friendship and results in an unpunishable form of aggression for which the occasional or habitual victims are expected to appear grateful. This aggression is so blatant that even in a group such as ours, where people tactfully avoid touching on the whys and wherefores of our various professions (and just as well, since everyone knows I am a mediocre painter, not even a painter, since my paintings are not to be seen anywhere)—even in this group, as I was saying, misunderstandings and disagreements often arise when one of us suddenly finds he is being judged by all the others and an outburst of reciprocal sadomasochism erupts, almost invariably ending in tears and insults. And this is provoked by someone introducing into the conversation, either deliberately or simply because tired of pretending, some wounding remark about the profession of the victim of the day. And here, because of the professions we pursue, all of us define ourselves as exploiters and social parasites. The architect because it is true, the editor because that is culture, the advertising agents because it is obvious, the doctor because we all know what doctors are, as for the interior decorator, well! Adelina, well, well, well! And I, the portrait painter, well! As for me, I am usually spared any embarrassment, I repeat, because they are all competent at the jobs they have chosen to do, while my technical competence only serves to accentuate the poor quality of the paintings I produce.
Was Antonio, the architect, drunk? I would say not. Our kind of drinking rarely ends in drunkenness. But if it is true that
in vino est veritas,
then in this type of reunion the threshold of truth is crossed by those closest to it. This must be the explanation. Despite the open windows, the heat inside the studio was almost unbearable. We had talked about a thousand different things, unconnected and absurd, and as the night wore on, the lively discussions began to wane. Sitting on the floor, Adelina rested her head against my thighs (people usually say knees, probably because it sounds better, but what they mean are thighs, because knees are invariably hard, as you can see from mine). Out of affection and for the sheer tactile pleasure, I slowly ran my fingers through her hair as I drank my Gin and Tony, an expression I often use when I get tipsy. The interior decorator, whom I shall refer to as Sandra although that is not her name, has started flirting again with the doctor, quite harmlessly, but enough to make Carmo, the publisher (older than me, I hasten to repeat), suffer greater pangs of jealousy than Shakespeare’s Othello. It is also enough to make the doctor’s wife allow herself to be courted (such a nice old-fashioned expression) by Chico, the advertising agent, who fancies himself as a lady-killer and cannot resist a little innocent flirtation without getting involved. Deep down everyone knows this is all meaningless. Anything more serious or risky would break up the group, and that is the last thing any of us would want. Ana and Francisco (who complete the group) also work in advertising. Still in their early thirties, they are head over heels in love and truly alarmed at the strength of their own passion. Sitting there on the sofa, they are waiting for us to attribute their obvious excitement to the influence of alcohol. I know Carmo disapproves of such behavior in public, and I myself do not encourage it, but I can understand the terror which has taken possession of those poor hearts, minds, veins and sexual organs, that metronomic oscillation between life and death, that frenzied need to proclaim as eternal one’s own definition of the precarious. Carmo does not accept these things, but what would he do should Sandra accept him one day and share her bed with him, even if only for an hour?
And what about Antonio, the architect in our group, who says he will design houses for all of us one day? Where can Antonio be? Antonio, who had gone to the bathroom, now
Was Antonio, the architect, drunk? I would say not. Our kind of drinking rarely ends in drunkenness. But if it is true that
in vino est veritas,
then in this type of reunion the threshold of truth is crossed by those closest to it. This must be the explanation. Despite the open windows, the heat inside the studio was almost unbearable. We had talked about a thousand different things, unconnected and absurd, and as the night wore on, the lively discussions began to wane. Sitting on the floor, Adelina rested her head against my thighs (people usually say knees, probably because it sounds better, but what they mean are thighs, because knees are invariably hard, as you can see from mine). Out of affection and for the sheer tactile pleasure, I slowly ran my fingers through her hair as I drank my Gin and Tony, an expression I often use when I get tipsy. The interior decorator, whom I shall refer to as Sandra although that is not her name, has started flirting again with the doctor, quite harmlessly, but enough to make Carmo, the publisher (older than me, I hasten to repeat), suffer greater pangs of jealousy than Shakespeare’s Othello. It is also enough to make the doctor’s wife allow herself to be courted (such a nice old-fashioned expression) by Chico, the advertising agent, who fancies himself as a lady-killer and cannot resist a little innocent flirtation without getting involved. Deep down everyone knows this is all meaningless. Anything more serious or risky would break up the group, and that is the last thing any of us would want. Ana and Francisco (who complete the group) also work in advertising. Still in their early thirties, they are head over heels in love and truly alarmed at the strength of their own passion. Sitting there on the sofa, they are waiting for us to attribute their obvious excitement to the influence of alcohol. I know Carmo disapproves of such behavior in public, and I myself do not encourage it, but I can understand the terror which has taken possession of those poor hearts, minds, veins and sexual organs, that metronomic oscillation between life and death, that frenzied need to proclaim as eternal one’s own definition of the precarious. Carmo does not accept these things, but what would he do should Sandra accept him one day and share her bed with him, even if only for an hour?
And what about Antonio, the architect in our group, who says he will design houses for all of us one day? Where can Antonio be? Antonio, who had gone to the bathroom, now
Similar Books
