The Neruda Case Read Free Page A

something else: the desire to attend to an unresolved issue so as to move on to other matters, which perhaps had been postponed only because of the problem at hand. Ángela’s projects were concerned less with domestic and more with political life, and without a commitment or at least a public standing in the country he’d followed her to, he was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit; and that’s exactly how he felt, out of place and out of the game, at that party where no one would have invited him if it hadn’t been for her and to which he, as he thought with growing crankiness, wouldn’t have tried to be invited. He didn’t feel like mingling with these VIPs, and was even more reticent to join the circle that had formed around the owner of the most illustrious name, the one most praised, the one surrounded by the most legends; Cayetano, vaguely disillusioned, preferred to withdraw to the library of that turn-of-the-century house, where the siding was renovated with sheets of yellow-painted iron, and which gleamed like a gold coin over the bay. The library—with its wooden floor, exposed-oak beams, and shelves full of elegant leather-bound books—offered the refuge of dimness and, as Cayetano had imagined, was deserted. He settled into a wing chair by the window that led out to the garden, where several guests smoked and talked with complete disregard for the cold, and as he inhaled the intense fragrance of the Pacific, he recalled another sea, and another Ángela.
    He remained this way until he lost track of time. Apparently, noone missed him. But then, when the Chilean gathering seemed to be occurring in a very distant time and place, or perhaps during a nebulous dream, he heard steps behind him that snapped him out of his modest trance. Someone had entered: fortunately, this person had not turned on another light. The interloper, like himself, preferred the shadows; perhaps he also longed for solitude. He stayed still and avoided making any sound. Perhaps the other person had lost his way or, not seeing anyone, would leave him be. But the steps kept approaching, slowly, as though the feet doubted the very floor they walked on, until they finally stopped close to him.
    “How’s it going, sir?”
    The new arrival’s tone was so ironic yet amiable, as if they already knew each other and shared an inside joke, and his greeting so unusual, so personal and affable, that at first Cayetano was too surprised to respond. Since the silence made the isolated phrase seem even more unreal, he searched for a response.
    “It’s very nice here,” he said. “If you’re tired of all the excitement.” Remembering the calm rhythm of the man’s steps, he thought that he must be older. “It’s perfect for gathering your strength.” Why had he said that, as though inviting him to stay, when he wanted the stranger to leave? At least he didn’t turn to look at him and kept his gaze on the horizon through the window. But the other man, whose presence he felt at his back, picked up the thread of conversation.
    “It reminds me of Burma, during my youth,” he said. Cayetano asked himself what this cold, southern country could have in common with that remote part of Asia that he imagined brimming with heat and rain forests. “The night of the soldier. A guy far out on the ocean and a wave—” He spoke as though lost in his own thoughts, but seemed to be describing himself. Where had he come from? The breeze flapped the curtains, and now Cayetano looked out at the waves. He guessed the other man was doing the same. “A man alone in front of the sea may as well be out at sea.”
    Cayetano needed to set a limit here. “Who are you talking about?”
    “Aren’t you a foreigner?” The man’s use of the casual
tú
surprised him but didn’t bother him; he wanted to be alone, and yet that voice managed to make him comfortable with its presence. “When you’re far from your country, you have no home and lose your sense of