With the same handwriting that I had written: âDetailed account of salaries paid to personnel in the month of August, 1930â, I had also written: âDear Isabelâ, twice a week. Isabel lived in Melo at the time and I wrote to her every Tuesday and Friday without fail. That had been, well, my handwriting as a boyfriend. I smiled, carried along by my memories, and the auditor smiled with me. Afterwards, he asked me for another list of headings.
Saturday 20 April
Could I be dried up? Emotionally, I mean.
Monday 22 April
Some new confessions from Santini. Once again they were about his little seventeen-year-old sister. He says that when his parents are out, she comes into his room and dances almost naked in front of him. âShe has one of those two-piece bathing suits, you know? Well, when she comes into my room to dance, she removes the top piece,â Santini said. âAnd what do you do?â I asked. âI ⦠get nervous,â Santini replied. I told him that if the
only thing he did was get nervous, then there was no danger. âBut, sir, thatâs immoral,â Santini said, rotating his wrist with the little chain and medal. âAnd her, what reason does she give for dancing in front of you almost naked?â I asked. âJust imagine, sir, she says that I donât like women and that sheâs going to cure me of that,â Santini replied. âAnd is that true?â I asked. âWell, even if it was true ⦠she has no reason to do what she does ⦠for her own sake ⦠it seems to me,â Santini replied. Then I resigned myself to asking him the question he had been seeking of me for a long time: âAnd what about men, do you like them?â He rotated his wrist with the little chain and medal again and said: âBut thatâs immoral, sir,â gave me a wink that was midway between mischievous and lewd, and, before I could add anything, asked: âOr donât you think so?â I angrily brushed him aside, and gave him one of those really tedious projects to work on. Now he has enough work to last him at least ten days without raising his head. Thatâs all I needed: a queer in the section. It looks like he is the kind who âhas scruplesâ. What a gem. Nevertheless, one thing is true: thereâs more to his sister than meets the eye.
Wednesday 24 April
Today, like every 24 April, we had dinner together. There is a good reason: Estebanâs birthday. I think we all feel a bit forced to show our happiness. Esteban didnât even seem excited; he told a few jokes, and stoically endured our embraces.
The meal Blanca prepared was the high point of the evening. This naturally predisposes one to being in a good mood. It isnât completely absurd that Chicken à la Portugaise would make me feel more optimistic than a potato omelette. Hasnât it occurred to any sociologist to conduct a thorough analysis of the
influence of digestion on Uruguayan culture, economy and politics? My God, how we eat! In happiness, pain, fear and discouragement. Our sensibility is primordially digestive. Our innate democratic calling is based on an old assumption: âWe all need to eat.â Our believers care only partly that God will forgive their doubts, but in turn get down on their knees with tears in their eyes, and pray they will not go without their daily bread. And that Daily Bread isnât â Iâm sure â a mere symbol: itâs a 2 lb German loaf.
Well, we ate well, drank a good claret and celebrated with Esteban. After dinner, while we were slowly stirring our coffee, Blanca made a sudden announcement: she has a boyfriend. Jaime gave her a strange, undefined look (What is Jaime? Who is Jaime? What does Jaime want?). Esteban cheerfully asked the name of the âunfortunate guyâ. I think I felt happy for her and made it obvious. âAnd when are we going to meet this lovely man?â I asked. âLook, Dad,
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