A Crack in the Wall (24 page)

When Borla arrives, Simó requests a meeting; the architect seems surprised by this formality, but of course he agrees.

“Come to my office in five minutes. Oh, and bring a couple of coffees with you.”

Ten minutes later, Pablo goes to Borla's office carrying a coffee.

“You're not having one?” his boss asks, putting sugar into his cup and stirring it.

And he says no, that he only drinks espressos, short and very strong. Borla's utter lack of interest in Pablo's taste in coffee is evident, but he articulates it even so:

“What did you want to talk to me about, Pablo? I'm guessing this isn't about coffee, right?”

“No, no, Mario. I wanted to let you know that I'm going to be leaving the practice.”

“What?”

“Simply that, that I won't be working with you any more.”

“Why not?”

“I'm making some changes in my life; I want to do some of the things I haven't had a chance to do up until now.”

“Such as? Walking across the Andes or climbing the Lanín volcano?” Pablo doesn't answer and Borla continues, “I have a friend who threw in everything at the age of forty to go and climb Lanín – you know? – and at forty-one he was back at the same lawyers' firm as before, but on a slightly lower salary.”

“No, I'm not going to climb Lanín. I'm going to build a tower block.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, I've had one in mind for a long time.”

“Well why don't you bring me the project? If it's worthwhile we'll do it.”

“I don't think you would find it worthwhile.”

“Well if you're not convinced by your own project…”

“I certainly am convinced by it, but it's not the sort of project that would be of interest to everyone.”

“Are you thinking of putting the money up yourself?”

“Why did you never make me an associate?”

“On a project?”

“No, in this practice.”

“Because…I don't know, because it wasn't necessary, because you never asked for it. Do you want to be an associate? If that's the issue…I don't know, perhaps with a symbolic percentage.”

“No, not any more. Now I want to leave.”

“And when will you go?”

“I don't know…in a few days.”

“You can't leave me stranded from one day to the next.”

“The thing is, I need to get straight to work.”

“And you already have another job?”

“Something of my own. With the money I make from that I can start saving for the tower block I want to put up.”

“Ah, well you must be onto something good. Is it something within our profession or an undertaking in some other kind of business?”

“Within this profession, or rather, related to this profession.”

“Related to the profession – yes, that's a good sideline. Architecture itself, as they taught it to us in the faculty, isn't a viable business any more, but there are lots of possibilities ‘related' to architecture these days. Let me know the details sometime – I might like to get involved myself.”

“OK. When I've got it up and running I'll let you know.”

“Give me a few days to find a replacement. Can I count on you for that?”

“Yes, so long as it's only for a few days.”

Their conversation is over, but Pablo doesn't leave. He feels that something is missing, that, after so many years as colleagues, their farewell ought to end with a hug, with a meaningful handshake or with a punch-up. Should he take the initiative, walk the few paces between them and embrace Borla – or hit him? It seems to make his boss uncomfortable that Pablo is still standing there without saying anything.

“Right, well…that's settled, then,” he says.

“Yes, absolutely,” Pablo says finally, and he leaves Borla's office.

At lunchtime he goes to the property agency and signs a rental contract on the apartment in Calle Tronador, but, in spite of his protests, they say it's not possible for him to move in until the following day. He hadn't bargained on having to find somewhere else to spend that night. Walking back to the studio from the agency, he stops at a post office to post the envelope in his pocket – with a second-class stamp so that it arrives after he has left the studio – and he feels that everything is finally moving in the right direction.

A little later, on the corner of Céspedes and Alvarez Thomas, a man who's crossing the street and pushing a pram waves to him. Pablo has the strange sensation of knowing the man without having the slightest idea who he is. The man is very overweight and his remaining hair encircles a recent but undeniable bald patch. This hair – long, wispy and grey – is worn in a ponytail. He's sporting office clothes – a white shirt, tie and grey trousers without a jacket – all of it rumpled and bad quality. The man looks too old to have such a small baby, but too young to be a grandfather. There are sweat marks on his shirt, around his chest. And this man is now making for him with determination.

“Pablo Simó, am I right, brother?” he says, and before Pablo can answer, the man's embracing him.

Hearing the word “brother” is enough to tip Pablo off that the man before him is Tano Barletta.

“You haven't changed,” his friend says.

“Neither have you,” Pablo lies, for the Barletta who pops into his mind every so often had been frozen at twenty-four or twenty-five years old. “The baby's yours?”

“Yes, our little accident. I've got two more – they're over there with my wife,” he says, and points towards a bar.

“So you finally got married…”

“Ah yes, well what choice is there? Eventually you get tired of being alone.”

“And where are you working?” Pablo asks him.

“In a factory that makes office furniture. It's good work, good quality furniture, big clients, you know – important.”

“You design furniture?”

“No, I'm more on the marketing side of things, you know?”

“I think so.”

“I sell, basically. I visit the clients, assess their needs and sell to them.”

“And are you happy?”

“Yes, yes…well, happy in that I've got work, the family is well – what more can you ask for?”

“No, you can't really ask for more than that, can you?”

They're both silent for a moment, looking at each other. Chalk and cheese, thinks Pablo, even now, twenty years on, and he wonders what Tano Barletta's impression of them both is, at this moment.

“Here comes my wife. Wait and I'll introduce you.”

Barletta explains who Pablo is to his wife and she shakes hands with him, and makes her children do likewise. From
her reaction, Pablo realizes that Tano has probably never spoken to her about him, or if he has she doesn't remember it. The two older children start hitting each other and Barletta delivers a sharp but gentle smack to the head nearest to him.

“Hey, don't make me look bad in front of my friend,” he says.

They exchange a few more awkward pleasantries so as not to cut the meeting short there.

“I'll give you my number,” Barletta says, and hands him a card with the logo of the office supplies company for which he works. “Call me and we'll get together for a meal, OK? We can relive the old days. We had some great times together, didn't we?”

“Yes, we had a good time,” Pablo says.

Barletta, his wife and children are already crossing Avenida Álvarez Thomas when Tano turns round and shouts:

“Say hello to Laura and your daughter.”

“Thanks,” he calls back.

In the afternoon, Pablo goes to say goodbye to Marta Horvat. Entering the site, he stops just inside the security fence and observes from a distance, perhaps for the last time, her interaction with the workers. She is their queen, he thinks, the queen of those men who run back and forth with bricks, cables, trowels, picks and shovels. But even though the passing years have been much kinder to her than to other women – and she is still one of the most beautiful he has ever known – Marta Horvat no longer bewitches Pablo Simó in the way she once did. Why, he wonders, why can he look at her now without needing to imagine her naked, why does he no longer feel jealous of the men moving around close to her, why does his body not signal an alert when in
proximity to Marta Horvat's body, as it has done so many times before? Is the desire awakened by a woman also a firework that goes out, the same as love?

Pablo walks towards her and, for the first time, isn't scared that she's about to humiliate him.

“What are you doing here?” Marta asks.

“I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving the practice,” says Pablo and he could swear – could it really be? – that the news comes as an unwelcome surprise to her.

“No, no, I can't believe it…you're not serious.”

“Yes, Marta, I really am.”

“But why? Why are you going?”

“I'm going to build that tower block you've seen me draw thousands of times in the studio. And please don't tell me again that the plot ratio isn't in my favour,” he says, and Marta, to his surprise, smiles.

“I swear I never told you the plot ratio wasn't in your favour.”

“I swear you did.”

“God, I'm terrible.”

“Yes, you're terrible.”

Pablo has the impression that Marta Horvat's eyes are filling with tears. In fact she lowers the sunglasses that had been perched on her head even though the sun, at that time of day, can't be bothering her any more.

“How old are you, Pablo?” she asks, and the question surprises him.

“Forty-five.”

“Three years younger than me,” says Marta, who thinks for a moment then continues. “Do you think there is still time to turn the wheel and set a different course?”

“I've hit an iceberg. I've got no option but to change course.”

“You were lucky – sometimes it's necessary to hit an iceberg,” she tells him, and he wonders if the letter he wrote in Jara's handwriting could end up being the iceberg that Marta Horvat needs.

And then, surpassing any expectation that Simó could have had even at the best times, Marta comes close, hugs him and stays for a moment pressed against him; then she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and, as though embarrassed by such a display of affection, she quickly says goodbye:

“Well, I'll let you get on, I have a lot to do. Good luck, Pablo. If you need anything, you know where I am.”

She's already walking away by the time she finishes speaking and so she doesn't hear Pablo when he says:

“I know where you are, yes.”

Pablo returns to the studio after everyone else has left – not just from his office but from almost all the others in the block. Before going up to his floor he buys some slices of pizza and a small bottle of beer. He moves aside the few things left on his desk and uses it as a dinner table. He remembers Nelson Jara's last supper, in that same place, but when the building was still only a promise based on an open pit in the ground. He remembers the leftovers of pizza that he himself cleared away. And Jara's shoes, and the heft of his body, and that hammer – but today he notes that the memories do not weigh as heavily on him as they did, as though, finally, he has made his peace with them. Then he calls Francisca and tells her that that night he will sleep in a hotel, but that he will have a flat the next day and that he will give her the details as soon as possible so that she can find him. She asks if he would like to speak to Laura and he says no, that he would prefer not to speak to her again that day, but that tomorrow he will call her too. After hanging up, he casts a glance around the place, looking at
the corners that he will soon not see again. He imagines the moment that Borla receives the envelope sent by Nelson Jara, and that's exactly how he thinks it, “the envelope sent by Nelson Jara”, as if the man really existed, as if the man really were about to call on those people who believe him dead and buried. He knows that it will be better for Borla and Marta to read the letter when he is no longer there. It avoids him having to lie to them, pretending that he too is worried by the letter, that he is also alarmed by the thought that Jara is alive. It will save him having to say, “But are you sure that's Jara's handwriting?” and having to open the bottom drawer of his desk, taking out the written sheet for them to compare the handwriting and confirm their worst fears. He goes to the storeroom to get some clothes from his suitcase so as to make a makeshift bed between his desk and Marta Horvat's. He lies down, folding his arms behind his head, and realizes that it is the first time in twenty years that he has looked at the ceiling of his workplace. He studies every corner, every light fitting, every imperfection in the plaster or paintwork.

Finally he closes his eyes and tries to sleep. He knows that tonight he might dream of Marta Horvat, or of Leonor Corell or of Laura or Francisca. If he had a choice, though, he would prefer not to dream, but simply to close his eyes and sleep, without the intervention of any of these women who in different ways and to different degrees have so often infiltrated his dreams. Because tonight he is truly tired, really tired. Tonight he wants nothing of them: not love, or affection, or desire, or “I love you”s, or joined bodies, seeking one another.

Tonight Pablo Simó wants only to close his eyes and be allowed to sleep.

Early the following morning, Pablo Simó goes to the property agency to pick up the keys for the apartment he's rented, carrying his suitcase and the file with the sketches of the north-facing eleven-storey tower. And not long afterwards he is opening the door to the place where he plans to spend the next few months. He puts his suitcase in the bedroom, then he returns to the living room, opens the window and breathes deeply, letting the sun bathe his face. Making a quick survey of the four cardinal points, he concludes that by the time Garrido and Associates have put up the duplex flats promised on their hoarding, the sun will no longer come through this window as it does today.