The Tenant and The Motive (12 page)

There was yet another inconvenience: Álvaro hardly knew any of his neighbours in the building. And of the three apartments that he might have had a chance to spy on – being adjacent to his – at least two could be discarded out of hand. In one of them lived a young journalist with a face covered in boils who, with nocturnal assiduity and undeclared intentions, interrupted him regularly to ask for untimely cups of sugar or flour. Another apartment had remained empty since a widowed mother and her unmarried grown-up daughter, in love with her dog, had moved out about five months earlier, without paying their rent. Therefore, only one apartment could possibly house a married couple that might meet the demands of his novel.

Then he remembered the little ventilation window, in the bathroom of his apartment, which opened on to the building's narrow courtyard. Many times, when answering the call of nature, he had overheard his neighbours' conversations, which came in clearly through the open window. So, in taking advantage of this new resource, not only would the task of spying be simplified and the listening difficulties reduced, but the pool of available candidates would increase, given that he'd have the chance to hear the conversations of all the tenants on his floor. Apart from the apartment left vacant by the two
women, the other four were all occupied. And it was not impossible that in one of them might live a couple who, to a greater or lesser degree, might bend to the demands of his fictional couple. He just needed to seek information and, once he had chosen the hypothetical model, devote all his attention to them.

Where could he gather information on old man Montero and the other tenants on his floor? There could only be one answer: the concierge was perhaps the only person in the whole building who knew all the comings and goings in the lives of all the tenants. But it wouldn't be easy to get information out of her without arousing suspicion. He needed to win her confidence no matter what it cost him, even if it meant overcoming his instinctive repugnance towards that tall, thin, bony, gossipy woman with her servile, saccharine manners and a disconcerting hint of horsiness in her face.

There were all sorts of rumours about her around the neighbourhood. Some mysteriously affirmed that her dubious past was something she would never be able to live down, others, that this past was neither past nor dubious, for everyone knew how assiduously she visited the caretaker of the building next door, as well as the local butcher. All agreed that the real victim of her picturesque tendencies was her husband. He was not as tall as her, a weak, greasy, sweaty man, whom the concierge treated with condescension and unlimited disdain, in spite of the fact that, according to many, he'd been her authentic redeemer. The best informed (or perhaps the most malicious)
attested that, although the concierge's husband's usual attire – a worn-out pair of trousers and a bricklayer's shirt – and his permanent air of exhaustion or boredom might indicate the contrary, he was incapable of fulfilling his conjugal duties, which increased his wife's malaise to extremes of violence. Even though he ignored these rumours as he ignored everything to do with his neighbours, Álvaro could not keep from thinking of one fact that might provide a short cut to intimacy with the concierge: it was obvious she found him attractive. This was the only interpretation of the way she'd looked at him and brushed up against him on more than one occasion, to Álvaro's embarrassment, surprise and shame, when they happened to meet in the lift or on the stairs. On more than a few mornings she'd invited him in for coffee, while her husband – whose bovine faith in his wife's fidelity was a guarantee of stability for the tenants – was at work. Far from feeling flattered, these obvious insinuations had increased the repulsion she inspired in him. Now, however, he must take advantage of them.

So, the following day, once he'd made sure her husband had left for work, he rang the bell of the concierge's flat. At that very moment he realized he hadn't even prepared an excuse to justify his visit. He was about to run away up the stairs, but then the mare opened the door. She smiled showing a mouthful of orderly teeth and offered him a hand, which, despite its thinness, felt strangely viscous. It was cold and somewhat damp. Álvaro thought he had a toad in his hand.

She invited him in. They sat on the sofa in the dining room. The concierge seemed nervous and excited. She removed a vase and a figurine from the table beside the sofa and offered her visitor a cup of coffee. While the woman was in the kitchen, Álvaro told himself that what he was doing was sheer madness: he would drink the coffee and go home.

The concierge returned with two cups of coffee. She sat down a little closer to Álvaro. She spoke non-stop, answering her own questions. At one point, she nonchalantly rested her hand on Álvaro's left thigh; he pretended not to notice and gulped down the rest of his coffee. He stood up abruptly and jabbered some excuse; then he thanked the concierge for the coffee.

‘Thanks again for everything,' he said, already at the door.

And then, thinking he was lying, he added, ‘I'll come back another time.'

When he got home he felt relieved, but his relief soon turned to anxiety. The vast repugnance the woman caused him was not sufficient reason, he told himself, to endanger a project so arduously and protractedly elaborated. The value of the information he could obtain from the concierge far outweighed the price he'd need to pay with the sacrifice of his stupid scruples. Furthermore – he concluded, to instill himself with valour – the differences that, on all fronts, distinguished one woman from the next were merely adjectival.

The next morning he returned to the concierge's flat.
This time there was no need for formalities. Resigned, Álvaro carried out his mission with phoney enthusiasm in an enormous, rickety old bed, with a wooden headboard from which hung a crucifix, which, in the midst of adulterous euphoria and from the effect of the corresponding jolts, fell off its hook and landed on Álvaro's head. He refrained from making any comment whatsoever and tried not to think at all.

Now the room was in semi-darkness: only a few lines of yellowish light striped the floor, the bed, the walls. The smoke from their cigarettes thickened as it floated through the rays of light. Álvaro talked about the various tenants in the building; he said that the one who most intrigued him was Señor Montero. The concierge explained (her voice momentarily acquired a slight pleasantness to Álvaro's ear) that the old man had lost his wife a few years back and had then moved into the flat he now occupied. She didn't know for certain, but suspected he was close to eighty years old. He'd fought in the civil war and, once it was over, stayed in the army, although he never rose from the ranks. The new military regulations caught up with him and he'd had to take early retirement. That's why he hated politicians unwaveringly. As far as she knew he never had visitors; she didn't know if he had any relatives, although every once in a while he received letters with South American postmarks and feminine handwriting. His only acknowledged passion was chess. He unashamedly declared himself to be an excellent player. He had been one of the founders of a chess club,
which was quite far away from where he now lived, and that had forced him to space out his matches because at his age he was no longer up to great excitement. This had contributed to embittering his character even further. It was not impossible that she was the only person he had any dealings with, as she went up to his flat daily to clean, prepare a little food for him and take care of other domestic matters. But she'd never become too friendly with him – something which didn't interest her – nothing beyond the trust that could be implied from her knowledge of those superficial details. She admitted to treating him with a certain deference, but she recognized that he was harsh and mistrustful with the rest of the tenants.

‘Imagine,' continued the concierge, whose brisk transition from the formal to the familiar form of address instigated a verbal intimacy between them that, for some reason, bothered Álvaro even more than the physical one. ‘He pays me each week from money he keeps in a wall safe hidden behind a picture. He says he doesn't trust banks. At first I didn't know where he got the money from, but since he's so proud of the safe, he ended up showing me.'

Álvaro asked if she thought he kept a lot of money in it.

‘I doubt his pension stretches very far.'

Against the perfect whiteness of the sheets, the concierge's skin looked almost translucent. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling and she spoke with a tranquillity Álvaro had never seen in her, the tree of veins at her
temple barely showing. She turned towards him, resting her cheek on the pillow (her eyes were a sickly blue), and kissed him. Making a supreme effort, like a long-distance runner who feels his legs weaken within sight of the finishing line and, pulling himself together, with one last disproportionate exertion, Álvaro complied.

The woman sank her satisfied face into the pillow. Álvaro lit a cigarette. He was exhausted, but soon began to talk of the other occupants of his floor. He said he was curious about them: it was almost a crime that after two years of living in the same building he barely knew them by sight. The woman turned over, lit a cigarette, stated the names of his neighbours and talked about the two women who'd had to leave the building a while ago for not paying their rent. She told anecdotes she thought were funny but which were actually just grotesque. Álvaro thought:
‘On veut bien être méchant, mais on ne veut point être ridicule'.
He felt satisfied at having recalled a quote so appropriate to the moment. These trivial satisfactions filled him with pleasure, because he thought that all of life could be reduced to an indeterminate number of quotes. All of life is a cento, he thought. And then he immediately wondered: but who would undertake the critical edition?

A smile of beatific idiocy illuminated her face as the concierge chattered on. She spoke of the Casares family, who lived in flat C on the second floor. A young couple from the north who seemed moderately happy, with a moderate, friendly manner, and moderately healthy finances.
They had two children. Álvaro sensed that they were the kind of people whose normality kept them immunue to gossip and exasperated concierges. He assured her he remembered them and urged the woman to go on talking about them. The concierge explained that the husband – he wouldn't be more than thirty-five –worked at the Seat plant, on the afternoon shift, so he started around four and finished at midnight. The woman took care of the house and children. The concierge reproached them (she spoke of all the tenants as if she were a decisive part of their lives) for educating their children above their means and social status. Perhaps living in the upper part of the city made them feel obliged to make undoubtedly excessive extravagances. Álvaro thought the concierge's voice sounded like it was infected with the kind of rancour happy people inspire in resentful, mediocre people.

Álvaro stood up abruptly, got dressed without a word. The concierge covered her naked body with a robe; she asked him if he'd be coming back tomorrow. While adjusting the knot of his tie in front of the mirror, Álvaro said no. He peered out through the peephole to make sure the entrance hall was empty. The concierge asked him if he'd be back another day. Álvaro answered: ‘Who knows?' He left.

He waited for the lift. When it arrived and he was about to step in, he noticed Señora Casares, weighed down with packages as well as her shopping trolley, struggling with her key in the lock of the main door. He
rushed to her aid. He opened the door and picked several of her bags up off the ground.

‘Thank you so much, Álvaro, I'm so grateful,' said Señora Casares, almost laughing at the situation she found herself in.

Instead of it making him uncomfortable, Álvaro was flattered by her informal way of using his first name, although he couldn't help but be surprised by it, given that it was the first time they'd ever spoken. By the time they got to the lift, it had gone back up. Señora Casares joked about being a housewife; Álvaro joked about being a housekeeper. They laughed.

Irene Casares is slight, of medium height and with a neat, meticulous appearance. Her manners seem studied, but not false, perhaps because her naturalness comes from a sort of delicate discipline. The features of her face seem strangely toned down, as if softened by the sweetness that emanates from her gestures, her lips, her words. Her eyes are clear, her beauty humble. But there is within her an elegance and dignity that her somewhat vulgar appearance doesn't quite disguise.

Álvaro acted kind. He asked questions and received replies. On the landing they stood a while chatting. Álvaro bemoaned the impersonal relations among the residents of the building, launched into a fervent defence of neighbourhood life, which he admitted to having always avoided; to win the woman's sympathy, he joked maliciously about the concierge. Señora Casares claimed she had to go and make lunch and they said goodbye.

Álvaro took a shower, made some lunch and ate. After three, he waited by the peephole for Señor Casares to leave for work. Shortly, Enrique Casares left his apartment. Álvaro left his apartment. They met in front of the lift. They said hello. Álvaro began the conversation: he said that very morning he'd been chatting with his wife; he bemoaned the impersonal relations between residents of the building and launched into a fervent defence of neighbourhood life, which he admitted to having always avoided; to win the man's complicity, he joked maliciously about the concierge. Señor Casares smiled soberly. Álvaro noticed he was a bit fatter than he seemed at first glance and that it gave him an affable air. He asked him how he got to work. ‘By bus,' Casares answered. Álvaro offered him a lift in his car; Casares turned him down. Álvaro insisted; Casares eventually accepted.

During the drive conversation flowed easily between them. Álvaro explained that he worked as a consultant in a legal agency and that his job only took up his afternoons. With a profusion of gestures that betrayed an exuberant though perhaps rather fragile vitality, Casares described his work at the factory and, not without pride, revealed certain knowledge of motors to which he had access, thanks to the relative responsibility of the position he held. When they got to the Seat plant, Casares thanked him for taking the trouble of driving him there. Then he walked away, towards the huge metal premises, through the full car-park.