Then Álvaro tried to begin a conversation; old man Montero answered in monosyllables or evasions: he’d realized that Álvaro wasn’t going to be easily defeated and was entirely immersed in the match. Evidently, some time would have to pass before the old man would let down his guard, before the relationship between the two of them could progress to anything more than a matter of rivalry. In any case, there was no sense in rushing: if his host, with his unhealthy mistrust, sensed a suspiciously premature attempt at friendship, he might react by fortifying his defences, precluding any viable future relationship.
The old man won the match. He could not conceal his satisfaction. Affectionate and expansive, he discussed the layout of the board at the moment of check for a while, put the pieces back into the positions they’d been in when he conceived his final assault, discussed a few minor details, proposed possible variations. Álvaro declared that he wouldn’t be exaggerating if he described the move as perfection. The old man offered him a glass of wine. Álvaro said to himself that wine loosens the tongue and leads to confidences, but remembered he’d opted for prudence on this first visit and decided, for the time being, to leave old man Montero with his appetite for conversation. Feigning resentment at the defeat — which would obviously feed the old man’s vanity even further — he made an excuse and, once they’d set up another match for the following week, said goodbye.
VIII
From that day on he devoted himself entirely to writing the novel. His feverish work was interrupted only by the Casareses’ regular confrontations. The arguments provoked by drunkenness and evenings out were unfailingly followed by caresses and reconciliations. Álvaro had acquired such prowess in his recording skill that he no longer needed to witness — unless a passing setback in the rhythm of his work suggested he draw on this crudely real stimulus — the often wearisome and always repetitive arguments. He had only to turn on the tape recorder at the right moment and go straight back to his study and carry on calmly with his work. On the other hand, the deterioration of their relationship had begun to have repercussions on the external appearance of the Casareses: the slight tendency to corpulence that used to give him a confidently satisfied air had now turned into an oily and servile obesity, her almost Victorian pallor to a whitish and withered skin that revealed her fatigue.
Álvaro did not regret that the journalist hadn’t returned to ask for potatoes or salt. He recognized, however, the danger involved in the state of relations with the concierge. No one could ever exaggerate the power of concierges, he told himself. And openly confronting his own was a risk he should not take: so he tried to make up with her.
He went down to visit her again. He explained that there are moments in a man’s life when he is not himself, when he flies off the handle and is unable to control himself. In those ill-fated instances, nothing he does or says should be taken as representative, but rather as a sort of malevolent manifestation of a momentary wretched temper. For this reason he begged her to excuse him if, at any time, his conduct towards her had not been as gentlemanly as she had every right to expect from him.
The concierge accepted his apology with delight. Álvaro hurried to add that he found himself at a particularly delicate point in his career just then, something which not only might explain his possible bursts of bad temper, but also demanded his total and exclusive commitment to his work, making it absolutely impossible for him to cultivate and enjoy her company for some time. Nothing was more disagreeable to him, but he was obliged to postpone their friendship until circumstances became more favourable. This, of course, should not prevent their relationship, despite developing on a strictly superficial level, being ruled by an exemplary cordiality. Bewitched by Álvaro’s florid self-exonerating rhetoric like a snake by the sound of the charmer’s flute, the concierge willingly agreed to everything.
The chess games continued in old man Montero’s apartment. Álvaro was pleased to note they always remained under his controclass="underline" he decided the exchanges of men, foresaw the attacks, dictated the mood of play and doled out a calculated alternation of victories and defeats that kept up the rivalry and invited intimacy between the two adversaries. Gradually the pre- or post-match conversations grew longer until they began to take up more time than the game itself. He was initially surprised to observe that the old man consumed startling quantities of alcohol for a man of his age, which gave him a disordered and obsessive loquacity. Álvaro awaited his moment.
Old man Montero spoke mostly about politics. He had always voted for the far right and thought democracy was an illness only weak nations suffered from, because it implied that the ruling elite had declined their responsibility and left it to the amorphous masses, and a country without an elite was a country that was lost. Furthermore, it was based on a fantasy, universal suffrage: a concierge’s vote could not be worth as much as a lawyer’s vote. Álvaro nodded and the old man was soon bitterly criticising the government. His darts, however, were mainly directed at the right-wing parties. He felt they’d backed down from their principles, had reneged on their origins. Álvaro was occasionally moved by the emotional rancour of his reproaches.
He also talked about his military past. He’d fought in the battle of Brunete and at the Ebro, and he recounted moving tales of memorable deaths, bombardments and heroism. One day he told how he’d seen General Valera in the distance; another, he described a provisional ensign dying in his arms, bleeding to death as they took him to a first aid post far from the front line. Once in a while tears would fall.
Álvaro understood the old man’s mistrust wasn’t directed at concrete individuals, but was a general animosity against the world, a sort of festering reaction of generosity betrayed.
His only daughter lived in Argentina; sometimes she wrote to him. For his part, he was keeping his life’s savings to leave to his grandchildren. One day, in the midst of alcohol-induced exaltation, and after a mention of his heirs, he assured Álvaro with pride that he had much more money than his modest life might lead one to suspect. With similar pride, he declared his distrust of banks, mean inventions of usurious Jews. Then he stood up (there was an intoxicated sparkle in his viscous eyes) and revealed a safe built into the wall, hidden behind an imitation of a neutral landscape painting.
Álvaro shuddered.
After a few seconds Álvaro reacted and said that for some time he’d been kicking around the idea of withdrawing his money from the bank and putting it in a safe, but he hadn’t made up his mind to do so because he wasn’t entirely convinced they were secure and he’d been very lazy about going to a shop and finding out. With as much enthusiasm as if he were trying to sell it, the old man extolled the virtues of the strongbox and took his time over an explanation of the workings of its simple mechanism. He claimed it was much safer than a bank and said he only closed his when he left the house.