Hopscotch: A Novel (Pantheon Modern Writers Series) (72 page)

“Probably no one has come to see him,” Oliveira said. “And what a coincidence that his name should be Morelli.”

“He’s most likely dead already,” Étienne said, looking at the fountain with goldfish in the open courtyard.

“They would have told me. The guy just looked at me, that’s all. I didn’t want to ask him if he’d had any visitors before.”

“We could have visited him just the same without going by the main desk.”

Et cetera. There are moments where because of displeasure, or fear, or because one has to climb two flights of stairs and smell phenol, conversation becomes abundant, the way it does when one has to console a person whose child has died and you invent the stupidest kind of talk sitting next to the mother and buttoning up her half-open bathrobe saying: “There, now, you musn’t catch cold.” The mother sighs: “Thank you.” You say: “You wouldn’t think so, but at this time of year it gets cool very early.” The mother says: “Yes, that’s true.” You say: “Wouldn’t you like a wrap?” No. The outer-shelter chapter over. You attack the inner-shelter chapter: “I’ll fix you a cup of tea.” But no, she doesn’t feel like one. “But you ought to have something. You can’t just sit there so long without something in your stomach.” She doesn’t know what time it is. “A little after eight. You haven’t had anything since four-thirty. And this morning you barely touched your food. You have to eat something, even if it’s just some toast and jam.” She doesn’t feel like it. “Take some, just to please me, just try some.” A sigh, neither yes or no. “Look, of course you want something. I’m going to make some tea right now.” If that doesn’t work there’s always the business with the chairs. “These chairs are so uncomfortable, you’ll get a cramp.” No, it’s fine. “No, your back must be all stiff, you’ve been sitting in that hard chair all afternoon. Why don’t you lie down for a while.” Oh no, I couldn’t do that. In some mysterious way the bed is like a betrayal. “Come on, maybe you ought to
take a quick nap.” A double betrayal. “You need one, it’ll be a good rest for you. I’ll stay with you.” No, she’s fine just the way she is. “All right, but I’ll get you a pillow for your back.” All right. “Your legs are going to get stiff, I’ll bring you a footstool so you can raise them up a bit.” Thank you. “And after a while you’ll go lie down. Promise me.” A sigh. “All right, all right, I’m not trying to pamper you. If the doctor had said so you’d have to obey him.” In short. “You have to get some sleep, love.” Variations
ad libitum.

“Perchance to dream,” Étienne murmured, thinking about the variations with every step.

“We should have bought a bottle of cognac,” Oliveira said. “You’ve got some dough.”

“But we don’t even know him. And he’s probably dead, really. Look at that redhead, I’d like to have her give me a massage. Sometimes I get fantasies about nursing and nurses. Don’t you ever?”

“When I was fifteen. Something awful. Eros armed with an intramuscular hypodermic that was like an arrow, wonderful girls who would wash me from top to bottom, I used to expire in their arms.”

“In short, a masturbator.”

“So what? Why be ashamed of masturbating? A lesser art next to the other one, but in any case it does have its divine proportions, its unities in time, action, and place, and any other rhetoric you might want to apply. When I was nine I used to masturbate under an
ombú
tree, it was really patriotic.”

“An
ombú
tree?”

“It’s a kind of baobab,” Oliveira said, “but I’ll let you in on a secret if you swear never to tell any other Frenchman. An
ombú
isn’t really a tree: it’s a weed.”

“Well, so it wasn’t so serious after all.”

“How do French boys masturbate, then?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You remember only too well. We had our own wild systems down there. Hammer-style, umbrella-style … You dig? I can’t listen to certain tangos without remembering how my aunt used to play them.”

“I don’t get the relationship,” Étienne said.

“That’s because you can’t see the piano. There was a space between the piano and the wall and I used to hide in there to
jerk off. My aunt would be playing
Milonguita
or
Flores negras
, something sad like that, it used to help me with my dreams of death and sacrifice. The first time I came on the parquet it was horrible, I thought the stain wouldn’t come out. I didn’t even have a handkerchief. I whipped off one of my socks and rubbed like crazy. My aunt was playing
La payanca
, I’ll whistle it for you if you want me to, it’s quite sad …”

“Whistling is not allowed in the hospital. But you feel the sadness just the same. You’re all screwed up, Horacio.”

“I’m on the lookout for them, buddy. The king is dead, long live the king. If you think that because of a woman…
Omhú
, woman, they’re all weeds when you come right down to it.”

“Cheap,” Étienne said. “Much too cheap. B-movies, dialogue you can buy by the foot, you know what I mean. Third floor, stop. Madame …”

“Par là,”
the nurse said.

“We still haven’t run into the auscultation,” Oliveira informed her.

“Knock it off,” the nurse said.

“Take a lesson,” Étienne said. “A lot of dreaming about a complaining loaf of bread, a lot of screwing everybody up, and then your jokes don’t even come off. Why don’t you go to the country for a while? You’ve really got an expression that Sou tine could use, old man.”

“Basically,” Oliveira said, “what bugs you is that I’ve pulled you away from your chromatic jerking off, your filthy daily daubs, and solidarity makes you drift along with me through Paris the day after the funeral. My sad old buddy, he’s got to have some fun. Friend calls, you have to adjust. Friend mentions hospital, O.K., let’s go.”

“To tell the truth,” Étienne said, “I worry less and less about you. I should have been out walking with poor Lucía. She’s the one who needs it.”

“Wrong,” Oliveira said, sitting down on a bench. “La Maga has Ossip, she has distractions, Hugo Wolf, things like that. Basically La Maga has a personal life, even though it’s taken me a long time to realize it. On the other hand I’m empty, an enormous freedom in which to dream and wander around, the toys have all been broken, no problem. Give me a light.”

“You can’t smoke in a hospital.”

“We are the makers of manners, eh. It’s good for auscultation.”

“The Chauffard ward is over there,” Étienne said. “We can’t sit on this bench all day.”

“Wait’ll I finish my cigarette.”

(–
123
)