Later than usual, that same night, Miss Margaret summoned me again. She was nervous, and, without first clearing her throat, she took up her story at the point where she had bought the house and prepared it for flooding. Perhaps it had been cruel to displace the water in the fountain with all that dark earth. For a while, when the first plants were put in, the fountain had seemed to go on dreaming serenely of the water it used to hold. But since then the plants had kept growing into a tangle, like garbled messages, and she had to keep having them changed. She wanted the water to recall the silence of untroubled sleep or the murmuring voices of happy families (which was why she had told Mary she was deaf and could be reached only on the phone). She also wanted to drift over the water, slow as a cloud, holding books in her hands like harmless birds. But what she wanted most of all was to understand the water. “It may be,” she was telling me, “that it just wants to go its merry way, ignoring the suggestions it leaves behind. But, to my dying day, I’ll believe it’s harboring things it picked up in another place and somehow trying to bring me thoughts that aren’t mine but are meant for me. In any case, I’m happy near it, I try to understand it, and no one can stop me from preserving my memories in it.”
That night, contrary to habit, she gave me her hand as we parted. The next morning, when I went into the kitchen, the man in charge of the waterworks handed me a letter. Out of politeness — although all I could think of was getting away so I could read the letter — I asked him about his machines, and he said:
“You see how fast we installed the showers?”
“Yes — and they’ve been working well?”
“Sure. . as long as the machines are kept up there’s no problem. At night I pull a switch, the showers come on and the lady falls asleep with the murmur. At five in the morning I flip the switch, the showers stop and the silence wakens her. A few minutes later I pull another switch to stir the water and the lady gets up.”
By then I had excused myself and was out the door. The letter said:
“My dear friend: the day I first saw you at the top of the stairs, you were looking down, as if watching your step. I thought it was shyness — but you stepped forward boldly, not afraid to expose the soles of your shoes. I took an immediate liking to you, and that’s why I’ve kept you at my side all this time: otherwise I would have told you my story right away and you would have had to leave for Buenos Aires the next day. Which is what you’ll do tomorrow.
“Thank you for your company. As to your finances, we shall be in touch through Hector. Good-bye and much happiness to you — I think you need it.
Margaret.
“P.S. In case you ever feel like writing down the things I’ve told you, you have my permission. All I ask is that at the end you put the following words: ‘This is the story Margaret dedicates to Joseph. Whether he is dead or alive.’”