A Crack in the Wall by Claudia Piñeiro Page A

frame. “You’re going to have to think of something else,” was what he had said, and Pablo Simó was particularly struck by those words “something else”. He pulled up his zip and went over to the basins. As he washed his hands, he felt displeased by his reflection in the mirror: not by the bags under his eyes – they had been with him for years – nor by the hair, which at this point in the month was too long to be neatly combed and not yet long enough to merit a haircut; it was probably the teeth, which, although Pablo brushed them meticulously, were beginning to look yellowish along their upper edges. He thought grimly that he would have to live with discoloured teeth until the time came to swap them for false ones. He wasn’t really sure which featurewas most to blame; he just knew that he didn’t like what he saw. His hands still wet, he dug his fingers like claws into the quiff that flopped over his face and combed it back off his forehead. The reflection barely changed. With the tip of his index finger he tried to rub his front teeth and incisors, also without improvement. He closed his mouth and thought of speaking to the image looking out of the mirror, except that no words came to mind. The light flickered; suspecting that the bulb was loose, Pablo stretched up onto the balls of his feet to adjust it. An image came to mind of Jara in his flat, balancing on tiptoe like him, up on a chair measuring the crack in his wall. The bulb was hot: it burned his fingertips and he swore aloud. He turned on the tap again, putting his fingers in the stream of cold water. There was knocking at the door and Jara, who must have heard him shout, called from outside.
    â€œEverything all right, arquitecto ?”
    â€œYes, yes, I’ll be out in a minute,” he answered.
    â€œCan I help you with anything?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Pablo said.
    â€œYou definitely don’t need anything?” the man insisted.
    â€œNo,” Pablo said emphatically, hoping to deter any more questions.
    Before closing the tap, he washed his face, rubbing it hard, as he did first thing in the mornings when he was trying to wake up and get Marta out of his head before Laura read her presence in his face. “How does this guy plan to help someone swearing in a lavatory?” he thought.
    â€œShall we carry on, arquitecto ?”
    Pablo looked up and saw the reflection of Nelson Jara, who was peeping through a gap in the door now, chin resting on the latch, smiling at him.
    â€œI’ll just dry my face, then I’m with you,” Pablo said, and though he would have liked to add “You could at least let me have a piss on my own,” he settled for glaring at the image of the man reflected in the mirror until Jara, whether or not in reaction to Pablo’s irritation, closed the door again.
    His face was wet and he couldn’t bring himself to dry it with the hand-towels Borla always bought, which were as hard as sandpaper – “At least you get a free facelift,” he had quipped to Marta once when she complained about it, and she didn’t find the joke at all funny. He wondered if the man waiting for him with piles of documents about his cracked wall woke up alone every morning, or if he lived with someone; was there a Señora Jara, or was he a widower? Did he have children, grandchildren even? And although he didn’t know the answer he felt sure that, even if he did share his life with someone, for Nelson Jara there was nothing more important in the world than the crack that was gradually opening up his wall and which Pablo had been ordered by Borla to ignore.
    Some minutes later, Pablo Simó came out of the lavatory and sat down again at his desk. Jara hardly let him settle into his chair before asking:
    â€œIs an inch enough, arquitecto ?”
    Pablo didn’t understand.
    â€œAn inch and one-eighth, to be precise,” Jara went on.