A Distant Father Read Online Free Page B

wild-eyed on the bed. She gave me aspirin and lemonade, and at night a little chicken soup.
    There are two pieces of correspondence for me. One, from Cristián, arrives in a yellowish envelope. Inside there’s a note and a postcard.
    The note reads,
    In regard to your father, I received the enclosed postcard from him today, sent from Paris. Also today, I was looking down at the ground from the top of the mill, and now I can give you a definite answer to your question. Anyone who jumped from up there would be smashed to pieces. It’s not worth the trouble, especially if God has longer journeys in mind for us. The best conclusion is to live to be a great-grandfather and pass away in your bed, surrounded by your numerous family, after receiving extreme unction from the priest. Take the word of a lonely bachelor.
    The postcard shows a painting of ballerinas doing bar exercises. On the back, the painter’s name: Degas. Otherwise, emptiness and silence.
    The second note comes from Gutiérrez:
    Dear Prof,
    Teresa’s letter is in my hands. She seems to have copied the things she writes you from a book. She finds you quite distinguished, she’s intoxicated by your gaze. She says that when you look at her, “Troy burns.” I’m not sure what she means, but I gather that Tere will be very happy if you come to my party on Friday. The Chilean postal system is stupendous. As a birthday present, my uncle Mateo in Antofagasta sent me a cable transfer in the amount of 20,000 pesos. Next Saturday, rain or shine, I’m going to Angol. You’re invited, Prof.
    By six o’clock Tuesday morning, my fever has disappeared. I’m clearheaded, and I can distinguish every one of the birds and chickens that are warbling or clucking in the garden. I occupy my day off with
Zazie dans le métro
. I touch my growing bristles and decide not to peer into the mirror or shave. I’ll show up at school tomorrow looking like a bandit. The kids will feel anxious, and they won’t throw pieces of chalk at the blackboard when I turn my back on them.
    For dinner, Mama brings me another dose of chicken broth, this time accompanied by two rolls.
    “Cristián’s gotten over his hangover,” she remarks.
    When she turns to go away, I take hold of her wrist and force her to sit on the edge of the bed. She looks at me with fright and curiosity but immediately starts feeling my sheets to make sure they’ve been properly dried and starched. She adheres in her own house to the norms of the hotel business.
    “What do you know about Dad that I don’t know, Mama?”
    “He’s in France.”
    “Why did he go away?”
    “All men have a little sailor in them. Curiosity about other places. Besides, it’s his native country, no?”
    “What about me? What about you?”
    She strokes her chin, and for an instant she looks like a ballerina. She’s a shallow, distracted woman whose beauty is marked by melancholy. She says, “We’re here, no?”
    I spoon the soup with one hand and hold her wrist tight with the other so she won’t go away. Then I start voraciously gobbling up the miller’s bread. I’m as hungry as a wolf. The stubble on my chin lends me an unexpected audacity.
    “Where’s Pierre, Mama?”
    “In Paris.”
    “And why?”
    “He’s from there. It’s only natural.”
    “And when he left … didn’t he love you anymore?”
    “Why wouldn’t he love me anymore? Of course he loved me. He loved you, too. But Paris …”
    “Do you like movies, Mama?”
    “I used to go to the theaters in Santiago a lot. In a few years, supposedly, television is going to come to Chile. Maybe by then we’ll have enough money to buy a set.”
    I look at her as I’ve never done before. Without touching her, I strip the years from her, the effects of the daily grind. I see how lovely she is, how vulnerable. Youthful in the way older women are youthful.
    Devastatingly attractive.
    “Before you were born, your father would compare me with French and Italian actresses.