— Well, it’s great to see you both, he says.
— Until Sunday, then, Gutiérrez says cheerfully, infected by Nula’s intensified friendliness.
— Yeah, of course. At what time? Nula says.
— I get up at six, Gutiérrez says. But if you want to sleep in a little, or go to mass. .
— Right, right, Nula says. Let’s say around eleven?
— That’s what I was thinking, Gutiérrez says.
And, with a silent wave, Nula continues toward the bathrooms. In the approximately forty-five seconds that the conversation lasted, Nula thinks, he’s become more lovable, possibly, but definitely more mysterious. And, on his way back from pissing, washing his hands, checking himself out in the mirror to confirm that everything along the exterior region of his person is in order, he passes by the table again, and the quick greeting that Gutiérrez gives him, consisting of waving the fingers on his slightly elevated hand, an indifferent and momentary although friendly gesture, similar to what Nula gave La India that morning, intensifies both his familiarity and his enigma. Leonor Calcagno ignores him, not out of disdain or suspicion, but because she finds herself, as always, trapped in the muddy material of her own person, where in all likelihood she’s been splashing frantically since her first moment of consciousness.
Though he hasn’t been delayed long, Nula hurries back, but between the occupied tables, the busy waiters passing him, the clients coming in or going out, he doesn’t advance very quickly. When he is close to the table, he sees Virginia, calmly gazing out at the street through the window, her clean, thick hair, her round, tanned face, her wide shoulders, and her at once smooth and muscular arms. For the first time, he sees her without her noticing, and the virility of her body and the serenity of her expression forms an exciting contrast that attracts and repels him simultaneously. But when he reaches her side and sees that she already has her purse and her white jacket in her hand, ready to leave, that contradictory impression is erased, and he follows her decisively into the street. As they walk toward the car, Nula realizes that, at least in her high heels, she’s few centimeters taller than him: It’ll be a difficult body to control, he thinks, and when, thinking this, he laughs momentarily, Virginia looks at him with an inquisitive expression.
— Nothing, Nula lies. I was thinking of someone I ran into at the restaurant.
Virginia doesn’t respond, but shakes her head thoughtfully. They get in the car and, before putting the key in the ignition, Nula leans in to kiss her on the mouth; she lets him do it, but without allowing him to embrace her yet, and when he extends his hand to touch her, her hand traps it and their fingers interlace; Nula, who pushes forward softly, feels the resistance of her palm, and the two opposing forces find a stable equilibrium as they practice the ancient custom of testing with their mouths, first of all, like newborns and animals, the flavor, the value, the viability of the external, its beneficial or noxious, gratifying or repulsive qualities. When they separate and their hands release, through his sudden arousal, Nula, who still holds his car keys in his free hand, concealing his trembling, tries two or three times to put them in the ignition, until finally he’s able to; the dashboard lights come on and he looks quickly at Virginia, but she is motionless, her head leaning against the edge of the seat, her eyes narrowed. Nula turns the car on, pulls slowly away from the curb, and advances down the dark, deserted street toward the bright intersection. It’s almost midnight. Remembering the sensation of the fleshy, humid, and warm borders that he’s just tasted, Nula thinks that, although everything is alike, nothing is ever repeated, and that since the beginning of time, when the great delirium began its expansion, each one of the buds with which it’s revived, reincarnating and withering immediately, every event is unique, flaming, unknown, and ephemeraclass="underline" the individual does not incarnate the species, and the part is not a part of the whole, but only a part, and the whole is in turn always a part; there is no whole; the goldfinch that sings at dawn sings for itself; what it sings was unknown before that morning, and its previous song, which even it doesn’t remember singing, and which seems so much like the one before, if one listened carefully, would clearly be different.