By around eleven thirty I had already lost all hope, when I saw her come out of
entrance to the subway. Terribly anxious, I jumped up and went to meet her. When she
saw me, she stopped as if she had suddenly been turned to stone; it was evident that she
had not expected anything like this. It was strange, but the feeling that had been so
powerful in my mind until now gave me an unusual sense of energy; I felt strong, I felt
virile, and ready for anything. So much so, that I grabbed her by the arm, almost with
brutality, and I pulled her down San Martin in the direction of the plaza. She seemed
deprived of will, and did not say anything.
When we had traveled for a couple blocks, she finally asked me:
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the San Martin Plaza. I have a lot to ask you about,” I answered, while I kept on
walking determinedly, holding onto her arm.
She murmured something about the Technology Company, but I continued pulling her
and didn’t hear what it was she said.
I added:
“There are many things I want to discuss with you.”
She didn’t try to resist; I felt like a swollen river that was dragging the branch of a tree.
We reached the plaza, and I looked for an isolated bench.
“Why did you run away?” was the first thing I said. She looked at me with the same
expression that I had seen the day before when she told me, “I remember it constantly.”
It was a strange look, fixed, penetrating, that seemed to come from inside her. That look
reminded me of something, some eyes with a similar expression, but I couldn’t remember
where I had seen them.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I would like to run away again right now.”
I squeezed her arm. “Promise me you will never run away again. I need you. I need
you a lot,” I told her.
She looked at me again as if she were scrutinizing me, but without saying anything.
After that she fixed her eyes on a tree in the distance.
From the side she didn’t remind me of anything. Her face was pretty, but it had some
stiffness. She had long brown hair. Physically, she didn’t look more than twenty-five
years old, but there was something about her that seemed older, something typical of a
person that had lived a lot; no grey hairs or any of those purely material aspects, but there
was something undefined, and certainly spiritual in nature; perhaps her expression, but
then how could one say that the expression of a human being was something physical?;
perhaps because of the way she tightened her mouth, but although her mouth and lips are
physical elements, the way she tightened them, and certain wrinkles, are also spiritual
elements. I couldn’t be sure at that moment, nor could I be certain even now, exactly
what it was that gave her the impression of age. I thought it might also have been her
way of speaking.
“I need you a lot,” I repeated.
She didn’t answer and continued looking at the tree.
Then, without stopping to look at it, she said:
“I am no one, and you are a great artist. I don’t see any reason why you need me.”
I shouted at her “I told you I need you! Do your understand me?”
Still looking at the tree, she mumbled:
“Why is that?”
I didn’t answer right away. I let go of her arm and started thinking. Why, in fact?
Until that moment I hadn’t really thought about it, and I had been following some sort of
instinct. With a branch I began to draw geometric images on the ground.
“I don’t know,” I murmured after a while. “I still don’t know.”
I thought about it seriously for a moment, and with the branch I made my drawings
more complicated.
“My mind is like an obscure labyrinth. Sometimes there are flashes in some corridors.
I never seem to know why I do certain things. No, it’s not that…”
I felt like a fool; this was definitely not my normal character. I made a great mental
effort; am I not always rational? On the contrary, my mind is always reasoning like a
calculating machine; for example, this very problem, hadn’t I spent months reasoning and
considering possibilities, and classifying them? And, in a way, hadn’t I found Maria
finally thanks to my logical capacity? I felt I was close to the truth, very close, and I was
afraid I was going to lose it. I made an enormous effort and shouted:
“It’s not that I don’t know how to reason! On the contrary, I’m always reasoning. But
imagine a captain who always sets his course mathematically and then follows it toward
this objective with implacable rigor. But who does not know why he is going toward that
objective, do you understand?
She looked at me for a moment with perplexity, and then looked back at the tree again.
“I know that you must have an essential part to play in what I have to do, although I
still don’t know what it is.”
I continued drawing with the branch, and I made a great mental effort. After a while I
added:
“I know for sure that it has something to do with the scene in the little window. You
have been the only person who has taken an interest in it.”
“I’m not an art critic,” she said.
I became furious and shouted:
“Don’t talk to me about those idiots!”
She looked at me with surprise, and then I lowered my voice and explained to her why
I didn’t believe in any of the art critics; in short, the theory of the scalpel and everything
else. She listened to me without looking at me, and when I finished she said:
“You complain, but the critics have always praised you.”
I was indignant.
“All the worse for me! Can’t you understand? It is one of the things that has always
disgusted me, making me feel like everything is headed down the wrong path. Just think,
for example, what happened in that art gallery. Not one of those charlatans ever realized
the importance of that scene. There is only one person who has given it any importance:
you. And you are not a critic. No, actually there was one other person who had given it
importance, but it was negative; he scolded me, saying it made him feel apprehensive,
almost disgusted. On the other hand, you…”
Always looking in the other direction, she said, slowly:
“And could it not have been because I had the same opinion?”
“What opinion?”
“The same as that person.”
I looked at her anxiously, but from the side her face, with her tight lips was inscrutable.
I responded with great insistence: