advertising photos for a night cream. She had sent the photographs home, in an envelope, with some money. For a few months she had tried to succeed with singing, but it didn’t work out. Things went better with the ads. Nail polish, lipstick, once some kind of eye-drops for redness. She had given up on movies. They said you had to go to bed with everyone, and she didn’t want to do that. One day she heard they were looking for TV
87
announcers. She went to a tryout. Since she was wonderfully self-confident and had a pretty, common voice, she passed the first three tryouts and ended up in second place. They told her she could wait, and maybe something would open up. She waited. After two months she got a job doing radio shows, on the first national channel.
One day she went home.
She had married well.
Now she had a café, in the center of town.
The woman—the one at the table—leaned forward slightly. The man had stopped crying a little before. He had pulled out of his pocket a big handkerchief and had dried the tears. He had said:
“I’m sorry.”
Then they had said nothing else.
It seemed, indeed, that they no longer had anything to understand, together.
And yet at a certain point the woman leaned toward the man again and said:
88
“I must ask you something a little stupid.”
The man looked up at her.
The woman seemed very serious.
“Would you like to make love to me?”
The man stared at her, motionless, silent.
So the woman was afraid for a moment that she had said nothing, that she had only thought of saying those words without having in fact done so. So she repeated them, slowly.
“Would you like to make love to me?”
The man smiled.
“I’m old,” he said.
“So am I.”
“ . . . ”
“ . . . ”
“I’m sorry, but we’re old,” the man said again.
The woman realized she hadn’t thought about that, and had nothing to say about it. Then something else occurred to her and she said:
“I’m not mad.”
89
“It doesn’t matter if you are. Really. To me it doesn’t matter. It’s not that.”
The woman thought for a moment and then said:
“Don’t worry, we can go to a hotel, you can choose it. A hotel that no one knows.”
Then the man seemed to understand something.
“You want us to go to a hotel?” he asked.
“Yes. I would like that. Take me to a hotel.”
He said slowly:
“A hotel room.”
He spoke as if by pronouncing the words it had become easier for him to imagine the room, to see it, to understand if he would like to die there.
The woman said he mustn’t be afraid.
“I’m not afraid,” he said.
I will never be afraid again, he thought.
The woman smiled because he was quiet and this seemed to her a way of saying yes.
She looked for something in her bag, then she took out a small purse and pushed it across the table, to the man.
90
“Pay with this. I don’t like women who pay in a café, but I invited you, and I’ll stick to it. Take this. Then give it back to me when we’re outside.”
The man took the little purse.
He thought of an old man paying with a purse of black satin.
They crossed the city in a taxi that seemed new and still had plastic on the seats. The woman looked out the window the whole time. They were streets she had never seen.
They got out in front of a hotel called California. The sign went vertically up the four floors of the building, in big red letters that lighted up one by one. When the word was complete it shone for a little while, then went out completely and began again from the first letter. C. Ca.
Cal. Cali. Calif. Califo. Califor. Californi. California. California. California. California. Darkness.
They stood there for a little while, one beside the other, looking at the hotel from the outside. Then the 91
woman said, “Let’s go,” and moved toward the door.
The man followed her.
The desk clerk looked at their papers and asked if they wanted a double room. But without any inflection in his
87
announcers. She went to a tryout. Since she was wonderfully self-confident and had a pretty, common voice, she passed the first three tryouts and ended up in second place. They told her she could wait, and maybe something would open up. She waited. After two months she got a job doing radio shows, on the first national channel.
One day she went home.
She had married well.
Now she had a café, in the center of town.
The woman—the one at the table—leaned forward slightly. The man had stopped crying a little before. He had pulled out of his pocket a big handkerchief and had dried the tears. He had said:
“I’m sorry.”
Then they had said nothing else.
It seemed, indeed, that they no longer had anything to understand, together.
And yet at a certain point the woman leaned toward the man again and said:
88
“I must ask you something a little stupid.”
The man looked up at her.
The woman seemed very serious.
“Would you like to make love to me?”
The man stared at her, motionless, silent.
So the woman was afraid for a moment that she had said nothing, that she had only thought of saying those words without having in fact done so. So she repeated them, slowly.
“Would you like to make love to me?”
The man smiled.
“I’m old,” he said.
“So am I.”
“ . . . ”
“ . . . ”
“I’m sorry, but we’re old,” the man said again.
The woman realized she hadn’t thought about that, and had nothing to say about it. Then something else occurred to her and she said:
“I’m not mad.”
89
“It doesn’t matter if you are. Really. To me it doesn’t matter. It’s not that.”
The woman thought for a moment and then said:
“Don’t worry, we can go to a hotel, you can choose it. A hotel that no one knows.”
Then the man seemed to understand something.
“You want us to go to a hotel?” he asked.
“Yes. I would like that. Take me to a hotel.”
He said slowly:
“A hotel room.”
He spoke as if by pronouncing the words it had become easier for him to imagine the room, to see it, to understand if he would like to die there.
The woman said he mustn’t be afraid.
“I’m not afraid,” he said.
I will never be afraid again, he thought.
The woman smiled because he was quiet and this seemed to her a way of saying yes.
She looked for something in her bag, then she took out a small purse and pushed it across the table, to the man.
90
“Pay with this. I don’t like women who pay in a café, but I invited you, and I’ll stick to it. Take this. Then give it back to me when we’re outside.”
The man took the little purse.
He thought of an old man paying with a purse of black satin.
They crossed the city in a taxi that seemed new and still had plastic on the seats. The woman looked out the window the whole time. They were streets she had never seen.
They got out in front of a hotel called California. The sign went vertically up the four floors of the building, in big red letters that lighted up one by one. When the word was complete it shone for a little while, then went out completely and began again from the first letter. C. Ca.
Cal. Cali. Calif. Califo. Califor. Californi. California. California. California. California. Darkness.
They stood there for a little while, one beside the other, looking at the hotel from the outside. Then the 91
woman said, “Let’s go,” and moved toward the door.
The man followed her.
The desk clerk looked at their papers and asked if they wanted a double room. But without any inflection in his
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