The Meningitis and Its Shadow

by

Horacio Quiroga

(translated by Mark Andrew Holmes)

I am still taken aback. What on earth do Funes’s letter and the doctor’s subsequent conversation mean? I confess I don’t understand a word of it.

Here is how things stand. Four hours ago—at seven in the morning—I received a note from Funes that read as follows:

Dear friend,

If it is not too much trouble, please stop by my house tonight. If I have time, I will come to see you beforehand. Yours truly,

Luis María Funes

That is where my surprise began. As far as I know, one doesn’t invite someone over at seven in the morning for a conversation scheduled for that night without a serious reason. What could Funes want with me? My friendship with him is rather casual, and as for his house, I have been there only once. He does have two rather pretty sisters, though.

So, I was left intrigued. That covers the matter of Funes. Then, an hour later, just as I was leaving the house, Dr. Ayestarain arrived—another fellow who had been a classmate of mine at the national high school, and with whom I shared much the same distant relationship as I did with Funes.

The man spoke to me about this and that, only to conclude:

"Look here, Durán: you surely realize I haven't come to see you at this hour to talk nonsense, right?"

"I suppose not," I couldn't help but reply.

"Exactly. So, allow me to ask a question—just one. I’ll explain right away why it might seem intrusive. May I?"

"Ask whatever you like," I answered frankly, though I also put my guard up.

Ayestarain then looked at me with a smile—the sort of smile men exchange with one another—and asked this preposterous question:

"What kind of feelings do you have for María Elvira Funes?"

Aha! So that was what it was all about! María Elvira Funes—Luis María Funes’s sister—everyone named María! Why, I hardly knew the woman! It was no wonder, then, that I looked at the doctor as if he were mad.

"María Elvira Funes?" I repeated. "No relationship, no romantic interest. I barely know her. And now..."

"No, allow me," he interrupted. "I assure you, this is a very serious matter... Can you give me your word as a colleague that there is nothing between the two of you?"

"You’re mad!" I finally said. "Nothing—absolutely nothing! I hardly know her, I repeat, and I don't think she even remembers ever seeing me. I spoke with her for a minute—say, two or three—at her own home, and that was it. Therefore—I repeat this for the tenth time—I have no particular romantic interest in her."

"It’s strange—deeply strange..." the man murmured, staring intently at me.

The physician was beginning to try my patience—eminent though he was (and he certainly was)—as he ventured into territory that had nothing to do with his aspirins.

"I think I have the right now..."

But he interrupted me again:

"Yes, you certainly have the right... Will you wait until tonight? A few words will be enough for you to understand that this is no laughing matter... The person we’re discussing is critically ill—near death... Do you follow me?" he concluded, looking me straight in the eye.

I returned his gaze for a moment.

"Not a word," I replied.

"Nor I," he agreed, shrugging. "That’s why I told you it’s a very serious matter... We’ll know something tonight, at last. Will you go there? It’s essential."

"I’ll go," I said, shrugging in turn. And that is why I have spent the whole day wondering, like an idiot, what connection there could possibly be between the critical illness of a sister of Funes—who barely knows me—and myself, whom she barely knows.

* * * * *

I have just come from Funes’s place. It is the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen in my life. Metempsychosis, spiritualism, telepathy, and other absurdities of the inner world pale in comparison to this absurdity of my own in which I find myself entangled. It is the sort of thing that could drive a person mad. Consider this:

I went to Funes’s house. Luis María took me into the study. We talked for a while—struggling like two fools, for by tacit agreement we avoided looking at each other—making idle small talk. Finally, Ayestarain came in, and Luis María left, leaving his pack of cigarettes on the table for me, as I had run out. My former classmate then told me the story, which boils down to this:

Four or five nights earlier, after a reception at their home, María Elvira had felt unwell—the result of a bath that was too cold that afternoon, according to her mother. The fact is, she spent the night in distress, suffering from a severe headache. By the next morning, she was much worse, running a fever; and by nightfall, she had developed meningitis, with all its attendant symptoms. The delirium, in particular, was intense and prolonged—as extreme as it gets. Accompanying it was an agonizing anxiety that proved impossible to soothe. The psychological projections of the delirium—so to speak—revolved from the very first night around a single subject, just one, yet one that consumed her entire existence. It is an obsession—Ayestarain continued—a simple obsession at 42 degrees Celsius. She keeps her eyes constantly fixed on the door, yet she calls out to no one. Her "Her nervous state is suffering from that silent anxiety that is killing her, and my colleagues and I have been thinking since yesterday about how to calm it... She cannot go on like this. And do you know," he concluded, "whom she names when that stupor weighs her down?"

"I don't know..." I replied, feeling my heart suddenly skip a beat.

"You," he said, asking me for a light.

We remained silent for a while—as one can well imagine.

"You still don't understand?" he said at last.

"Not a word..." I murmured, bewildered—as bewildered as an adolescent might be upon leaving the theater and seeing a great leading lady holding her car door open for him from the shadows of the vehicle... Yet I was nearly thirty years old, and I asked the doctor what reasonable explanation could be given for this.

"Explanation? None. Not the slightest. What sort of explanation could there be? Ah, well... If you insist on one at all costs, imagine a patch of land containing a million, two million different seeds—just like anywhere else. An earthquake strikes, churning everything up like a demon, crushing the rest, and a single seed sprouts—just any seed, from the surface or the depths, it makes no difference. A magnificent plant... Is that enough for you? I couldn't say another word. Why you, specifically—someone who barely knows her, and whom the patient knows no better—became the privileged seed in her delirious mind? What explanation could there be for that?"

"Indeed..." I replied to his ever-inquiring gaze, feeling somewhat chilled at finding myself turned first into the arbitrary subject of a mental reverie, and then into a therapeutic agent.

At that moment, Luis María entered.

"Mother is calling for you," he told the doctor. And turning to me with a forced smile:

"Did Ayestarain fill you in on what’s happening? ... It’s the sort of thing that would drive anyone else mad..."

That remark about "anyone else" calls for an explanation. The Funes clan—and in particular the family of which I was beginning to play such a ridiculous part—possessed a fierce sense of pride; due to lineage, I suppose, but also—and this seems most likely to me—due to their wealth. Given this, they were reasonably satisfied that the romantic whims of their handsome scion had settled on me—Carlos Durán, an engineer—rather than flitting about with just anyone of insufficient social standing. Thus, deep down, I appreciated the distinction the young patrician was bestowing upon me.

"It’s extraordinary..." Luis María began again, irritably sliding the matchbox across the table. Then, a moment later, with yet another forced smile:

"You wouldn't mind joining us for a bit, would you? You know how it is. I think Ayestarain is coming back."

Indeed, he was walking in.

"It’s starting up again..." he said, shaking his head while looking only at Luis María. Luis María then turned to me with the third forced smile of the evening:

"Shall we go?"

"With pleasure," I said. And we went.

The doctor entered silently, followed by Luis María, and finally myself—each of us spaced a moment apart. The first thing that struck me—though I should have expected it—was the dimness of the bedroom. The mother and sister stood there, staring fixedly at me; they acknowledged my nod—for I felt it best not to go any further—with a brief inclination of their heads. Both women seemed much taller than I remembered. I glanced at the bed and saw, beneath the ice pack, two open eyes turned toward me. I looked hesitantly at the doctor, but he gave me an imperceptible signal with his eyes, and I stepped toward the bed. Like any man, I have some idea of what it is like to look into eyes that love us as one draws very close to them. But the light in those eyes—the happiness that seemed to flood them as I approached, that dizzying flash of bliss so intense it made them cross-eyed as I leaned over—is something I will never find again in an ordinary, 37-degree-Celsius kind of love.

She stammered a few words, but with such difficulty from her parched lips that I heard nothing. I think I smiled like a fool (what else was I supposed to do, I ask you?), and then she reached out her arm toward me. Her intention was so unmistakable that I took her hand.

"Sit there," she murmured.

Luis María pulled the armchair over to the bed, and I sat down.

Consider, now, whether anyone has ever found themselves in a stranger or more absurd situation:

There I was—the "hero" of the piece—holding a hand that burned with fever and with a love that was utterly misguided. Opposite me stood the doctor. Luis María sat at the foot of the bed. Her mother and sister leaned against the headboard in the background. And everyone remained silent, frowning as they watched us.

What was I to do? What was I to say? You really ought to think about this for a moment. The sick woman, for her part, would occasionally tear her gaze away from mine to scan the faces around her—one by one, without recognizing them—only to let her eyes fall back upon me, trusting and filled with profound happiness.

How long were we like that? I do not know; perhaps half an hour, perhaps much longer. At one point, I tried to pull my hand away, but she squeezed it tighter between her own.

"Not yet..." she murmured, trying to find a more comfortable position for her head.

Everyone gathered round; the sheets were straightened, the ice was replenished, and once again eyes were fixed on that motionless bliss. But from time to time, they would shift uneasily to scan the unfamiliar faces. Two or three times I looked solely at the doctor, but he lowered his eyelids, signaling me to wait. And he was right in the end, for suddenly—abruptly, like a collapse into sleep—the patient closed her eyes and drifted off.

We all left, except for the sister, who took my place in the armchair. It wasn't easy to say anything—for me, at least. Finally, the mother turned to me with a sad, tight-lipped smile:

"A horrible thing, isn't it? It’s heartbreaking."

Horrible, horrible! It wasn't the illness itself, but the situation, that struck them as horrible. It was clear that all the special attention in that house was going to be directed at me. First the little brother, then the mother. Ayestarain, who had stepped away for a moment, emerged very pleased with the patient's condition; she was resting with a serenity unlike anything seen before. The mother looked away, and I looked at the doctor; I was free to leave—obviously—so I said my goodbyes.

* * * * *

I slept poorly, filled with dreams that had nothing to do with my everyday life. And the Funes family is to blame—Luis María, the mother, the sisters, the doctors, and the extended relatives. For if one breaks the situation down clearly, it comes to this:

There is a nineteen-year-old young woman—undoubtedly very beautiful—who barely knows me and to whom I am profoundly and utterly a matter of indifference. That covers María Elvira. On the other hand, there is a young man—an engineer, let's say—who cannot recall ever having thought about the young woman in question twice in a row. All of this is reasonable, intelligible, and normal. But it so happens that the beautiful young woman falls ill—with meningitis or something of the sort—and in the delirium of her fever, and only in that delirium, she feels consumed by love. For a cousin? A friend’s brother? Some worldly young man she knows well? No, sir; for me.

Is that idiotic enough? So, I make a decision—one I shall reveal to the first person from that blessed household who shows up at my door.

* * * * *

Yes, clearly. Just as I expected, Ayestarain came to see me at midday. I couldn't help but ask about the sick girl and her meningitis.

"Meningitis?" he said. "God only knows what it is! At first that’s what it looked like—last night, too... But today? We haven't a clue what it might be."

"But still," I objected, "it’s clearly a brain ailment..."

"And spinal, too, of course... With some tiny lesions—who knows where... Do you know anything about medicine?"

"Very vaguely..."

"Well, there’s a remittent fever—we don't know where it’s coming from... It looked like a case that was racing headlong toward death... Now there are remissions—tick-tick-tick, precise as a clock..."

"But the delirium," I insisted, "is that still there?"

"You bet! There’s all sorts of things going on there... By the way, we’re expecting you tonight."

Now it was my turn to practice medicine in my own way. I told him that my own "substance" had already played its curative role the night before, and that I didn't intend to go back.

Ayestarain stared at me intently:

"Why? What’s the matter?"

"Nothing, except that I honestly don't think I’m needed there... Tell me: do you have any idea what it’s like to be in a humiliatingly ridiculous position—yes or no?"

"That’s not the point..."

"Yes, that is the point—playing a stupid role... It’s odd that you don't understand!" "I understand perfectly well... But it strikes me as something like—don't take offense—a matter of pride."

"That’s rich!" I shot back. "Pride! That’s all you can come up with! You think it’s a matter of pride to go and sit there like an idiot, having my hand held all night long in front of all the relatives, with everyone frowning? If you think it’s just a simple matter of pride, then sort it out amongst yourselves. I have other things to do."

Ayestarain apparently grasped the grain of truth in what I had said, for he didn't press the issue, and we didn't speak of it again until he left.

All that is well and good. What isn't so good is that, ten minutes ago, I received a note from the doctor, worded as follows:

My dear Durán:

With all your baggage of resentment, we need you tonight. Just imagine, for once, that you are acting as chloral—or brional, or whatever hypnotic irritates your nerves the least—and come over.

I said a moment ago that the trouble lay with the previous letter. And I was right, because ever since this morning, that is the only letter I’ve been waiting for...

* * * * *

For seven consecutive nights—from eleven o'clock until one in the morning, when the fever would subside, and with it the delirium—I have remained by María Elvira Funes's side, as close as two lovers can be. At times she has reached out her hand to me, just as she did on the first night; at others, she has taken the trouble to spell out my name while looking at me. I know for a fact, then, that she loves me deeply in that state, while remaining fully aware that, in her lucid moments, she doesn't give a thought to my existence—past, present, or future. This creates a unique psychological case that a novelist might well turn to good account. As for me, I can only say that this dual ...my romantic life has deeply touched my heart. The situation is this: María Elvira—in case I haven't mentioned it—has the most remarkable eyes in the world. It is true that on the first night, I saw nothing in her gaze but the reflection of my own ridiculousness—a harmless, ineffective remedy. The second night, I felt my actual inadequacy less keenly. By the third time, it took no effort at all to feel like the blissful being I was pretending to be; ever since, I have lived and dreamed that love—a love with which the fever binds her head to mine.

What is to be done? I know full well that all this is fleeting—that by day she does not know who I am, and that I myself might not love her when I see her up and about. Yet dreams of love—even those lasting only two hours and accompanied by a 40-degree fever—exact their price during the day. I greatly fear that if there is anyone in the world I am destined to love in the full light of day, it will not be this fleeting nocturnal love of mine... I love a shadow, then, and I think with anguish of the day when Ayestarain deems his patient out of danger and no longer has need of me.

It is a cruelty that men in love—whether with a shadow or not—will appreciate with all their warm sympathy.

* * * * *

Ayestarain has just left. He told me the patient continues to improve, and that—unless he is very much mistaken—I shall soon be free of María Elvira’s presence.

"Yes, my friend," he says. "Free of ridiculous evening vigils, of cerebral romances, and furrowed brows... Do you remember?"

My face must not be expressing sheer joy, for the sly physician bursts out laughing and adds:

"We are going to give you some compensation, though... The Funes family has had their heads in the clouds these past two weeks, so it is no wonder they have forgotten a few things—especially where you are concerned... For starters, we are having dinner at their place tonight." Without your blessed self—mind you—and that famous love affair, I don’t know how it all would have ended... What do you say?

"I say," I replied, "that I’m almost tempted to decline the honor the Funeses are doing me by inviting me to their table..."

Ayestarain burst out laughing.

"Don't be ridiculous! ... I repeat, they didn't know what they were doing..."

"But for opium, and morphine, and mademoiselle's sedative—oh, for that, they didn't forget me!"

My man turned serious and looked at me intently.

"Do you know what I think, my friend?"

"Tell me."

"That you are the happiest man on earth."

"Me, happy?..."

"Or the luckiest. Do you understand now?"

And he kept looking at me. Hmm—I said to myself:

Either I’m an idiot—which is highly likely—or this doctor deserves a hug so tight it breaks the thermometer in his pocket. The sly devil knows more than he lets on, and perhaps, just perhaps... But I come back to the idiot idea; that’s the safest bet.

"Happy?..." I insisted, nonetheless. "Because of the outlandish love affair you invented along with her meningitis?"

Ayestarain looked at me fixedly again, but this time I thought I detected a vague—a very vague—hint of bitterness.

"And even if it were nothing more than that, you big fool..." he murmured, taking me by the arm as we left.

On the way—we went to El Águila for a vermouth—he explained three things to me quite clearly.

1st: that my presence at the patient's side was absolutely necessary, given the state of profound agitation-depression—all rolled into one—of her delirium. 2nd: that the Funeses understood it exactly that way—neither more nor less—despite how odd, surreptitious, and improper the whole affair might seem, and fully aware, of course, of the artificial nature of that love.—3rd: that the Funeses simply trusted in my upbringing to make me realize—with absolute clarity—the therapeutic significance of my presence for the patient, and hers for me.

"Especially that last part, eh?" I added by way of comment. "The point of this whole conversation is this: so I never go thinking María Elvira feels the slightest genuine inclination toward me. Is that it?"

"Exactly!" the doctor shrugged. "Just put yourself in her shoes..."

And the good man is right. Because at the mere possibility that she might...

Last night I had dinner at the Funeses'. It wasn't exactly a cheerful meal, though Luis María, at least, was very cordial toward me. I wish I could say the same for the mother; despite her best efforts to make the meal pleasant, she evidently sees me as nothing but an intruder—someone her daughter prefers a million times over at certain hours. She is jealous, and we shouldn't blame her. For the rest, she and her daughter took turns checking on the patient. She had had a good day—so good that, for the first time in a fortnight, there was no serious fever spike that night; and although I stayed until one o'clock at Ayestarain's request, I had to go home without seeing her for even a moment. Can you imagine? Not seeing her all day! Ah! If only, by God's grace, a fever—40, 80, 120 degrees, any fever at all—were to strike her down tonight...

And here it is: this single line from the good Ayestarain:

Delirium again. Come at once.

* * * * *

All of the above is enough to drive a sensible man mad—one way or another. Consider this now:

When I came in last night, María Elvira …She extended her arm just as she had the first time. She rested her face against my left cheek and, comfortable in that position, fixed her eyes on mine. I do not know what her eyes were telling me; perhaps they were offering me her entire life and soul in an act of infinitely blissful surrender. Her lips spoke, and I had to lean close to hear:

"I am happy," she smiled.

A moment later, her eyes beckoned me again, and I leaned in once more.

"And afterwards..." she whispered faintly, slowly closing her eyes. I believe her train of thought suddenly slipped away. But the light—that senseless light that makes one’s gaze lose itself in flashes of happiness—flooded her eyes once more. And this time I heard it clearly; I felt this question distinctly upon my face:

"And when I recover and the delirium is gone... will you still love me?"

A madness that has come to sit astride my heart! Afterwards! When the delirium is gone! But were we all mad in that house? Or was there—projected outside of myself—an echo of my own ceaseless anguish regarding the "afterwards"? How could she have said that? Was there meningitis or not? Was there delirium or not? And my María Elvira...

I do not know what I answered; I imagine it was something that would have scandalized the entire family had they heard it. But I had barely whispered; she had barely whispered with a smile... and then she fell asleep.

On the way home, my head was a whirlwind of dizzying sensations, filled with wild impulses to leap into the air and shout for joy. Who among us could swear they wouldn't have felt the same? For, to be clear, the situation must be framed this way: a delirious patient who, due to some psychological aberration, loves "X"—but only while in the grip of that delirium. That is one side of it. On the other hand, there is X himself—who, unfortunately for him, lacks the strength to limit himself strictly to his role as a provider of medicine. And so it happens that the sick woman, in her meningitis and her unconsciousness—her undeniable unconsciousness—whispers to our friend:

"And when the delirium passes... will you still love me?"

This is what I call a small case of madness—clear and absolute. Last night, upon arriving home, I thought for a moment I had found the solution: María Elvira, in her fever, was dreaming that she was awake. After all, who hasn't dreamed that they were dreaming? No explanation could be simpler, of course.

But when, through the veil of that feigned love, one sees two immense eyes—eyes that drench us in bliss while drowning themselves in a love that cannot be faked; when one has seen those eyes scan familiar faces with harsh bewilderment, only to settle in ecstatic happiness upon oneself—despite the delirium, and a hundred thousand deliriums like it—then one has the right to dream all night long of that love... or, to be more explicit: of María Elvira Funes.

* * * * *

Dream, dream, and dream! Two months have passed, and at times I still feel as though I am dreaming. Was it I—for the love of God—was it I to whom that hand was extended, along with an arm bared to the elbow, just when the fever was turning even the beloved faces of the household hostile? Was it I who soothed—during those immense, eternal minutes—the gaze of my María Elvira, a gaze dizzy with love?

Yes, it was I. But that is over, concluded, finished, dead, immaterial—as if it had never been. And yet...

I saw her again twenty days later. She had recovered, and I dined with them. At first, there was an obvious allusion to the patient’s emotional ravings—handled with great tact by the family, and a matter in which I cooperated as best I could, for during the preceding twenty days, the need for discretion during this first meeting had been a constant concern of mine.

Everything went perfectly, however.

"And you," the mother said with a smile, "have you fully recovered from the trouble we put you to?"

"Oh, it was nothing at all! And I would even," I added, laughing too, "be willing to go through it all over again..."

María Elvira smiled in turn.

"You might; but I certainly wouldn't, I assure you!"

Her mother looked at her sadly:

"My poor daughter! When I think of the wild notions that crossed your mind... Anyway," she turned to me pleasantly, "you are now—one might say—part of the family, and I assure you that Luis María thinks the world of you."

The man in question placed his hand on my shoulder and offered me a cigarette.

"Have a smoke, have a smoke—and pay no attention to that."

"But Luis María!" his mother chided, half-seriously. "Anyone hearing you would think we were lying to Durán!"

"No, Mama; what you say is perfectly true—but Durán understands me."

What I understood was that Luis María wanted to cut short the rather insipid pleasantries; yet I was not in the least bit grateful to him for it.

Meanwhile, whenever I could without drawing attention to myself, I fixed my gaze on María Elvira. At last! There she was before me—healthy, truly healthy. I had awaited this moment with a mixture of eagerness and dread. I had loved a shadow—or rather, a pair of eyes and thirty centimeters of arm, for the rest had been nothing but a long white blur. And from that dimness, like a silent bud, had emerged this splendid figure—fresh, indifferent, and cheerful, and a stranger to me. She looked at me the way one looks at a family friend—someone on whom one’s gaze naturally rests for a second while recounting a story or sharing a lighthearted remark. But nothing more. There was not the slightest trace of the past, nor even the affectation of avoiding my gaze—a reaction I had counted on as the final triumph of my game. To her, I was an absolute stranger—not merely a person, but a complete unknown. And imagine the irony of remembering, as I watched her, that one night those very eyes—now so frivolous—had asked me, from a distance of mere inches:

"And when I’m well again... will you still love me?"

Why seek out the glimmers—the will-o'-the-wisps—of a dead happiness, one branded forever into the feverish, throbbing casket of a brain fever? To forget her... though it was what I most desired, it was precisely what I could not do.

Later, in the hall, I managed to step aside with Luis María, though I positioned him between his sister and myself; this allowed me to look at her with impunity, under the pretext that my gaze was naturally extending beyond the person I was addressing. It was extraordinary how her entire body—from the finest strand of hair on her head to the heels of her shoes—was an embodiment of desire; and how, as she crossed the hall to go inside, the brush of her skirt against her patent-leather shoes seemed to drag my soul along like a scrap of paper.

She returned, laughed, and brushed past me, offering a forced smile—since I was standing in her path—while I, like an idiot, kept dreaming she might suddenly stop beside me and place not just one, but both hands upon my temples:

"Well then: now that you’ve seen me on my feet... do you still love me?"

Bah! Dead—truly dead—I took my leave, pressing that hand of hers for a brief moment: cool, polite, and fleeting.

* * * * *

There is, however, one absolutely certain thing, and it is this: María Elvira may not remember what she felt during her feverish days—I admit that. But she is perfectly aware of what happened, thanks to the stories she heard later. Therefore, it is impossible for me to be devoid of the slightest interest in her eyes. As for charm—God forgive me!—she can think what she likes. But as for interest—being the man she dreamed of for twenty nights in a row—that is another matter. Consequently, her total indifference toward me is irrational. What advantages, what remote chance of happiness, could I possibly gain from realizing this? None that I can see. María Elvira is simply guarding herself against any potential romantic overtures on my part because of that episode; that is all there is to it.

In that, she is wrong. That I might be desperately in love with her—fine. But for me to go and demand payment on a promissory note of love signed on a meningitis chart—the devil!—no, that’s not it.

* * * * *

Nine in the morning. Not exactly a decent hour to go to bed, but there it is. From the dance at Rodríguez Peña’s place to Palermo. Then to the bar. All of it completely alone. And now, to bed.

But not without finishing off the pack of cigarettes before sleep takes me. And here is the reason: I danced with María Elvira last night. And after dancing, we spoke like this:

"Those little specks in my pupils," she said to me—we were sitting across from each other at the small table—"they still haven't gone away. I don't know what it could be... I didn't have them before I got sick."

In fact, the woman at the next table had just pointed that detail out to her. It only made her eyes look even more luminous.

I had barely started to answer when I realized my slip-up; but it was too late.

"Yes," I said, looking into her eyes, "I remember you didn't have them before..."

And I looked away. But María Elvira burst out laughing:

"It's true; you, of all people, would know."

Ah! What a feeling of an immense weight finally lifted from my chest! It was possible to talk about it, at last!

"I think so," I replied. "More than anyone else—I don't know... But yes; at the moment you're referring to, more than anyone else, for sure."

I paused again; my voice was dropping too low.

"Ah, yes!" María Elvira smiled. She looked away—her expression turning serious—and raised her eyes to the couples passing by us.

A moment went by—one of perfect oblivion regarding our conversation for her, I suppose, and of dark anguish for me. But without lowering her gaze—as if she remained interested in the faces passing by like a film sequence—she added, looking sideways at me:

"When I was your love, apparently."

"Perfectly put," I said. "Your love, apparently."

She looked at me then, smiling back.

"No..."

And she fell silent.

"No... what? Finish the thought."

"What for? It's silly."

"It doesn't matter; finish it."

She burst out laughing:

"What for? Anyway... surely you don't think it wasn't 'apparently'?"

"That's an uncalled-for insult," I replied. "I was the first to acknowledge the accuracy of the matter, back when I was your love... apparently."

"Oh, give it a rest..." she murmured. But the demon of madness dragged me—following that mocking "give it a rest"—into a question I never should have asked.

"Listen to me, María Elvira," I said, leaning in. "You don't remember anything, do you? Nothing about that ridiculous story?"

She looked at me very seriously—haughtily, perhaps—but at the same time with the kind of attention we give when we are about to hear things that, despite everything, do not displease us.

"What story?" she asked.

"The other one—back when I was living..."

by your side… —I pointed out clearly enough.

—Nothing… absolutely nothing.

—Let’s see; look at me for a moment…

—No, not even if I look at you… —she laughed.

—No, that’s not it… You’ve looked at me too often in the past for me not to know… I wanted to ask you this: Don’t you remember saying something to me… just two or three words… the last night you had a fever?

María Elvira knitted her brows for a long moment, then raised them higher than usual. She looked at me intently, shaking her head:

—No, I don’t remember…

—Ah! —I fell silent.

A while passed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw she was still looking at me.

—What? —she murmured.

—What… what? —I repeated.

—What did I say?

—I don’t remember anymore either…

—Yes, you do… What did I say?

—I don’t know, I assure you…

—Yes, you do know… What did I say?

—Let’s see! —I leaned back against the table—. If you remember absolutely nothing—since it was all a feverish hallucination—what could it possibly matter to you what you did or didn’t say in your delirium?

It was a telling blow. But María Elvira didn’t think to answer it; she was content to look at me for another moment and then turn her gaze away with a slight shrug.

—Come on, —she said abruptly—. I want to dance this waltz.

—Fair enough, —I said, standing up—. The waltz-dream we were dancing isn’t exactly fun.

She didn’t answer me. As we walked toward the ballroom, she seemed to be searching the crowd for one of her usual waltz partners.

—What waltz-dream was so unpleasant for you? —she asked suddenly, without stopping her sweep of the room.

—A delirium waltz… it has nothing to do with this, —I shrugged in turn.

I thought we wouldn’t speak again that night. But although María Elvira didn’t say a word, she didn’t seem to find the ideal partner she was looking for, either. So, pausing, she said to me with a forced smile—that unavoidable forced smile that pervaded the whole affair:

"If you like, then, dance this waltz with your love..."

"...so it seems. I won't say another word," I replied, placing my hand on her waist.

* * * * *

Another month has gone by. To think that Mother, Angélica, and Luis María are now, to me, filled with poetic mystery! Mother is, of course, the person María Elvira addresses informally and kisses most intimately. Her sister has seen her undress. Luis María, for his part, feels free to stroke her chin when he enters and she is sitting with her back to him. Three very happy people, clearly, and yet incapable of appreciating the bliss that surrounds them.

As for me, I spend my life raising cigarettes to my lips like someone plucking the petals off a daisy: she loves me? she loves me not?

Since the dance at the Peñas', I have seen her many times—at her home, naturally, every Wednesday.

She keeps the same circle of friends, keeps everyone’s spirits up with her laughter, and flirts admirably whenever the opportunity arises. Yet she always finds a way to keep me in her sights. That is when she is with the others. But when she is with me, she never takes her eyes off them.

Is this reasonable? No, it isn't. And that is why I’ve had a bad case of laryngitis for the past month—from constantly filling my throat with smoke.

Last night, however, I had a moment of respite. It was Wednesday. Ayestarain was talking to me, and a brief glance from María Elvira—cast our way over the shoulders of the four men flirting with her—brought her splendid figure into our conversation. We spoke of her, and fleetingly, of the old story. A short while later, she stopped in front of us. "What were you talking about?"

"Many things; about you, first and foremost," the doctor replied.

"Ah, I thought as much..." Pulling a small Roman-style armchair toward her, she sat down with her legs crossed, leaning forward, her face resting in her hand.

"Go on; I'm listening."

"I was telling Durán," said Ayestarain, "that cases like the one you experienced during your illness are rare, though they do exist. An English author—I don't recall which one—cites an instance. Only, that one has a happier outcome than yours."

"Happier? And why is that?"

"Because in that case, there is no fever, and the two lovers love each other in their dreams. Whereas here, you were the only one who loved..."

Did I mention that Ayestarain’s attitude toward me had always struck me as somewhat devious? If I hadn't, I felt a sudden, burning desire at that moment to make him feel it—and not just with a look. He must have sensed something of that longing in my eyes, however, for he stood up, laughing:

"I'll leave you two to make up."

"The wretch!" I muttered, now calm, as he walked away.

"Why? What has he done to you?"

"Tell me, María Elvira," I exclaimed, "has he ever made love to you?"

"Who? Ayestarain?"

"Yes, him."

She looked at me, hesitating at first. Then, meeting my gaze fully, she said seriously:

"Yes," she answered.

"Ah, I expected as much... At least he has luck on his side..." I muttered, now thoroughly bitter.

"Why?" she asked.

Without answering, I shrugged violently and looked away. She followed my gaze. A moment passed.

"Why?" —she insisted, with that heavy, distracted obstinacy of women when they begin to feel perfectly at ease with a man. She was standing—and remained so for the brief moments that followed—with one knee resting on the small armchair. She was biting a piece of paper—I never did find out where it came from—and looking at me, raising and lowering her eyebrows ever so slightly.

"Why?" I finally replied. "Because he, at least, had the luck not to serve as a ridiculous prop beside a bed; he can speak seriously without watching eyebrows go up and down as if what I’m saying isn't understood... do you see now?"

María Elvira looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, then shook her head, the paper still between her lips.

"Is it true or not?" I insisted, though my heart was already racing wildly.

She shook her head again:

"No, it’s not true..."

"María Elvira!" Angélica called out from a distance.

Everyone knows that a sibling's voice tends to be most inopportune. But never had a sibling's voice landed with such ill-timed, icy, and chilling effect as it did then.

María Elvira tossed the paper aside and stepped down from the chair.

"I'm leaving," she said, laughing—that laugh I already knew so well from her flirtatious encounters.

"Just a moment!" I said.

"Not another second!" she replied, already walking away and waving her hand in refusal.

What was left for me to do? Nothing—except swallow that damp scrap of paper, press my mouth into the hollow left by her knee, and smash the armchair against the wall. And then smash myself against a mirror for being such an imbecile. Above all, it was the immense rage I felt at myself that made me suffer. "Male intuition!" "The psychology of a seasoned man!" And yet, the first flirtatious girl whose knee leaves a mark there mocks it all with unparalleled nonchalance!

* * * * *

I can't take it anymore. I love her madly, and—what is even more bitter—I do not know if she truly loves me back. Furthermore, I dream—I dream too much—and things like this: We were walking arm in arm through a drawing room; she was all in white, and I was like a black lump beside her. There was no one in the room but elderly people, all seated, watching us pass. Yet it was a ballroom. And they said of us: "Meningitis and its shadow." I woke up, only to dream again: that same ballroom was frequented by the daily dead of an epidemic. María Elvira’s white dress was a shroud, and I was the same shadow as before, but now I had a thermometer for a head. We were still "Meningitis and its shadow."

What can I do with dreams of this nature? I can’t take it anymore. I am going to Europe, to North America, anywhere I can forget her.

Why stay? To start the same old story all over again—burning up alone, like a clown—or to keep missing each other just when we feel we are together? Ah, no! Let’s put an end to this. I don’t know what good this sentimental absence (and yes, sentimental!—much as I might deny it) will do for my blueprints; but staying would be ridiculous, stupid, and there is no reason to provide any more amusement for the María Elviras of the world.

* * * * *

I could write things here that are reasonably different from what I have just noted down, but I prefer simply to recount what happened on the last day I saw María Elvira.

Out of bravado, or as a challenge to myself—or who knows, perhaps driven by some morbid, suicidal hope—I went to say goodbye to the Funes family the afternoon before my departure. I had already had my tickets in my pocket for ten days—which shows just how little I trusted myself.

María Elvira was unwell—a sore throat or a migraine—but she was receiving visitors. I stepped into the antechamber for a moment to greet her. I found her leafing through sheet music, listless. She was slightly surprised to see me, though she had time to steal a quick glance at the mirror. Her face was drawn, her lips pale, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. Yet she was still herself—even more beautiful to me, perhaps, because I was losing her.

I told her simply that I was leaving and wished her much happiness.

At first, she didn't understand.

"You're leaving? And where to?"

"To North America... I just told you."

"Ah," she murmured, the contraction of her lips clearly visible. But then she looked at me, uneasy.

"Are you ill?"

"Well... not exactly... I’m not well."

"Ah," she murmured again. She gazed out through the windowpanes, her eyes wide, as if her thoughts had drifted away.

It was raining outside, and the hallway was dim.

She turned back to me.

"Why are you leaving?" she asked.

"Hmm," I smiled. "It would take too long—an eternity—to explain... Anyway, I’m leaving."

María Elvira kept her eyes fixed on me; her expression, initially concerned and attentive, grew somber.

Let's get this over with, I told myself. And I spoke up:

"Well, María Elvira..."

She slowly held out her hand—a cold, damp hand, the hand of someone with a migraine.

"Before you go," she said, "won't you tell me why you're leaving?"

Her voice had dropped a tone. My heart pounded wildly, but in a flash, I saw her before me as she had been that night—walking away, laughing, waving her hand in refusal: "No, I’ve had enough..." Ah, no—I had had enough, too! That had been plenty for me!

"I'm leaving," I said clearly, "because I've had it up to here with the pain, the absurdity, and the shame of it all! Are you happy now?"

She had still been holding my hand. She pulled it away, she turned back slowly, removed the music from the stand to place it on the piano—all with measured deliberation—and looked at me again with a strained, painful smile:

"What if I… asked you not to leave?"

"For God's sake!" I exclaimed. "Don't you realize you're killing me with this? I'm sick of suffering and tormenting myself over my own unhappiness! What do we gain—what do you gain—from this? No, enough is enough! Do you know," I added, stepping closer, "what you said to me that last night of your illness? Do you want me to tell you? Do you?"

She stood motionless, all eyes.

"Yes, tell me..."

"All right! You said to me—and damn the night I heard it—you said this quite clearly: 'And when I'm no longer delirious... will you still love me?' You were still delirious, I know that... But what do you expect me to do now? Stay here by your side, bleeding to death inside because of the way you are—because I love you like an idiot! That’s pretty clear too, isn't it? Ah, I tell you, this is no life I'm living! No, it's no life at all!"

I had rested my forehead against the windowpane, utterly undone, feeling that after what I had said, my love, my soul, and my life were collapsing forever.

But it had to end, and I turned around: she was right beside me, and in her eyes—like a flash of lightning, though this time of happiness—I saw the light of a tearful joy, which I had thought long dead, shining, swirling, and sobbing.

"María Elvira!" I exclaimed—I shouted, I think. "My darling love! My adored soul!" And she—shedding silent tears born of torment now ended, vanquished, surrendered, and blissful—had finally found a comfortable resting place for her head upon my chest.

* * * * *

And that is all. Could anything be simpler? I have suffered—it is quite possible—wept, and howled in pain; I must believe it, for that is how I wrote it. Yet how devilishly far away all that seems! And all the more distant because—and here lies the most amusing part of our story—she is right here beside me, reading what I write with her head resting near my pen. She has objected, naturally, to quite a few of my observations; yet, for the sake of the literary art in which we have so freshly immersed ourselves, she resigns herself to it like a good wife. Moreover, she agrees with me that the overall impression of this narrative—reconstructed stage by stage—is a fairly accurate reflection of what happened, what we felt, and what we endured. Which, for the work of an engineer, isn't half bad.

At this moment, María Elvira interrupts to tell me that the last line I wrote isn't true: my narrative isn't merely "not half bad"—it is good, very good. And as an irrefutable argument, she throws her arms around my neck and gazes at me from a distance of—I’d wager—no more than five centimeters.

"Is it true?" she murmurs—or rather, coos.

"Can one say 'coos'?" I ask her.

"Yes—and this, and this!" And she plants a kiss on me.

What more is there to add?

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