–19–

My father returned to Paris twice after that. We didn’t grow any closer, but a certain cordiality was established, which was my wife’s doing. She bent over backwards for him, which included serving as a buffer when I occasionally lashed out, and vice-versa. In exchange, my father gave us more and more money. I even went so far as to think — believe it or not — that this was his way of showing affection. Not that it wasn’t, actually … Would I describe my father as needy? I’ve never thought about it. As I’m sure I’ve already mentioned, he was always surrounded by women: all beautiful, all fascinated by his looks, all with an eye on his money. Some were even invited to our house, which must have given them hope that they were on their way to landing a good catch. But, just as he did with our domestics, he’d get rid of his girlfriends as soon as he saw signs that they were getting too close. I don’t think my father’s longest relationship lasted much more than six months …

Do I think my father used women? I don’t think you gave that question enough thought. What does it mean to use a woman? Generally, when you say so-and-so used a woman, it’s to criticise him for not using her for the rest of eternity, or at least for many years. Because this issue of using women is purely an issue of time … What I mean is that when a woman feels used, it’s because, when all’s said and done, she doesn’t feel she’s been used enough. In other words, the phrase doesn’t make the slightest sense.

I will try to proceed based on your poorly phrased question. Let’s just say that my father liked female company, up to a point. I believe that, during the brief time in which he was with a woman, he loved her. But this love quickly died, not least because of his reluctance to get married again and, consequently, to lose his freedom … The freedom to have other women, you say. Possibly, but I’d like you to try to forget, for a moment, the attitudes that women have established during their long history of resentment towards men. When I said that my father didn’t commit to a woman for fear of losing his freedom, I was thinking of something much more banal: the freedom to come and go, without having to answer to anyone. To go to the end of the street, or to Moscow. There is a tendency among women, stronger in some than in others, to control their partners’ every move. This makes men’s daily lives suffocating. It may even be what makes men become bigger liars, and more deceitful.

Some guys lie not so they can cheat on their wives, but just to get a little fresh air. I read a biological explanation for this several years ago. Women are genetically hard-wired to try to control the men they consider their own. In the past, they did so for fear of losing their reproducers/providers to other women. When a woman was of child-bearing age, or had offspring to feed, such a loss could place her in a situation of social or natural risk. This biological fact, so deeply rooted in modern women, also explains why, as they grow older, they tend to loosen their grip on their partners. Heading towards infertility, and with no offspring to raise, they no longer need reproducers/providers …

You weren’t familiar with my misogynistic side? Nor was I … You didn’t expect to hear so many clichés issuing from my mouth? My dear, how often are we surprised by what we say, and how often does something that seems intelligent in thought sound frivolous when spoken out loud? But, anyway, you shouldn’t underestimate the reach of clichés. The overwhelming majority of people live by them as if they were absolute reality — which, obviously, doesn’t make them transcendental truths. Do you know what’s just occurred to me? That the clichés in which people imprison themselves are a manifestation of Evil. They ensure that those who become entangled in them do not aspire to elevate their spirit in the slightest; if they did, they might learn, among other things, that Evil itself is part of a higher plan. What I mean is that clichés are among the favourite garments of what we traditionally refer to as the Devil — the fallen angel who wants to be recognised as Evil, but is just a piece of it. I’d like to elaborate on this.

That’s an interesting observation of yours: as I tried to work out why my father dumped all his girlfriends, I saw him with loving eyes. Well, that was one of the reasons I killed him. In order to love him.

After almost three years of married life in Paris, I also began to feel asphyxiated by my wife. She was still delightful, but the fact that my day-to-day life was dictated by her pace was no longer such a joy. It was with a certain glee, therefore, that I received the news that she had to spend a month here in Brazil. I was notified of her trip a week before she left, and it took me by surprise. She said she had to resolve some outstanding matters regarding a second inheritance she’d received — this time, from a homosexual uncle who’d died single and left a few assets to his only niece.

On my own, I contacted my aunt, whom I hadn’t seen much since I’d met my wife. Their dislike for one another had begun with their first meeting. After that, we still had dinner together — my aunt, her husband, my wife, and I — another two or three times, but this only served to exacerbate their differences. In short, my aunt thought we’d rushed into things. As for my wife, she was smart enough to realise that my aunt had reservations about her.

The fact that my aunt didn’t like my wife irked me, but it didn’t stop me from thinking highly of her. So much so that I called her a week after my wife had left. We arranged to have dinner together the following night at an elegant bistro. When I arrived at the restaurant, my aunt and her husband were already there. They both looked quite upset — it seemed as if I’d walked in on an argument. The signs were clear: my aunt was shaking, while he was sweating so much that he had to excuse himself to go to the toilet. Before he got up, he looked daggers at her. While he was gone, I took the opportunity to ask what had happened, but all she said was that it was nothing serious; just a little quarrel, like so many others. At first, I believed that that was all it was — a little quarrel — but, because the tension didn’t ease up, no matter how I tried to lighten the atmosphere, I started thinking that something more serious had happened.

This impression was confirmed by the odd way she said goodbye to me outside the restaurant. She was making a great effort not to cry, and gave me a more loving hug and kiss than the situation called for. When she hugged me, she whispered in my ear, as if confiding a secret, ‘No matter what happens, remember I’ll always be there for you.’ That was the last time I saw her. Two months later, she and her husband moved to Milan, where he later died.