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  “Yes.”

  Güero had promised me that he’d always come into the store by himself, leaving his sidekick outside. As long as he went along with that agreement, I knew they still respected me and that gave me some peace of mind. That’s when the phone rang. It was Ofelia, who was calling to remind me, for the second time, about the lady in her Bible circle who was interested in buying a futon from our furniture store, and she gave me her name and number so I could call her. I wrote the number down again and promised I’d call without fail. Ofelia didn’t know anything about Güero. It was a secret between me, my father, and Jaime. Between Jaime and me, rather, because I doubt my father would remember that arrangement. If she were to find out, my sister would have sold the furniture store without a second thought. She wanted to sell it anyway, because she said it wasn’t a viable business anymore. I stood up and, moving away from the desk so Jaime wouldn’t hear me, I asked if she thought Papá wrote poems.

  “No, why?”

  “I found one he’d written out by hand in an old furniture store account book. It came with the name of that poet, Isabel Fraire.”

  “She was his favorite poet. He must’ve copied it out.”

  “I know, but maybe he wrote poems, too.”

  I realized that both of us were talking about my father using the past tense—“he wrote,” “she was his favorite poet”—as if he were dead.

  “If Papá’d written any poems, we’d know,” Ofelia said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because of how reserved he is. Papá doesn’t know anyone.”

  “He knows a bunch of people,” she said.

  “I mean, he’s never had a real friend.”

  “Neither have you.”

  “We’re talking about him, not me,” I exclaimed. “And you, who do you have? Father Clark?”

  “I don’t know what you have against Father Clark. If it weren’t for him—”

  “I’d be scrubbing toilets right now,” I finished her sentence.

  “Go to hell,” she said, and hung up.

  I looked at my watch. I was running late, and between one thing and another I forgot to call the futon lady for the second time.

  * * *

  —

  I WAS LATE by the time I got to Margó Benítez’s house; she was in a bad mood when she greeted me, but I don’t know if it was because of my lack of punctuality or for some other reason. She instructed Aurelia to bring the coffee, gave me the Daphne du Maurier novel that was on the side table, and asked me to start reading.

  “I brought a poem I’d like to read to you before I continue with the novel,” I told her, and I opened my briefcase to take out the page where I’d copied Isabel Fraire’s poem.

  “Is it long?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know, it’s a poem,” and I showed her the page so she could decide for herself whether it was long or not. She noticed that it was written by hand and saw that it was my handwriting, which she recognized because I had to write the name of the person I visited and a brief summary of the reading on the visitation form she had to sign at the end of each session.

  “Excuse me, Eduardo, I didn’t know it was yours,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me it’s one of your poems. Go on, read it.”

  I looked at her, not knowing if I should tell her the truth or take advantage of the misunderstanding, which had suddenly softened her, making her look almost beautiful.

  “It just came out, almost by accident,” I said, giving in to the temptation to show off, and at that point Aurelia came in and leaned over with the coffeepot to fill our cups.

  It seemed like she’d accentuated her inclination to expose her cleavage and Margó must’ve noticed the same thing because she told her rudely, “Leave the coffeepot here, I’ll finish serving it.”

  The maid set the coffeepot on the side table and walked off, though not without smiling at me first.

  “She does whatever she wants,” Margó said quietly, serving the coffee, and she asked me to begin.

  I’d practiced reading the poem and I read it without tripping up even once. I knew I’d impressed her because she held the cup of coffee in front of her mouth, not taking a single sip while I read, and when I finished she put it back on the saucer and said, “It’s a magnificent poem. And you read poetry so differently from prose, Eduardo!”

  “Of course, they’re two different genres.”

  “I mean the delivery, the passion. When you read the novel it’s obvious your head is somewhere else and you could care less about the story, but now that you’ve read the poem your attitude has changed completely. You really read it, and that’s why I was so moved,” and then she immediately added, “Drink your coffee, it’s going to get cold. I can address you informally, use tú, can’t I?”

  “Yes, of course.” I sipped my coffee and so did she, and we looked at each other again over our cups. I think I blushed, I set the cup on the saucer and picked up the book by Daphne du Maurier, opening it to the page where we’d left off. I asked her if she wanted me to start reading and she nodded. I read an entire page and had no idea what I’d read.

  “Your head’s in the clouds again,” she said gently.

  I closed the book and told her, “Yes, because the poem I just read to you isn’t mine.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “It’s by Isabel Fraire, a Mexican poet, my father’s favorite poet.”

  “Your father has good taste,” she said.

  “He’s always said that she’s the best poet in Mexico. I acted like a fool.”

  “Yes. Now keep reading.”

  “I didn’t understand a thing I just read.”

  “Neither did I.” And she laughed enthusiastically, and for the first time, the gloom the wheelchair imposed on her body parted and I had a glimpse of a desirable woman. Her laughter had disheveled her abundant black hair, usually tied back in a bun, giving her an aura of something between lascivious and unkempt that surprised me, and I asked if I could also use tú with her. She took a sip of coffee and said, “You can’t until you tell me what you did.”

  I asked her what she meant.

  “Tell me why you were sentenced to a year of community service.”

  I briefly recounted what had happened. I was surprised that I didn’t have any trouble doing so, even though it was the first time I’d told anyone. Other than the official court statements, I hadn’t described the accident to anyone, not even Ofelia, and especially not to my father, who I wasn’t sure even knew about it. Margó listened attentively, and when I finished, she called Aurelia to bring more coffee. The ugly and spirited maid arrived in no time, as if she were merely waiting for the order to appear, and she bowed dramatically as she refilled our cups, once again offering me a view of her stirring breasts, which seemed to be screaming to be tamed.

  * * *

  —

  SINCE I NO LONGER used a car, my appreciation for traveling by foot had changed, and what before had struck me as an unreasonable distance now seemed perfectly feasible. Among the thousand horrendous things about the City of Eternal Spring, its public transportation took the cake. I discovered that most of the time I didn’t need to use it if I simply modified my criteria regarding walkable distances, and that was one of the positive things the driving ban brought me.

  When I left Margó Benítez’s house I had plenty of time before my appointment with Colonel Atarriaga, and I remembered the Casa del Libro bookstore wasn’t far away. When I arrived, I was surprised by the change the place had undergone. What had once been a real bookstore was now a muddle of magazines, schoolbooks, and home decorations. I went in and asked for the Daphne du Maurier novel. They didn’t have it, of course, but the attendant suggested that I look for it in a used bookstore that had jus
t opened two blocks away. The news was almost staggering, that a store selling used books had opened in a city so devoid of such pleasant sanctuaries; I thanked him, walked two blocks, and saw a sign with an image of a snail on it, El Caracol, which I thought was a promising name for a secondhand bookstore.

  I was lucky, because they had the novel, though not in a single volume; it was included in a collection of the author’s complete works. The store owner, a man in his early sixties, graying and extremely agile, sold me the book for two hundred pesos. I was already on the street when I decided to go back and ask if he had any books by Isabel Fraire. He studied me closely, I suppose because he wasn’t used to people asking for a book of poetry, and he set off for a distant shelf, maneuvering around several piles of books that blocked his way. He came back holding a book in his hand, a green one.

  “It’s her collected poetry, if that helps. She just died,” he informed me.

  “When?”

  “In April.” And he added, “The cruelest month.”

  I had something to tell my father: His favorite poet had died. I asked the man how long he’d had the bookstore and he said two months. Now I understood why he was so energetic. His adventure was just beginning. I shook his hand as I said goodbye and went out to the street.

  I had to hurry to make it to the Colonel’s house on time. His single-story home was situated in the backyard of a larger house, where his landlords lived, and it was accessed by going down a long passageway through a door only he used. The entry was a little complicated. You had to ring a bell, the Colonel heard it, and, if he knew who it was, he’d go out to the patio and pull on a long cord that ran the length of the passageway and was attached to the door latch; otherwise, you had to wait for him to traverse the length of the corridor at his slow pace.

  It was a dark, silent house. He greeted me with a subtle nod and sat in an armchair that had seen better days, ready to listen. I’d suggested that we read, taking into consideration his military past, The Tartar Steppe by Dino Buzzati, and he’d consented without question, as if he knew beforehand that sleep would overwhelm him after three or four pages. The book moved as slowly as he did, and I seriously doubted that he remembered what little he’d heard in previous sessions. When he closed his eyes, I continued reading for a while, then I closed the book and imitated him, surrendering as well to a brief nap.

  It would have been super easy to steal whatever I wanted. I even knew where he kept his money, because one day we were interrupted by the landlord’s maid, who’d come to collect the rent, and he, after closing the door halfway, went to a corner secretaire, opened one of the drawers, and took out a wad of bills, which he then handed to the maid; then he offered me an apology for the interruption and sat back down.

  When I opened my briefcase to take out the Buzzati novel, the sheet with the Isabel Fraire poem fell to the floor; I picked it up and was going to put it away when it occurred to me I could read it to the Colonel.

  “Do you like poetry?” I asked.

  “Poetry?”

  “Yes. Would you like me to read you a poem before we continue with the novel?”

  “A poem!” he exclaimed, as if pondering some unfamiliar word.

  “It’s short,” I clarified.

  “How short?”

  I held up the page. I felt like I was selling him something and regretted the idea immediately. All I needed was for him to complain to Father Clark, accuse me of forcing him to listen to poems he didn’t like.

  “Poems are dangerous,” he said, smiling.

  I smiled in turn, not knowing if he was joking or serious. I couldn’t think of anything better to do than open the page, which was folded over, and read the first two lines to myself to see if they were dangerous or not.

  “I think this one isn’t,” I said, feeling stupid.

  “All of them are.”

  I should have asked him why he said that, but I didn’t, and I thought that maybe his was an aversion that came from some deep hatred having to do with the same irregular form of the lines that must have seemed unreliable compared to the disciplined lines of prose. I folded the page and put it into my briefcase, took out the Buzzati book, looked for the page where we’d left off, and started to read. I saw him relax. It was obvious that he wasn’t paying attention, that my voice was like background music. I wondered if he remembered my name, if he’d ever heard it.

  I stopped reading when I heard him snoring. Maybe it was the way I didn’t pay attention to what I read that made the Colonel sleepy. What was frustrating for Margó Benítez and what made the Jiménez brothers angry put the Colonel to sleep. But I had my reasons. Holding a book in front of someone staring at my lips, I couldn’t help feeling like a preacher, and I was assaulted by the image of my sister reading the Bible to Celeste. That’s why the meaning of words evaded me, and I only loaned them my voice, my “beautiful manly voice,” as Father Clark had described it.

  I opened my briefcase, making sure I didn’t wake the Colonel, and took out the Isabel Fraire book I’d just bought. I looked at the title, which I hadn’t noticed when I bought it: Suspension Bridge: Collected Poems. It seemed like an irrelevant title. Come on, all bridges are suspended, it’s their central characteristic. I opened the book and didn’t expect to see what I saw. The author had written a personal note in blue ink: “To Abigael Martínez, with gratitude and affection. Isabel Fraire.” It was dated January 7, 2002, and the place wasn’t specified, or maybe it was: “In this city of ours,” it said. What city of ours? Mexico City? The City of Eternal Spring? Another city in the Mexican republic? It wasn’t unusual to find books that had been signed and inscribed in used bookstores. I know because of my father, who hardly ever bought a book that wasn’t used. With so much to read, he’d say, why waste your time on new books? He’d bring five or six home at a time, dusty and a little unsightly, and some were inscribed by the author or with the name of its previous owner written on the first page.

  I had a little treasure in my hands to share with my father. Look, Papá, I’d say to him, I found a book by Isabel Fraire in a secondhand bookshop, with an inscription and everything. Was it possible that Papá knew Abigael Martínez? It was possible. When you live in a city as small and uncultured as this one, the few people who are fond of books tend to find each other. What I was sure of is that Papá didn’t know Isabel Fraire, and that it hadn’t occurred to him that he could have known her. For all he knew, Isabel Fraire could have died thirty years ago or already have been dead when he’d started to read her poems.

  I looked for the poem Papá’d copied in his ledger and I found it right away. I wondered if he’d copied it correctly, and since I had the page where I’d copied the poem to read to Margó, I took it out of my briefcase to compare it to the original. Papá’d copied it out perfectly, without adding or omitting anything, and that unfailing fidelity made me sad. I imagined him reproducing every one of the poem’s words, trying not to make a mistake, doing so with the same apprehension that he received the merchandise delivered to the store from the capital or the provinces, careful it didn’t hit a wall or collide with another piece of furniture. That’s what his life had been like, taking care of things so they could pass from hand to hand, without becoming too attached to them and without interfering. On one occasion he’d told me, with a certain bit of pride, that among his friends when he was younger he was the only one who didn’t drink very much, so when they went out he was in charge of getting all of them home, because most of the time they were drunk. I asked him if this role, a mixture of babysitter and watchman, bothered him, and he said it didn’t, because being the only sober one, everyone confessed their peccadilloes and weaknesses to him, including the parents of his friends, who opened up to him when he’d deposit their kids safe and sound in their homes. I didn’t find his explanation very convincing and he must’ve noticed because I saw his face turn gray, as if suddenly, after all those years, h
e understood that his friends had taken advantage of him or, even worse, that he’d assumed that custodial role out of cowardice, keeping the others from falling but at the price of never knowing what it was like to fall himself.

  In essence, I read with the same spirit of detachment, that’s why my eyes slid over the words, and now I wonder if all of this isn’t related to the fact that we’re a family of furniture sellers, accustomed to being detached from those things—tables, chairs, wardrobes—that for most people are an extension of their bodies. Mamá was the one who suffered most from that condition, because, especially at the beginning, she was in the habit of falling in love with pieces of furniture we were selling. She couldn’t help it, even though she knew they were there to be sold and not to own. The piece she loved most was a slender sideboard made of reddish wood, with a double-doored glass display cabinet on top. We didn’t have a sideboard in our house, and according to her, a house without a sideboard is not a respectable house. She shuddered every time a customer came into the store, afraid he’d buy it, because she hoped my father, seeing that we couldn’t sell it, would decide to keep it. But my father stood his ground; we didn’t have the money to hold on to a piece of furniture like that. He kept lowering the price, and every time he lowered it, Mamá cried, hiding in a corner or in one of the many alcoves and passageways that take shape in furniture stores as a result of the accumulation of furniture. When my father discovered there was another model of the same sideboard at a lower price, he had it delivered to the store and he placed it next to the other model on the floor, and that was all it took to dwindle Mamá’s infatuation. When she saw that it was a mass-produced sideboard it lost all of its beauty for her. They both sold the same week and my mother never fell in love with another piece of furniture again.

  The Colonel woke up half an hour later, signed the visitation form, and walked me to the door. Like always, when he shook my hand, he said, “Very good reading.”

  By the time I got home, Papá was already asleep, so I couldn’t show him Isabel Fraire’s book. I’d gotten used to not making any noise so I wouldn’t wake him. Celeste and I would watch a few episodes of a program we liked, then she’d go to bed and I’d stay up to read. That night I told her I didn’t feel like watching TV and went to my room to read My Cousin Rachel. I wanted to be familiar with the book I was reading to Margó Benítez. If I couldn’t grasp the meaning of what I read in front of her, at least I could know what the book was about. It took me two hours to finish it, but when I turned out the light I was kept awake by the image of the older cousin who uses her charm to entice young Philip to fall in love with her. A marvelous woman, but at the same time the cause of so much misfortune. Mostly it was her skin, incredibly soft, that bewitched poor Philip, ten years her junior, showing that poor provincial Englishman, who’d never left his county, the overwhelming power a woman can possess with her body. I wondered if Margó had attempted to send me a message through that book; if she identified with Rachel, the skilled woman, and saw in me a copy of naïve Philip, whose spirit she was taking it upon herself to refine and perfect or, worse, to subdue.