A Crack in the Wall by Claudia Piñeiro

highlighted in yellow that he had taken out of another file and now held in front of his eyes, closer than seemed necessary, as if the lenses’ magnification factor were not enough. “In Article 5.2.2.6 it states that ‘the excavations shall be done in such a way as to ensure the stability of retaining walls and vertical cuts etc. etc., unless a soil survey indicates that underpinning is not necessary.’” When he had finished reading, he pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and looked Pablo straight in the eye, in a way that seemed calculated to intimidate. “However, in the land survey your company presented to the municipality, engineer…” He paused, trying for a moment to bring to mind the elusive name, then, not finding it, was obliged to put on his glasses again to read a fuzzy photocopy that he took out of an envelope bearing the words “Various Documents”. “Zanotti, engineer LuisZanotti… did not say at any point that underpinning was not necessary and you – I’ve got all this photocopied – you went ahead with the work, without underpinning and with longer transverse cuts than are permitted.”
    â€œForgive me, Señor Jara,” Pablo interrupted, “but what has all this got to do with your crack?”
    â€œBecause my crack – as you call it, and quite rightly, because it is mine, in my apartment where I sit down to eat opposite it at lunch and dinner every day, where I measure it, take photographs of it, even talk to it – can you believe I sometimes even speak to that wall, arquitecto ?” He waited for a reply but, since Pablo gave none, continued. “My crack, as I was saying, appeared while your people were digging without underpinning. You caused it; the work you were doing caused it. That’s all there is to it.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be so categorical. There are all manner of technical details to take into account,” Pablo began, but this time Jara was the one to interrupt.
    â€œThe lack of underpinning caused structural collapse, which then set off a series of movements, causing the ground to shift underneath my building,” he said. His choice of words and intonation made Jara sound as though he were reciting a report he had made an effort to learn and commit to memory.
    â€œYou sound more expert on the subject than I am,” Pablo said dryly.
    â€œThe circumstances have obliged me to become an expert, and those same circumstances oblige you to offer me something more than the miserable offer of a plastering job. You’re going to have to think of something else, arquitecto .”
    With this Jara took off his glasses again, reassumed the smile of a tie salesman and waited. Neither of them moved, each holding the other’s gaze while saying nothing – Jarabecause he was waiting for Simó’s proposal, Pablo because he still couldn’t think what to say. Then, for want of a better alternative, Pablo Simó said:
    â€œGive me a moment, Señor Jara. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
    Standing in front of the urinal, watching his piss fall onto the little balls of naphthalene dancing against the white porcelain, Pablo Simó considered his options. It was obvious that this man, owner of the ugliest pair of shoes Pablo had ever seen, had a stronger case than any other aggrieved neighbours he had had to deal with on past jobs. It was also obvious that Jara wouldn’t easily be placated, that he was brandishing all this legal terminology with the clear intention of applying pressure – there were other words that Pablo didn’t yet dare to think of, “extortion”, for example – and obtaining a favourable response to his claim. What he could not yet understand was what exactly Nelson Jara wanted. Pablo had already offered to have the wall mended, he could even offer to get it done as soon as possible, but Jara had said nothing about a time