Bottom of the cup

Author: Francisco Ayala
Translator: Li Deming
Country: Spain
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-01-01
Features: I call that girl whom young Rodrigo pursued as "my thing." Well, today this "thing" of mine was too insolent, actually slapping me a slap. The slap was loud enough to hear. What I used was not a metaphor, nor was it any kind of spiritual slap (why do I have to specify now that it wasn't such a slap?), but an actual, real slap—she slapped me with her slender right hand. Yes, with her little angelic fingers, which were skilled at typing, thoroughly familiar with the typewriter keyboard, and adept at tapping other keyboards; her boss and loyal assistant knew that such a skill could not go unappreciated, and besides gratitude, compensation was in order. So, what is the reason for such a violent reaction? I can't put it into words. I gave her a well-thought-out piece of advice, and after she listened to it calmly, I asked her a question in harsh terms, and that's when this reaction occurred. The question was, "My little darling, let me see, what kind of funny face will you make with your little eyes?"
Then the following happened: this country girl, who looked like an Indian (she wasn't anything else, though she had great ambitions now, wearing birch high-heeled shoes and using "Mini" brand French perfume; I was glad she could be persuaded to use it, though I didn't like her using it excessively, but she had gotten used to it, spraying a lot each time), this little Indian girl, whenever she was in a predicament for this reason or that and didn't know what to do or how to behave appropriately, would reveal a rather comical expression, blinking her eyes frequently, as if she were lost like a cartoon character, both amusing and frustrating. The girl was too cunning! Well, I never expected this mad girl to find any intentional offense in my words, because I thought my tone was affectionate. At that moment, I even thought she must have taken my words as a joke, because she really blinked her eyes twice. But, whack! She immediately reached out and slapped me. Though it wasn't very painful, the suddenness of it really startled me, as if I had been suddenly bitten by my own little dog. She was so agitated that I immediately decided to abandon the idea of teasing her properly and resort to softer methods. I criticized her for being too cold and rude to me, for having been so kind to me, yet she had turned out to be heartless, kissing some fool, leaving me speechless with amusement. God, I wasn't trying to ruin someone's reputation! It wasn't to tear Rodrigo short; it was just that my tongue wouldn't stop, and I might have gone too far. I might have lost my senses—so be it! Let her feel mocked! Although she put on an indifferent expression, listening to me as if I were talking about the rain, she didn't miss a word of my criticism (and I know her well!). My words—those I had already said or might have said—ignited like dry tinder thrown into the fire, and the flames of anger burned fiercely beneath her sarcastic expression. Let's stop there! I decided not to bring up the topic again, suggesting reconciliation and lowering my attitude. When I saw her soften, I gently stroked her. At first, she pushed my hand away, but after a while, she revealed a helpless expression and allowed me to do as I wished. I led her to our private room. After I dictated the letter (which was just an excuse, not very urgent, a routine letter, and not very interesting to me), I wanted to continue being intimate with her, but she stood up, combed her hair and adjusted her clothes, while sighing as if relieved after completing a painful and unavoidable duty.
At least one thing is clear: that foolish girl has taken an interest in the scoundrel. I won't use the word "love," because I hate overly sentimental words. Lying in bed, I saw her combing her hair with a comb and quickly applying some lipstick to her lips. She was rushing to see him, leaving the poor "wise man" like a fool between the two of them. First, a wave of grief washed over me, then anger. Why must I kowtow to everything and bear it with resignation? Why? I jumped up, suppressing my anger, and said to her, "Don't be in such a hurry, dear, I still want to talk to you." From the mirror, I saw a startled, almost terrifying look. She turned around and roared at me like a beast, "But, what do you still want to do?"
Some details:
After Constable Lupino visited and questioned the owner of Ruiz & Co., he searched his office, and the results far exceeded expectations, as we pointed out before. Although the employees were evasive, Constable Lupino easily discovered, upon verification, that Louis had frequently visited the store "to cause trouble" (as a female employee vividly described how he haunted the shop) under various pretexts or without any pretext at all, until Candita Gómez was fired. After that, he never showed up again. Another female typist said that in fact, Mr. Ruiz had already banned that annoying fly from the office before Candita was fired, relieving everyone. No one dared to make a firm statement on this sensitive issue, which was understandable. However, Constable Lupino gained a clear impression: all the employees of Ruiz & Co. had a tendency, that the relationship between the boss and Candita was not just that of a superior and a secretary, but that under this veil, there was another, closer relationship. If this were true (of course, we are putting this forward as a hundred percent hypothesis), then anyone with a bit of sense could deduce that the reason for Candita Gómez's dismissal had nothing to do with work. It seemed that everyone in the firm thought so.
"Many signs indicate that the preventive arrest of José Lino Ruiz was absolutely correct. To dispel the suspicions surrounding him, he must provide satisfactory explanations for numerous details." The fact was clear: she had been waiting to see me fall, to see me buried in my own ruins, and to step on me with a foot to crush my breath. This was what she had told me herself, calling me a man with horns on my head—it was news to me, but old news to her. What should be blamed was her action, not the negligence mentioned earlier. Why is she doing this now? I asked myself. For a long time, she had kept this dishonorable matter, which tarnished my reputation, wrapped in cloth and hidden from view, but why did she expose it now, at the worst time of my life, when I couldn't bear any more blows, and place it before me? How cunning she was! Wasn't this done with the intention of driving me to death? Wasn't this a final blow to my fading body? Now, I don't want to dwell too much on emotional matters (I've had enough suffering in the past), nor do I want to dwell on her actions before the conscience, how cunning her heart was, how much hatred and resentment she had accumulated for me, eager to tarnish my name when I was arrested and put in jail. Deep down, I kept repeating: She wouldn't be so cruel, so sly. I could tell her these things, these thoughts, before forgiving her. But in reality, I knew very well that things were not this way; she was not the type to do evil for evil's sake. So, why did she do evil? Was it because she was unaware? That might have been true in the past, but could it still be said now? Let's suppose (purely hypothetically), let's suppose that my misfortune now has awakened the guilt in her heart, which had already existed but was in a dormant state, for that disgraceful matter ( "blunder," a beautiful term from propaganda, which she used to talk about her confession to me, her dirty deed: "my blunder"). What I mean is, let's suppose that seeing me fall, she later felt it necessary to eliminate the unease in her conscience. She had lived with me for so many years without revealing any secrets, why couldn't she keep her old secrets for a little longer, until this nightmare ended? I can't say it's impossible. She must have felt regret. But even at the moment she expressed regret (even if she swore to me that she did, let's assume she regretted it. But when youth had already greeted a man with "Good afternoon," how easy it was to express regret!) she even feigned forgiveness to let everyone know what kind of person she was: a complete egoist, who never thought about the impact her actions would have on the victim. In this way, an act that should have been praised, an act of nobility (a wife expressing regret, humbling herself, asking for forgiveness), was ultimately transformed into its opposite, into a cruel act.
But in summary, if Clina did that (the blunder) out of revenge for me, then it means not only do I bear responsibility for my misfortune, for the misfortune caused by my actions, but also for her wrongdoing, because she did it because of me, for the sake of punishing me, retaliating against me, venting her anger on me. I must also take responsibility for the disaster she suffered as a result. I could even go further. Even if her main motive was not to take revenge for my deception but simply stemmed from a very simple reason—well-known carnal desire—I should still take responsibility for her downfall, because by leaving her alone in such a difficult situation, I had given her the opportunity. Therefore, according to this hypothesis, I should actually ask her for forgiveness without feeling ashamed. Yes, I should ask her for forgiveness. Yes, I should ask for her forgiveness, because I made her turn me into a laughingstock, into a ridiculous image of a mocked husband, into something hateful to her—yes, it's true! But this is the fact, it is true, it is true. Strange as it may seem, but that is how things are! I still don't understand. I, who had become such a fool, made her waste her efforts repeating her pleas—those broken, fragmented words that still echo in my mind, sounding both funny and sorrowful: "Where can I hide my face? I'm a dirty woman, what can I do? But José Lino, you have always loved me, poor, poor me, if you don't forgive me, how unhappy I will be." These words were repeated again and again.
Finally, a look, like that of a shipwrecked man, forever sinking to the bottom before throwing himself into the sea. All I had to do was give a simple gesture, a small gesture, the one she longed for, and that alone would have been enough. A little pity, a little nothingness. But I was too foolish to let her go. I didn't lower my head in humiliation but kept staring at the ceiling, arms crossed; she reached out to me, asking for help, asking me to pull her up, and I pushed her instead—almost causing her to fall. She had to leave, again carrying the heavy burden of the blunder. She left me, all alone (Wasn't this what I had always been proud of, strived for?), always alone, drowning in the mire. May God have mercy on us!