hers. Perhaps that is what one who is superficial might think, but not one who was used
to thinking about human problems. In our society there is a horizontal strata formed by
people with similar tastes, and in that kind of strata chance encounters are not unusual,
especially when the cause of stratification is a characteristic of minorities. I have once
met a person in a suburb of Berlin, then in a remote place in Italy, and finally in
bookstore in Buenos Aires. Is it logical to think that fate is the cause of all of those
encounters? But I am just saying something trivial; anyone interested in music,
Esperanto, or spiritualism, knows that.
That means, therefore, that I will have to turn to the most feared choice. An encounter
in the street. How in the devil are some men able to get a woman to start a conversation,
and even start a relationship? After that I gave up on any procedure that would include
some personal intervention of mine. My lack of knowledge of how to handle something
like that, plus my timidity, made me accept that sad and definitive reality.
There was no other choice but to wait for some lucky circumstance, one that happens
only once in a million times: that she would speak first. So my chance of happiness was
freed from that risky lottery where I would have to win once, in order to have the right to
play a second time, and only receive the prize, if I won the second time. That meant that
I would have to wait for the possibility of encountering her in the street, and the even
more unlikely possibility that she would speak to me. I felt a sort of vertigo, sadness, and
desperation; nevertheless, I was determined continue planning for a chance encounter.
I imagined, therefore, that she would speak to me in order to ask me for an address, or
a bus stop, or something like that. After that, I tried for months of reflection, of sadness,
of frustration, of loneliness, and hope, to think of various ways I might respond. In one I
was loquacious and witty (something I’ve never been); in another I was self-controlled;
in others I imagined myself smiling and cheerful. What is very odd is that sometimes I
would answer her question brusquely, as though I was trying to cover my anger; in some
of those imaginary encounters it turned out that the meeting was unsuccessful because of
my stupid irritation, and for rudely disagreeing with her about for a remark that I felt was
useless or ill-considered. These unsuccessful encounters left me full of bitterness, and for
several days I rebuked myself for having lost the opportunity to establish relations with
her. Fortunately I finally remembered that all this was imaginary, and that at least there
was still a chance it would turn out all right. After that, once again I started to have more
enthusiasm, and to imagine more successful sidewalk conversations. But the greatest
difficulty was in trying to link her question with something as far removed from ordinary
matters as artwork, or the impression she had after seeing my little window. Of course, if
there is enough time and patience, it’s always possible to make make a logical connection
without much difficulty. In most meetings with someone there is more than enough time
to link most matters with things that are totally different. But in the hustle and bustle of a
street in Buenos Aires among people who form large groups and carry you along with
them, it is clear that it would be necessary forget about a conversation like that. On the
other hand, I could not give up the possibility of finding her without making me feel
frustrated and unhappy. So I went back to imagining conversations when it would be
possible to go as efficiently and as rapidly as possible from a question like “Where is the
Post Office?” to certain problems of expressionism and superrealism. That was not an
easy thing to imagine.
One night when I couldn’t sleep I came to the conclusion that it was useless and futile
to try to start conversation like that and that it was preferable to go right to the main point
with a direct question, putting all my bets on a single number. For example, asking:
“Why did you only look at the window?” It’s not unusual, on nights when you can’t
sleep, to be more certain about things than you feel during the day. The next day when I
thought about that possibility I realized I would never have the courage to ask that
question point blank. As always the lack of confidence made me go to the other extreme,
and I realized that some kind of indirect question that would eventually lead to the thing I
was interested in (the window), almost always required a long friendship: a question like
“Are you interested in art?”
I don’t remember now how many other things I thought about. I only remember that
there were some so complicated that they were basically useless. It would be far too
marvelous: like trying to open something by creating a key without knowing beforehand
the shape of the lock. But when I considered so many complex possibilities I forgot the
order of the questions and the replies, or else I mixed them, like what happens in a game
of chess when you try to make all of the moves by memory. And sometimes it happened
that I substituted one phrase for another in a way that was ridiculous, or discouraging.
For example: to stop her and give her an address and then ask her immediately “Are you
interested in art?” That was absurd.
When that situation finally arrived, I had rested for several days without considering
different combinations.
VI
When I saw her walking down the opposite sidewalk all of the different things I had
thought about began to pop into my head. With confusion, I felt all of those complicated
phrases I had experimented with surge into my mind: “Are you interested in art?” “Why
did you only look at the window?”, and so forth. And even more insistent than any other,
I though about a question I had discarded out of shame, that also made me feel ridiculous:
“Do you like Castel?”
The confused ideas spun around in my head creating a complicated, moving crossword
puzzle, until I realized it was useless to worry like that. Then I remembered that it was
her that should take the initiative in any conversation. And from that moment on I felt
stupidly tranquilized, and I think I even also thought stupidly, “Now we’re going to see
how that will work.”
Meanwhile, in spite of that reasoning, I felt so nervous and emotional that I wasn’t able
to do anything but follow while she walked down the opposite sidewalk without thinking
that, if she was ever going to to ask me any of those hypothetical questions, I had to cross
over to the other side and approach her. Nothing more absurd, in fact, than supposing she
would shout at me from a distance, asking for an address.
So what could I do? How long was this situation likely to continue? I felt totally
confused and unhappy. We walked for several blocks, and she continued walking with
no sign of stopping.
It was very sad, but I was going to have to finish this thing because it was impossible,
after waiting months for this opportunity, to let it escape without taking advantage of it.