Liliana Heker - Please Talk to Me - Selected Stories

He decided that there was only one way out and that he would proceed along that way. He would be Alfredo Walter di Fiore, and he would make Alfredo grow vaster and more powerful than all the blonde women and all the men with gout. He would do for Alfredo Walter di Fiore what he might never have done for Nicolas Broda. Because, ever since his Tarzan days, he had waited for a test, for that heroic or herculean act that only he would be able to undertake. And now he would undertake it.

That very night, as soon as he got home, he took the first step. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said to Chelita. ‘I think you never actually knew me.’ The look in her eyes changed from scorn to surprise, and Nicolas knew he would succeed in his brave efforts. He spoke like an idiot who in the end was not an idiot but in fact had a tortured and contradictory soul. Crushed by life itself, crushed by a family who had pampered him since childhood, all of them, she also, yes, don’t start crying now, she also had a part in it — he was fed up and had decided to put an end to all this and start again from scratch. He was letting her know that he was going to study maths. Maths? He, study maths? Yes, maths, he had always dreamt of studying maths, and he was sure that he would make a success of it. He had been secretly preparing himself, he had read many books without letting anyone know, and he was firmly convinced of what he was saying. He was also letting her know that very soon, as soon as he found a new job, he was going to go off and live on his own.

At last she admired him. She felt ashamed and sorry, and wanted to apologize. He didn’t need her apologies but allowed her to kiss him and even give him a little hug. He went off to bed as if he’d been to a party.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when he woke up and thought about everything that had happened, that he was able to peel the wool off his eyes. He realised that he had barely taken one first step. Ahead lay a long and difficult path.

A great uneasiness swept over him. Suddenly he felt that he would not have the strength to continue. No , he said to himself, I mustn’t let myself go to pieces . One by one he repeated the decisions he had made. Slowly and through sheer will power he began to recapture the enthusiasm of the previous night. It occurred to him that enthusiasm is an incomprehensible state of mind when one is not feeling enthusiastic. He recalled that Weininger had said something similar about genius.

He heard a noise and looked up. Someone was opening the door to his room.

Nicolas saw a tall, thin woman walk in, her hair grey and dishevelled. The woman approached the window and lifted the blind. She turned towards Nicolas’ bed.

‘Nine o’clock, Federico,’ she said.

Then she walked up to a sort of desk, drew a finger across its surface and peered at it. ‘Again everything in here is covered with dust,’ she said.

Before leaving the room she looked at him once again and then told him to hurry. She reminded him that last night he had promised to get up early and paint the kitchen ceiling.

The inner door barely opened. The face of a grey-haired woman appeared in the crack. Smiling. Ana was unexpectedly reminded of a book illustration. Was it from Alice in Wonderland? A smiling cat that disappeared. Not all at once: little by little it rubbed itself out, first the tail, then the body, and finally the head, until only a giant rictus was left hanging in the air. This was similar, but the other way round. As if the smile had been there before the door opened. Waiting for her.

‘How can I help you, Señorita?’

The woman’s question did not, however, suggest that she had been expecting her visitor. Odd, considering all the publicity there had been, but never mind. Ana put on what she thought of as her bureaucrat’s voice.

‘It’s about the national census, Señora. I’m the census taker.’

‘Oh the census taker!’ the woman’s exclamation was surprising, part enthusiastic greeting, part lamentation. ‘I told my daughter that you were coming at midday, but she…’

Her sentence hung between them, unfinished. It occurred to Ana that this was a woman who often left things hanging.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We come when we can.’

‘Of course you do, my dear,’ the woman opened the door. ‘Please come inside or the wind will carry you off, you’re so slight.’

The reference to her size made Ana realise that she was hungry. Or was it the smell? For as she stepped through the door, she was seduced by the aroma of some hearty cooking. The front hall was impeccable. Polished mosaic floor, little crocheted coverings, gleaming furniture; only a comic lying open on the floor seemed out of place. The woman shook her head when she saw it. ‘Those children,’ she admonished gently, stooping to pick it up. Ana breathed deeply in the smell of cooking, which was stronger now.

‘I realise that this is rather an inconvenient time,’ she said, ‘but it will only take a few minutes.’

‘Not at all, my dear. Stay all afternoon if you like! I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself: I’m Señora de Ferrari. But everyone just calls me Amelia.’

‘And I am Ana. Shall I sit down here and we’ll get started?’

‘I won’t hear of it — come with me to the dining room, you’ll be more comfortable there,’ and she opened a door that led into the courtyard. ‘What worries me is that my daughter’s gone out and my husband told me only this morning that he’s not coming back for lunch, the rotter.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Poor man, I shouldn’t really call him a rotter when he’s using his day off to get ahead with work.’

‘Actually your husband doesn’t need to be present for this.’

The woman coyly raised her hand to her mouth.

‘I know you’ll laugh at me, and I say that because I have three daughters of my own so I know how young girls think in this day and age — this way, please — but I can’t help it, I’m old-fashioned. I’m used to thinking of my husband as the person who takes charge of things in the house, he got me in that habit, I suppose, he’s fifteen years older than me. At the time of our marriage I could have passed for his daughter so you see for him I’ll always be his — Careful!’

Just in time. A second later and Ana would have stepped on the skateboard that was lying across the doorway.

‘Oh those children,’ complained the woman again, as she had in the hall. ‘You sit down here, my love, and recover!’ The chair she indicated was at a table covered with a cloth on which there were lots of cups and the remains of breakfast. ‘The thing is he’s the baby of the family, you know, the only boy, my little blond munchkin,’ she couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘We spoil him rotten, as you can imagine.’

Yes, Ana could imagine it. What she couldn’t imagine, on the other hand, was why the woman had insisted on bringing her to the dining room when the table was covered in crumbs and there was no clear space to put her forms down. The woman seemed to realise this because she brought a tray to the table and began to clear away the things.

‘What must you think of me,’ she said; Ana watched impassively as the woman picked up a half-eaten piece of toast and jam. ‘The trouble is, with such a large family…’

Ana started filling in the headings, trying not to pay attention. Wasn’t there something rather voracious about these wives who showed off their husbands and children as though they were minor works of art? When she had finished writing she followed the woman’s bustle for a few seconds.

‘Don’t worry about the table, please. Would you mind very much sitting down for a moment so that we can get this wrapped up? It’s only a few questions.’