A Crack in the Wall by Claudia Piñeiro Page A

that he, Pablo Simó, was no better than vermin.
    He repeats that word “vermin”, like a mantra, like someone counting sheep to help themselves get to sleep. And he goes to sleep. And yet, aided by a strange oblivion that is sometimes the mysterious gift of night, not long afterwards he wakes up thinking of Leonor. Or rather, thinking of the buildings he has promised to choose for her. Even in the middle of the night, on the left-hand side of the bed, still listening to the rain on the other side of the window, he’s confident that he won’t need to look in architectural magazines, or search through those old notes and books from his student days – which, in spite of Laura’s complaints, he still keeps stored in the box room – nor does he need to look on the Internet, or to go out blindly searching for buildings around the city. He doesn’t know if he dreamt of Leonor, because he can’t remember – he doesn’t think so – but what’s certainis that when he wakes up, having slept a little more than three hours, Pablo opens his eyes before the alarm goes off and passing in front of him like the closing credits of a film is an endless list of buildings in Buenos Aires that are worth looking at. Trying to commit them quickly to memory before they go out of his head, he repeats the names, reciting them under his breath and then quickly jumping out of bed to find his notebook so that he can write them all down. There are far too many, he realizes as he writes – he can’t give the girl so many options. Leonor asked only for five. So he crosses out the Kavanagh, the old offices of the Diario Crítica , the Obras Sanitarias building on Avenida Córdoba, the Banco Nación and the Olivetti, facing Plaza San Martín; it’s not that they don’t deserve to be on his list but that, to different degrees, they are emblematic of this city’s architecture, buildings that anyone might choose, and he doesn’t want to be anyone. He wants to surprise Leonor with options that she may never have heard of. “The buildings in Buenos Aires that the architect Pablo Simó likes best,” as she put it.
    He underlines, on the other hand, the building designed by the Italian architect Mario Palanti at number 1,900 on Avenida Rivadavia, the art-nouveau façade that so obsessed Tano Barletta on Rivadavia at about 2,000 – or was it 2,100? Virginio Colombo’s building on Rivadavia at 3,200 and two by the same architect on Hipólito Yrigoyen at 2,500, one opposite the other. Are they exactly opposite each other? He had better check that this morning on his way to the office; they are only a few blocks from his house and he hasn’t looked at them for a long time; he can’t even remember how long. He adds to the list the housing complex on Calle La Rioja, designed by architects at the Solsona studio; the rationalist building on Alsina and Entre Ríos – on whichside of Entre Ríos, though? – and the Liberty building on Paraguay at 1,300, which he marks with a big asterisk because he suspects it’s the one Leonor will like most. The best balcony railings in Buenos Aires are on Avenida Riobamba, close to Arenales; the neat building with the small windows is on Beruti at 3,800. He counts them: one, two, three, plus two more is five, six, seven, eight, plus railings makes nine, ten. He’ll have to cross a few more out: he can’t give Leonor a list of ten buildings unless he wants to spend all Saturday afternoon with her. Will he go with her on Saturday? He doesn’t know yet. Saturday afternoon. He crosses some out anyway. He leaves Palanti, the art nouveau, the three by Colombo which, cheating, he counts as one, plus Liberty and the railings: that’s five. A sneaky five, but he reckons that’s OK. He draws a line under his list, pulls the page out of his notebook and puts it under his pillow, and then he does manage