Mouthful of Birds(25)

She waited several days at home, with no mother and no job, not really knowing what to do. When the food and money ran out, she left the apartment to walk around the neighborhood, and she came across a “Help Wanted” sign on a building that said INSTITUTE. The work was simple, and paid well. She was hired immediately. The money from the first months left her enough to paint the apartment and buy some furniture. She threw away the pages hanging on the walls. She went out in the morning in her uniform and walked to the institute. She unlocked the doors, filled out forms, went with the women to the changing room, opened the hall, set out the materials, monitored the woman on the cot, collected the hairs, tied the bag, delivered the bag, sent the women on their way, paid the woman on the cot, turned out the lights, locked the door. At home she organized the groceries, made dinner, ate in front of the TV, washed the dishes, showered, brushed her teeth, made the bed, and lay down to sleep. Sometimes the forms ran out and she had to go to the stationery store for more. Or the women on the cot moved and she had to discount points from their salaries. Or she couldn’t find what she wanted to eat for dinner, and she went to bed earlier than usual.



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The assistant went to reception and saw through the window that it was nighttime. She put the bag away in a cabinet under the counter alongside three other identical bags, and she locked the cabinet. When she opened it the next day they would be gone. Someone would come for them after she left. In the city, everything unseemly moved at night.

The women came downstairs in their street clothes and said goodbye before going outside. That left only the woman on the cot, who must be dressed now and waiting for her upstairs. She went up and opened the hall again, and was surprised to see that the woman on the cot was still naked. She was sitting on the cot, hugging her knees with her forehead on her arms. Her back shuddered. She was crying. It was the first time this had ever happened, and the assistant didn’t quite know what to do. She thought about leaving the room and coming back a few minutes later, but instead she took out her notebook, went over the accounts aloud, and handed the woman on the cot the ticket with her money. Then the woman on the cot looked at her, for the first time. And the assistant felt an impulse, her stomach contracted a little, mechanically, her lungs took in air, her lips opened, her tongue hung in the air, waiting, as if she were going to ask the woman on the cot a question. A question like what? That was what closed her mouth. Was she all right? All right in what respect? In no way was she going to ask the question, though the distance between their bodies was appropriate and they were alone in the building; it was just something slow-moving in her head. But it was the woman on the cot who steadied her breathing and said:

“Are you all right?”

The assistant waited. She wanted to see what happened, to understand what was happening, what it was exactly that she was being asked. She felt something intense in her throat, a sharp pain that brought up the image of the books on the pine table, the pages of the two Olingirises, one next to the other, and as if it were a second chance, she looked desperately for a difference, in the eyes, in the scales, in the fins, the colors.





MY BROTHER WALTER


My brother Walter is depressed. My wife and I visit him every night after work. We buy something to eat—he’s partial to chicken and french fries—and ring his bell around nine. He comes to the door right away and asks, “Who is it . . . ?” My wife says, “It’s us!” and he says, “Oh . . .” and lets us in.

He has a dozen people a day call him to see how he is. He always picks up the phone with effort, as if it weighs a ton, and says:

“Yes?”

And the people talk as though my brother fed off stupidity. If I ask him who it is or what they want, he’s incapable of answering. He’s not interested in the slightest. He is so depressed that it doesn’t even bother him that we’re there, because it’s the same as if he were alone.

Some Saturdays, my mother and Aunt Claris take him to events at the assembly hall, and Walter sits there amid the forty-something birthday girls, the bachelors, and the newlyweds. Aunt Claris, who always looks for the most arcane side of the simplest things, says that the more depressed Walter is, the happier people around him feel. Now, that’s really dumb. What is true, though, is that for a few months now things in our family have been improving.

For instance, my sister finally married Galdós. At the reception, among a group of people at my brother’s table drinking champagne and crying with laughter, my mother met Mr. Kito, and now she lives with him. Mr. Kito has cancer, but the man has a lot of energy. He’s always enthusiastic, and he’s very attentive with my mother. He owns a large cereal company, and he’s also a childhood friend of Aunt Claris’s. Galdós and my sister bought a farm far from the city, and we’ve all gotten into the habit of spending weekends there. My wife and I go pick up Walter first thing on Saturday, and by noon everyone is at the farm, waiting by the grill with a glass of wine and that immense happiness that comes with sunny days in fresh air.

We’ve missed only one weekend so far, because Walter had the flu and refused to get into the car. I felt like I should let the others know he wasn’t going, and then everyone started calling everyone else, wondering if it was worth meeting up without him. By the time Galdós was serving up the barbecue, we had all backed out of the event.