Carlos Gamerro - An Open Secret

“It’s the first one I have of him,” Professor Gagliardi’s voice says behind me. “There are two more, up to ninth grade; then they expelled him and he had to finish school in Fuguet. He always was a restless boy, never one to respect authority. Oddly enough, they’re the ones you most remember over the years. I have other pictures of course, of later on, when he was grown-up. Look at him here, dressed up as a condom for the annual ceremony of the Comandante’s statue. The bearded cabaret dancer peering out behind him is me. And here we are the two of us at the annual school-leavers dinner, must be around, erm let me think, the summer of …”

I don’t need any more details. I remember that summer too, I must have been ten or eleven. I remember it especially for the unmistakeable yellow bow tie and blue shirt which the photo brings back to my memory, I remember the man wearing them, who one afternoon calls me over in the street, squats to examine my face and with a smile asks: You’re Don Julián’s grandson aren’t you? Poli’s son. Say hello to your Mamá from me. You know who I am don’t you? before stroking my rebellious quiff, once, and breezing off down the sunny side of the street, whistling. Was this the memory I’d ultimately come here to find? Was this the paltry fruit, the end product of so many days and nights that I’d lost count, the crowning of all my efforts, these alms? Or was I just imagining it, to leave a little less empty-handed, another delusion? In a way there’s no difference, I told myself. Fantasy or memory, if I hadn’t come, I’d never have found it.

Professor Gagliardi enthusiastically agrees to give me the photo.

THE RIGHT SIDE of Widower Gius’s body became paralysed a few months after his wife died, which must have been why what in others is just a stage, a painful transition, was in him an essence that became part of his name for all time. But it didn’t stop him living on — as if the death wish had been sucked in by his paralysed side, his other side had a ramp built in his house, widened a couple of doorframes, which the electric wheelchair he’d had sent over from Buenos Aires couldn’t negotiate, and had the car fitted out so that he could drive around town or visit his estates whenever the reclusion started to get to him. He has to let go of the wheel to change gear and in any big city he’d be banned from driving. But in the jurisdiction of Malihuel the police turn a blind eye, on the strict condition that he goes no higher than third, or further than the neighbouring towns. Twice a day he stops at the corner of Los Tocayos — mornings to have breakfast over the newspaper, and evenings for a beer, or a vermouth and nibbles. Nene Larrieu serves it to him through the car window, like a drive-in movie, and anyone who comes over to chat sits in the passenger seat and sometimes orders something too — the Ford Falcon is his living room. My first afternoons at the bar I spent looking on at the ceremony without making any sense of it — I got to thinking Widower Gius was Malihuel’s dealer (I wish) but the mixed bag of his companions’ faces didn’t quite fit. My problem was one of point of view — in the parked car, his good side faced the sidewalk, concealing the other half of the story, the one I needed to fill in the gaps. To help him at every turn he has a maid at home, who sleeps in (in his own bed, as evil tongues are quick to point out; the good ones adding that it’s only to warm up his dead side, which gets horribly cold at night). Her name’s Dorita, and she’s the one who opens the door in the slate facade for me now, the morning I finally summon up the strength to visit.

My pupils closed to the white sun on the square can’t adapt to the half-light of close-shuttered rooms — I can barely make out the outlines of furniture and ornaments on our way from the front door to the kitchen and out into the garden. Widower Gius is waiting for me in his wheelchair, his legs warmed by a light poncho and the rest of his body by the sun. His dead side isn’t so shocking; it looks more asleep than dead. His speech is almost normal, just a touch of the card sharp with a fag in his mouth. He holds out his left hand and, ready, I take it in mine, he then offers me a maté, which he insists on brewing himself.

“We can look around the house after if you like, although except for the walls and the doors there are no reminders of the days your father and grandmother lived here. What the flood didn’t ruin Chief of Police Greco took with him. Even had to have the wiring replaced my dear wife and I, I reckon he left the doors because they were so swollen he couldn’t get them out of the frames. We signed and paid for everything in good faith, but I understand you now wish to make a fair claim …”

I reassure him. I’m not here to discuss the ownership of the house, the thief was Greco and I’d get round to him later. Widower Gius’s body visibly relaxes in his chair, and the look that accompanies his half-smile of relief softens. Sitting on a recently painted white bench, I look around the garden. An imposing lemon tree, its branches heavy with gleaming fruit, stands to my right in a round brick bed; further back a monumental wisteria forms a grotto in the angle of the wall, and between the two a double row of gnarled rose bushes, pruned for the winter. Behind me rises a jungle wall of plantains, somewhat frost-burnt, and a thick palm tree. On the other side of the path of yellow, grey and red flags grow plum and apple trees, and just the odd brick in the low party wall can be glimpsed between the lush branches of a redvein abutilon, a star jasmine and a Chinese hibiscus with crimson-red flowers; great kiskadees and green parakeets call to each other noisily from the highest branches; mockingbirds and thrushes sometimes come down to the grass and run around amongst the trees.

“Señora Delia had green fingers,” Widower Gius speaks. “She planted almost everything you can see. Some my wife and I had to add because of the salt in the flood waters and all those years of neglect. I can’t see the chief of police even putting in a geranium; but if I knew he’d planted anything, I’d have it pulled out.”

I return his smile. I feel very good in this garden, much better than I probably would have felt inside the house, surrounded by objects preserved in the aspic of time — the plants have kept on growing. Dorita, who was waiting attentively by the kitchen door, obeying an invisible gesture from her boss, takes the maté away to change the yerba and when she comes back she’s carrying a laced-up shoebox, which she hands to me. Intrigued I untie the string and lift the lid — it’s overflowing with letters, in envelopes of different shapes and sizes, some yellowed with time, with stamps from a few years back; all unopened, addressed to Darío Ezcurra and to this house. The handwriting is familiar, the first I ever learnt to recognise.

“They started arriving the day we moved in,” explains Widower Gius, “and they went on arriving regularly, all those years, till one day they stopped. Shortly after that I heard about the passing of your dear Mamá and I understood. They were probably arriving before too, but that fiend Greco must’ve destroyed them. I decided to keep them, supposing that someday someone might want them. I’m glad I wasn’t wrong. I haven’t opened any of them,” he adds unnecessarily.

I do so at random. Monday, August 1987 , Mamá had annotated on the upper line in her laboured schoolgirl hand, and beneath:

Dearest Dario,

Dario im riting to tell you the latest news Don Albertos been down with a cold all winter but luckily hes getting better now me and Seniora Amelia insistid he stopt smoking but ive alredy told you how pigheded that man is worse than Mama over the bisines about our wedding he is see but i think hell change his mind in the long run me for my part i havent lost hope nor has Seniora Amelia luckily it wont be long before springs here i can picture the town now with the flowers and the new leaves coming out and the lagoon in the summer theres no beech neer here and the one there is is dirty and a long way away weve been sometimes but i didnt like it and i remember when we use to go to the Yacht Club with Mama and Papa makes me want to come back it does but they say i cant well Mama does coz Papa died a few years ago like i told you i dont know if people in town know cos it happened in Rosario and there was the funeral me i sometimes get scared the same will happen to Don Alberto me i dont tell them anything about you so Mama wont get mad she wont let me talk to anyone about you but i rite in secret and i dont tell anyone coz it make me so happy to be able to tell you Dario i think of all the things well have to tell when we see each other me every lovely thing i see or that happens to me i keep for you its so lovely for example when i dream im in Malihuel and were in the square having an icecream there at Don Braulios say hello to him for me when you see him and to your Mama Doña Delia as well it cant be long before her birthday can it Señora Amelia helped me to embroider some cushions and i was thinking about sending you both some only without the stuffing but i dont know coz of Mama Dario i miss our games at nite and i miss not having a foto of you too coz if i had one id hide it and not show it to anyone but at nite i can take it out and look at it but i dont know what to do if somebody from town comes maybe you can send it Auntie Porota used to come sometimes but its been a long time since she did i had reely bad toothache the other day and Seniora Amelia took me to the dentists i started crying coz i was scared but it stopped hurting afterwards and our sons doing fine thank goodness i dont see him much coz he has this important job and sometimes when i call him a machine answers and i get all flustered like and hang up you should see how lovely he is people say hes got my eyes or my mouth but to be honest he looks more and more like you every day hes a very good boy youll love him lots and youll feel proud of him i promise you well Dario i cant think of anything else to tell you so ill say goodbye with kissis i miss you my love ill rite soon.