He thought he’d be able to take full advantage of the dialogue he’d just recorded for his novel. With a few details modified, others improved, the conversation could sound extraordinarily energetic and lifelike, with its eloquent silences, pauses and hesitations. Spurred by his initial success, he considered the possibility of installing a permanent recording device in the bathroom to pick up the conversations from the neighbouring apartment, especially since, starting from next week, they would also talk to each other during the hours when he was absent.
The next day he resumed work on the novel. He stitched up the plot concerning the married couple without difficulty: events were now practically writing themselves. As for the part concerning the old man, however, there weren’t too many reasons for optimism. Unlike what was happening with the young couple, here Álvaro felt he hadn’t a leg to stand on or any reference from which to continue with the story. Without them, his imagination wallowed in a hesitant swamp of imprecision: the character as much as his actions lacked the solidity of real life. It was urgent, therefore, to establish contact with the old man as soon as possible. This would smooth out the difficulties that part of the novel was posing. But the problem lay in how to strike up a friendship with him. Because although it was true that their paths crossed in the supermarket almost daily, it was no less true that they barely exchanged a laconic greeting: the old man’s surliness wouldn’t permit a whiff of affability.
The doorbell rang. The mare appeared in the doorway. Álvaro said he was very busy. The concierge neighed, and he couldn’t keep her from getting in as far as the dining room.
‘We haven’t seen each other for so long,’ she said, as if sighing. She screwed up her face in what might have meant to be a saucy smile or an affectionate reproach. ‘You’ve been neglecting me a bit, haven’t you?’
Álvaro concurred with resignation.
The woman asked in a sickly sweet voice, ‘How’s everything going?’
‘Badly,’ Álvaro replied harshly.
The concierge had stopped paying attention to him and looked distractedly around the room. She continued mechanically, ‘And why’s that?’
‘Smells like a stable,’ Álvaro croaked.
He remained standing, restlessly shifting his weight from one leg to the other. As if she hadn’t heard Álvaro’s incongruous answer, the concierge, who seemed to return from an abyss to trivial domestic concerns, went on with an air of surprise, ‘Hey, your apartment is an absolute mess. I think what’s needed here is a woman’s touch.’ She paused and immediately added solicitously, ‘Would you like me to lend you a hand?’
‘Nothing would displease me more, Señora,’ Álvaro answered, like a spring recoiling, in a tone of voice that blended in identical doses false and excessive kindness, mere insult and perhaps even a deer-like fear at any possible double meaning the phrase might contain.
The woman looked at him strangely. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, don’t be like that, man, tell me,’ she entreated with a flourish worthy of Florence Nightingale.
‘I’ve fucking had it up to here with you!’ he shouted.
The concierge regarded him first with surprise, then with a vaguely equine indignation.
‘I don’t think I deserve such treatment,’ she said. ‘I’ve only ever tried to be nice to you and help you as far as possible. If you didn’t want to see me again, you had only to tell me so.’
She started to walk out. Hand on the knob of the half-open door, she turned and said, almost begging, ‘You’re sure you don’t want anything?’
Gathering his patience, Álvaro suppressed an insult and whispered, ‘I’m sure.’
The concierge closed the door noisily. Álvaro stood in the middle of the dining room; his left leg was trembling.
He returned to his desk in an agitated state. He took several deep breaths and quickly recovered from the shock. Then he remembered that, during their second encounter, the concierge had told him about old man Montero’s fondness for chess. Álvaro told himself that was the flank he must attack. He had never been interested in the game and barely knew its rules, but that very morning he went to the nearest bookshop and bought a couple of manuals. For several days he studied them fervently, requiring yet another delay in the writing of the novel. Then he immersed himself in more specialized books. He acquired a certain theoretical command of the game, but he needed practice. He arranged to meet friends he’d given up some time ago. They accepted readily, because chess seemed no more than an excuse to renew a friendship broken off for absolutely no reason.
Álvaro would arrive with a briefcase containing notes, annotated books, blank sheets of paper, pencils and pens. Despite his friends’ best efforts, he barely conversed or drank during the matches. They couldn’t listen to music either, because Álvaro insisted it kept him from concentrating. A few brief words that also served as a greeting preceded without more ado the commencement of the game. As soon as it was over Álvaro would use some pressing engagement as an excuse and leave immediately.