eyes, he
thought, looking out onto the other side. Reassured, he returned
his attention to the widow, who sat mechanically unbuttoning her
blouse, her eyes on his face and her smile blooming like the flowers
in the vase. A smile whose tremendous beauty-the inkslinger told
himself-accustomed as he was in his line of work to making this
sort of appraisal-contained a certain aftertaste of cruelty.
"Tomas, we could sleep together, you know. I mean really
together, instead of hiding from each other in the same bed...
Even if there were two beds here I'd say the same thing...," said
Rosa, looking straight at the Chinaman chewing slowly on his
eggs and sausage.
"Look into my eyeth," Celeste ordered the poet. "Look deep
into my eyeth. You will thee a lake, the blue thea."
But the widow Margarita's eyes were violet and her skin under
her white blouse was even whiter still.
"Ale you sule?"
"A thtitl, calm othean of blue water, with jutht the thoft
rocking of the waveth."
"What about your friend there in the other bed?" asked
Margarita, demonstrating that she was not only cold but cautious,
too.
"Maybe a pair of theagulls floating over the water, thwaying
back and forth in the air," murmured the hypnotist.
"Maybe we should get anothel bed."
"You feel thleepy, a thoft thleepineth, a power moving into
your body..."
"He's been lying there like that in a coma for days, looking
at the wall. He never moves. They say it's only a matter of hours
now...
"You mean two beds?"
"Are you feeling thleepy now?"
"No, just one, a biggel one."
"How's your leg?" asked the widow, letting her black skirt
fall to the floor and revealing a pair of long legs in smoky silk
stockings, the latest in German fashion judging from the girlie
magazines that arrived occasionally by steamship from Hamburg.
"Very thleepy. You are feeling very thleepy."
"Speaking of legs..." said the journalist, who couldn't pass up
a chance to mix life and art, "you've got a pretty nice pair there
yourself, Margarita."
"You are thinking into my eyeth."
"Which end are we going to put the headboard at, yours or
mine?" asked Rosa, shedding a single tear. Tomas abandoned his
eggs and sausage and stretched his hand out across the table. Their
two hands were more brown than yellow. Their children would be
even darker still, and none of them would speak with an accent.
It was the effects of the climate. But they could just as well live
in Australia, or Vienna, or even China. There was talk about a
revolution in China... They'd have to learn to speak Chinese...
But which one, Cantonese or Mandarin?
"What would you think about slipping into something a
little more comfortable?" asked the poet, breaking the oceanic enchantment glowing inside the eyes of redheaded Celeste.
"Here, move your leg a little over that way," said Margarita,
climbing onto the bed, her hat still on her head.
The next day the poet confessed that he was on the point of
succumbing, but he didn't see how anyone could feel sleepy with
all those thh's buzzing in his ears. The journalist, on the other hand, kept the fact hidden in some far corner of his memory
that his gaze had wandered from the widow's violet eyes down
to her white brocaded panties only to discover they had a small
perforation sewn into them. It was the first time he'd ever been
seduced by a woman with a fly in her underwear. Tomas didn't tell
anything because there was nothing to tell.
Perhaps the most transcendental of all these crossed stories
was that half an hour later a pair of stretcher bearers walked into
the reporter's hospital room, and after discovering the death of the
hod carrier, carted him away. They took him down two flights of
stairs and deposited him on a slab in the basement.
There the construction worker stood up, took a shiny tenpeso coin out of the pocket of his robe, and handed it to the
stretcher bearers. Tugging surreptitiously at his underwear, he did
the best he could
thought, looking out onto the other side. Reassured, he returned
his attention to the widow, who sat mechanically unbuttoning her
blouse, her eyes on his face and her smile blooming like the flowers
in the vase. A smile whose tremendous beauty-the inkslinger told
himself-accustomed as he was in his line of work to making this
sort of appraisal-contained a certain aftertaste of cruelty.
"Tomas, we could sleep together, you know. I mean really
together, instead of hiding from each other in the same bed...
Even if there were two beds here I'd say the same thing...," said
Rosa, looking straight at the Chinaman chewing slowly on his
eggs and sausage.
"Look into my eyeth," Celeste ordered the poet. "Look deep
into my eyeth. You will thee a lake, the blue thea."
But the widow Margarita's eyes were violet and her skin under
her white blouse was even whiter still.
"Ale you sule?"
"A thtitl, calm othean of blue water, with jutht the thoft
rocking of the waveth."
"What about your friend there in the other bed?" asked
Margarita, demonstrating that she was not only cold but cautious,
too.
"Maybe a pair of theagulls floating over the water, thwaying
back and forth in the air," murmured the hypnotist.
"Maybe we should get anothel bed."
"You feel thleepy, a thoft thleepineth, a power moving into
your body..."
"He's been lying there like that in a coma for days, looking
at the wall. He never moves. They say it's only a matter of hours
now...
"You mean two beds?"
"Are you feeling thleepy now?"
"No, just one, a biggel one."
"How's your leg?" asked the widow, letting her black skirt
fall to the floor and revealing a pair of long legs in smoky silk
stockings, the latest in German fashion judging from the girlie
magazines that arrived occasionally by steamship from Hamburg.
"Very thleepy. You are feeling very thleepy."
"Speaking of legs..." said the journalist, who couldn't pass up
a chance to mix life and art, "you've got a pretty nice pair there
yourself, Margarita."
"You are thinking into my eyeth."
"Which end are we going to put the headboard at, yours or
mine?" asked Rosa, shedding a single tear. Tomas abandoned his
eggs and sausage and stretched his hand out across the table. Their
two hands were more brown than yellow. Their children would be
even darker still, and none of them would speak with an accent.
It was the effects of the climate. But they could just as well live
in Australia, or Vienna, or even China. There was talk about a
revolution in China... They'd have to learn to speak Chinese...
But which one, Cantonese or Mandarin?
"What would you think about slipping into something a
little more comfortable?" asked the poet, breaking the oceanic enchantment glowing inside the eyes of redheaded Celeste.
"Here, move your leg a little over that way," said Margarita,
climbing onto the bed, her hat still on her head.
The next day the poet confessed that he was on the point of
succumbing, but he didn't see how anyone could feel sleepy with
all those thh's buzzing in his ears. The journalist, on the other hand, kept the fact hidden in some far corner of his memory
that his gaze had wandered from the widow's violet eyes down
to her white brocaded panties only to discover they had a small
perforation sewn into them. It was the first time he'd ever been
seduced by a woman with a fly in her underwear. Tomas didn't tell
anything because there was nothing to tell.
Perhaps the most transcendental of all these crossed stories
was that half an hour later a pair of stretcher bearers walked into
the reporter's hospital room, and after discovering the death of the
hod carrier, carted him away. They took him down two flights of
stairs and deposited him on a slab in the basement.
There the construction worker stood up, took a shiny tenpeso coin out of the pocket of his robe, and handed it to the
stretcher bearers. Tugging surreptitiously at his underwear, he did
the best he could
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