With the round table on the importance of reading in our day about to commence, Tenenbaum thought that the proverbial arrogance of Vílchez, who had never expressed so much as a doubt or any praise in his presence, probably had the same root as his own failings. This revelatory hypothesis filled him with a relief that was close to tears. When Vílchez repeated, as if coming round, as if surviving the accident of the window that he had contemplated: They already know, I’m sure they already know, Rinaldi finally raised his eyes from his mobile. What do you mean? he asked. Vílchez’s only response was an ironic smile.
Rinaldi and Vílchez had never got on well, or rather they had always pretended not to get on badly. Tenenbaum compared their expressions, glancing first at one and then the other, trying to unite them on a diagonal. In his view, the rivalry between Rinaldi and Vílchez was based on a grave misunderstanding: that they were both striving for the same thing. Nothing was further from the truth. Vílchez aspired to a prestige that excluded all others, a sort of moral leadership in the long term. Rinaldi on the other hand desired with a fury (but also with humour, something often lacking in his colleagues) to be recognized as quickly as possible. One of them, it could be said, was anxious to win the lottery. The other hoped all his colleagues would lose it, in order to be remembered as the only one who had not stooped to place a bet.
Rinaldi still had no idea what Vílchez was talking about. Tenenbaum would have preferred not to know, but had just found out. Gradually withdrawing the arm that was still draped round Vílchez’s docile shoulder, he looked him in the eye. He looked at him with an attention he had never previously bestowed on a colleague, taking in the irregular lines on his brow, the baroque colouring of his cheeks, his sideburns and the hairs in his nostrils, which were vibrating as if they were hiding an internal ventilator. Tenenbaum was so inordinately pleased with this witty simile that he almost forgot what he was about to say. After a few moments of poetic distraction, he recovered the thread and Vílchez’s gaze and asked him, straight out: And you, how long is it since you last read?
All Vílchez could do was snort, shake his head, shrug his shoulders. It seemed to Tenenbaum that, at the far end of the room, Rinaldi was smiling like a thief confirming that the police also steal. This comparison did not give him the slightest satisfaction.
There was the sound of three short knocks on the door of the office where the writers were waiting. The hyperbolical head of the poet and translator Piotr Czerny appeared. As the organizer of this series on the promotion of reading, he was to be the round-table moderator. Ready, gentlemen? he asked in a voice that to Rinaldi, who tended to mistrust other people’s courtesy, appeared to be tinged with mockery.
Eyes popping, his body stiff, Vílchez whispered in Tenenbaum’s ear: We have to go and admit it once and for all, out there, in front of everybody.
Gentlemen, the moderator crooned, whenever you like. The audience is keen to hear you, there’s a good crowd.
Better if I start, eh, Vílchez? said Rinaldi, switching off his mobile.
THE GOLD OF THE BLIND MEN
I am going to cause a tiger.
IT WAS ONE of those evenings that only some kitsch writers describe as concave. The seven o’clock sun seemed to want to linger over things, and plunged into the Foundation’s courtyard. We were ready. Everything had been planned with great care. It was the first, and probably the last, opportunity we would have. It had taken us months to get him to agree, to convince his mother, receive the last-minute confirmation, settle all the details. It was, if you wish, a concave evening in the year 1971. We were warmed by the small sun and the closeness of surprise. We were waiting for Borges.
The Foundation’s headquarters were on Calle Defensa, just before Avenida San Juan. Back then, the San Telmo neighbourhood was not what it is today: tourists came more warily, in fewer numbers. We had been granted a licence to convert an old mansion with damp rooms and whitewashed walls that had once belonged to a family of wealthy criollos, and subsequently to an English couple who had murky dealings down in the port. Borges was happy, or so he said: he had just published El Hacedor, and the Peronists were still banned. He had promised to arrive at seven o’clock sharp, although the talk was not scheduled to start until half an hour later. The audience found it hard to stay in their seats. They were all aware of what we were going to do. Those of us who had organized the event hid our anxiety by straightening the chairs and making risqué jokes. I know it sounds odd: we were telling dirty jokes while we waited for Borges. Irma Moguilevsky was wearing a low-cut blouse and a daring skirt. To please the maestro, she had said when she came in. Borges is blind, Irmita, I had to tell her. What’s the point then? she had asked, with a mixture of disappointment and confusion. Don’t worry, Irmita, just do as we said, I sighed.
Borges was blind, although he could still make out shapes, blotches, shadows. He could not read books or recognize faces, but he could see phantoms. Golden phantoms. As those of us who were his unconditional fans were aware, out of the precarious well into which time had gradually been plunging him, Borges could distinguish a single colour. Therefore, when we learned he had agreed to give a talk to our Foundation, some of us thought up the idea of preparing a modest homage for him: all those present were waiting for him dressed in yellow, the feline yellow. Irma buttoned up her blouse, staring into space.
At two minutes past seven, on the arm of a young woman I did not know, Borges crossed the courtyard and carefully advanced between the fig plants. Several members of the Foundation went out to receive him. He approached them smiling gently, as though he had just been commenting on some amusing anecdote or other. The first thing I heard Borges say was exactly: Oh, you don’t say. And then: But that would be impossible. To my disappointment, I never found out what he was referring to. He was wearing a smart, old-fashioned-looking suit. His hair was better groomed than perhaps he himself would have wanted, and he was clutching a slim, black-bound volume. I remember how impressed I was by Borges’s hands: manicured, podgy, cold. As if, in their lassitude, they were the hands of someone who had fainted or was caught up in a not entirely pleasant dream. In a calm voice, Borges asked about details of the mansion. All our replies seemed to leave him thoughtful. Following the presentations, and after exchanging a few polite phrases which I am afraid will never find their way into any collection of aphorisms, we moved towards the events room. Borges freed himself from the arm of his young companion and walked across the entrance hall, his forehead pointing up towards the ceiling. At once there was a murmur of excitement, and the sound of chairs being pushed back. Everyone stood up and began to applaud. Still sideways on to the audience, he greeted the applause with a shy nod of the head and allowed himself to be led to the platform. I preferred to stay standing by the door. It seemed to me that it was only when he was seated and silence had returned to the room that Borges felt at ease again. And it was then that, clearing his throat, he directly addressed the yellow gathering. At first there was a slight tremor on his absent face, then it contracted; and finally, after a few seconds of whirling eye movements, it relaxed into a knowing smile. His eyes shone like two coins underwater. Chuckling mischievously, Borges exclaimed: And to think that one had already given up the idea of seeing treasure in one’s lifetime… We all laughed, and applauded once more: for a while it seemed as if the event would end there and then, before it had started.