Laura Restrepo - Delirium

When I got to the apartment at two in the morning, I was greeted by a smell that made tears spring to my eyes, and that’s no metaphor, because this smell, which I’m not sure I can describe, really did make me cry, it was the smell of home, how else to put it, an everyday smell, a smell of people who sleep at night and get up in the morning, of real life, of life that has returned to the realm of the possible; how long it will last I don’t know, I thought, but at least as long as the smell lingers, as long as this calm remains unbroken. Agustina was asleep on my side of the bed and she had left me a note on the night table, a note like the one she’d slid under the door of my cubicle at the university three years ago, asking for two things, a photocopy of my hand and my help in writing her autobiography; this time the sheet of paper wasn’t in an envelope but folded in half and addressed to me, Aguilar. I may not know what happiness is, I suppose no one knows, but what I do know is that happiness is what I felt when I saw my name in her handwriting on that sheet of paper, with a little circle instead of a dot over the i , and inside it said, “Professor Aguilar, if you still love me despite everything, wear a red tie tomorrow.” I read it many times before I fell asleep, and the last thought that crossed my mind that night was, I’m happy, tonight I’m happy even though I don’t know how long this happiness will last.

When I got up the next day Agustina was already dressed, and she was calling the airport to confirm the arrival time of the flight from Mexico. I took a leisurely shower, trimmed my beard, combed my hair the best I could considering that it hadn’t grown out enough to hide the damage done by Don Octavio the barber, put on a white shirt and rummaged through my drawers until I found an old red tie that I was sure I had somewhere. I looked a little strange, because I’ve never worn a tie and I don’t have the right jacket, but there I was in my red tie, and for the first time I even splashed on a little of the cologne that Agustina always gives me. When I came downstairs, Agustina walked past me several times without saying anything, not even good morning, pretending not to see me, her eyes avoiding my red tie as if she regretted writing that note, or rather as if she were afraid to see whether I’d put it on or not, purposely not looking. She and Aunt Sofi were putting the finishing touches on the lunch with which we would welcome Bichi when we brought him back from the airport; they had made a turkey and were fussing with some apples and vegetables, paying no attention to me, so I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down to breakfast, glancing through the newspaper and watching my wife as she walked back and forth past me with her eyes averted, acting as if she hadn’t noticed me and yet at the same time nervous, wanting and not wanting to check and see out of the corner of her eye whether I had put on the tie or not, until I planted myself in front of her, took her by the shoulders, made her look me in the eyes, and asked her, Miss Londoño, is this tie red enough for you?

LAURA RESTREPOis the bestselling author of several prizewinning novels published in more than twenty languages, including Leopard in the Sun , which won the Arzobispo San Clemente Prize, and The Angel of Galilea , which won the Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Prize in Mexico and the Prix France Culture in France. She was also awarded the 2004 Alfaguara Prize and the 2005 Grinzane Cavour Prize in Italy for Delirium . A recent recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, Restrepo lives in Mexico City.