82
PARTISAN REVIEW
became jumbled, indistinct, tormenting her rather than helping her
through the transition away from him.
The last time Carla had seen Alvaro, it had been an unusually cold
spring day, the kind that made you want to grab your old alpaca coat
and stop for a coffee along the way. Intent on looking her best for him,
Carla had wrapped herself instead in her lighter weight lamb's wool
shawl and skipped the coffee so as not to erase her lipstick. "The color
of your shawl is beautiful against your eyes," he had said . Both were a
light gray.
"How was your week, Alvaro?" Carla had asked as she did every
Tuesday, the only day she was allowed to visit, the only day they could
be assured of privacy, of secrecy. Knowing it would be the last time,
though she hadn't yet told him so, her voice had managed to have more
sweetness than bitterness, the duplicitous sound of farewell.
"It
was lonely without you. No one to read me Ocampo's poetry. No
one to look at the sunsets with. I miss you, Carla. It hurts in here with–
out you." He clutched his chest to signify his heart. He paused. "Do you
miss me? Tell me. Or are you tired of an old man, cooped up in a con–
valescent hospital?"
"Of course I miss you, Alvaro." She hadn't been lying exactly, only
the genuine meaning was hidden.
I miss you and I'm furious at you for
it. You are responsible for this. And, in my opinion, you are not suffer–
ing enough.
He did not detect Carla's bad faith. Alvaro had proceeded to talk
about the progress of his condition. "The wonderful part is, I'm start–
ing to regain my memory, Carla . On Sunday, when the children came, I
knew their birthdays, all of them-Fernando, Carlos, and even Jorge. I
can remember way back now, the days when I used to paint, and only
paint, even before I was an architect. I even hear voices now, from the
past... " And all Carla could remember thinking had been,
What about
the present, now, me?
She knew that he was intentionally leaving most
everything about his week out; the time with his wife, with Luce. Carla
could picture her, smiling in the background, proud, as her sons helped
their father recall their early life together.
Carla was angry about more than just Luce. She resented the fact that
Alvaro's entire recovery was about recollecting his past.
It
had been one
thing to pick up bits and pieces of Argentina's history at the Sunday flea
market; it was quite another to spend one's days trying to recall one's
lifetime. Remembering as an enjoyable task was a deed that would for–
ever elude Carla. Alvaro's whole family had fled early in the Terror to
the safety of Sao Paulo. Martin had been determined to stay and fight,
