I understand, or think I understand, though vaguely, that these would not be my reasons.

“Marcela, even without sense, life offers a lot of things I like.”

“Me too. But fundamentally it’s not worth it.”

And she suggests we change the subject.

I go along with her on that, although I would like her to know I feel cornered.

A certain unease has set in, and when the waiter comes by—we’ve been there for a long time and have spent very little on our two drinks—Marcela says we can leave.

No one can seriously discuss their own death with another person, I think.

•

The next morning there’s a case and Marcela is already there, as always.

They let us in, though without the camera, and the individual is still lying in the place where he did it. He dressed as well as he could for the occasion, and I catch a whiff of cologne.

He used the double bed. Next to it is another one, also quite wide. It may be for the children, who weren’t there when he took the poison.

The judge handles us with discreet kindness.

He invites me to notice: The man put the portraits of the little boy and little girl on the pillow, no doubt so as to look at them, or so they would be with him to the end. But, he says, what he should have done was beg their forgiveness for the very idea, and abandon it.

Since the judge permits, we follow the whole procedure.

Over the morgue door a clock ticks. Around the face is an inscription: “Every hour passes by, except the last one.” That doesn’t resonate with me but only reminds me of the clocks in all-night restaurants that say, “Every hour is a good time to eat.” I say so to Marcela and she thinks it’s funny, but this is no place for laughter.

Then they authorize us to go inside. The doctor is at work on the suicide. The scalpel has made a deep opening in the corpse. Marcela whispers that the man must not have given much thought to the autopsy or he wouldn’t have worn cologne or his blue suit.

The motionless bumps on the room’s stone floor repeat into the distance. I wonder if that’s what Marcela is giving her attention to.

•

It’s nearly two o’clock, and Marcela drops me off near a restaurant but continues on because she’d rather have a shower before lunch.

It’s very hot and I have my siesta at home where everyone’s resting.

I bathe, pick out my lightest suit, and head back to the agency.

Marcela calls me into the darkroom; she’s blowing up the shots she took that morning with the miniature camera.

Other photographers are in there and I can’t do much, but I do caress her two or three times in the darkness.

We have dinner together and Marcela is wearing a different dress, very light—I think it’s made of gauze.