A Distant Father Read Free

the change. I find a shady spot on the corner, lean against a fire hydrant, and have a smoke.
    I open Raymond Queneau’s book and use a red pencil to mark the words I’ll have to look up later in my
Larousse français–espagnol
.

ELEVEN
    In the course of an hour, I notice that the little town I’m in moves about as slowly as a watch, and I try to think up some possible conversational gambits to use on the girls. Nothing particularly witty comes to mind; it even occurs to me that Gutiérrez would handle the situation better than I could. I’ve been with girls before, but never in a bed. Classmates, girls from the neighborhood.
    There’s nothing less conducive to wit than being a schoolteacher in the provinces. I walk over to the movie theater, a few steps away. At seven this afternoon, they’re showing
Rio Bravo
, starring John Wayne, Dean Martin, and Ricky Nelson. The coming attraction for next week is
Wild Is the Wind
, with Anna Magnani. In a still photograph, John Wayne, wearing a sheriff’s badge on his lapel, is looking at Angie Dickinson’s bare shoulder; Angie’s got on a short petticoat with black lace insets, and the seams of her stockings go all the way up to her buttocks.
    “
Rio Bravo
is a film about becoming a man,” the advertisement says. Maybe that’s why I keep staring at the photograph for so long, and at the one beside it, too: Ricky Nelson, in a crouch, holding a pistol whose barrel disgorges a tremendous amount of smoke.
    A few passersby pause briefly in front of the posters and then continue on their way, except for a man with a black wool cap. He pushes a baby carriage, stops to light a cigarette, and glances without interest at the publicity stills. At first I can’t see his face, but he stands there smoking for so long that I end up recognizing him just as he throws away his cigarette end, turns, and crushes it under one shoe.
    On the point of losing my balance, I clutch desperately at the baby carriage.
    “Dad?” I say.
    The man peers confusedly into the little carriage and only then looks up at me. Those are his thick brows, his slightly hooked nose, his bottomless, moist, hidden eyes, and most of all, that’s his cheek, marked with his old bar-fight scar.
    “
Jacques? C’est vraiment toi?
”
    “Of course it’s me, Dad.”
    He looks in all directions, like a cornered thief. He seems to want to make sure he’s not dreaming.
    “What are you doing here, buddy?”
    “I came to buy a gift for a student.”
    I feel an immense urge to throw my arms around him and inhale the scent of his skin, which smells like a leather saddle.
    “Are you with your mother?”
    “No, Dad, I’m not.”
    He pretends to dab at a smudge on his forehead, but in reality he deftly wipes away the troublesome liquid flowing from his eyes. Then he pulls me close and squeezes me in a hard embrace. I don’t know why, but I want that embrace to never stop.
    When we let each other go, we simultaneously take out cigarettes, but my father is quicker with his lighter and lights us both. He removes a speck from his cheek and looks at John Wayne’s picture again.
    “
Rio Bravo
. For the past two months, we’ve been running it as the Saturday matinee.”
    “What do you mean,
‘we’ve
been running it,’ Dad?”
    “I work here.
Rio Bravo
’s a very popular movie. A lot of drinking goes on in this town, and people enjoy watching a lush like Dean Martin find redemption and become a good shot again to boot.”
    “How many times have you seen it?”
    “Twelve, fifteen. Depends on this little character here.”
    He indicates the baby in the carriage. I look at thechild, and Dad takes off its pint-sized canvas cap, meant to protect it from the no-show sun. The baby looks horribly familiar.
    “I think I know that face, Pierre.”
    Dad swallows saliva for a while, as if oppressed by my silence. He looks extraordinarily young. He’s my father, but he could also be a friend. Like the miller.
    “He’s your