As the nuns were climbing out, the student got out of the left side of the taxi to avoid stumbling over Felix, and the driver said, “Don’t go out on that side, you stupid jerk, I’m the one who’ll get the fine.” The girlfriend with her head like a woolly black sheep pinched Felix’s knee on the way. Only Felix noticed in the midst of the confusion that the giggling nuns had stopped beside one of the many statues of heroes along the Paseo de la Reforma. One of them raised her skirts and whirled her leg as if dancing the cancan. The taxi shot away, leaving the student and his girl scuffling in the middle of the street. Then he remembered his books, shouted, “The books,” and ran after the taxi, but couldn’t catch up.
“They got out without paying,” Felix said to the driver, absurdly inhibited at the idea of interfering in something that was none of his business.
“I didn’t ask them to get in.”
“Are you going to keep the books as payment?” Felix insisted.
“You heard me. I asked them not to get in,” the driver said, as if the matter was settled.
“But that isn’t true.” Felix was scandalized. “You wanted them to get in, this nurse and I were the ones who protested.”
“My name’s Licha and I work at the Hospital de Jesús,” said the nurse, tapping the driver’s shoulder as she got out in front of the Hotel Reforma.
Felix made a mental note, but just then the fat woman hit him again with her basket and yelled, “It’s all your fault, don’t try to look so innocent, why are you making that face, all you had to do was move over a little, but no, you wouldn’t move over, all you had on your mind was feeling all the women’s bottoms as they got in and out, I know your type all right.” She also accused Felix of killing all her chicks, but Felix ignored her. There were dead chicks on the floor and on the seats, and a few crushed against the taxi windows. Books were strewn over the floor of the taxi, open and trampled, black shoeprints obliterating black print.
“I know I’m going to get fined,” said the driver. “It’s just not fair.”
“Take my card,” said Felix, offering it to the driver.
He got out at Insurgentes and watched the taxi drive away with the fat woman’s head and fist sticking out the window, her fist threatening him as the statue of Cuauhtémoc with upraised lance seemed to threaten the conquered city. He reached the door of the Hilton and the doorman greeted him, touching a hand to the visor of his military cap, powder-blue like his uniform. He handed Felix the keys to his Chevrolet, and Felix gave him a fifty-peso bill. The cardboard silhouette of the senior Hilton beckoned from behind glass doors, BE MY GUEST.
3
SEÑORITA MALENA was the only person in the office, and at first she didn’t see Felix Maldonado come in. Señorita Malena was a little over forty, but her particular idiosyncrasy was to pretend that she was still a little girl. Not merely young, but truly childlike. She wore bangs and curls, flowered dolls’ dresses, white stockings, and patent-leather Mary Janes. It was well known in the Ministry that this was how Malena kept her mother happy. Ever since Malena was a little girl, her mother had said, I hope you always stay a little girl, I pray to God you never grow up.
Her prayer was heard, but none of this prevented Malena from being an efficient secretary. She was absorbed in folding a little lace handkerchief on the desk before her, and Maldonado coughed to let her know he was there without startling her. He didn’t succeed. Malena looked up, left her handkerchief, and opened wide doll’s eyes.
“Oh,” she yelped.
“I’m sorry,” Maldonado said. “I know it’s early, but I thought we might get started on several matters.”
“How nice to see you again,” Malena managed to murmur.
“You say that as if I’d been away a long time.” Maldonado laughed, walking toward the door to the cubicle on which were spelled out in black letters: Bureau of Cost Analysis, Chief, Licenciado Felix Maldonado.
Malena straightened up nervously, wringing the handkerchief, stretching out an arm as if she wished to intercept him. The Chief of the Bureau of Cost Analysis noticed the movement. It struck him as curious, but he gave it no thought. As he opened the door, he thought that the secretary seemed almost to swoon. He heard her sigh as if bowing before the inevitable.
Maldonado turned on the fluorescent lights in the windowless cubicle, removed his jacket, hung it on a hanger, and sat down in the leather swivel chair behind his desk. Each of these actions was accompanied by a nervous movement from Malena, as if she hoped to prevent them, but, failing, was forced to blush with shame.
“If you would bring in your pad, please,” said Maldonado, staring with increasing curiosity at Malena, “And your pencil, of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Malena stammered, nervously toying with a corkscrew curl, “but what matters are we going to take up?”
Maldonado was on the verge of snapping, “What business is it of yours?” but he was a courteous man. “The unit program, and the international cost index of raw materials.”
Malena’s face was illuminated with happiness. “The Under-Secretary has that dossier,” she said. Maldonado shrugged his shoulders. “Then bring me the file on paper imports from Canada.” Malena sighed with relief. “That dossier is locked in the file. The fact is,” the secretary concluded, “you’ve arrived a little early, Licenciado. It isn’t even ten yet. The file clerk hasn’t come in and everything’s still locked. Why don’t you go out and get a cup of coffee, Licenciado? Won’t you, please, Licenciado?”
So the sympathetic and childlike Malena was protecting the file clerk, who was late. That explained everything. It was his own fault, Maldonado thought, putting his jacket on again, for being the first one there.
“Please ring my wife, Malena.”
Malena stared at him with horror, petrified on the threshold.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Licenciado, but can you give me the number?”
This time Felix Maldonado could not contain himself. Red with anger, he said, “Señorita, I know your telephone number by heart, how is it possible you don’t know mine? For six months, for exactly one-twelfth of a six-year presidential term, you have been calling my wife for me at least two or three times a day. Do you have a sudden case of amnesia?”
Malena burst into tears. She covered her face with her handkerchief and scurried from Maldonado’s cubicle. The chief sighed, sat down at the telephone, and dialed the number himself.
“Ruth? I got in early from Monterrey. On the first flight. I had to go directly to a political breakfast. Sorry I couldn’t call until now. Are you all right, darling?”
“Fine. When will I see you?”
“I have a lunch at two. Then remember that we’re having dinner at the Rossettis’.”
“Always lunches.”
“I promise I’ll go on a diet next week.”
“You needn’t worry. You’ll never get fat. You’re too nervous.”
“I’ll be home to change about eight. Please try to be ready.”
“I’m not going to dinner, Felix.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sara Klein’s going to be there.”
“Who told you that?”
“Oh, is it a secret? Angelica Rossetti, early this morning when we went swimming at the club.”
“I only found out at breakfast. Anyway, it’s been twelve years since I’ve seen her.”
“It’s up to you. You can stay home with me, or go see the great love of your life.”