Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

They made a date for the following month, when they both had to be in that city, to meet in a café on rue Caumartin, near the Boulevard des Capucines, which he would try to revisit years later without her, and not be able to find it-wishing he could see it again, order the same things-a café he remembered having a red-and-sepia decor, with Roman-style banquettes, and a long bar of reddish wood, not an open-air café, but an open café, without doors. They drank créme de menthe and water. He ordered it again. She said that September was the best month, the end of September, the beginning of October. Indian summer. The end of vacation. He paid the check. She took him by the arm, laughing, taking deep breaths, and they crossed the courtyards of the Palais Royal, walking through the galleries and courtyards, stepping on the first dead leaves, accompanied by pigeons, and they walked into the restaurant with small tables and red backrests and painted walls with inset mirrors: old paint and old varnish-gold, blue, and sepia.

"All ready."

He looked over his shoulder and watched her walk out of the bedroom fastening her earrings to her earlobes, smoothing her soft, honey-colored hair. He held her drink out to her, and she took a sip, wrinkling her nose. She sat in the red chair and crossed her right leg over her left as she raised the glass to eye level. He imitated her movements and smiled at her as she shook something off the lapel of her black suit. The clavichord led the central refrain of that descent, accompanied by the violins. He imagined it as a descent from a height, not as a march forward: a slight, almost imperceptible descent, which, when it touched the earth, became the contrapuntal joy of the low and high tones of the violins. The clavichord, as if it were wings, had only served as a means to descend and touch the earth. Now that the music was on earth, it danced. They looked at each other.

"Laura…"

She raised her index finger, and they went on listening. She seated, her glass in her hands; he standing, spinning a celestial globe on its axis, stopping it from time to time to examine the figures traced out in silverpoint on the supposed outline of the constellation: Crow, Shield, Hunting Dogs, Fishes, Altar, Centaur. The needle hung over silence; he walked to the record player, moved the tone arm back, and let it slip into its holder.

"Your apartment turned out very nicely."

"Yes. Funny. There wasn't room for everything."

"It looks fine all the same."

"I had to put the other things into storage."

"If you wanted, you could have…"

"Thanks," she said, smiling. "If all I wanted was a big house, I would have stayed with him."

"Do you want to listen to more music, or should we go out?"

"Let's finish our drinks and go out."

They paused in front of that picture. She said she liked it a lot and always came to look at it because of the stopped trains, the blue smoke, the blue-and-ocher houses in the background, the blurred, barely suggested figures. She said she liked the awful tin roof and opaque windows on the Gare Saint-Lazare in Monet's painting a great deal, those were the things she liked about this city, where objects taken separately or examined in detail might not be beautiful but are irresistible taken as a whole. He said that was certainly one interpretation, and she laughed and patted his hand and said he was right, she just liked it, liked all of it, she was happy, and he, years later, went back to see that painting, by then it was in the Jeu de Paume, and the special guide said it was incredible, in thirty years the painting had quadrupled in value, now it was worth thousands, quite incredible.

He went over to her, stopped behind her, rubbed the back of her chair, and then touched Laura's shoulders. She rested her head on the man's hand, rubbed her cheek on his fingers. She sighed, and with a new smile turned and sipped the whiskey. She threw her head back with her eyes closed and swallowed the sip after savoring it between her tongue and her palate.

"We could go back next year. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, we could go back."

"I always remember how we wandered the streets."

"So do I. You'd never gone to the Village. I remember I took you there."

"Yes, we could go back."

"There's something so alive about that city. Remember? You didn't know what it was like to smell the river mixed with the sea. You couldn't place it. We walked to the Hudson and closed our eyes so we could feel it."

He took Laura's hand, he kissed her fingers. The telephone rang, and he stepped forward to answer it. He lifted the receiver and listened to a voice saying over and over again, "Hello, hello, hello?…Laura?"

He put his hand over the mouthpiece and held it out to Laura. She left her glass on the little table and walked over to the telephone.

"Hello?"

"Laura? It's Catalina."

"Hi. How are you?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

"I was just on my way out."

"I won't keep you long."

"What is it?"

"Are you really in a hurry?"

"No, not at all. I mean it."

"I think I made a mistake. I should have told you."

"What?"

"Yes, yes. I should have bought your sofa. Now that I've moved into the new house, I realize it. Do you remember the brocade sofa, the one with the embroidery? It would look so nice in the vestibule, because I bought some tapestries, some tapestries to hang in the vestibule, and I think the only thing that would look right in that spot would be your sofa with the embroidery…"

"I wonder. Maybe there would be too much brocade."

"No, no. The tapestries are dark and your sofa is light, so they'd make a pretty contrast."

"But you know I'm using that sofa here in the apartment."

"Don't be that way. You've got so much furniture. Didn't you tell me you had to put half of it in storage? You did say that, didn't you?"

"I did, but you have to understand that I arranged the living room just so that…"

"All right, think it over. When are you coming to see the house?"

"Whenever you say."

"Don't leave it that way, so vague. Name a day and we'll have tea together and chat."

"Friday?"

"No, Friday I can't, but I can on Thursday."

"Then we'll make it Thursday."

"Just let me say that, without your sofa, the vestibule is just not going to work. I'd almost rather not have a vestibule, you know? It just won't work. An apartment is so much easier to decorate. You'll see when you come over."

"On Thursday."

"Oh, yes, I ran into your husband. He was very polite. Laura, it's a shame you're going to get divorced. I thought he looked so handsome. You can see he misses you. Why, Laura, why?"

"It's all over now."

"See you Thursday, then. Just the two of us, we'll have a good talk together."

"Yes, Catalina. See you Thursday."

"Bye."

He asked if she wanted to dance and they walked through the Plaza Hotel's potted-palm-lined salons and made their way to the dance floor. He took her in his arms, and she caressed his long fingers, felt the heat in the palm of his hand, rested her head on his shoulder, lifted it, looked into his eyes, he was looking into hers: they were looking at each other, looking at each other, his green eyes, her gray eyes, looking at each other, alone on the dance floor with that orchestra playing a slow blues number, looking at each other, with their fingers, his arm around her waist, slowly turning, that stiff skirt, that skirt…

She hung up and looked at him and waited. She walked to the sofa with the embroidery, ran her fingers over it, and again looked at the man. "Would you turn on the light? The switch is right next to you. Thanks."

"She doesn't know anything."

Laura walked away from the sofa and turned to look at it. "No, the light's too bright. I haven't figured out how to arrange the lamps yet. Lighting a big house isn't the same as this…"