barking, though he always wagged his tail and wiggled all over whenever they met in the corridor. But that poor little dog, said Aura, had a terrible elevator phobia. At least twice a day, the neighbor took his dog out for a walk, and so at least twice a day they had to wait in the corridor for the elevator, which always took a long time to come and was grindingly noisy when it did, and while they waited, the fat man would try to calm his dog, patting him and speaking reassuring-sounding words, always to no avail, because as soon as the elevator rumbled to a stop and the doors opened, that terrified little dog would lose control of his bladder and pee on the floor. As if addressing an exasperating but coddled child, the fat man would softly scold his dog in a resigned nasal voice that Aura could still imitate, You have to wait until we get outside, perrito necio, and then he’d go back into his apartment to fetch his mop. No matter how often the neighbors complained about the lingering smell of dog urine in front of the elevators, no matter what a pain it must have been to have to mop up every time he took his dog out for a walk, their fat neighbor never once lost his temper, or even mentioned the possibility of getting rid of the dog.
Is that an example of unconditional love or what? I remember saying as we walked along the sidewalk.
After a moment Aura said, Yeah, but I think it would have been even more loving if he’d taken his dog to live somewhere else, on the first floor.
Maybe he wouldn’t move, I said, because he was even more in love with your mother.
Quién sabe, could be, said Aura. Poor Áyax.
Ajax, like the soap? I asked.
Áy-yax , she said, as in The Illiad , and she grabbed my chin and said, Ay, mi amor ¿por qué eres tan tonto? and kissed me. That was another of our routines, though my dumb remarks, contrary to what her teasing seemed to presuppose, weren’t always intentional. Aura explained that in Mexico the soap is called Ajax, too, but in Spanish the Greek hero is Áyax. Anyway, her mother would only go down to the Dumpster at night if Áyax went with her. Maybe Áyax really was in love with my mother, said Aura, and would save up his trash, just so that he’d always have some ready whenever she knocked on his door, I wonder … That was when I realized that Áyax was the neighbor’s name, not the dog’s, and I was about to make some silly remark, but something stopped me. It was the way Aura said, I wonder, a note of sadness in her voice, like somebody pressing down once, gently, on one minor piano key.
What a funny story, I ventured, encouraging her to go on. But it was obvious that, just like that, her mood had changed. What was the dog’s name? I asked. I don’t remember, she said. She leaned close, resting her head against my shoulder while we walked, and she hardly said another word until we were sitting in the restaurant. By Mexico City standards, the sushi was pretty good in that restaurant. It was a family-run place, and the family was Japanese instead of the usual Mexicans dressed in kimonos and sword-master headbands. It was decorated in a traditional-seeming manner, with dark, intricately carved wood and red paper lanterns imprinted with Japanese ideograms.
Maybe it was by the Dumpsters where it happened, said Aura, not in a stairwell like I’ve always thought.
What maybe happened by the Dumpsters? I asked cautiously.
Something really terrible, she said. To my mother. I don’t know, maybe. You can’t imagine what my mother endured in those days, Frank. That’s one reason, you know, I can never really stay angry with her. I don’t think she’ll ever tell me the whole truth about what happened. Not even when she’s on her deathbed—Aura gave an exaggerated shudder, and embraced herself as if she was cold. She pulled up the sleeve of her cotton sweater and held out her arm. Look, she said. She had goose bumps. I took her hand in mine and her palm was sweaty.
¿Qué te
Is that an example of unconditional love or what? I remember saying as we walked along the sidewalk.
After a moment Aura said, Yeah, but I think it would have been even more loving if he’d taken his dog to live somewhere else, on the first floor.
Maybe he wouldn’t move, I said, because he was even more in love with your mother.
Quién sabe, could be, said Aura. Poor Áyax.
Ajax, like the soap? I asked.
Áy-yax , she said, as in The Illiad , and she grabbed my chin and said, Ay, mi amor ¿por qué eres tan tonto? and kissed me. That was another of our routines, though my dumb remarks, contrary to what her teasing seemed to presuppose, weren’t always intentional. Aura explained that in Mexico the soap is called Ajax, too, but in Spanish the Greek hero is Áyax. Anyway, her mother would only go down to the Dumpster at night if Áyax went with her. Maybe Áyax really was in love with my mother, said Aura, and would save up his trash, just so that he’d always have some ready whenever she knocked on his door, I wonder … That was when I realized that Áyax was the neighbor’s name, not the dog’s, and I was about to make some silly remark, but something stopped me. It was the way Aura said, I wonder, a note of sadness in her voice, like somebody pressing down once, gently, on one minor piano key.
What a funny story, I ventured, encouraging her to go on. But it was obvious that, just like that, her mood had changed. What was the dog’s name? I asked. I don’t remember, she said. She leaned close, resting her head against my shoulder while we walked, and she hardly said another word until we were sitting in the restaurant. By Mexico City standards, the sushi was pretty good in that restaurant. It was a family-run place, and the family was Japanese instead of the usual Mexicans dressed in kimonos and sword-master headbands. It was decorated in a traditional-seeming manner, with dark, intricately carved wood and red paper lanterns imprinted with Japanese ideograms.
Maybe it was by the Dumpsters where it happened, said Aura, not in a stairwell like I’ve always thought.
What maybe happened by the Dumpsters? I asked cautiously.
Something really terrible, she said. To my mother. I don’t know, maybe. You can’t imagine what my mother endured in those days, Frank. That’s one reason, you know, I can never really stay angry with her. I don’t think she’ll ever tell me the whole truth about what happened. Not even when she’s on her deathbed—Aura gave an exaggerated shudder, and embraced herself as if she was cold. She pulled up the sleeve of her cotton sweater and held out her arm. Look, she said. She had goose bumps. I took her hand in mine and her palm was sweaty.
¿Qué te
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