Talking to Ourselves: A Novel Read Free Page B

he had decided to wait for me there. I was wrong-footed, because to leave suddenly in that situation would have been like saying: Then you’ve waited in vain, goodbye. What I really wanted was to have arrived first. Seen him come in. Greeted him politely, making it perfectly clear I had taken the trouble to wait for him. Apologized. Paid for my drink and left. That is what I had imagined. But Ezequiel stood up to greet me, he looked very pleased to see me, he was extremely attentive, he told me he had just ordered a bottle of Merlot rarely found in our country. And so I said nothing, sat down, and smiled like an idiot.
    From then on everything that happened, how can I put it? acted like an antidote. Every word, every gesture conspired toblock my path and prevent my escape. Ezequiel could have avoided talking about Mario (a clumsy move that would have vexed me and driven me instantly from the table), but he did precisely the opposite. He mentioned him from the very beginning , incorporating him into the conversation so naturally that it felt almost as though my husband had arranged the dinner himself but had been unable to come at the last minute. Ezequiel could also have asked me overly personal questions, as though imposing intimacy upon me. But he behaved in exactly the opposite way; he was discreet about my life and extremely open about his own. After we ordered the second bottle, Ezequiel could have made overtures, subtly in any case (which at that point I would still have bridled at somewhat), yet he didn’t make the least move. Not even to glance at my cleavage. Which, although nothing to write home about, was nevertheless there.
    Now that I come to think of it, a man only achieves such a level of restraint if that is what he has set out to do. I mean, only if it is premeditated. My God. In any case, it’s too late now. Not because we have done anything irreparable. But because it’s past four in the morning and I am wide awake. And because I was incapable of telling Ezequiel when I arrived at the restaurant, or during the meal, or as we walked back to the house, or when I heard him say his phone number, that it had all been a mistake, that I would never call him, that I didn’t want to see him. That much is irreparable. Almost as irreparable as having written
my God
so many times. Such an atheist and so drunk.
    I look out of the window and I don’t know what to do. Whether to lean out and yell, throw myself head first onto the pavement, or hail a cab.

    “She was also something of a feminist, not crazy,” I underline in one of Cynthia Ozick’s short stories, “but she resented having ‘Miss’ put in front of her name; she thought it pointedly discriminatory , she wanted to be a lawyer among lawyers.” The pupils call us female teachers
Miss
or, at worst,
Ms
. If it comes to that I’d prefer harassment. “Though she was no virgin she lived alone.” What fun
Miss
Ozick has. I remember once, during a dinner, a man asked my sister if she lived alone. In a rare show of humour, my sister replied: Yes, I’m married.

    Why did I lack the courage to pursue my academic career? Admittedly , the precariousness alarmed me, finding myself on the street at thirty, being the umpteenth jobless researcher,
et alia
. But there was something else. Something around me I could see rather more clearly than my dubious vocation.
    Having observed the fate of my former women colleagues, I consider myself sufficiently well-informed to sketch this brief
    PERVERSE OUTLINE
OF THE
ASPIRING FEMALE ACADEMIC
    to be expanded upon below, esteemed gentlemen of the panel, in the hope that it displays some aptitude for synthesis:
    YOU ARE CAPABLE
YOU ARE INCAPABLE
    [
id est:
you’re dumb]                     
     
    YOU ARE CAPABLE AND HOT
YOU ARE CAPABLE AND NOT HOT
    [
id est:
you’re ugly]                     
     
    YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU LET MEN LOOK AT YOUR TITS
YOU ARE CAPABLE, HOT, AND YOU