La Grande (42 page)

—Of course, Virginia says. And if it goes to hell, too. How about we meet at Déjà Vu, the little bar on the boulevard across from the Alianza Francesa, at nine fifteen? I get off at eight, and that'll give me time to change.

—Sounds perfect, Nula says, and he makes a small, parodic bow that produces in Virginia sudden, happy, surprised laughter. Don't change too much, he says, because you're perfect the way you are.

Virginia shakes her head, defeated, and waits for him to come around the table before starting to walk. When they go out to the
passageway, the music is interrupted and a masculine voice interjects the sonorous flow audible even in the most distant corner of the hypermarket:
Two announcements, one for children and another for everyone over eighteen: In the toy section, there's a raffle for a soccer ball, in honor of the Sunday Clásico; no purchase necessary, the raffle tickets are available at every register in the hyper. For the adults, starting at five o'clock and continuing all week, in the beverage section, there's a free tasting from the prestigious Amigos del Vino, introducing a new line of red and white wines for the selective palate, at moderate prices designed for the discerning clientele of the Warden hypermarket
. The voice is cut off and the volume of the music increases slowly, reoccupying, alone, the ambient space.

—What do you think? Virginia says.

—Exactly what we hoped for, Nula says.

When they are close to the intersection where the stand has been set up, Nula sees Américo and Chela, approaching in the opposite direction that he and Virginia are, and when they're almost there, Nula raises his arm, exposing his wrist watch, and shakes his head with exaggerated amazement.

—Perfect timing! he says when they arrive.

And Américo, falsely solemn and serious, announces: Punctuality is the politeness of kings.

The four of them smile at each other.

—This is Ms. Virginia, who runs the beverage section for Warden. Américo, my esteemed foreman, distinguished proconsul of the northeast region for the best wines in Argentina, and Chela, his exquisite wife, Nula says.

—Ms. Virginia, charmed, Américo says, shaking her hand while he points to Nula with the other hand: Trust me when I tell you never to buy a used car from this youngster.

The four of them laugh and approach the stand. Two girls, dressed alike—a white, short-sleeved blouse and a light green
pleated skirt—are standing on either side of the stand, which is a narrow, collapsible counter at the ends of which two vertical metal bars sustain a sectioned wooden board painted a green similar to the skirts and on which a vine has been painted on one end and the word Amigos del Vino Tasting on the other. Two open bottles of white wine sit in a small ice bucket, and, on the counter, two of red, along with several rows of plastic cups and a stack of colorful brochures. Behind the stand, the shelves are full of bottles of red and white wine, differentiated only by the color of the label. Chela approaches the girls and gives each of them a kiss on the cheek.

—Steady, girls, this only lasts a week, she says.

—Alright, Américo, Nula says. A few words to start us off.

—Always remember that Amigos del Vino isn't a sect, but a revealed religion, Américo says.

—Exactly, Nula says. I present to you the selected fragments of its godless mystic: the divine Omar.

Reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, he pulls out the carefully folded white pages and hands them over.

—With this, no one can stop us, Américo says, and he puts them in the side pocket of his own jacket. Then, turning to Virginia, he says, Have you ever tried our product, ma'am?

—Of course. Behind the scenes, last week. It's high quality; otherwise, it wouldn't be here.

From the end of the aisle perpendicular to them, Moro, the real estate agent, makes his sudden appearance.

—Morito! Américo says. They've known each other since high school, and he held one of the first positions in the reliable client list that he gave Nula when he debuted as a salesman.

—Américo, Moro says. And, turning to the others, he says, ironically, I heard them announce the event over the loudspeakers and decided to come by. Good thing I did, with the chief maximus here in person.

One of the girls approaches him:

—Would you like a taste, sir?

Unsure, Moro quizzes first Américo and then Nula, the experts who guide his wine consumption, with his eyes:

—It's a high-quality product, Américo insists with a serious expression, further accentuated when he explains the premise of the marketing campaign they're putting on: We want to put an end to the scandal that in a democratic society the table wines within reach of every budget are always terrible quality.

—And you, Nula? Moro says.

—Don't think I'm going to commit
harakiri
contradicting my boss, Nula says, pleased to hear the others' laugher, especially Virginia's, which sounded vaguely surprised and somewhat stronger than the everyone else. But he adds, in a confidential tone, gesturing to the girls at the same time: Try the white and then tell us.

—Why not? Moro says.

The girl takes out a bottle of white from the ice bucket, pours a small amount of wine in one of the plastic cups, and extends it to Moro.

—Would anyone else like to try? the girl says.

—I'm saving myself for later, Virginia says, an apparently innocent sentence that Nula interprets as directed to him and overflowing with suggestion. And she adds: I have to get back to my office. Friday's are always crazy. Make yourselves at home.

Moro, seeing her walk away, beautiful, impeccable, and attractive, her firm body draped in yellow cloth, on high heels that click when she takes her first steps down the drink aisle before disappearing, stands frozen with the plastic cup in his hand halfway full of wine as yellow as Virginia's clothes.

—The longer you hold it, the hotter it gets, Américo says as his eyes, glowing maliciously, search fruitlessly for Nula's, standing motionless with a calculated expression of indifference.

Moro raises the plastic cup, trying to see the color of the wine in the light, but the plastic isn't transparent enough for him to see clearly what's inside, and so he resigns himself to lowering his hand and examining the wine through the cup's circular opening. Then, slowly, he brings it to his lips, but before allowing the plastic edge to touch them, he pauses mid-movement and shifts his nose slightly toward its contents. Under the eager and curious looks of Chela, of the girl who's just served him (the other one, curious to know what's happening in the rest of the hyper, isn't even paying attention), of Américo and Nula, Moro takes the first sip and, rather than swallowing it immediately, holds it behind his teeth, attempting to lift it to his palate, murmuring slightly, narrowing his eyes, until finally he swallows it, shaking his head solemnly in approval, still concentrating, overdoing it somewhat, in Nula's opinion, as he thinks that Moro, were he alone with the wine, wouldn't have felt the need to demonstrate so excessively an experience that, ultimately, even for him, Nula, and for Américo, who know the wine by heart, having tried it many times before deciding to sell it, is now and will continue, till the end of time, to be unique, incommunicable, and remote. Forgetting the wine, Nula thinks,
Moro was the first to see Gutiérrez when he returned to the city without telling any of his friends
. He'd picked him up at the Sauce Viejo airport, had taken him to the house in Rincón that Doctor Russo had built with every luxury with the fraudulent credit from the bank that because of so much shady business between the doctor and his friends ended up
banca rotta
, and when he, Moro, the man who at this moment is taking the second sip of white wine, which he detains intentionally in order to qualify as exactly as possible the fugitive evidence of the experience, the man who on behalf of the real estate agency in Buenos Aires collaborated on the sale of the house, allowing Nula to see Lucía, after five years, coming out of the swimming pool in
that fluorescent green swimsuit, and had suggested to Gutiérrez, with the recommendation of the agency in Buenos Aires, to have some fish at a fancy restaurant in Guadalupe he, Gutiérrez, had preferred to go to the San Lorenzo grill house, which had last been fashionable in the late fifties, probably, and which Nula knew because, when he was finishing high school, he and some friends would often go there to learn the ways of drunkenness. Moro had shown him the features of the house one by one and Gutiérrez had passed through them practically at a run, thinking not on the state of the amenities, corroded prematurely by neglect and the humidity, or on the price they were offering, which he didn't even discuss and which he could've lowered significantly because very few people were interested in the house and almost no one had the means to buy it, but rather on ghosts that, for decades probably, he had been projecting into it.
The houses in this city
, Moro had told Nula one day when he'd come on a sales call,
that my family has bought and sold and rented for the last three generations are the result of a compromise between the whims of their owners and the whims of their architects, constrained, fortunately, to a certain level of realism by zoning laws and the laws of economics
, and so Nula figured that from a man who could speak in such an exact and disillusioned way about what he was compelled to sell, the rather gentle, sympathetic assessment that he made of Gutiérrez the day he first met him, suggesting that he lived in a different dimension than everyone else, actually seemed plausible.

—It's very good, Moro says, after taking the second sip of wine, his eyes narrowed.

—Would you like to try the red? the girl says.

—No. That's fine, Moro says.

—Let's sweeten the deal, Américo says to the girl. Give him a bottle of red to take home, and a receipt for the cashier. And,
turning to Moro: With this receipt they'll let you through. Cool the bottle down a bit before drinking it; it'll go really well with some tagliatelle.

While Nula and Chela listen to Américo's recommendations, their eyes meet with quiet sparks, enjoying the imperceptibly theatrical zeal with which Américo displays his promotional talents. Moro takes the bottle and the receipt and is about to say goodbye when a woman of a certain age suddenly walks up to Nula and starts talking to him:

—Aren't you India Calabrese's baby? she says in an overly loud and emphatic way.

Everyone freezes, surprised, and Nula blinks a few times, hesitating, before he responds:

—No. I was definitely that baby once, but now I'm not sure what to tell you.

Although Moro, Américo, and Chela laugh when they hear his response, the woman remains serious, and finally introduces herself.

—I'm Affife, do you remember? I was friends with your father and your mother before I moved to Córdoba.

—Affife, of course! Nula says, and kisses her cheek.

—I'm on my way to a movie, and it's about to start. Give your mother a kiss from me, she says, then turns the corner, almost at a run, and disappears down the next aisle toward the registers.

—She bounced me on her knees when I was a kid, Nula says, to explain himself.

But Moro and Américo aren't paying attention to him any more, and Chela is talking to the girls at the stand. After Moro leaves, and because several people are arriving to try the wine—the masculine voice interrupting the music has announced the presence of the stand over the loudspeakers two more times—Américo suggests to Nula and Chela that they have a drink at one of the two bars, but
Chela says she wants to browse around the hyper and makes a date with them for six thirty back at the stand. They go to the bar near the phone bank, because it's the most well-lit, and quietest one, although the crowd is increasing, and if there are still some free tables, by six thirty when they leave to meet up with Chela, there are already people waiting at the entrance for a table to open up. While they drink a mineral water, Américo, halfway seriously, tells Nula to be careful, that mixing business with pleasure, especially for a married man, can be dangerous. Nula pretends to be oblivious to the reasons for his advice, but Américo, who has a taste for psychological observations as well as detailed and complex elaborations, practicing these the same way others might fish or do amateur theater on Sundays, interrupts him:

—I was watching you with her: it's obvious that you've got something going. If not, you would've said something when she left, and you didn't move a muscle; you didn't even say goodbye or turn around. Ignoring her so much can only be explained because you thought it prudent not to call attention to yourself. Let's see: Have you already made a date? For when?

—Américo. She's a mother of children. You've got me all wrong, Nula says, conscious that his words have been chosen specifically for their false sound, implying to Américo, in this way, that he recognizes the truth of his observation but that he can't admit it openly, which satisfies Américo, whose supposition and interrogation are not made for ethical, but rather sporting reasons.
I'm not buying that
, Américo says, waving, in the air, an index finger covered with hair on the back all the way to the phalanx, and, immediately, without transition, he starts talking business: if they sell a hundred and twenty bottles through the hypermarket, give or take, it'll cover the costs of the marketing campaign, with some profit left over. Nula listens to him with pleasure: for some time, business, at moments, produces a pleasure similar to what he's experiencing
now, a pleasure that comes from a sense of security, of release, of surrender to the world. That pleasure assaults him, tinged with happiness, and the first time he felt it, suddenly and unexpectedly, he spent a while analyzing it in retrospect, until he realized that allowing himself to live like that put him in contact with the world, incorporated him into it, recovering, for a few seconds, the unity that thought, reason, and philosophy, had, from the beginning, understood to be lost. The same way Diogenes the Cynic refuted Zeno's paradoxes as he walked, he could sometimes refute the contradiction between being and becoming just like that,
by being
. But he knows it can't last: if one day he managed to forget philosophy and surrender himself, blindly and completely, to the supposed spontaneity of life, sooner or later, the torment, the division, forcing his return, would find him. And this somewhat literary and in fact extremely naive idea unfolds into a detailed vision of his own future life as a wine salesman who, having completely abandoned his reflections, his notes, his readings,
now hopelessly addicted to the opium of being
, as per the expression that he discovers in the midst of the images that define his new condition, would be reduced to what you might call an existence confined forever to the external: a family man, traveling salesman, with a graphic designer wife; in a few years, Américo retires and he, who'd taken on a partnership with Américo a while back, becomes the new manager of the branch; Diana, meanwhile, because of her agency work, will be forced to give up painting, but she'll be a successful designer, often hired by agencies in Buenos Aires, and when the kids are older, he and Diana will start to travel frequently to Buenos Aires, to Rosario, and even abroad; he'll have to be away more and more often, and for longer periods, not only to Buenos Aires, and Mendoza especially, but also to Paraguay, to Corrientes, to El Chaco; he'll frequent the international wine fairs in Europe, in New Zealand; the kids will finish school, they'll get married, they'll have kids of
their own; he and Diana will be left alone in the house; La India and Diana's parents will have died by that point; they'll retire and the days will seem endless; they'll wander aimlessly in their slippers around the empty house until, finally, they'll turn on the television and eventually fall asleep with it on, until their servant turns it off and takes them to bed; there haven't been books in the house for years, except for a small collection of books on wine, cookbooks, graphic design manuals, and some books on painting, which Diana will use every so often for ideas to use in her jobs; Diana will never again describe her theories about
the real world as abstract form
, and he, Nula, will have forgotten even the existence of the riddle that Gabriela asked him last night at the Amigos del Vino bar, and to which he immediately replied,
Timaeus 27: What is that which always is and has no becoming, and what is that which is always becoming and never is?
Everything will be over, but without their really knowing why it'll seem unfinished to them; from the outside, their lives will give the impression of comfortable achievement, but they themselves will be harassed, continuously, secretly, by a muted and constant sense of disquiet; others will think that in their old age they display an enviable serenity, but they'll actually live in a state of monotone bewilderment, with a sense of drowning in a rough magma; later, though they'll still be together, they'll start to forget each other's name, and then, though they spend all day sitting on the same couch, even the other's very existence; they'll no longer recognize the faces of their children, or their grandchildren, when they lean in to give them a quick kiss on the cheek; and finally, one afternoon, one night, one morning probably, in summer, in winter, what's the difference, everything will come to an end.