Alvaro Enrigue - Hypothermia

Im a really first-rate writer. Nobody knows it, but its true thats what I said to my son yesterday. It wasnt the first time; I usually say it when Ive had too much to drink. What you are, he responded, looking me straight in the eye, is a run-of-the-mill pen pusher at a second-rate newspaper. Hed also had too much to drink. Im a writer, I repeated. Maybe Im a lousy one, but Im still a writer. Id never used that one before. But his retort left me in the shade. With cocksure cruelty, he smiled a smile Ive lived with since he was a boy and said: Yeah, right. You ever gonna get a book published? Real writers publish books.

I left the table and went and locked myself in the bathroom where I sat down on the toilet to have a smoke. I could hear Estela scolding my son. She was reminding himAllow me to remind you, she said, which meant that theyd already argued about it before that Id stopped working on my own writing full time the minute she told me she was pregnant. He wanted you to have the same privileges your grandfather gave him, my wife continued. Your father never couldve paid for all the things youve had just by writing essays. Not to mention books. Well, they were so good nobody wanted to publish them.

Estelas version of things isnt entirely accurate, but by now its become a set piece in our family mythology. We all like to believe thats the way things went. But, first off, Ive always had a steady job. How else could I support the intensely literary life weve led all these years? Its impossible to even dress like a writer, for example, on what you earn from writing. We never lived off my writing. At the most the stuff I published provided us with drinking money and they were pretty cheap drinks at that. And then, it was only one of my books that nobody wanted to publish, for the simple reason that it was the only one I ever finished. But at that moment, locked in the bathroom, smoking, I was in no mood to quibble over little things like the truth.

I finally came out when I was sure that Sebastin had left the apartment. Estela was washing the dishes. Without saying a word, I poured myself another glass of ans then came and sat down at my desk here in the den and lit another cigarette. The unspoken rules of the house state that I can smoke all I like when Im sitting here. However much it stinks up the house, its tolerated because it would be worse if I closed the door behind me. Also, here I can drink alone without arousing suspicion. I take refuge in the myth that alcohol and writing go hand in hand.

Thirty or thirty-five years ago, anyone wouldve been surprised if youd told them that I would end up dedicating myself to something other than literature. Our whole circle of friends was quite familiar with my vocation, and given the speed with which I had risen in literary circles, most of them thought that I had a good chance of achieving some success. A few, Estela chief among them, were sure that Id become really famous. Back then, she was a nave, dazzling young thing, and I had plenty of charisma I still do, in fact, but Ive got no interest in dusting it off. One day at dinner with some quasi-distinguished guests nobody really special a very drunken acquaintance described Estela and me as a Renaissance couple. And to a certain extent we were: we frequented vintage booksellers, attended concerts and exhibitions, and took long trips around the country. We could talk cinema and dance gracefully. We didnt have much money very little, in fact but we never wanted for very much. Our families helped us out, as much as they could, but we never abused their generosity.

Estela still believes, or maybe shes just in the habit of believing, or perhaps shes only allowing me to believe that she believes, that I will one day manage to write a publishable book. I also believed it, at least until yesterday when I saw that cruel, familiar smile. Its true that my son has given me the best moments in my life, even if getting at them has sometimes been like pulling teeth. Perhaps the only thing left for him to give me was this entirely unappreciated, yet totally decisive, liberation.

When Estela finished washing the dishes she came to the den to say goodnight. She had something to tell me but kept it to herself: seeing me in front of the computer makes her curiously respectful, as if I were really capable of writing something worthwhile.

Naturally, this wasnt the case: I was working on the article that I turned in today for the Living section. My editor loved it. With his repulsive, petulant, faggoty pronunciation, he once again recommended that I quit Personnel and dedicate myself to real writing. Its never too late, he told me. I told him that Id wait until retirement to start writing full time. I said this out of habit, without even thinking about it. He offered to help me whenever I took the plunge: he had friends with inside connections. I kept my scoffing to myself; what could his friends offer a man like myself? As I was leaving his office, my right hand touched the gold fountain pen in my shirt pocket, a gift from my sister when I finished my B.A. We call it la pluma de Dumbo, which is to say because pluma is plume is feather is quill is pen Dumbos feather, because until today its always been my good-luck charm: Ive used it to write the first page of every one of my unfinished novels. As I walked along the hallway I tapped the pen against my palm a few times, thinking ahead to the afternoon and the tequila I was going to have for an aperitif. Sebastin would order a vodka tonic. Its always the same: I drink Herradura and he drinks Absolut. I pick the wine for dinner. For a nightcap, he has Carlos I brandy and I have dry Chinchn ans on the rocks.

After I finished typing the article that the idiot from Living loved so much, I went to bed. Estela was still awake. She must have assumed I was depressed about what Sebastin had said and was feeling the need for some well-deserved consolation: the truth was that neither wife nor son knew that after mulling over Sebastins comments, I couldnt help but agree with him. She hugged me tightly and we ended up making love like a couple of elephants; were too old and out of shape to do it any other way. We finished, and as she lay there panting she told me that Sebastin had asked me to forgive him for being rude. He wanted to take me out to eat at Los Alamos, a place I really like.

Hes a good-hearted kid. And even if he isnt, at least he keeps his word. He called me at eleven-thirty, when I had just come back from turning in my article. After we said hello, he asked me how I was doing. Between sighs I said that I was fine. Well, it doesnt sound like it, he told me. Without softening the rueful tone in my voice I mentioned that I was having problems at work. Anything serious? he asked. Just the usual stuff. He suggested that we have lunch together so that I could tell him about it. I said that Id love to but I couldnt because on days when Im in a bad mood I prefer to eat alone at my desk. He begged me to go to Los Alamos with him to see if that would cheer me up. We agreed to meet at three-thirty.

I had a bit of work to finish but no real desire to do it, so I locked the door, drew the blinds, and settled into an armchair to wait for lunch, planning my new life. At three oclock on the dot I got up, slapped on some cologne, and headed out. We arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes of each other. He had obviously been hard at work until the very last minute, and he showed up looking nervous: he only remembered to take off his jacket when he was already sitting down.

Unlike me, Sebastin is the kind of person who loves and respects his job. Thanks to which we have ammunition for another of our endless arguments. He says that his profession demands a great deal of responsibility I can forget to sign a check and its no big deal: a slight delay for some anonymous payee; whereas if he miscalculates the weight of this or that material going into some structure, his oversight could cost countless lives. Whenever he mentions it, I remind him that I was opposed to his studying engineering. A career like that, I always told him, will bring you nothing but problems and frustrations. But in spite of the never-ending sarcasm that I heap on him, he often seems proud of having succeeded in his profession. Once he even told me that if Id let him watch television like other kids, he wouldve studied humanities; hes sure that the torturous afternoons I spent expounding on the virtues of the