I let her know that I’ve been pondering the direction of the Tiflis case and believe I’ve now located the primary witness. I’m about to approach him. He’s unaware of his role in the matter. It will all come as a surprise to him, and to her, too, to Marcela.

Marcela pays me no attention, she seems to have gone wandering out through the window.

I look at her legs and say, seriously and with absolute sincerity, “I’d like to be in the darkroom with you right now.”

I didn’t think she was paying attention but she queries, in a careless tone, “Doesn’t it strike you that you’re being somewhat impetuous.”

I say yes, I do realize I’m somewhat impetuous, but that’s what I would like, to be with her.

She doesn’t answer or do anything.

A few moments later I tell her the workday is over and invite her out for a drink. She makes no objection.

•

In the bar, she’d rather have a sandwich and a soft drink and I tell her very quickly that I was with someone but it’s all over now. I also say—though there’s no need, the atmosphere is cool and peaceful and we don’t have anything else to do—that it happened last night and I feel a bit strange right now because evening is approaching and I don’t have anywhere to go.

She asks if we had children and I tell her she couldn’t, which is not the whole truth.

She stays silent for a while, and I start thinking about nothing. But with Marcela I don’t get bored.

When she finishes the sandwich, she takes a gulp from her drink, wipes her mouth with a napkin, and opens her bag. She extracts a manila envelope, shakes out a number of photos, and leaves them lying there on the table between my glass and hers.

I shuffle them around. I’m in all of them. Me, looking ridiculous; me, deep in thought; me, sleeping on the sofa with my left arm, resting on its elbow, making a V; a little bit of me, in profile; and from every other angle, Bibi. The back of my neck, a silhouette, a trick photo with my nose, the dog, and the nude portrait, me in winter, me before the series, me before the series.

I’m amused and her smile is full of goodwill.

I ask her, “What shall we do?” and she asks me, “What’s to be done?” and I can’t tell whether that’s a negative or an expression of resignation.

I say I wish I were like her, and this makes her curious. “What am I like? No, really, how do you see me?”

I tell her, “Unaffected and unselfish.”

She has no vanity, I think, and is not displeased by my answer. Instead, she explains, “It’s because I’m going to die.”

She says it in a fairly straightforward way and it doesn’t surprise me. I remember other women, when we were getting started, saying the same thing.