Teresa Porzecanski Cohen
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Teresa Porzecanski Cohen (1945– ), antropóloga, poeta y escritora uruguaya de ascendencia asquenazí y siria. Su obra profesional incluye nueve libros sobre antropología y ciencias sociales; entre ellos destaca Historias de vida de inmigrantes judíos al Uruguay (1986), basado en la historia oral. Porzecanski es docente e investigadora en ciencias sociales en la Universidad de la República, en Montevideo. Sus personajes judíos (tanto asquenazíes como sefardíes, en consonancia con sus propias raíces) ilustran las transformaciones de las tradiciones y creencias en un entorno moderno —y a menudo ajeno—, así como la forja de una nueva identidad judía latinoamericana. Sus libros principales son Construcciones (1979); La invención de los soles (1982; Sun Inventions and Perfumes of Carthage, Two Novellas, 2000); La respiración es una fragua (1989); Mesías en Montevideo (1989); Perfumes de Cartago (1994); Una novela erótica (1986); La piel del alma (1996); Nupcias en familia y otros cuentos (1998); y Felicidades fugaces (2002). Ha recibido numerosos premios nacionales e internacionales, incluidas las becas Fulbright y Guggenheim. Su obra ha sido traducida al inglés, portugués, alemán y neerlandés, e incluida en antologías de literatura uruguaya, judía y escrita por mujeres.
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Teresa Porzecanski Cohen (1945– ), Uruguayan anthropologist, poet, and writer of Ashkenazi and Syrian descent. Her professional works includes nine books on anthropology and social sciences, among them Historias de vida de inmigrantes judíos al Uruguay (“Life Stories of Jewish Immigrants to Uruguay,” 1986), based on oral history. Porzecanski is lecturer and researcher in social sciences at the Universidad de la República, Montevideo. Her Jewish characters (Ashkenazi and Sephardi, following her own roots) show the transformations of traditions and beliefs in a modern and often alien environment, and the forging of a new, Latin American Jewish identity. Her main books are Construcciones (“Constructions,” 1979); La invención de los soles (1982; Sun Inventions and Perfumes of Carthage, Two Novellas, 2000); La respiraciónes una fragua (“Breath Is a Forge,” 1989); Mesías en Montevideo (“Messiah in Montevideo,” 1989); Perfumes de Cartago (1994); Una novela erótica (“An Erotic Novel,” 1986); La piel del alma (“The Soul’s Skin,” 1996); Nupcias en familia y otros cuentos (“Marriage in the Family and Other Stories,” 1998); and Felicidades Fugaces (“Shooting Happiness,” 2002). She has received many national and international awards, including the Fulbright and Guggenheim scholarships. Her works have been translated into English, Portuguese, German, and Dutch, and included in anthologies of Uruguayan, Jewish, and women’s writing.
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Dos cuentos extraños/Two Strange Stories
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LOS MUTANTES
Uno las reconoce enseguida por su aire cansino, sus gestos automáticos, y su mirada abstraída. Deambulan entre las góndolas del supermercado, entre las ocho y las diez de la mañana. Empujan su carro lentamente, como si pesara una enormidad, y en él van colocando las lechugas, los varios quilos de tomates, las manzanas, los atados de zanahorias y las remolachas.
Después, con la misma mirada absorta, de párpados sernicerrados, esperan, disciplinadas, su tumo en la carnicería. El dependiente les pregunta qué van a llevar y no responden -como si aún no hubieran salido de algún tipo de trance- y entonces él les pregunta por segunda vez, y es cuando ellas se sorprenden y regresan al mundo, y dicen cosas tales como “disculpe, dos kilos de bifes, por favor”.
Algunas llevan pequeños niños de dos o tres años en el estante superior del carro, nifios que indican insistentemente con la mano objetos que desearían comer o tener. Y ellas pacientemente les explican que aquello no es necesario o que esto no es adecuado, y continúan su camino repetido entre los detergentes, los cepillos, los frascos de mermelada, las golosinas, con sus pálidas caras, el pelo que no han tenido tiempo de arreglar, las manos enrojecidas por el agua fría, y sus niños.
Se trata de las amas de casa, las que por la mañana no hacen de secretarias ni de oficinistas, ni de enfermeras o maestras, tampoco de telefonistas o profesoras (es por la tarde cuando se transforman en “eso”), y por lo tanto, quedan siendo sólo ellas, amas de casa. Algunos dicen que sus mentes están puestas en cosas prosaicas, tales como el almuerzo de cada día o la merienda, en meros detalles tales como los precios rebajados, las sábanas que esperan el secado, el baño del niño, o el vencimiento de la factura de electricidad. Se las acusa de dedicar sus mentes a cosas nimias, tales como coser un botón en la chaqueta del marido, o levantar una cuchara que se ha caído.
En el supermercado, los vigilantes pierden rápidamente interés en ellas, abu1Tidos porque no violan jamás ninguna nonna. Y para los dependientes, ellas son apenas voces automáticas que repiten una y otra vez los mismos pedidos en las 1nismas cantidades. Las cajeras las ven llegar, con su andar cansino, y sus varios kilos de arroz, de fiutas y verduras, y saben de antemano que se trata de ellas, de las amas de casa, que se apuran con sus víveres antes que la mañana se les escape al mediodía y la tarde las transforme nuevamente, y, disfrazándolas de secretarias, enfermeras o maestras, las vuelva otras.
Porque es sólo en ese lapso, entre las ocho y las diez exactamente, que las amas de casa se revelan como lo que son: mutantes que por la mañana se hacen cargo minuto a minuto de los detalles más precisos de otras vidas, para después convertirse en seres burocráticos que trabajan de catorce a veinte y esperan pacientemente el autobús que las retomará puntualmente a su casa para recomenzar al día siguiente el mismo ciclo.
Hay quienes sospechan que se trata de espectros, figuras irreales que transitan por las ferias y los mercados en busca de alimentos y utensilios caserospara luego meterse en un cuerpo ajeno y misterios, que contesta la correspondencia de la oficina y a tiempo el teléfono. Esos son los que dicen que las amas de casa en realidad no existen y que lo que se aprecia haciendo compras en los supermercados son fantasmas escapados de la imaginación de un creador aburrido. Pero otros aseguran que existen, que son de carne y hueso como usted o como yo, y que afloran solamente entre las ocho y las diez de la mañana, con su andar cansino, su mirada abstraída, y sus niños, a sostener el mundo.
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THE MUTANTES
You recognize them immediately by their weary air, their automatic gestures, and their abstracted gaze. They wander among the supermarket aisles between eight and ten in the morning. They push their carts slowly, as if they weighed a ton, placing inside them lettuces, several kilos of tomatoes, apples, bunches of carrots, and beets.
Afterward, with that same absorbed gaze—eyelids half-closed—they wait, disciplined, for their turn at the butcher counter. The clerk asks them what they would like to buy, and they do not answer—as if they had not yet emerged from some sort of trance. Then he asks them a second time; only then are they startled back to reality, returning to the world to say things such as, “Excuse me—two kilos of steaks, please.”
Some carry small children—two or three years old—on the upper shelf of their shopping carts: children who insistently point at items they wish to eat or possess. And patiently, the women explain to them that this item is not necessary, or that that one is not suitable; then they continue their well-worn path—winding past the detergents, the brushes, the jars of jam, and the sweets—with their pale faces, their hair they haven’t had time to fix, their hands reddened by cold water, and their children.
We are speaking of housewives—those who, in the morning, serve neither as secretaries nor office clerks, neither as nurses nor teachers, nor yet as telephone operators or professors (for it is in the afternoon that they transform into “those things”); and thus, they remain simply themselves: housewives. Some say their minds are fixed on prosaic matters—such as the daily lunch or afternoon snack—on mere details like sale prices, sheets waiting to dry, bathing the child, or the due date of the electricity bill. They are accused of devoting their minds to trivialities, such as sewing a button onto a husband’s jacket or picking up a dropped spoon.
In the supermarket, security guards quickly lose interest in them, bored because these women never, ever break a single rule. And to the store clerks, they are little more than automated voices, repeating the same requests for the same quantities time and again. The cashiers watch them approach—with their weary gait and their several kilos of rice, fruit, and vegetables—and know in advance exactly who they are: the housewives, hurrying along with their groceries before the morning slips away into noon, and before the afternoon transforms them once more—disguising them as secretaries, nurses, or teachers—and turns them into someone else entirely.
For it is only during that interval—between eight and ten o’clock, to be precise—that housewives reveal themselves for what they truly are: mutants who, in the morning, take charge—minute by minute—of the most minute details of other people’s lives, only to later transform into bureaucratic beings who work from two in the afternoon until eight in the evening, patiently awaiting the bus that will whisk them punctually back home to begin the same cycle anew the very next day.
There are those who suspect that they are specters—unreal figures drifting through fairs and markets in search of food and household wares, only to subsequently slip into a mysterious, alien body that answers office correspondence and picks up the phone right on cue. These are the ones who claim that housewives do not, in fact, exist—that what one sees doing the shopping in supermarkets are merely ghosts escaped from the imagination of a bored creator. Yet others insist that they do exist—that they are flesh and blood, just like you or me—and that they emerge only between eight and ten in the morning, with their weary gait, their abstracted gaze, and their children, to hold the world together.
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DIME TU SECRETO
¿Cómo encontrarlo, en ese balanceo de caderas y hombros, de piernas entrecruzadas, desplazándose cadenciosas por el gran salón decadente de señeras balconadas? ¿Cómo reconocerlo -“alto, morocho, de buen pasar, sesenta y un años, soy el que tú esperas”-en medio de tantos cuerpos envueltos en traje azul, corbata roja, zapatos negros de cordón? La carta leída por el locutor de la emisora no había sido muy explícita. Hasta el último momento, además, creyó también que no había sido destinada a ella, que había habido una equivocación o una burla. Tal vez deseó realmente que hubiera habido algún error que ese hombre no hubiera respondido, que ella misma no hubiera enviado jamás una carta a ”Dime tu secreto”, audición radial que tres veces por semana, lunes, miércoles y viernes de nueve a diez de la mañana, se ofrecía a poner en contacto a las almas solitarias.
Pero hubo de bajar igualmente hasta la calle, en bata en pleno invierno, a deslizar su ficha en el teléfono, y preguntar a la emisora a quién iba dirigida esa respuesta, y si era para ella, “Ariana Melancólica”, pedir que se la leyeran de nuevo, una y otra vez. Fue entonces cuando los datos del morocho se prendieron como ventosas a su cerebro y comenzaron a producir ardores en sus meandros. Fue entonces que Ariana Melancólica apretó los bordes de esa bata de franela afelpada y subió rápidamente a su pieza, desdeñando por una vez la charla consabida con las otras inquilinas en el patio.
Sostenida por su cartera chata, de raso negro, sobre la que las uñas pintadas parecían gotas de sangre crispada, Ariana Melancólica volvió a echar una rápida mirada a la pista de baile. El salón parecía directamente salido de las páginas de una revista montevideana de los cuarenta y ello la reconfortó. Una sensación de antigua adolescencia ablandó un poco su mirada. Entonces, vio de w1 lado a las mujeres, envaradas, el cuerpo tieso a la vez que ofrecido, retenido por la aparente indiferencia del rostro. Todas, con su secreta edad, amas de casa que parecían haber inte1n1mpido la costura para desplegar sus burbujeos, empleadas domésticas y auxiliares de oficina, y también aquellas sin oficio o de pasar incierto, que lucían sinuosas bajo la malva luz que destitaban las antiguas arañas. Del otro lado, los caballeros, ojeando con conocimiento de causa: maduros, trajeados de protocolo, y con gestos de maniquí de sastrería.
¿Cómo encontrarlo a él entre esos otros -“traje azul, corbata roja, zapatos de cordón”- si todos lucían similares? ¿Cómo detectar al que tendría sin duda su mirada apasionada dirigida solamente a ella, y una incipiente promesa de paraíso?
Entró el bandoneón un tanto deformado por los amplificadores, y parejas recién constituidas, de rostro concentrado, iniciaron el rito fatal de una milonga, en tanto nacía una fila de mujeres solitarias, que se llamaron a bailar entre ellas, con formalismo adusto. Detrás, en un largo banco de madera, oficiaba un público de matrimonios charlatanes comentando el subido espectáculo de una oxigenada de indefinida edad, cuyo escote hiciera perder el equilibrio al mozo y estallar las cervezas.
Ariana Melancólica quiso llorar, pero tuvo pudor de que él. -si estaba allí – percibiera su duelo. En su carta a la emisora, había escrito que era castaña, bien formada, de buen ver, modista fina y con fines serios.
¿Tal vez él la había identificado, pero al constatarla con tantos kilos de más y esa desolación de antigua adolescente, había decidido no interpelarla? ¿Acaso él había intuido que ella en verdad tema cincuenta y ocho y no los cuarenta y cinco declarados?
La orquesta típica chillaba ahora en sus oídos. Caminó entre el gentío como a través de un pasadizo secreto. Tema suspendido su angustia en el esófago y la tragaba lentamente como a un pócima amarga. Estaba ya decidida a desaparecer, doblando su desencanto junto a su pañuelo estrujado, cuando, al levantar la vista, sintió el punzón de una mirada que atravesaba el gentío para inmovilizarla.
“Es él”, se dijo, aunque el saberlo en nada le alivió. Con estupor descubrió un rostro de carne y hueso, todo concentrado en ella, y se sintió avergonzada. Ahora tenía que admitir que él existía, que poseía un cuerpo, cejas tupidas, un traje azul con finas líneas blancas y corbata roja, y esa consistencia de la carne autónoma que ocupaba un lugar en el mundo y respiraba. Hubiera preferido ignorar sus arrugas violetas, el bigote canoso y desparejo, la ansiedad de los ojos hundidos, los pómulos agrisados por una barba rala. Pero ya lo tenía frente a ella, y ya estaban de alguna manera enmarañados en la pista, intentando una coordinación de movimientos.
Ella sintió que él empujaba su cintura gruesa, y a su vez, depositó su brazo blanco y flácido sobre la hombrera del traje azul a rayas. Entonces todo empezó a moverse en derredor: saltaron los sonidos de los pentagramas tintineando en los oídos de Ariana Melancólica, el salón todo se volvió redondo y coloreado, y mientras giraban, las balconadas antiguas, las arañas, los mozos, la cerveza, quedaron sólo siendo un dibujo esfumado en el diseño sedoso de la plétora. Ella tuvo que perder su bolso de raso, su pañuelo, y en medio del gentío que ahora se había adolescente, había decidido no interpelarla? ¿Acaso él había intuido que ella en verdad tema cincuenta y ocho y no los cuarenta y cinco declarados?
La orquesta típica chillaba ahora en sus oídos. Caminó entre el gentío como a través de un pasadizo secreto. Tema suspendido su angustia en el esófago y la tragaba lentamente como a una pócima amarga. Estaba ya decidida a desaparecer, doblando su desencanto junto a su pañuelo estrujado, cuando, al levantar la vista, sintió el punzón de una mirada que atravesaba el gentío para inmovilizarla.
“Es él”, se dijo, aunque el saberlo en nada le alivió. Con estupor descubrió un rostro de carne y hueso, todo concentrado en ella, y se sintió avergonzada. Ahora tenía que admitir que él existía, que poseía un cuerpo, cejas tupidas, un traje azul con finas líneas blancas y corbata roja, y esa consistencia de la carne autónoma que ocupaba un lugar en el mundo y respiraba. Hubiera preferido ignorar sus arrugas violetas, el bigote canoso y desparejo, la ansiedad de los ojos hundidos, los pómulos agrisados por una barba rala. Pero ya lo tenía frente a ella, y ya estaban de alguna manera enmarañados en la pista, intentando una coordinación de movimientos.
Ella sintió que él empujaba su cintura gruesa, y a su vez, depositó su brazo blanco y flácido sobre la hombrera del traje azul a rayas. Entonces todo empezó a moverse en derredor: saltaron los sonidos de los pentagramas tintineando en los oídos de Ariana Melancólica, el salón todo se volvió redondo y coloreado, y mientras giraban, las balconadas antiguas, las arañas, los mozos, la cerveza, quedaron sólo siendo un dibujo esfumado en el diseño sedoso de la plétora. Ella tuvo que perder su bolso de raso, su pañuelo, y en medio del gentío que ahora se habíaadolescente, había decidido no interpelarla? ¿Acaso él había intuido que ella en verdad tema cincuenta y ocho y no los cuarenta y cinco declarados?
La orquesta típica chillaba ahora en sus oídos. Caminó entre el gentío como a través de un pasadizo secreto. Tema suspendido su angustia en el esófago y la tragaba lentamente como a una pócima amarga. Estaba ya decidida a desaparecer, doblando su desencanto junto a su pañuelo estrujado, cuando, al levantar la vista, sintió el punzón de una mirada que atravesaba el gentío para inmovilizarla.
“Es él”, se dijo, aunque el saberlo en nada le alivió. Con estupor descubrió un rostro de carne y hueso, todo concentrado en ella, y se sintió avergonzada. Ahora tenía que admitir que él existía, que poseía un cuerpo, cejas tupidas, un traje azul con finas líneas blancas y corbata roja, y esa consistencia de la carne autónoma que ocupaba un lugar en el mundo y respiraba. Hubiera preferido ignorar sus arrugas violetas, el bigote canoso y desparejo, la ansiedad de los ojos hundidos, los pómulos agrisados por una barba rala. Pero ya lo tenía frente a ella, y ya estaban de alguna manera enmarañados en la pista, intentando una coordinación de movimientos.
Ella sintió que él empujaba su cintura gruesa, y a su vez, depositó su brazo blanco y flácido sobre la hombrera del traje azul a rayas. Entonces todo empezó a moverse en derredor: saltaron los sonidos de los pentagramas tintineando en los oídos de Ariana Melancólica, el salón todo se volvió redondo y coloreado, y mientras giraban, las balconadas antiguas, las arañas, los mozos, la cerveza, quedaron sólo siendo un dibujo esfumado en el diseño sedoso de la plétora. Ella tuvo que perder su bolso de raso, su pañuelo, y en medio del gentío que ahora se había adolescente, había decidido no interpelarla? ¿Acaso él había intuido que ella en verdad tema cincuenta y ocho y no los cuarenta y cinco declarados?
La orquesta típica chillaba ahora en sus oídos. Caminó entre el gentío como a través de un pasadizo secreto. Tema suspendido su angustia en el esófago y la tragaba lentamente como a una pócima amarga. Estaba ya decidida a desaparecer, doblando su desencanto junto a su pañuelo estrujado, cuando, al levantar la vista, sintió el punzón de una mirada que atravesaba el gentío para inmovilizarla.
“Es él”, se dijo, aunque el saberlo en nada le alivió. Con estupor descubrió un rostro de carne y hueso, todo concentrado en ella, y se sintió avergonzada. Ahora tenía que admitir que él existía, que poseía un cuerpo, cejas tupidas, un traje azul con finas líneas blancas y corbata roja, y esa consistencia de la carne autónoma que ocupaba un lugar en el mundo y respiraba. Hubiera preferido ignorar sus arrugas violetas, el bigote canoso y desparejo, la ansiedad de los ojos hundidos, los pómulos agrisados por una barba rala. Pero ya lo tenía frente a ella, y ya estaban de alguna manera enmarañados en la pista, intentando una coordinación de movimientos.
Ella sintió que él empujaba su cintura gruesa, y a su vez, depositó su brazo blanco y flácido sobre la hombrera del traje azul a rayas. Entonces todo empezó a moverse en derredor: saltaron los sonidos de los pentagramas tintineando en los oídos de Ariana Melancólica, el salón todo se volvió redondo y coloreado, y mientras giraban, las balconadas antiguas, las arañas, los mozos, la cerveza, quedaron sólo siendo un dibujo esfumado en el diseño sedoso de la plétora. Ella tuvo que perder su bolso de raso, su pañuelo, y en medio del gentío que ahora se había apartado con curioso respeto para mirarlos bailar, ella sintió que también perdía su vestido -de señora cauta de prudente conducta – e iba quedando desnuda, toda abrasada por ese hombre que latía. Se abrieron entonces sus grandes senos lácteos, y sus muslos se engrasaron sinuosos sobre el cuerpo de él que ahora era sino su propio cuerpo, entreverado con ella hermafrodita, girando en la milonga violácea de la pista.
Fue cuando ella le habló así de desnuda y abrasada, le habló al oído de él que tocaba con su boca. “Mis amigas decían que esto de la radio era todo un invento”, le dijo. “Que nadie respondía a las cartas’‘, le dijo. “Pero ahora me doy cuenta que no sabían nada”, le dijo. “Que Ud. sí me respondió y que su carta fue verdadera”, le dijo. ”¿Qué carta?”, preguntó él y repitió “¿Qué carta?” Y agregó después: “Yo no envié ninguna carta”. Pero ella ya estaba toda ardida por él en el baile impúdico, y no pudo escucharlo.
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TELL ME YOUR SECRET
How was she to find him—amidst that swaying of hips and shoulders, that crossing and uncrossing of legs, moving rhythmically through the grand, decadent ballroom with its stately balconies? How was she to recognize him—”tall, dark-haired, well-to-do, sixty-one years old; I am the one you are waiting for”—amidst so many bodies clad in blue suits, red ties, and black lace-up shoes? The letter read aloud by the radio announcer had not been very explicit. Moreover, right up until the very last moment, she had believed that it was not intended for her at all—that there had been a mistake, or perhaps a cruel hoax. Perhaps, deep down, she truly wished there had been a mistake—that this man had never replied, that she herself had never actually sent a letter to “Tell Me Your Secret,” the radio program that, three times a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from nine to ten in the morning—offered to bring lonely souls together.
Yet she felt compelled to go down to the street regardless—clad only in her bathrobe in the dead of winter—to drop a coin into the payphone and ask the station who the reply was addressed to; and then, confirming it was indeed meant for her—”Ariana Melancólica”—to ask them to read it to her again, over and over. It was then that the details regarding the dark-haired man latched onto her brain like suction cups, beginning to burn deep within its winding corridors. It was then that Ariana Melancólica clutched the edges of her plush flannel bathrobe tight and hurried back up to her room, forgoing—just this once—the customary chatter with the other boarders out in the courtyard.
Clutching her flat, black satin evening bag—upon which her painted fingernails looked like drops of clotted blood—Ariana Melancólica cast another quick glance at the dance floor. The ballroom seemed lifted straight from the pages of a 1940s Montevideo magazine, and this brought her comfort. A sense of her own distant adolescence softened her gaze ever so slightly. Then, to one side, she saw the women: stiff and rigid, their bodies held taut yet simultaneously offered up—restrained only by the apparent indifference of their faces. All of them, with their secret ages—housewives who looked as if they had paused their sewing to come out and sparkle; domestic servants and office clerks; and also those with no trade, or of uncertain means, who looked sinuous beneath the mauve light glinting from the antique chandeliers. On the other side stood the gentlemen, sizing up the scene with a knowing eye: middle-aged, clad in formal suits, and moving with the stiff gestures of tailor-shop mannequins.
How was she to find him amidst all the others—”blue suit, red tie, lace-up shoes”—when they all looked so alike? How could she spot the one whose passionate gaze would undoubtedly be fixed solely upon her, carrying with it the nascent promise of paradise?
The bandoneon entered—its sound slightly distorted by the amplifiers—and newly formed couples, their faces etched with concentration, began the fateful ritual of a milonga; meanwhile, a line of solitary women took shape, inviting one another to dance with a stern, formal air. Behind them, seated on a long wooden bench, a crowd of chatty married couples held court, commenting on the risqué spectacle provided by a peroxide blonde of indeterminate age—a woman whose plunging neckline had caused a waiter to lose his balance and send a tray of beers crashing to the floor.
Ariana Melancólica felt the urge to weep, yet she felt too self-conscious—lest he (if, indeed, he was there) should perceive her sorrow. In her letter to the radio station, she had written that she was a brunette—well-figured, good-looking, a skilled dressmaker, and a woman seeking a serious relationship.
Perhaps he had recognized her, but upon seeing her—burdened by so many extra pounds and that desolation of a former adolescent—had decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight rather than the forty-five she claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the crowd as if passing through a secret passageway. She felt her anguish suspended in her throat, swallowing it slowly like a bitter potion. She had already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare cutting through the crowd to pin her in place.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she beheld a face of flesh and blood—every feature focused entirely on her—and she felt a flush of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and the gray pallor of his cheekbones beneath a sparse stubble. But there he stood, right before her; and now, somehow, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
She felt him pressing against her ample waist, and in turn, she rested her pale, flaccid arm upon the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then, everything around them began to spin: notes seemed to leap from the musical staffs, tinkling in Ariana Melancólica’s ears; the entire ballroom swirled into a kaleidoscope of color and curves; and as they turned, the antique balconies, the chandeliers, the waiters, and the beer all dissolved into a mere blurred sketch—a silky, indistinct pattern within that overwhelming plenitude. She had lost her satin purse, her handkerchief; and amidst the crowd—which had now taken on a distinctly youthful air—had he decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight years old, and not the forty-five she had claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the throng as if passing through a secret corridor. She felt her anguish suspended in her esophagus, swallowing it slowly like a bitter draught. She was already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare piercing through the crowd to pin her in place.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she discovered a face of flesh and blood—entirely focused upon her—and she felt a flush of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and the gray pallor of his cheekbones beneath a sparse stubble. But now he stood right before her; and now, in some inexplicable way, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
She felt him pressing against her ample waist; and in turn, she rested her pale, flaccid arm upon the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then, everything around them began to spin: sounds leaped from the musical staffs, tinkling in Ariana Melancólica’s ears; the entire ballroom seemed to turn round and burst into color; and as they twirled, the antique balconies, the chandeliers, the waiters, and the beer all dissolved into nothing more than a blurred sketch—a silky, shimmering pattern within that overwhelming plenitude. She had to lose her satin purse, her handkerchief—and amidst the crowd that had now taken on a youthful air—had he decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight years old, and not the forty-five she had claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the crowd as if through a secret passageway. She felt her anguish suspended in her throat, swallowing it slowly like a bitter potion. She was already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare piercing through the crowd to hold her fast.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she discovered a face of flesh and blood—focused entirely upon her—and she felt a pang of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—and that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and his cheekbones grayed by a sparse stubble. But now he stood right before her; and now, in some inexplicable way, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
Perhaps he had recognized her, but upon seeing her—burdened by so many extra pounds and that desolation of a former adolescent—had decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight rather than the forty-five she claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the crowd as if passing through a secret passageway. She felt her anguish suspended in her throat, swallowing it slowly like a bitter potion. She had already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare cutting through the crowd to pin her in place.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she beheld a face of flesh and blood—every feature focused entirely on her—and she felt a flush of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and the gray pallor of his cheekbones beneath a sparse stubble. But there he stood, right before her; and now, somehow, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
She felt him pressing against her ample waist, and in turn, she rested her pale, flaccid arm upon the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then, everything around them began to spin: notes seemed to leap from the musical staffs, tinkling in Ariana Melancólica’s ears; the entire ballroom swirled into a kaleidoscope of color and curves; and as they turned, the antique balconies, the chandeliers, the waiters, and the beer all dissolved into a mere blurred sketch—a silky, indistinct pattern within that overwhelming plenitude. She had lost her satin purse, her handkerchief; and amidst the crowd—which had now taken on a distinctly youthful air—had he decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight years old, and not the forty-five she had claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the throng as if passing through a secret corridor. She felt her anguish suspended in her esophagus, swallowing it slowly like a bitter draught. She was already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare piercing through the crowd to pin her in place.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she discovered a face of flesh and blood—entirely focused upon her—and she felt a flush of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and the gray pallor of his cheekbones beneath a sparse stubble. But now he stood right before her; and now, in some inexplicable way, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
She felt him pressing against her ample waist; and in turn, she rested her pale, flaccid arm upon the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then, everything around them began to spin: sounds leaped from the musical staffs, tinkling in Ariana Melancólica’s ears; the entire ballroom seemed to turn round and burst into color; and as they twirled, the antique balconies, the chandeliers, the waiters, and the beer all dissolved into nothing more than a blurred sketch—a silky, shimmering pattern within that overwhelming plenitude. She had to lose her satin purse, her handkerchief—and amidst the crowd that had now taken on a youthful air—had he decided not to approach her? Had he perhaps sensed that she was, in truth, fifty-eight years old, and not the forty-five she had claimed?
The típica orchestra now shrieked in her ears. She walked through the crowd as if through a secret passageway. She felt her anguish suspended in her throat, swallowing it slowly like a bitter potion. She was already resolved to vanish—folding up her disillusionment alongside her crumpled handkerchief—when, lifting her gaze, she felt the sharp prick of a stare piercing through the crowd to hold her fast.
“It’s him,” she told herself, though knowing it brought her no relief whatsoever. With stupefaction, she discovered a face of flesh and blood—focused entirely upon her—and she felt a pang of shame. Now she had to admit that he existed; that he possessed a body, bushy eyebrows, a blue suit with fine white pinstripes and a red tie—and that tangible solidity of autonomous flesh that occupied a space in the world and breathed. She would have preferred to remain oblivious to his violet-hued wrinkles, his graying, uneven mustache, the anxiety in his sunken eyes, and his cheekbones grayed by a sparse stubble. But now he stood right before her; and now, in some inexplicable way, they were already entangled on the dance floor, attempting to coordinate their movements.
She felt him pressing against her thick waist, and in turn, she rested her pale, flaccid arm upon the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then, everything began to move. She felt him press against her ample waist, and in turn, she draped her pale, fleshy arm over the padded shoulder of his blue pinstripe suit. Then everything around them began to spin: sounds—like musical notes tinkling on a staff—leapt and chimed in Ariana Melancólica’s ears; the entire ballroom swirled into a blur of color and motion. As they turned, the antique balconies, the chandeliers, the waiters, and the beer all dissolved into nothing more than a hazy sketch within the silky, swirling tapestry of the crowd. She felt her satin handbag slip away, then her handkerchief; and amidst the throng—which had now parted with a curious, respectful deference to watch them dance—she felt her very dress falling away as well—the dress of a cautious lady of prudent conduct—leaving her utterly naked, consumed by the burning heat of this man who throbbed against her. Her large, milky breasts seemed to spill open, and her thighs—sinuous and yielding—slid against his body, which now felt like nothing other than her own, fused with hers in a hermaphroditic embrace, spinning within the violet haze of the dance floor.
It was then—naked and aflame as she was—that she spoke to him, whispering into the very ear her lips were grazing. “My friends used to say this whole ‘radio’ business was just a sham,” she told him. “They said nobody ever actually answered the letters,” she said. “But now I realize they didn’t know a thing,” she said. “That you did answer me, and that your letter was real,” she said. “What letter?” he asked, then repeated: “What letter?” And a moment later, he added: “I didn’t send any letter.” But she was already burning too fiercely for him, lost in the shameless abandon of the dance, and she could not hear him.
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