— Some day I’m going to put a bullet in your heads, both of you, I said.
Tomatis laughed.
— Angelito, all grown up, he said.
I don’t like to spit in people’s faces, so I walked over to the police reporter and asked him if he knew about a guy who had killed his wife in Barrio Roma the night before.
— Yeah, he said, and read me the part where it said that some guy had blasted his wife’s face off with a shotgun.
— The inquest is tomorrow at four, I said. The judge told me.
— Apparently they were out hunting and on their way back they had a brawl in a bar, said the police reporter.
— I understand that that’s the most humane way to treat a woman, I said.
— I disagree, said the police reporter. A slow death works better. When you’re married you’ll see.
— I’m not getting married, I said.
— You never know, said the police reporter.
I went back to Tomatis’s desk and found him shaking his head over a typewritten poem.
— Some guy shot his wife in the face, twice, I said.
— What for? asked Tomatis without looking up.
— I don’t know. It was at a bar in Barrio Roma. A Luis Fiore, I said.
— I know a Fiore, said Tomatis.
Then I went and typed out the weather report. At five, as it was getting dark, I left the paper. I went to a bookstore and bought three books: Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, Modern Sexual Techniques, and The Homosexual in the Modern World. Around eight I went home with two bottles of gin and locked myself in my room. I was sitting down for less than two minutes before I got up and went to my mother’s room.
— Mamá, I said. Can I come in?
My mother answered a second later.
— Just a moment, she said. I waited at the door and heard the sound of papers and bare footsteps on the wood floor. Then I heard the bed squeak and my mother’s voice again.
— Come in, she said.
She was in bed with the sheets up to her neck.
— I’m in bed like this because I’m naked. I hope it doesn’t bother you. I was changing to go out, she said.
— I won’t keep you, I said. I just need a minute.
We were silent. My mother’s room was the same dump it had been the night of the fight, just with a little more trash. I hadn’t been in there since.
I couldn’t speak.
— Say what you’re going to say, my mother said.
— I brought you a present, I said. I passed by the store and got you a bottle of gin, since I saw there wasn’t any.
— You could have found a more subtle way to call me a drunk, my mother said.
— It doesn’t bother me if you drink, or even if you walk around naked, if that’s what you want, I said.
— I don’t see why it would bother you, my mother said. Who are you to be bothered by it? I don’t think I’m accountable to you for how I dress or what I drink.
— I just wanted to tell you, that’s all, I said. One of the bottles is yours. It’s in the fridge, for when you want it.
I went back to my room and picked up my book. I could hear her moving around her bedroom, and I got caught up listening to the sounds made by her heels, the rustling of her dresses, the creaking of the bed, the squeak of the her closet door. I got completely distracted from my reading. Then I heard her heels clicking to the bathroom, and the light turned on, and in the silence that followed I imagined her leaning toward the mirror, carefully applying her makeup and pasting on false eyelashes. Then I heard her turn off the bathroom light, and the sound of her heels was softer as it passed by my room, fading away as she walked down the corridor toward her room. When she went in, the sound, echoing off the wood, changed in quality. It deepened, and was drier than off the tiles. Then I heard her turn off her light, close the door to her room, and leave the house. I threw myself on the bed, with the light on, and closed my eyes after putting the glass of gin down next to the bed. Every so often I would turn over and take a drink. I must have been like that for an hour. I had never felt the house so quiet. No boards were creaking, and the rain was falling so quietly that it seemed more like a fine cloud moving over the dark city in a slow rotation. I went out to the corridor and turned on the light. In the lamplight the rain was a dense, whitish mass of floating particles. I stared at it for several minutes. Then I walked into my mother’s room.
The door was unlocked, which surprised me, because I had supposed she always locked her door when she left. I turned the handle and I was inside. Without her there the odor was still the same, though less intense. I turned on the light and glanced around: the bed was a mess, with the sheets and blankets bunched up and halfway to the floor. There was still an impression where she’d been lying, and where she’d rested her head. Both night tables, separated by the queen size bed, were covered with bottles of medicine, jars of cosmetics, and glasses with spoons and caked up dregs at the bottom. There was an ashtray on each side full of butts and ash. I touched the impression and realized it was still warm. Then I opened her wardrobe.
A bunch of dresses in every color were hanging from the bar, and opening the side door I saw a small compartment with four drawers and a hanger where three or four pairs of pants were folded. On the inside part of the door, a string was suspended on two nails, from which colored ribbons and hair ties were hanging. Above the string was a picture of Cary Grant, cut from a magazine and pinned up with four thumbtacks. I opened one of the drawers and found a bundle of letters; a worn out Saint Cajetan prayer card; fake pearls from an old necklace, which were scattered around the bottom of the drawer; and some object of unclear purpose, either mother-of-pearl or tortoiseshell, which wasn’t for her hair but was too narrow to be a bracelet. Under the bundle of letters I found a book that was missing the first few pages. It was an old edition, worn out and yellowed. When I read the first paragraph I realized it was a pornographic novel — most likely it had been my father’s — and flipping through I realized it was illustrated. I closed the first drawer and opened the next. It was full of photos: one was of me at my first communion, in white shorts; in another my father was holding me on his lap and my mother was smiling at me; in a third is my mother, so young she’s almost unrecognizable, in a bathing suit, holding onto a swimming pool handrail as she comes out of the water. I closed the second drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed. I imagined my old man reading a chapter from the book to my mother every night before they made love. I was so enthralled by this image that I ended up lying back and looking at the ceiling, which was stained with damp in the corners. Then I got up and opened the third drawer. It was full of bras and panties, and I closed it without touching a thing. Then I turned off the light and shut the door on my way out.
I poured myself a glass of gin, put some ice in it, and sat down to read the book about women’s sexual behavior. By the tenth page I was so turned on, and had learned so little about women’s sexual behavior, that I went to the bathroom and ran cold water over my head and stood there a while without drying off, hoping it would pass. But just as I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was much more excited than when I came in, so I masturbated to keep from staining the sheets because I knew that in any case I would be doing it the moment I got in bed. I ended up drinking the gin straight from the bottle, and I know I went to bed because when I woke up the next day I was in bed, fully dressed, with the light still on. If the atomic bomb had fallen on my room instead of Nagasaki, my head might have hurt a little less. I dragged myself to the bathroom and took a hot shower. Then I drank a cup of coffee and I felt better. When I went to look at myself in the mirror to adjust my tie, I saw my three-day beard and shaved. Then I left for the paper. Tomatis was at the typewriter, and you could tell he’d just shaved too. I sat down at my desk, picked up the phone, and told the operator to connect me to the courthouse. When they answered at the other end, I asked to speak to Ernesto. His secretary answered and transferred me.