Onetti. Juan Carlos Onetti.

Juan Carlos Onetti

I had spent several days with the dirty money they sent me after the forced sale of the newspaper. For me now there neither was nor would be any Santa María rebuilt, nor El Liberal. Everything was dead, reduced to ashes, lost in the river, in nothingness. I ate with friends, got drunk with them, shut myself away for days on end in my flat. And always the filthy money in my pocket, without it ever getting less, without ever spending the least peseta of it. At times I was hungry, or too lazy to go and eat; at others I just watched the hours go by, from the senseless conmmotion of the dawns to nightfall, lying on my bed, saying my name over and over again syllable by syllable, staring at María José´s photograph, which went automatically from pocket to night-table and back again every morning. Only in insomnia could I permit myself to realise that I was not happy and was missing everything. It was only twenty centimetres on my world map from Santa María to Madrid.

Occasionally I received Presencia, a news-sheet run of on a badly inked duplicator. It arrived from all the most absurd places in the world, and I used to imagine the unknown group of Sanmarianos taking turns to edit and distribute it. Always bad news. general Cot´s tyranny was savage, and whoever was doing this work must have had the vocation of a martyr. And I felt obliged to spend the money from the expropriation on María José, entirely on her.

The man is not exactly small, it´s more that life has shrunk him, though still leaving him a huge skull, a greasy sheen on his forehead, a fixed gleam of anxiety in hsi troubled eyes. Something spider-like about his hands as he lets them drop like objects on the desk, clasps them to put on a show of resolution, to demonstrate to me that he is still alive in spite of all othe hardships in the past I imagine for him, in spite of the constant ebbing of hope. He asks questions, ruminates, half-heartedly breaking with cunning, cheating, and his ingrained habit of lies and embellishment. He does not smile, but leans forward, looks at me, then turns his head. He says, feeling his way:

´I´d need five thousand to start organizing things. These matters are always difficult. I´ve got the perfect man for the job free at the moment. But I can´t keep him without work, in reserve. I need five thousand in cash. After that, we´ll see.´

I realized I´d found just the companion in madness, in my game, that I had been looking for. I gave another glance at the advertisement:

Private detective - A. Tubor - Castilla Vieja,
Madrid and Spain. Discretion.

As I counted out the notes, I smiled at him to show my belief, my timid enthusiasm. He let the money drop on the desk-top, withdrawing his hands with a frown. We were both suspicious. All at once he said in a threatening voice:

´I have to fill in a form.´

As he went towards the cabinet -and in the room, still cold at the start of spring, it was the only piece of furniture apart from the desk itself and two chairs- I realized I had been right, that he had short, weak legs. He came back holding an orange folder, sat down and searched in his pocket for the only ballpoint he had left. He wrote the date, then with bent head, asked:

'Name?'

'Mine or hers?'

'The files and folders are always in the client's name. You are the client.'

'Malabia. Jorge Malabia,' I said.

I added my adress, telephone number. I made one up for María José: 37 Sancho Davila Street.

´What is it you want to know?´

´Everything. I want her followed. I want you to tell me exactly what she does, who shes is with. She goes out to work. In a public libray. In Fernández de Oviedo Street. I can´t remember the number. It´s the only one in that street, though. It should be in the phone book.´

´Can you give me a description of her? And a photograph.´

I handed over her photograph without feeling at all sad, feeling, rather absurdly, in some way freed.

´She comes up to about my mouth.´ I said, standing up. ´Her hair isn´t exactly blonde, better put light brown. I can´t remember the colour of her eyes: they´re green perhaps. But not always. When you have something, give me a call.´

I left, and the banknotes were still lying on the desk. I had told him: María José Lemos, and the name still seemed so perfect, so much her, like a part of her body, or her skin. The name enveloped and revealed her at the same time.

The man calling himself tubor, private detective, went down to the bar on the corner and asked for a bottle of wine. The barman didn´t look at him or even appear to notice him - Tubor hesitated, then put one thousand pesetas on the grimy wetness between them:

´And take for all I owe you,´ he said.

Seated at the table, he began to drink, first to relieve his anxiety, then for pleasure, thus embarking on three days of drunkeness. When finally he slept and woke up in his miserable room, he wet his face and the back of his neck in the basin with the flower pattern. Then he searched in his pockets and walked out into the frsh morning air to the church of San Blas. He bought a thick candle in the shop run by the priest opposite the church, and stepped across the threshold into the darkness, heading straight to the left towards the Virgin that had never failed him.

It was a small statue, roughly carved in wood, with large eyes and so poor and squalid looking that it was forced to work miracles to get itself pardoned: Tubor took advantage of it. Kneeling, he said a large number of Ave Marias, trying hard to concentrate, trying hard to drum up some faith. he had so often said: I don´t believe in God, but I do belive in teh Virgin Mary.

When he got gold and bored, he waited for the shadows to fall at the filthy window with a bottle of wine in front of him. By now there were half a dozen of them in the filling cabinet. He waited for night and silence in the building. Then he went down two floors and along the corridor looking for the night-watchman of Westinghouse Inc.

´The typewriter,´ he said.

The man rubbed his rough cheek and demanded:

´Five duros. it costs five now. I´ve been thinking, and it´s a favour which might turn out very expensive for me.´

´Five,´ he said. And gave him the coins.

Now he had an electric typewriter, the latest model in the newspaper adverts.

REPORT 3/2/78-859
After a grat deal of effort I have succeeded in tracing an identifying MJL, who apparently leads a normal life between her home, her work, and a few girl friends whose names I have not so far been able to discover, and which, in my opinion, are unimportant anyway, although I mention the fact for the sake of completeness. Whilst travelling on a no. 12 bus o Cristo Rey

So, for one thousand pesetas a day, I could have María José free from her prison in Santa María; could see her strolling down streets with her friends, down to the promenade in the mist and the weak sunlight with the fishing boats and the frailer ones from the rowing club - not entirely happy because she wasn´t with me, was wodnering what could have happened to prevent me from writing, or was thinking of my last letter, with its cautious optimism that hinted between the lines at the possibility of our meeting again.

I saw her lively and full of fun, so much younger, she seemed almost child-like, thanks to the skilful lies I had been writing her. I saw her free, silhouetted as she moved swiftly through the places where we had walked together, the shady resting-places we sought out silenty to kiss and caress each other. And I could see her walking with her long stride, face wet from the drizzle, towards the street corner where we first met.

This constant happiness spread itself through twenty days. Tubor called and arranged to meet me in a café two blocks from his office. He had a glass of wine in front of him; I did not want anything to drink. I noticed he was nervous, excited over what he was about to reveal. He looked at me with a repulsive mixture of tenderness and fear in his sordid eyes.

´It wasn´t something I could put ina letter. yOu gave me a task, and I always fulfil my obligations. And not for what I make out of it, I can assure you. WHat I pay out for the agent and in expenses is almost more than what I charge you. But I gave my word.´

He emptied his glass and called for another. I was waiting for his story like a fresh gift, clearing out space in which to receive it, to get full measure from it. He drank a little, lit a cigarette.

´Montera and Bécquer,´ he said. ´Does that mean anything to you?´

´No. I hardly ever go to that part of Madrid.´

´OK. You must be about the only one. Well , near Bécquer Street there´s a house of assignation. The best, or at least the most expensive, in the area. Now please don´t get upset! She was seen going in tehre on Monday the seventh, at 5.15 p.m. And of course she wansn´t alone.´

Taken aback, stupefied, I could only stammer:

´But she works in the library until six o´clock.´

´Oh, come now´WOmen! As if they can´t find some excuse. I´m sorry, but that´s what they were born for. To invent excuses, I mean.´

´Did the see who the man was? I asked.

´Not the first time. It was as quick as a flash. But afterwards yes. He waits for her every evening when she leaves the library. In a green Seat, license number 4002 M. He is tall, older than yourself, going grey. But very well dressed.´

I asked him to find out where they were going to now, if the man had a flat to take her to; I gave him enough money for another week.

That was the first real day of spring. And so the torment began. I bought a bottle of whisky and went up to my flat, smiling back at the porter, pressing the wrong button in the lift. I shut all the windows, undressed without looking at my penis, and lay down on my bed. I disconnected the bell and the telephone. So, as I smoked and drank, without any difficulty I could see María José leaving the library in Santa María and climbing into the car. They did not kiss, merely exchanged a knowing smile in anticipation of the scenes shortly to follow in the little house in Villa Petrus that the strong, faceless, tireless man had rented or perhaps owned. It was a Swiss-style chalet with red tiles, as cut off from the outside world as my bedroom was at that moment. Perhaps they drew out with caresses the wait for the end, or perhaps they threw themselves straightaway into each other´s arms. In either case, María José would not let herself be undressed. Just as when she was with me, she herself, standing, took off her clothes one by one, smiling slyly at the man, measuring and enjoying his excitement, his impatience. The house was close by a tumbling river, and rays from the setting sun shone through it windows. I knew the window faced west because the chalet they were in was by now identical to the one where I used to meet her. All at once a series of images began, of all that can be done with walls around you, all that we had done as we felt our way, explored, pursued, in our search to invent the other´s pleasure. But what before had been limpid, sacred, was now grotesque, bestial. They were discovering impossible unions, couplings that defied all sense: the grey-haired man ever more voracious, María José ever more animal-like and open, her enormous thighs, out of all proportion to her girl´s body, revealing deep inside her, asking, begging, degrading the words of love she had so often groaned to me. In the past: never again now.

When I had finished vomiting I got through the rest of the night wandering slowly through the almost deserted streets, where each car, each traffic light, each passer-by helped distract me, to offer me a fleeting moment of diversion and forgetfulness.

This was how April passed, and I felt almost ashamed that my distress, losing its keenness with the wearing away of the days, was gradually diminishing. After the fair at Seville, where all I did was get bored and tired, where I felt taken in by my friends and all the posters, I returned to Madrid and called Tubor up so often I learnt his number by heart. A week later, when the telephone no longer rang, I went to his office in Castilla Vieja, and found it deserted. Nobody could tell me the private detective´s new address. I didn´t bother to calculate how much the farce had cost me, and slipped back into my indolent sleepwalker´s existence.

But at the beginning of May, Tubor called me:

´I´ve phoned you time and again, but could never get you. Now I´ve something big for you, really big. I moved office because the other place was a dump. I was ashamed to meet my friends and clients there. I´m in a hurry. I´ll be waiting for you tomorrow at Barajas airport at five o´clock. Five in the afternoon, yes – in the cafeteria. You´ll have to bring another five thousand. I´ve almost used up the rest. It´s a long time since I´ve had such difficult case. Don´t forget: if you fail me, everything will fall through.´

I had quite a lot of trouble finding him, making him out among the crowd, the unfriendly stream of those arriving after passing through customs, and the little warmth I felt towards those awaiting their departure, the stuttering voice of the loudspeakers. The same repulsive, battered face, shaved and clean. His clothes seemed completely out of context: they were far too new, a black-and-silver tie stood out against a dazzling white shirt. He´d neglected his shoes, they needed polishing, were a bit out of shape. On the table wa a small brown square suitcase, with its initials in gold. It looked like a cash-box.

We shook hands without a word and I handed over the wad of notes. He didn´t tell me where he was going, and I didn´t care. I can only remember a few phrases and the way he gestured with his hairy hands.

´You won´t believe it, but it´s true. Proved beyond a doubt. The most difficult investigation I´ve ever had. Disappeared; the bird´s flown. She hasn´t gone back to the library; they know nothing of her in her house. As they say: vanished into thin air.´

´The photograph,´ I said softly.

´Of course.´ He took out a brand new wallet and after some searching placed the photo, now in a plastic cover, carefully on the table.

He was looking round everywhere, as if his aeroplane was in the room and might get away without him. I got up without saying goodbye and went outside to look for a taxi.
A short while afterwards, the furious summer heat descended on Madrid. Three moths of hell, people kept saying. One day, in the afternoon delivery, a copy of Presencia posted in Switzerland arrived for me. I looked at it without much enthusiasm, unfolded it, and saw a little box:

María José Lemos, student, held on Latorre Island since the military takeover, was taken prisoner by members of the National Guard on 5 April, as she was leaving prison to regain her freedom. She has been missing since that date, and no police or military authority will admit any knowledge of her whereabouts.

(Translated by Nick Caistor)