Andres Neuman - Talking to Ourselves

In fact, I entered the restaurant determined to tell him I wasn’t going to have dinner with him. That I had thought better of it and regretted the misunderstanding. Of course, it would have been easier to tell him over the phone. But, as it turned out, I didn’t have his private number or his e-mail address. The doctor, I mean Ezequiel, it still feels strange calling him that, had hurriedly proposed dinner. He had named a restaurant, a street, a time. And had virtually run away. I scarcely nodded. I didn’t refuse, that was all. I stood dazed outside the office door. It had a sign on it with the full names of all the different specialists and their working hours. His were finished for the day. That was the first time I had paid any attention to his first name. I should call off that dinner. Then I realized I had no way of getting hold of him outside the office. Was that a strategic omission on his part? I don’t think so. But, in short, I had to turn up at the restaurant. It would have been rude to simply stand him up. Him of all people. My husband’s doctor.

How embarrassing, my God, how embarrassing.

Not only that. I even arrived ten minutes early. And he was already in the restaurant. He told me he had had to check on a patient, and as he lived relatively close by, he had decided to wait for me there. I was wrong-footed, because to leave suddenly in that situation would have been like saying: Then you’ve waited in vain, goodbye. What I really wanted was to have arrived first. Seen him come in. Greeted him politely, making it perfectly clear I had taken the trouble to wait for him. Apologized. Paid for my drink and left. That is what I had imagined. But Ezequiel stood up to greet me, he looked very pleased to see me, he was extremely attentive, he told me he had just ordered a bottle of Merlot rarely found in our country. And so I said nothing, sat down, and smiled like an idiot.

From then on everything that happened, how can I put it? acted like an antidote. Every word, every gesture conspired to block my path and prevent my escape. Ezequiel could have avoided talking about Mario (a clumsy move that would have vexed me and driven me instantly from the table), but he did precisely the opposite. He mentioned him from the very beginning, incorporating him into the conversation so naturally that it felt almost as though my husband had arranged the dinner himself but had been unable to come at the last minute. Ezequiel could also have asked me overly personal questions, as though imposing intimacy upon me. But he behaved in exactly the opposite way; he was discreet about my life and extremely open about his own. After we ordered the second bottle, Ezequiel could have made overtures, subtly in any case (which at that point I would still have bridled at somewhat), yet he didn’t make the least move. Not even to glance at my cleavage. Which, although nothing to write home about, was nevertheless there.

Now that I come to think of it, a man only achieves such a level of restraint if that is what he has set out to do. I mean, only if it is premeditated. My God. In any case, it’s too late now. Not because we have done anything irreparable. But because it’s past four in the morning and I am wide awake. And because I was incapable of telling Ezequiel when I arrived at the restaurant, or during the meal, or as we walked back to the house, or when I heard him say his phone number, that it had all been a mistake, that I would never call him, that I didn’t want to see him. That much is irreparable. Almost as irreparable as having written my God so many times. Such an atheist and so drunk.

I look out of the window and I don’t know what to do. Whether to lean out and yell, throw myself head first onto the pavement, or hail a cab.

“She was also something of a feminist, not crazy,” I underline in one of Cynthia Ozick’s short stories, “but she resented having ‘Miss’ put in front of her name; she thought it pointedly discriminatory, she wanted to be a lawyer among lawyers.” The pupils call us female teachers Miss or, at worst, Ms . If it comes to that I’d prefer harassment. “Though she was no virgin she lived alone.” What fun Miss Ozick has. I remember once, during a dinner, a man asked my sister if she lived alone. In a rare show of humour, my sister replied: Yes, I’m married.

Why did I lack the courage to pursue my academic career? Admittedly, the precariousness alarmed me, finding myself on the street at thirty, being the umpteenth jobless researcher, et alia . But there was something else. Something around me I could see rather more clearly than my dubious vocation.

Having observed the fate of my former women colleagues, I consider myself sufficiently well-informed to sketch this brief

PERVERSE OUTLINE

OF THE

ASPIRING FEMALE ACADEMIC

to be expanded upon below, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, in the hope that it displays some aptitude for synthesis:

YOU ARE CAPABLE

YOU ARE INCAPABLE

[ id est: you’re dumb]

YOU ARE CAPABLE AND HOT

YOU ARE CAPABLE AND NOT HOT

[ id est: you’re ugly]

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU DON’T LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS

[ id est: you’re a prude]

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY PROMOTE YOU

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, AND THEY DON’T PROMOTE YOU

[ id est: you’re a slut]

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, AND YOU DON’T SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR

[ id est: you’re ungrateful]

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, VERY

IMPROBABLY, YOU TAKE OVER HIS POST WHEN HE RETIRES

YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS, THEY PROMOTE YOU, YOU SPEND YOUR WHOLE LIFE SHOWING YOUR GRATITUDE TO YOUR MENTOR, AND, OF COURSE, YOU RETIRE HAVING NEVER TAKEN OVER HIS POST

[ id est: you’re over the hill]

We trust this has not wearied you, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, and that our research will attain, if not your unmerited theoretical approval, then at least your paternal consent to carry on failing. Thank you very much.

I take my phone out of my bag, I turn it on, look at it, leave it on the table, put it back in my bag, take it out again. I act like a delinquent.

The first thing I did when I got up was call Mario. It took a while to get hold of him. They seem fine. They are seeing places, enjoying themselves. They sound almost happier without me. When I asked Mario whether he was sleeping eight hours a day like he had promised, he hesitated. I got annoyed and we argued. We fell silent. And then we were tender. Lito tried to explain something to me about the truck and the rain, I couldn’t hear very well, whatever it was it sounded adorable. He told me very excitedly that he had beaten his dad in a race. I asked him to let me speak to Mario again. He promised he hadn’t really run, how could I even think that, didn’t I know the little tyke had an overactive imagination. We ended on a happy note. I felt reassured. I busied myself cleaning windows. I did some washing. I boiled vegetables. I read for a while. I prepared the literature exams. I sewed on two buttons. Then I called Ezequiel.