The vague sexual admiration I had felt for Beatriz was of that same almost unconscious order. Given that she was Muriel’s wife and many years older than me, I considered her, as an object of desire, someone with whom I no longer shared the same time and space, as though I lived in the real and present dimension and she only in long-past, inanimate representations. And all the thoughts I had — which were not even thoughts, more like mental flashes bereft of the words I give them now from the distance of my maturity — were of a conditional or chimerical nature, if, indeed, they existed at alclass="underline" ‘If I were Muriel, I wouldn’t treat her like that, I would respond to her occasional, intended caresses, which he rejects so forcefully, and move closer’ or ‘She must have been very alluring when she was young, I can understand why Muriel would have wanted her at his side day and night, I’m sure I would have too. Even if only for her sheer carnality, which counts for a lot in a marriage. But I wasn’t Muriel then, nor am I now.’
And that night, Beatriz Noguera seemed to me neither long-past nor inanimate, nor, indeed, a representation, even though, to my hidden, watching eyes, there was something theatrical about her pacing up and down and her waiting and her hesitations, it was like spying on some minor display of voluptuosity (that revealing nightdress) or a painful monologue without words. Until, that is, there were some words. After smoking two cigarettes, Beatriz finally decided to knock timidly at her husband’s bedroom door with the knuckle of her middle finger. It was a very quiet knock, like that of a fearful child who has already gone too many times to her parents’ room and is afraid she won’t be welcome, but could be seen as too easily frightened, importunate and annoying, or might even be told off.
‘Eduardo.’ Her voice was almost inaudible. There was no reply, and it occurred to me that Beatriz had chosen a bad night to approach him; Muriel would be tired after all his work, possibly already asleep, or else absorbed by thoughts of that urgent script about which he had his doubts. ‘Eduardo,’ she said again, a little louder this time, and she bent down slightly to look at the crack under the door, to see if the light was on in his room. (When she bent down — this lasted only five seconds, which I counted, the better to enjoy them: one, two, three, four; and five — I had an even clearer view of her bottom, which I had noticed before when she was walking around the apartment fully clothed and erect: round or curvaceous, pert and shapely — or ‘firm’, to use the adjective so often used to describe tempting flesh — contrary to what Muriel thought, or said he thought, in order to undermine and humiliate her, I had heard him call her ‘fat’ and a few other more offensive things; and when she bent down, her already brief nightdress rode up another centimetre, revealing more of her sturdy thighs — this time unclothed — although not enough to show her actual buttocks, she would have had to bend further, as if to pick something up from the floor.) Muriel immediately turned off the light, but it was too late for him to pretend to be asleep or to have abandoned wakefulness, this much was clear from what his wife said next: ‘Eduardo, I saw the light under the door, I know you’re awake. Please open the door. It will only take a second, I promise.’ And she knocked again with that one knuckle, more boldly this time. Then she pressed her ear to the door, as if to make sure her husband really was awake, sometimes we need to confirm what we know perfectly well, or to have someone else do so, it’s typical of people who no longer entirely trust their own five senses; perhaps, I thought, because this has been going on for years, night after night, and neither of them is capable now of distinguishing the day before yesterday from yesterday or today or tomorrow. I thought this, I really did, just before there came an unexpected response (I was expecting a continued state of imperviousness, although that is a very slow form of dissuasion), which led me to believe that this was the case, that Beatriz’s possibly frustrated visit was something she repeated each conticinium, as the Romans called the night hour when everything was still and silent, something that no longer exists in our cities, which is perhaps why the word has died out or lies languishing in dictionaries.
‘Don’t you get bored making the same scene over and over? How many more nights are you going to keep it up? I have to sleep, I’m really tired. Juan and I are working against the clock, you know.’ Through the door, Muriel’s voice sounded patient rather than irritated. Although he had spoken quite loudly, I was sure that neither of them wanted this exchange to be heard by anyone else in the house, at least in principle. It could also be that this scene had become so customary that everyone knew about it anyway and paid no attention. Even though there was nothing remarkable about him mentioning my name, it still made me jump. I was, after all, spying, and if the spied-upon refer to the spy, this makes him feel more exposed, a somewhat irrational reflex reaction and, fortunately, short-lived.