416
PARTISAN REVIEW
Olga, that important letters were forwarded. I realize I wrote too
much. I did it on those nights of such frequent insomnia. At times I
wrote two letters in a single night, but I sent them a week or two
apart . I didn't expect answers. I made that clear in many letters. I
wrote only because I needed to, because I believed I had to tell you
things you should know. In some letters, certainly , I reproached you
for your lack of love, your indifference; I complained because I
believed my son did not love me. I understood that this annoyed
you, like when "I spied on you ," as you violently told me, but I
couldn't avoid it. That day you insulted me for the first time; you
said, among other things, I should be thankful I'm your father
because otherwise your attitude would have been far different. I
think that night you might have hit me. There was such hate in your
look. It was after the episode in the men's room, which I'm ashamed
of, when you stepped over me while I was down on the floor looking
for my glasses, thinking I hadn't seen you. Possibly when you in–
sulted me, you got rid of the fury caused by the episode in the men's
room. You left a nightclub with other people, undoubtedly military,
although all in civilian dress.
It
was very late. I had taken a walk
downtown because of my insomnia. It wasn't that I had gone looking
for you there; they had simply told me you frequented that place,
and I went near the door on the chance I'd see you. That's all. I
wasn't even going to speak if I saw you. For many months I hadn't
been able to find you at home, and I couldn't miss the chance of see–
ing you and feeling consoled by such a simple act. You, when you
saw me, didn't give me time to slip away as at other times in other
places, and, clutching your head, you insulted I don't know whom
with all your fury. Did you believe I'd tell Margarita you came out of
a place like that with another woman?
If
you thought that , it was
because you didn't know your father very well. Your insult was so
emphatic that your friends stopped to ask you what had happened. I
was standing against the wall, terrified by what I had done. Sud–
denly you jerked your hands from your head and , pointing, your
arm thrust out at me, you said to your friends, "That son of a bitch is
my father." I swear to you it was like a knife in me . Luckily the effect
your words were having on me, the humiliation and shame I began
to feel (not at the words but because you had said them) were inter–
rupted and gave way to the fear caused by seeing you come toward
me, take me by the lapels and slam me against the wall. Your friends
took you by the arms and freed me. Otherwise perhaps you'd have
beaten me up. No doubt you were about to say something else
to
