Upon returning from the sixtieth birthday party of Cabral, his former high school friend, Lisandro was surprised by his well-being: he had chosen the best canapés and in modest quantities. He also moderated his wine: simply a glass of an extraordinary vintage. He slept with a mystical calm and woke up rejuvenated. During the splendid agape, away from the crowd, sitting in a comfortable armchair, smoking a single cigar, He had observed with particular interest Juliana, one of the few women in the class.. She has retained the sensuality of her adolescence. He had loved her madly. They had been close during the graduation trip, but a conspiracy of envious classmates thwarted the possible romance. Then life pushed them apart.
Juliana was married, had children and even a grandson. She was divorced from one husband and widowed from another.
“Widowhood is the most peaceful emotional state,” she told him in the very brief dialogue they shared. Even in conversation, Lisandro had chosen to contain himself. It’s not that Juliana had paid him any particular attention, but Lysander hadn’t made an effort to prolong the conversation either. Like many other times in his life, the few that he could consider successful, he preferred that the lady in question approached him, even after the casual or eventual encounter – as it had been -. I was afraid of disturbing myself. In the large room, partly outdoors, partly indoors, while some couples danced and groups of men argued, Juliana spoke seemingly into thin air: with her Bluetooth headset in one ear and her cell phone in her bag or trouser pocket.
Plones, the watchmaker, was not present. But he had sent as a gift a caricature of Cabral created by Malbrán, the other student he drew, like Lysander himself. Malbrán had abandoned his artistic vocation before his fifth year; Already graduated in economics, he poured his energies and talent into his career as an accountant, crowned with professional success.
A couple of months after the party, Morrone, one of the few former colleagues with whom he maintained frequent contact – calling him a “friend” was excessive – visited Lisandro in his atelier.
They casually exchanged circumstances of their respective lives. Morrone was leaving for a cruise with his wife and children. Lisandro couldn’t help but look surprised: Morrone certainly didn’t belong to the bourgeoisie. In fact, without complaining, at his birthday table she had commented on the enormous efforts to maintain his financial position. Morrone noticed Lisandro’s silent perplexity and reported:
-It seems like a lie. Participating in the birthday was a gift for me. Bagarini gave me spectacular financial information. I would never have invested a peso before. I won’t tell you I was saved, but I have a lot of dollars. We can afford this trip.
Lysander smiled with legitimate good nature, and only after a silence did he formulate:
-Touts?
-Yes, the man who sat us at the table. On your left. That of shares. Broker or something similar.
“I don’t remember,” Lysander acknowledged.
“Yes,” Morrone said, laughing, “he’s Cabral’s cousin.” He invited half the country.
The conversation took place on informal lines and Morrone purchased a painting by Lisandro. Customers chose the ones the author liked least. His vocation as a painter had already emerged in high school, and had soon also become his job and his livelihood. But he had never stood out. Critics were reluctant. When Morrone left, Lisandro tried to recover the face of the aforementioned Bagarini in his memory. I didn’t even remember him being there. Nor anything he had said, much less his voice. Who was he?
As if fate were playing with his feelings, one rainy day Lisandro met Juliana in a bar on Rodríguez Peña street, near the Recoleta. She kissed him goodbye and they wondered silly things. They laughingly commented that they both hated umbrellas. But Juliana fled with a strange haste and left without further explanation. As far as Lysander could verify, he didn’t pay the bill. Lysander sat at the same table and ordered a tonic water. He told the waiter that he would also take care of everything that the “miss” had consumed. But the waiter clarified that the “gentleman” had already paid for the cocktail and glass of wine. Lisandro paid anyway and also left the site in an aura of confusion.
After the first block of perplexity, he feared for his clarity. Between Morrone’s reference and blunt forgetfulness of him, and Juliana’s disconcerting behavior, Lisandro distrusted his own perception. Was it deteriorating? Was it Alzheimer’s or some type of dementia?
He remembered that the investigator Borgovo worked in his office nearby. Lisandro had met the writer-turned-detective of exotic cases thanks to Plones: the watchmaker and Borgovo were friends, sometimes partners. Lysander was the only one in the class who knew Plones’ secret: the watchmaker’s expertise was solving puzzles related to time. Although Lisandro had never consulted him on the matter, some chance encounters had led him to converse, gain trust and go for a walk with Borgovo.
Lysander continued through Ayacucho to Posadas, looking for the corner of the road Bioy Casares. Borgovo served on the third floor of that monumental building. He told the doorman in livery who he had come to see, and let him pass. Borgovo was sincerely happy.
Years ago Plones had asked Lisandro to paint his version of Dalí’s melted clock, and he had paid with admiration. Borgovo wanted one similar. Now it adorned his office. He emitted a singular light. After Lisandro expressed his concern, Borgovo invited him to retrace every moment, from the arrival at the party, to the meeting with Morrone in the atelier, up to the unclear meeting with Juliana at the bar. Lisandro stressed that he had no trace of this Bagarini.
“First of all,” Borgovo mused, “we’ll call Plones.” It’s not a specific case of time, but they are former high school friends. Something from the past appears.
He dialed the number, immediately contacted the watchmaker and summoned him.
“He’s coming here,” Borgovo informed Lisandro. And now it’s your turn to call Cabral and ask him about this Bagarini.
– He should be your cousin, right?
Lysander nodded and hesitated:
-But he’s a very busy man, see if I call him for…
Then Lisandro’s cell phone rang. It was Giuliana. Lisandro raised his eyebrows in a silent gesture towards Borgovo.
-Strange meeting, right? – commented Giuliana -.
“Always charming with you,” Lysander flattered her.
“It was still weird,” Juliana insisted. I just can’t understand why. Maybe it’s my fault too. I do not know. But I forgot to invite you to the Atilio exhibition.
-Atilio? – asked Lysander.
“Atilio Malbrán,” Juliana clarified smugly.
-Sample of what? Trade balances? -Lysander didn’t know if he was joking or attacking.
“He will exhibit his paintings,” Juliana explained. Finally he rejoiced! I encouraged him. But José got him the gallery and financed the event. He puts on the wine, calls the publicist, the whole scene. He wants you to come.
Lysander can’t help but feel a little stupid in asking, for the second time, for another name:
-What José?
For a moment Lysander feared that Juliana would respond rudely. But maybe it was worse:
-José! You met him at the party. Jose Bagarini.
Source: Clarin
