Conversation
by Eduardo Mallea
She didn’t say anything.
“You think I’m interested in Ema? That’s what you think?"
“Well, why else would you bring it up again?” she said. “It’s just something I said in passing. Simply in passing.”
The two remained silent; he looked at her, she looked outside. Darkness was slowly taking over the street; the night descending in shifts; asphalt that had been white, was now gray, and would soon be black covered with a shiny, deep blue top coat. Cars quickly passed, along with a crowded bus here and there. Abruptly a peculiar bell sounded – where was it coming from? A boy’s voice was heard in the distance, yelling that the fifth edition of the afternoon news was out. The man ordered another whiskey for himself; she never had more than one. The waiter turned his back to their table and shouted their order with the same strident, emphatic voice that he had used with other orders; an authoritarian tone enjoyed by subordinates of despotic bosses. The man knocked on the shop window as the paperboy, laden with the daily news, ran by. The boy entered the bar, smelling of ink. The man bought a paper and spread it out to read the headlines. She looked at two or three photographs on the back page; a young aristocratic woman’s wedding, a British car manufacturer newly arrived to do business in Argentina. A cat had climbed onto the banister and was playing with a flower pot, moving the stems of the scraggly, used up flowers. She asked the man if there was any important news. The man hesitated before answering. And then said:
“Same old thing. Russians don’t get along with Germans. Germans don’t get along with the French. The French don’t get along with the English. Nobody understands anybody. Or anything. It all seems like it’ll all go to hell any minute. Or that it’ll continue like this: the whole world confused, and the planet still spinning.”
The man moved the newspaper to one side and filled his glass with a bit more whiskey and an ice cube, then water.
“It’s best not to stir it. People who know how to drink it say it’s best not to stir it.”
“Do you think there’ll be war?” she asked him.
“Who can say one way or another? Not even they can, I don’t think. Not even them.”
“It would last two weeks, the war, with all of the machines there are... .”
“The other one, too. They said the other one would also last two weeks."
“It was different.”
“It was the same. It’s always the same. You think a few more drops of blood will hold back man, thousands more to be slaughtered? It’s like with a miser. You can’t quench money grubbing with more money. No amount of hatred will satiate the hate men have toward one another.”
“No one wants to be massacred,” she said. “And that’s more powerful than all of that hatred.”
“What?” he said. “Blindness clouds everything. In war, the sick plenitude of killing is greater than the fear of death.”
She was quiet. And let that sink in. She was going to answer but didn’t, she didn’t think it was worth the effort. A young, gray-haired woman in a gray coat had gone out to the opposite sidewalk. With the help of a long iron rod, she pulled down the dry cleaner’s metal grate. It fell with sharp crash. The streetlight was dim and the traffic had become sparser, but still passed at intervals.
“It bothers me every time you bring up the topic of Ema,” he said.
She kept quiet. He wanted to keep on talking.
“Women should shut up sometimes,” he said.
She kept quiet. The clean-shaven man with the yellow skin said goodbye to his friend, walked between the tables and left the bar. The owner looked up at him then back down.
“Want to go somewhere to eat?” he sharply asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever you want."
After a minute passed, she said:
“If one could give purpose to life.”
She went on. He was silent.
They stayed a bit longer and then got up and left. They headed out to walk on the street surrounded by solitude, poverty, balmy night air. The temperature between them was antagonistic to the air outside. They walked the few blocks to the center where the arches were alight, and went into the restaurant.
What racket; laughter, people talking! The ten players in the band held their unique rhythm together. They ate in silence, with an occasional exchange of question and answer. They didn’t order anything after the cold turkey, other than fruit and coffee. The band took short breaks.
They left and felt the night air again, felt the city. They walked a short way to the intersection between the lights and the movie theater. He was irritated. She looked at the pink and yellow signs, wanting to say many things. But knew it was futile, and so, she kept quiet.
“Let’s go home,” he said, “There’s nowhere else to go.”
“Let’s go,” she said, “what else can we do?”