There was only one possible last resort: the receipt for the certified letter. I searched in
all of my pockets, but I could not find it; I must have stupidly thrown it away back there.
Nevertheless, I ran back to the Post Office and I got in the line for certified letters. When
my turn finally came, I asked the female employee, while I made a horribly hypocritical
effort to smile:
“Don’t you recognize me?”
The woman looked at me with astonishment, certainly thinking I was crazy. To make
her realize her mistake, I told her I was the person who had just sent a letter to the farm
called Los Ombúes. The astonishment of that stupid woman only seemed to increase, and
perhaps wanting to share it, or ask for advice, she turned her face to another employee for
a moment, and then looked back at me.
“I lost the receipt,” I explained.
She didn’t say anything.
“What I mean is that I want the letter back, but I don’t have the receipt” I added.
The woman and the other employee looked at each other for a moment like two friends
in a dog fight. Finally, with the expression of a person who is totally amazed, she asked:
“You mean that you want us to return you a letter?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you don’t even have a receipt?”
I had to admit that in fact I did not have that important document. The astonishment of
the woman had now reached its limit. She muttered something I didn’t understand while
looking again at her fellow worker.
“You want us to return you a letter?” she stammered.
The woman smiled very stupidly, but with the purpose of wanting to appear to have
more vivacity. She looked at me and said:
“That’s completely impossible.”
“I can show you my notes,” I said, removing some papers.
“There is nothing you can do. The rule is final.”
“As you can understand, the rule must be based on reason” I exclaimed violently,
while I was more irritated by a mole with long hairs the woman had on her cheek.
“Do you know the rule?” she asked me sarcastically.
“I do not need to know the rule, Miss,” I answered coldly, knowing that the word Miss
ought to make her feel mortally wounded.
The eyes of the nasty woman were now shining with indignation.
“You know, Miss, that the rule cannot be illogical. It must have been created by an
intelligent person, not by a madman. If I mail a letter and right away come back and ask
that it be returned because I have forgotten something important, the logical thing is to
comply with my request. Or does the mail insist on delivering letters that are incomplete,
or misstated? It is quite clear and logical that the mail is a means of communication, not
means of compulsion. The mail is not obligated to send a letter if I don’t want it sent.
“But you wanted to,” she responded.
“Yes,” I shouted, “but I repeat, now I don’t want to send it!
“Don’t shout at me, and don’t be ill-mannered. Now it’s too late”
“It’s not too late because the letter is still here,” I said, point at the hamper of letters.
People behind me began to protest noisily. The spinster’s face trembled with rage.
With total repugnance, I felt that all my hate had now focused on her mole.
“I can prove that I am the person who has sent the letter,” I insisted, showing her my
personal papers.
“Don’t shout at me, I’m not deaf,” she said again. “I am not the one who can make a
decision like that.”
“Ask the person in charge, then.”
“I can’t do that. There are too many people here waiting. You must understand that
we have a lot of work to do here.”
“This matter is part of that work,” I insisted.
Some of those who were waiting wanted her to give me he letter and just get it over
with. The woman hesitated for a moment, while she acted like she was working on
something else. Finally, she went inside and after a while came back, looking like an
angry dog. She started searching through the hamper.
“What was the name of the farm?” she asked with hissing sound like that of a viper.
“Los Ombúes” I answered with venomous calm.
After a search which she purposely made take longer than necessary, she took the letter
in her hands and began to examine it as if it was offered for sale and she was doubting the
advantage of buying it.
“It only has some initials and the address.”
“So what would you expect?”
“What documents do you have to prove to me that you are the one who sent this
letter?”
“I have the first draft,” I said, showing it to her.
She took it and looked at it, and gave it back to me.
“And how do we know that this is the same as the letter?”
“Very easy, we open the envelope and verify that they are he same.”
The woman doubted for a moment; she looked at the sealed envelope and then she said
to me:
“And how can we open this letter if we’re not sure that it’s yours. I can’t do that.”
The people who were waiting behind me began to protest again. I had the urge to do
something nasty.
“This document is not enough,” the harpy concluded.
“Do you think that perhaps an identity card would be sufficient?” I asked with ironic
politeness.
She thought about it for a moment, looked at the envelope once more, and then said:
“No, not just an identity card, because here there are only the initials. You would also
have to show me some address certificate. Or if not, a driver’s license, because a driver’s
license has an address.”
She thought for a moment, and then added:
“Although it is difficult to suppose that you have not moved to another address since
you were eighteen years old. Because of that, we are definitely going to also need an
address certificate.
An uncontrollable fury exploded in me which I felt also reached Maria and, strangely,
also Mimi.
“Just send it then, and go to hell!” I shouted as I left. I walked out of the Post Office in
a foul mood, and I even wondered if somehow I might go back and set the hamper of
letters on fire. But How could I do that? Tossing a Match? Most likely it would go out