only be a miracle. It must have
something to do with the marks on my nose, I thought, raising my hand to touch them.
“What happened to your little nose?” she asked with interest, smiling.
“I got bitten,” I said, without going into details, not because I
didn’t want to tell her the whole story (I promised myself I would, eventually),
but to be polite, not to bore her, not to waste her time.
“How awful! Was it a friend, a naughty boy? Or a doggy?”
Her insistence annoyed me. It showed that she hadn’t appreciated my politeness. I
was impatient to change the subject, to get things clear between us; then I would be
able to tell her the story of the bite in graphic detail. I shrugged my shoulders
impatiently, with a faint smile.
As if she had read my mind, she changed tack. “Do you remember me?”
I nodded, with the same smile, but a little more relaxed and charming now. She gave a
visible start, but regained control immediately. She smiled again, more broadly.
“Do you really remember?”
I had said yes simply to be polite, to reciprocate, since she knew me.
I nodded again, but this time the nod had a totally different meaning. I wasn’t
exactly sure what that meaning was, though I could make a vague guess at it. This woman
didn’t know me at all, in fact. She was lying. She was a kidnapper, a vampire
… But guessing always involves a margin of uncertainty. And operating from that
margin, politeness and polite circumspection took control of everything. Even if I had
believed that vampires really existed, they wouldn’t have scared me as much as the
prospect of upsetting the status quo. Politeness was a kind of stability or balance. For
me, life depended on it. Giving it up would have to be worse that being preyed on by a
vampire. Anyway, I didn’t believe in vampires, and this lady wasn’t one. So
by nodding, what I meant was that nothing had changed.
“No, you don’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. I’m a friend of
your mother’s, but I haven’t seen her for a long time. We knew each other in
Pringles … How is she?”
“Very well.”
“And Don Tomás?”
“He’s in jail.”
“Yes, I heard.”
She was an ordinary woman, a bottle blonde, rather short and stout, very smartly dressed
…
There was something hysterical and delirious about her. I could feel it in the intensity
of the scene. It wasn’t how someone would normally talk to a little girl they had
met by chance in the street. It was as if she had rehearsed it, as if, for her, a
fundamental drama was unfolding. It didn’t worry me too much because there are
people like that, women especially, for whom every moment has the same tragic intensity,
without any kind of emotional relief.
“What are you doing out on your own? Are you running an errand?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me in surprise. My yeses shattered all her preconceptions. Then she went
for broke. “Do you want to come to my house? I live just nearby; you can have some
cookies …”
“I don’t know …”
Suddenly reality, the reality of the kidnapping, hit me. And I wasn’t prepared for
it. I couldn’t believe it. My politeness was sheer idiocy. For the sake of
manners, I was giving up everything, even my life. From that moment on I was seized by
an immense fear. But the fear remained hidden beneath my manners. Wasn’t that
typical? Any other reaction would have amazed me.
“I’ll take you back home afterwards. I want to say hello to your Mom,
it’s so long since I’ve seen her.” She anticipated my answer with an
intensity multiplied a thousandfold.
“Ah, all right then,” I said theatrically, exaggerating my willingness. It
was the least I could do, to thank her for making an effort to clear away the
impediments.
She took me by the hand and dragged me briskly along the Avenida Brown. She talked all
the time but I wasn’t listening. Anxiety was suffocating me. When
something to do with the marks on my nose, I thought, raising my hand to touch them.
“What happened to your little nose?” she asked with interest, smiling.
“I got bitten,” I said, without going into details, not because I
didn’t want to tell her the whole story (I promised myself I would, eventually),
but to be polite, not to bore her, not to waste her time.
“How awful! Was it a friend, a naughty boy? Or a doggy?”
Her insistence annoyed me. It showed that she hadn’t appreciated my politeness. I
was impatient to change the subject, to get things clear between us; then I would be
able to tell her the story of the bite in graphic detail. I shrugged my shoulders
impatiently, with a faint smile.
As if she had read my mind, she changed tack. “Do you remember me?”
I nodded, with the same smile, but a little more relaxed and charming now. She gave a
visible start, but regained control immediately. She smiled again, more broadly.
“Do you really remember?”
I had said yes simply to be polite, to reciprocate, since she knew me.
I nodded again, but this time the nod had a totally different meaning. I wasn’t
exactly sure what that meaning was, though I could make a vague guess at it. This woman
didn’t know me at all, in fact. She was lying. She was a kidnapper, a vampire
… But guessing always involves a margin of uncertainty. And operating from that
margin, politeness and polite circumspection took control of everything. Even if I had
believed that vampires really existed, they wouldn’t have scared me as much as the
prospect of upsetting the status quo. Politeness was a kind of stability or balance. For
me, life depended on it. Giving it up would have to be worse that being preyed on by a
vampire. Anyway, I didn’t believe in vampires, and this lady wasn’t one. So
by nodding, what I meant was that nothing had changed.
“No, you don’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. I’m a friend of
your mother’s, but I haven’t seen her for a long time. We knew each other in
Pringles … How is she?”
“Very well.”
“And Don Tomás?”
“He’s in jail.”
“Yes, I heard.”
She was an ordinary woman, a bottle blonde, rather short and stout, very smartly dressed
…
There was something hysterical and delirious about her. I could feel it in the intensity
of the scene. It wasn’t how someone would normally talk to a little girl they had
met by chance in the street. It was as if she had rehearsed it, as if, for her, a
fundamental drama was unfolding. It didn’t worry me too much because there are
people like that, women especially, for whom every moment has the same tragic intensity,
without any kind of emotional relief.
“What are you doing out on your own? Are you running an errand?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me in surprise. My yeses shattered all her preconceptions. Then she went
for broke. “Do you want to come to my house? I live just nearby; you can have some
cookies …”
“I don’t know …”
Suddenly reality, the reality of the kidnapping, hit me. And I wasn’t prepared for
it. I couldn’t believe it. My politeness was sheer idiocy. For the sake of
manners, I was giving up everything, even my life. From that moment on I was seized by
an immense fear. But the fear remained hidden beneath my manners. Wasn’t that
typical? Any other reaction would have amazed me.
“I’ll take you back home afterwards. I want to say hello to your Mom,
it’s so long since I’ve seen her.” She anticipated my answer with an
intensity multiplied a thousandfold.
“Ah, all right then,” I said theatrically, exaggerating my willingness. It
was the least I could do, to thank her for making an effort to clear away the
impediments.
She took me by the hand and dragged me briskly along the Avenida Brown. She talked all
the time but I wasn’t listening. Anxiety was suffocating me. When
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