I would see Lisandro’s amputated arm everywhere: in the street, hiding between passengers on a bus, on the empty beds being wheeled down the hospital corridors. It pained me to see myself naked in the mirror before having a shower, limbs intact. With slight variations, I carried on dreaming that Lisandro was happily severing his arm in front of me. Sometimes he himself would hurl it far away. Other times he would ask someone for a cigarette in exchange for his arm and then let them take it from him. And on the grisliest of occasions, he would give it to me ceremoniously, as if it were an offering, with his good arm. Meanwhile, in the waking world, Lisandro was getting better and about to be discharged from hospital. On those nights I dreamt that a fair-haired mugger in an apron handed Lisandro his missing arm, which he casually replaced before coming to visit me.
After a fortnight’s complete rest at home, Lisandro began to walk on his own without feeling dizzy or sick, and a week later he was already going out and he even went to buy bread for his mother. He returned with the left sleeve of his jumper tied in a knot, waving the bag with his one arm, and sat down to rest in the armchair. I went to lunch with them almost every day, and sometimes I stayed the night. You’ve no idea how tiring it is to walk propelling yourself with only one arm, Lisandro told me. He also kept thanking me again and again for all the time I spent looking after him and keeping him company. But I realized that, given the situation, Lisandro was too effusive with me. After a few days I started to suspect he had secretly decided to hate me because of what had happened that night. I continued dreaming, only the story lines had changed: now Lisandro was chasing me down Gran Vía in order to take one of my arms. No matter how fast I ran he would catch me.
Gradually the intervals between my visits to Lisandro’s house became longer, and I tried to plan our conversations beforehand. I needed to study his movements. I think he sensed my intentions, because he spoke to me less, listening to me instead and staring at me. I realized then that I was right, and when Lisandro finally started going out again in the evenings, I began cautiously confining myself to my apartment. Lisandro called me from time to time and suggested we have a few drinks in Calle Elvira, but I almost always managed to wriggle out of his invitation by making up some excuse.
One afternoon he dropped by unannounced. As I opened the door to him, I silently calculated how many steps I needed to get to the kitchen, open the top drawer and take out a knife to defend myself. I wasn’t required to do it because Lisandro walked in, sat down in my armchair and closed his eyes so as to hum along to the Miles Davis track that was playing. He spent the entire time sitting there, without even explaining why he had come. But his visit was like a warning to me. The next time he came round, we both knew what would happen. That was when, as I said goodbye to Lisandro, patting his good shoulder, I decided not to waste any more time.
A month has passed since then, and things seem to have returned to normal. If I had to make an assessment, despite the case against those thugs not having come to anything as yet, I would even say that our friendship has been strengthened. Every morning, Lisandro comes round to my place. He lets himself in with his own key, knocks on my bedroom door, comes in and rolls up the blinds. He usually finds me with my eyes open. He says good morning and goes into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. He slowly squeezes three or four oranges, makes coffee for us both, comes into my room, leaves two empty cups, goes back to the kitchen, fetches the pot of coffee, brings it to my room and fills the two cups. After two or three trips, we can tuck into a good breakfast. He smokes in the morning. I prefer to wait until after lunch. Lisandro has been looking after me for a few weeks now, and I must say nobody has ever taken such care of me. In some sense, yes, things have gone back to the way they were: he has forgiven me, I can see it in his eyes. Thanks to his ministrations I feel calmer and I am making a quick recovery. I know I will soon be able to start going out, and will gradually be able to forget my grimace in the mirror as I started to saw off my left arm.
MR PRESIDENT’S HOTEL
I OFTEN SLEEP in hotels, or rather, I don’t sleep. A few months ago, I wish I could remember when exactly, in reception I was offered a gold pen to append my signature and, if I were to be so kind, to write a sentence, a greeting, anything. I took the pen somewhat reluctantly, appearing to object — not because I felt I was too grand but because, to be honest, I couldn’t think of what to write: I was tired, I don’t sleep well and I was playing for time. Seeing how uncomfortable I was, the receptionists bowed and stepped away, leaving me on my own with the visitors’ book. I took advantage to leaf through earlier dedications to find inspiration. On the last page I discovered the following note:
Outrage in the bar. To pay that much for a glass of brandy, even if it is Napoleon Grande Reserve, is a swindle. Stinginess also has its price. And, sooner or later, it’s bad business. Sincerely, N.N.
I was surprised that a protest of this sort was in the visitors’ book rather than in the one for complaints. Perhaps the person signing it had decided to take their revenge by leaving it in full view of any important people staying in the hotel. The fact is, the note put me off my stride, I’m not quite sure why, and prevented me from concentrating on what I ought to write. After several minutes of waiting in vain, all I did was sign and print my name in capital letters underneath. I closed the book, smiled at the receptionists, called my escort and retired to my bedroom.
I cannot say that the matter remained on my mind, because meetings and public appearances soon engulfed me in the usual maelstrom. But when in the next hotel in the next city, they opened the visitors’ book and asked me if I would do them the great honour, etcetera, etcetera, I couldn’t help recalling N.N. It was little more than a fleeting thought, as when a distant aeroplane momentarily distracts you from whatever you are doing. Little more than that. What I was not expecting was to find him again.
The new note read:
I understand that the cleaning staff burst into rooms in the morning and wake people up without meaning to. But for them to fiddle with the door handle in the early hours, rummage through papers or move luggage, is a violation of all the rights of their guests. If the aim is to keep an eye on us, it would be better to hire professional spies, who would do a much stealthier job and provide you with more precise information. Sincerely, N.N.
On that occasion, after a few moments’ bewilderment, I felt an urge to draw the concierge’s attention to it. I immediately dismissed the idea. I knew that as soon as I mentioned the note, the entire hotel staff would come up, fall over themselves to offer tedious apologies and keep me there with all kinds of explanations, excuses and gifts. So once again I kept silent. I added my signature in very big letters. Then I went up to my room. To not sleep.