Chapter VI - Blue Flowers

Hi, Marcos, it’s Fabiane—you okay? . . . I wasn’t going to call you, actually I’d promised myself I wouldn’t call you . . . but I don’t know, I guess I just got worried, are you okay? That day at the restaurant I thought you seemed strange, did something happen? And today I’ve been trying to call you all day, why aren’t you answering your cell? Or don’t you want to talk to me? If that’s what it is, just tell me once and for all. I’ve called your phone several times throughout the day, and I keep getting your voice mail. I called you at work, they said you haven’t been in today, is that true? I’m worried something might have happened . . . Anyway, look, I won’t keep bothering you, but I really need to talk to you. Let’s talk, we really got to talk. Call me, even if you get in late. I won’t be able to sleep anyway, you can call anytime . . . and we’ll arrange something. I think it’s important we talk, it was weird that day, wasn’t it? You were . . . I don’t know, you were different. Did something happen? Anyway, call me, I’ll be waiting . . . Really do call, though. Lots of love, bye.”

He listened to the other messages: two from the office, wanting something, a friend canceling a beer that he’d forgotten about himself, a girl studying architecture he’d recently met at a party, the rental place attendant saying the movies were overdue, somebody who’d called but changed their mind and hung up without leaving a message. He heard each one without paying much attention, ending with his ex-wife complaining about something:

“Where have you been all day, Marcos? I’ve been trying to get through to you since early this morning. I called yesterday and you didn’t answer. This is impossible, I called the office and nobody there knows anything, and apparently you’ve decided not to answer your cell. Do me a favor and call as soon as you can. Just to remind you, in case you’re at all interested, next week is Manu’s birthday, your daughter, Manu, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m going to have a little party for her at her school, I hope you’ll deign to show up. Don’t worry about a present, just leave that to me and I’ll buy something, you can give me the money later. Call me.”

He didn’t call her, didn’t call anybody. He put the package down on the table, the package he hadn’t realized he’d been holding on to since he arrived. At the same moment he felt the relief of being freed of an unexpected burden, relief, and he was surprised. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out some cheese and what was left in the bag of bread, went into the living room, spread everything out on the table, opened a can of beer. His ex-wife would certainly have had a comment to make about the way he was eating, without a plate, without any silverware, he thought with a smile.

He turned on the TV, put the movie in the DVD player, the same images on the screen that had accompanied him every night that week. The man, the woman in his arms, it could have been any movie, he thought, it could be the same movie every time, that was exactly the point. This time he thought it better to keep the lights on. He sat down and started eating, paying little attention to what he was doing.

He had been out all day, back to the snack bar opposite the post office. The guy behind the counter had greeted him as though he’d known him for a while, as though he’d been expecting him. He’d arrived early this time. He hadn’t even stopped in at the office; he’d called in first thing that morning with some excuse. He was worried as he hung up, not about the lie he’d told or about not going into work, but about what he had in mind—the snack bar, the post office—the truth was that he didn’t really know what exactly he was doing.

He parked close by, and as he approached, his anxiety increased with the feeling that he’d arranged to meet someone, to meet someone he hadn’t seen for years, or to meet a stranger, one of those encounters that require you to wear a flower in your lapel or gaudy colors in order to identify yourself. There were countless ways of not recognizing someone, he thought, as he leaned against the snack bar counter. There were countless ways of meeting back up with someone. He ordered a coffee, paid for it in advance. Maybe he was considering a possible need to leave abruptly, to go someplace, perhaps to the post office right there across the street, with people walking by, cars stopped at the lights. Maybe there would be somebody in a hurry, a young woman, thin, with long black hair, a letter in her hands, the blue envelope, the rounded handwriting there was no way he could actually see but which he knew so well. He imagined being able to recognize her immediately. He would talk to her, he’d say something: that he’d received her letters, that he awaited them anxiously every day, that he had read them all several times, one by one, that there was something in them, in that surrender, in that intimacy, that got to him, even if he didn’t understand it yet. He’d say there was something in him that was being transformed, or that had always been there. He’d say he understood her, that he, so different, so distant, a stranger, that he understood her. He would say this and much more, he imagined.

He stood there, his eyes alert, looking at each person who came out and each person who approached. He didn’t even notice an old man beside him, dressed sloppily but not a vagrant; you could tell he was just an ordinary man, maybe a retiree, this man who had appeared without his noticing, who then said:

“This place is a dump, a dump . . .”

He started, he wasn’t sure whether the old man was addressing him or talking to himself. He preferred not to answer. The old man went on, pointing his index finger in some unspecific direction:

“A dump, this place . . . Ever since the Portuguese fellow went. The staff now, they’re a gang of layabouts, they do whatever they want, they do it on purpose, sure, they do it on purpose . . .”

And gesturing with his hand to make it quite clear that absolutely everything there was on purpose:

“Just look, a dump, just look . . .”

He remained silent while the old man went on:

“Worse every day, a dump . . .” And the word “dump” came out with drops of saliva that would have landed on him had he not instinctively taken a step back.

The old man shook his head to emphasize his observation. Dump. Then, looking at his cup:

“If I were you, I wouldn’t even drink that,” his finger practically in the cup, “garbage . . .”

The old man spat on the floor, in a gesture that seemed intended to underline what he was feeling. Garbage. He thought about what he might say, perhaps to agree. But at that moment somebody appeared, probably an employee of the snack bar, took the old man by the arm and led him outside, forcefully but not roughly. The old man didn’t even protest; on the contrary, he allowed himself to be led, like a wound-up mechanical doll, he left on his own, dragging his flip-flops, shuffling along the pavement, his faint voice and complaints still audible. Garbage.

He remained there, in the snack bar; an employee with a forced smile apologized, assuring him that the old man was harmless—he comes in every day, practically a tourist attraction, with the few customers here just pretending nothing’s happening. He agreed and looked uncertainly at his cup of coffee.

He thought about the old man for a few moments longer, only to realize with some surprise that he’d taken his attention entirely off the post office, perhaps at a crucial moment. He was annoyed at having been so easily distracted. Who was to say he hadn’t missed something important? And whatever we miss we miss forever, time never turns back, that’s how these things are, he thought, somewhat discouraged. He spent the rest of the morning staring at the post office on the other side of the street, his coffee cold now, forgotten in the cup.

But perhaps it wasn’t this post office? He took the letters out of his pocket, he examined the postmark on each blue envelope, some had a postmark, others didn’t, the same notation repeated so many times. No, this was the one, the right post office, it had to be, and he put the letters back into his pocket. He’d make a terrible detective, he thought with a smile, his first of the day—what else did he have left if not the ability to laugh at himself, spending the whole day just sitting there like an idiot. It made no sense at all, he thought. He ordered another coffee, drank it quickly, paid and left.

As he walked toward his car, however, he changed his mind, made a little detour, walked past the front of the post office for one last look as the post office was closing, the last letters of the day. He stopped there a few moments longer and then kept going down the street, looking in the shop windows, just a quick glance at some of them, stopping in front of others, sometimes he moved to go in, but never did. After about half an hour, he finally went into the store he’d been looking for, the saleswoman approached, asked with a saleswoman’s smile whether he wanted something, and he smiled back, but without taking much notice. Was he looking for something, she asked again; he said that yes, he was looking for a coffee machine.

“Coffee machine? A percolator?”

“No, it’s a kind of machine.”

“An espresso machine?”

“Yes, could be.”

The saleswoman didn’t stop smiling. She showed him several espresso machines, and he looked at them, trying to find in them some answer, some sign. Several minutes passed, the saleswoman gradually beginning to show traces of impatience.

“Were you looking for any particular model, sir?”

She’d called him “sir.” At a certain moment that had started happening, saleswomen had started calling him “sir”; soon Manuela’s friends would take to calling him “Uncle” Marcos, soon time would pass quickly.

“No, I’m just looking,” he replied drily.

“The one you’re looking at now, sir, that’s the most modern model we have, it’s only just come out, it’s Italian.”

“Ah . . . right.”

“It can make up to twelve cups.”

He smiled, continuing his examination of the other models.

“This one makes only six cups, but it’s much more economical.”

He didn’t answer. After a few minutes, the saleswoman gave up; she was already walking away when he drew a blue envelope out of his pants pocket and said:

“Wait a moment.”

The saleswoman turned around at once, perhaps surprised at his commanding tone. She made an effort to keep smiling as he took a bundle of crumpled papers out of the envelope, a letter, opened it, looking for something, perhaps some information about the machine.

“It’s not a machine to make coffee, it’s a machine to grind coffee.”

“Oh, we don’t have any grinders. But we should be getting one next week. Do you want to leave your number? I’ll let you know as soon as it’s here.”

He shook his head, said nothing for a few moments, the saleswoman thinking he had given up, but then he put the letter and the envelope away in his pocket and pointed at the espresso machine, the six-cup one. In that case I’ll take this one, he said, and she smiled. He paid quickly at the register, in cash, no, he didn’t want it wrapped as a gift, no, he didn’t want a warranty or anything explained, as quick as possible, the saleswoman watching him somewhere between suspicious and amused; he picked up the package and left the store without saying goodbye. She tried to say something after him—thank you, see you next time, come again, something like that—but he was already out the door.

He walked quickly to his car, almost ran, the package heavy in his hands. He paid for the parking, and went away, away from that place where nothing happened, he thought disappointedly, that static part of the city, a story he’d made up, and which made no sense at all.

In the car he put the package down on the back seat, covered it up with the jacket he’d brought with him but hadn’t worn, closed the door unnecessarily hard. Just turning on the air-conditioning, he started to feel better already. The cold air on his face, the windows closed, driving unhurriedly down the city streets, a set route, only the landscape changing. And he went back to thinking about the next day, about what he’d do, about what there was still to be done, as though he were sketching out a plan.