“When he wants it, he sends the photos and the letter about the hand. When he doesn’t want it, he keeps silent. You see? He wants it and he doesn’t want it. He wants the guilty party to be punished, he’s suffering from guilt and denounces himself because he gives in to the dictates of his own conscience, but then he notices that what will be punished is his own body, and his mind and body shy away from that.”

Now I’m the one who says, “That may be the case,” and, in the same breath, I’m the one who argues, “But you would know that because you’re a very well-placed witness: Only you know who gave you the photos.”

He denies this with a smile and a movement of the head that says, “Give it up, my friend.”

I make my final point. “You said, ‘a respectable professional.’”

“I did say that.” He shrugs. “But they came by mail.”

I say nothing.

That’s it then. The matter is concluded.

“What do I do?” I ask.

“As long as I haven’t given you the signal to stop, go ahead with the series.”

•

I have Marcela without ever having courted her. I point that out because I think it’s good to see things clearly, and ask her, in turn, to be clear with me.

She feels it wasn’t necessary for me to court her, that I am the way I am and she understands me.

It occurs to me that I haven’t ever spoken a word of tenderness to her, either. Marcela confirms that I haven’t, up to this point, not a word.

I explain that if I don’t, it’s because I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it. She can understand that and forgives me.

Nevertheless, so everything will be clear, she should know that at one point in the past I did say those words. I tell her I was once in love.

I was still a student, and she had a charm that was cloudless and pure. We were both seventeen, the age of loving well, and we loved each other elegantly.

Even so, I distanced myself from her, suddenly. It was my intention to go back some day but I neglected to tell her so.

I was far away and sent no word. Then I did go back to find her. She’d married someone else.

I withdrew even further to protect her from any feeling of remorse: If I erased myself, she would never come to realize that she had no faith in me.

I say that I can’t know whether things would have worked out with her because I believe, or at least now I believe, that you marry a certain person and then that person changes, and most often this new person no longer interests you, or not in the same way. Or you think you’re marrying someone, but you’re only marrying that person’s youth, and youth doesn’t last.