Rage Read Free

matter with you?"
    "What did I do to you?"
    "What d'you mean?"
    "This morning you called me an idiot?"
    "I apologize. This morning I was chatting here with
a young lady, and you were eyeing us up and down
and... you know how these things are. Do we know each
other?"
    "I don't think so."
    "That's why I mention it. It's rude to go round staring
at people you don't know like that, plus you pushed me
off the pavement. That's why I called you an idiot."
    "I didn't like the look of you."
    "Ah well, what do you want me to do about that?"
    "At least you could apologize..."
    Jose Maria was tired, and hadn't the least desire to get
involved in an argument. So he cracked a small smile
and carried on walking away. The doorman stood in
the middle of the pavement - and, as he watched him
depart, considered calling him back a thousand times
over, even mentally trying out a number of different
tones of voice, but couldn't even manage another "hey
you". Frustrated and furious, he went inside his house.
He slammed the door so hard that his wife dropped the
salt cellar into the saucepan.
    "The fucking whore who gave birth to those damn
blacks..." he said as he dialled a phone number. "Hello,
Israel?" Israel could hear him swearing at the other end
of the line. "It's me, Gustavo," continued the doorman.
"Are you busy?"
    Israel rolled his eyeballs.
    "Get to the point, Gustavo," he said. "I'm in the middle
of eating..."
    "I'll call back later then..."

    "No, you tell me what's going on..."
    Meanwhile, Jose Maria had paused on the corner of
the Alvear and Rodriquez Avenues to gaze at the villa.
The windows were dark, all except the kitchen windows
on the ground floor, and one more on the first floor. The
house was imposing: grey in colour, with patches of lichen,
and missing plaster here and there, like smoke rings, but
you didn't need to be particularly cultured to observe
the splendid aura in which it was enveloped. Without
looking any further, even the flight of white marble
steps dropping down from the front door terminated
in the garden with such plasticity it gave the impression
of a tiered wedding cake. "How beautiful," he thought.
He scratched an armpit and began repeating under his
breath "Rosa... Rosita..." - scarcely moving his lips. It
was a call... He had never done anything like this before.
He had to be falling in love. Yet his heart was beating just
the same as ever, with the same rhythm and intensity. Just
then one of those sudden gusts of wind arose that sweep
up everything one by one: the wind lifted a newspaper
page from the ground in order to deposit it a few yards
further on, it shook the crown of a treetop, caused a piece
of cardboard to vibrate, rise and vanish into the distance.
People began to hurry their steps. Jose Maria raised his
face to the skies: great swathes of dark blue, heavy with
stars, but the storm was out there, held within no more
than a dozen clouds, all on the point of exploding.
    2
    The next day not a drop fell and the sky shone like a
mirror. Jose Maria was made fun of when he arrived
at work carrying an umbrella. "It's just that I get up at five in the morning and you lot only got out of bed
ten minutes ago," he told the foreman, a strong stocky
man with a moustache worthy of Dali, who took the
lead in sorting people out. At such an hour (seven in
the morning) no one had the least glimmer of a sense
of humour, meaning they tended to indulge in petty
remarks, cheap jokes and vulgar gibes. The foreman
didn't take kindly to Jose Maria's comments, but he let
them go, because one thing was certain: no need to start
a fight when it would be so much easier to throw him out
without further discussion. He contented himself with
grabbing Jose Maria by the arm and pulling him aside
from the rest, just far enough to talk to him without
being overheard.

    "Listen here, stupid, I made a joke, so don't take it like
that, 'cause I have a temper too," he warned