Maria

One autumn day I happened to run into my daughter Maria on the pavement outside the watchmaker’s shop; she’d grown thinner but I’d no difficulty recognizing her. I can’t remember what I was doing outdoors, but it must have been something important, because it was after the banisters on the staircase had broken, so I had actually stopped going out. Anyway I met her, and even though I know better, for a moment I thought: what a strange coincidence that I should go out on today of all days. She seemed happy to see me, because she said, “Father,” and shook my hand. She was the one I used to like best of all my children, and when she was small she’d often tell me I was the best father in the world. Then she’d sing for me, out of tune it must be said, but through no fault of her own, she got that from her mother. “Maria,” I said, “is it really you, you look so well.” “Yes, I’m drinking urine and eating raw vegetables,” she replied. I couldn’t help but laugh, and it’d been a long time since I had. To think I had a daughter with a sense of humor, a slightly cheeky sense of humor at that. Who would have thought? It was a special moment. But I was mistaken, you’re never too old to be stripped of your illusions. My daughter gaped at me and the light in her eyes seemed to fade. “You’re making fun of me,” she said, “but you’ve no idea.” “I thought you said urine,” I replied, which was the truth. “Yes, that’s right, urine, I’m like a different person.” I didn’t doubt that, it made sense, you couldn’t possibly be the same person once you started drinking urine. “I see,” I said, in a conciliatory tone, I wanted to change the subject, maybe talk about something pleasant, you never know. Then I noticed she was wearing a ring, and I said: “You’re married, I see.” She looked at the ring. “Oh, that,” she said, “I only wear it to keep pushy men from making advances.” Now that had to be a joke, I quickly calculated that she must be at least fifty-five, and she didn’t look that good. So I laughed again, for the second time in a long while, and in the middle of a sidewalk at that. “What are you laughing at?” she asked. “I think I must be getting old,” I replied, when I realized I’d been mistaken yet again. “So that’s how it’s done these days.” She didn’t answer that, so I don’t know, but I hope and presume my daughter is not particularly representative. But why did I get children like this? Why?

We stood for a moment in silence, and I was thinking it was time to say goodbye, an unexpected meeting shouldn’t last too long, but then she asked if I was in good health. I’m not sure what she meant but I told her the only thing wrong with me were my legs, which was the truth. “They won’t take me where I want to go any longer, my steps are getting shorter and shorter, soon I won’t be able to budge an inch.” I don’t know why I went on to her so much about my legs, and as it turned out, it was stupid of me. “Age, I suppose,” she said. “Of course it’s age,” I said, “what else would it be?” “But I guess you won’t need to use them much longer.” “Really,” I said, “is that so?” She picked up on the irony, to her credit, and got annoyed, but not at herself, because she said: “Everything I say is wrong.” I had no answer to that, what could I have said, instead I swayed my head in an intentionally noncommittal way, there are far too many words in circulation, the more you say the greater your chances of being wrong.

“Well, I’d better be going,” my daughter said after a pause that was brief, but long enough, “I have to get to an herb shop before it closes. See you.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Maria,” I said. Then she left. That was my daughter. I know everything has its own inherent logic, but it isn’t always easy to spot.