José Alvarado - "Plácido Without the Time" (1951)

INTRODUCTION

José Alvarado Santos (1911-1974) was a prominent Mexican journalist and author of various fiction and non-fiction pieces under the name José Alvarado. Primarily writing on international affairs and politics since 1929, Alvarado wrote for numerous high profile Mexican magazines. In 1961 he was appointed as the rector of Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León. He was awarded the 1969 National Journalism Prize of the Lebanese Center of Mexico and was posthumously awarded the 1974 National Journalism Prize from the Journalist Club of Mexico.

Santos' fiction, chiefly written in the 1950s, consists of seven short stories and two novellas, which were republished posthumously in the collection "Tiempo Guardado: Cuentos y Novelas Cortas". "Plácido Without the Time" ("Plácido sin reloj") was initially published in Los Cuentos Fantásticos #35, 1951. This translation is based off of the original Los Cuentos Fantásticos publication. Many thanks to Antonio from Proyecto F for supplying the text.

For further discussion of Santos' fiction work, see Manuel García Verdecia's essay "José Alvarado: el destino ante el espejo" in "Diez ensayos sobre narrativa neoleonesa" (2012, eds. Luis Carlos Arredondo Treviño, María Isabel Terán Elizondo, Víctor Barrera Enderle).

PLÁCIDO WITHOUT THE TIME

— I —

Plácido was standing on the corner. He was already late and the shuttlebus hadn't come; he left his house at 7:55 and five additional minutes must have already passed, at least. This was undesirable, as he needed to be at the office by 8:10 to punch his timecard. Otherwise he'd be late again, the fifth time in the last two weeks, that is to say, his pay would be cut by a day and a half.

A day and a half's salary is twelve pesos and he already owed ten to the terrible Torres, who is merciless when it comes to collect, and seven to the brewery, not counting what he would have to pay for removing the stains from his suit, and the fifteen for the advance on a raincoat. Twelve pesos, and the shuttlebus... ah, but here it comes.

Plácido hops on and files himself among the standing passengers. It can't be that late, he thinks, because the shuttlebus is full and it's all freshly showered people, smelling of soap, in a hurry to get to their offices. Well, not all of them: this young fellow nearby, for example, looks like he has no bathroom, and that lady over there is assuredly going to the market without having properly dressed herself.

The shuttlebus rapidly stops at a corner and Plácido is put in ill-humor: well, he mentally grumbles, we'll never get there. And they remain stopped because, now that the traffic light indicates they can go, an entire family shows up in a hurry, signals for the shuttlebus to stop, and begins to board. And that old lady who's moving so slowly, why the hell are old ladies out so early? And then this fat guy who's pushing through everyone and gasping for air like he's dying, why doesn't he just drive a car? He looks too well dressed to ride the shuttlebus. He must be a miser.

Suddenly, Plácido notices that none of the passengers who travel on this same route every day are on the shuttlebus. Not here, for example, was that girl with glasses who got off three blocks before him. She's not ugly, but if she doesn't get married soon, she'll either remain single, or will get herself into trouble one of these days. Nor is the extremely well-groomed short gentleman here, who's always reading the newspaper's sports section. Also not here is that skinny young man who wears a Faculty of Law insignia on his lapel. Nor are the three girls who board at the corner after his and always start loudly talking about dances or hats. My God! He must be extremely late as surely all these people made it to their destinations on time.

And the shuttlebus stops again. But now it's not because someone is about to board, but because the street is congested with cars. There's an infernal noise of car and bus horns and tram bells. And nothing moves. This is unbearable: it seems like there's no authority who's monitoring traffic. Of course! The officials don't have to show up to their jobs at a set time! They also show up by car. Finally the shuttlebus moves, but, screech! After a few meters it stops again. Oh! Now his fifth tardy is inevitable. And the fat guy in the fine grey suit and blue tie remains calm.

Where does that fat guy work? Surely he's someone's boss because he doesn't care about time. And, about that beautiful wristwatch he's wearing, a watch that costs nine hundred pesos, at least, how much does he make? Does he run an illegal business? He must be the brother-in-law of some official, like that disagreeable Castelazo, who spends like no one knows how he earns his pay, and who wears a different tie every day because he's the brother-in-law of an undersecretary. What time is it already? It's not possible to see the fat guy's watch.

The shuttlebus starts rolling again and the fat guy turns slightly. 7:55! It can't be; this imbecile's got a slow watch. No wonder he's so carefree. It must be 8:15 already. The shuttlebus continues on its way and passes by a bakery, but it's not possible to make out the time from the clock above the mirror. Now the shuttlebus is going much faster. It stops and two passengers get off, but it's continuing on its way. It'll soon be in front of the pharmacy and there's a large clock there. The shuttlebus stops once more and starts moving again. It's in front of the pharmacy already. 7:50! That's not possible. The clock must have stopped.

Now a blonde woman boards who's wearing a beautiful blue blouse that tightly clings to her chest. No one gives her a seat and she remains right next to Plácido. Her shiny, curly hair gives off a faint scent of gardenia. She has very beautiful arms and there's fine little hairs on her forearms. A tiny watch is on her wrist. And it also reads 7:50! But what, seriously? Could it really be so early?

Plácido is distracted by the blonde's pretty, soft hair and doesn't notice that the shuttlebus stops again. The blonde's hair is extremely gorgeous, it falls gracefully, is golden, almost loose and lacks any adornment; only a thin black ribbon ties it in the back. Where will this creature work? What will she do with her life? The shuttlebus stops once more and now he notices it with disgust. Several passengers get off, and a lady with a basket gets on and stands behind Plácido, annoying him by pressing her basket against his body. The fat guy suddenly finds a seat abandoned by a passenger who's heading for the door and this irritates Plácido. It had to be the fat guy, who boarded after him and was incredibly irritating, he had to be the one that would find a way to sit down first, above all, without noticing that the blonde was standing. She's still holding on to the handrail, with her eyes lost in an advertisement inviting passengers to have their eyesight examined, free, by a specialized optician who has twenty years of experience in Europe. He notices the ad next to it and sees that a gentleman named Rigoberto tailors irreproachably styled suits and sells them in installments. Why is the word irreproachable so pleasing to tailors? And he remembers his suit at the dry cleaners... and the raincoat... and the fifteen pesos...

The vehicle passes, finally, the front of the Bucareli clock: 7:42! This is absurd. The clock must be extremely slow. Maybe it's stopped. Of course, it's a public clock! All the municipal services have their heads screwed on backwards... Well, if the clock is slow, it can't be that slow. Surely all the other clocks were more or less correct and that's actually the right time. Now he remembers that the old alarm clock on his nightstand sometimes goes off early. Yes, and especially when the seasons change.

It could be that the girl with glasses who rides this shuttlebus isn't on this one because it's too early. The blonde inopportunely turns to him and asks:

- "Señor, are we far from the Calle de la Moneda?"

The blonde has clear, limpid eyes of an indefinable color. And, while Plácido is taking note of this, another gentleman nearby, with an immaculate white shirt and a beautiful knitted tie, answers for him:

- "Yes, señorita, it's after we pass the Zócalo, next to the Palace."

And when Plácido wants to add something, the blonde is no longer looking at him.

Annoyed, he looks down and manages to read the headline on the second section of a newspaper that a passenger is carrying and has spread out over his legs: "Scandalous Divorce of Famous Couple".

The shuttlebus has arrived at the corner immediately prior to where he gets off. It's a jewellery store. In the window, there are three clocks, one large and two medium-sized. They all have the same time: 7:38. But what's going on?

But now, he no longer has time to think about it: he's arrived and gets off without the vehicle stopping. He crosses the street and starts off towards the Company's gate, which can be seen from a block and a half away. He stops to look at a newsstand. The famine will end this year, a newspaper says. Perceiving that he has no cigarettes, he stops at the kiosk to buy some, but notices to his surprise that it's closed. He continues walking and sees that the tavern where some employees usually have breakfast before going to the office, is just opening its door and a few steps ahead of him he finds Lucha, the waitress who's just arrived, her lips and cheeks without makeup.

— I I —

Is it a holiday? No, no it can't be. It's Thursday, February 26th. They don't commemorate anything then. It's just a day like any other day. And then he realizes that it's also strange not to see, like every other day, the three or four stenographers who arrive late and run along the sidewalk to punch their clock on time, especially Josefina and that brunette who works with Mr. Vázquez. He arrives at the doors of the Company and finds the custodians sweeping the hallway. They look at him and he looks at them strangely. Suddenly he feels a slight chill. He approaches the time clock and, with the card in his hand, he stands there, suspended with his eyes fixed on the dial: it's 7:35!

He punches it mechanically and climbs the stairs like a somnambulist. The office is open and a custodian is cleaning the desks.

- "You got up early today, señor Plácido."

- "What, isn't anyone else here?"

- "No, it's still really early. You even beat Don Taurino today, who gets here before anyone else."

- "Okay, I'm going to buy some cigarettes in the meantime..."

And he goes out disconcerted, down the stairs: I'm a fool, I got up an hour early and I've come this whole way looking at the clocks wrong. Well, good thing that I didn't happen to take a car to get there on time. The fit I would have thrown...

He reached the hallway and tried to look at the clock again, but one of the custodians is obscuring it with his body.

— I I I —

Once again, he's back on the streets. He's got a free half an hour, so he directs his footsteps towards the nearby garden; he walks a few paces and breathes a little fresh air. Furthermore, the gardens are beautiful in the mornings, being damp and clean. The blonde from the shuttlebus would look pretty in the garden with her blue blouse and light eyes.

When he reached the garden he felt cold again and noticed that the sky was beginning to cloud over. Good, the gardens are also beautiful under a grey morning sky, he remembers distant poems and feels nostalgic for places where he's never been... And the grey skies of his childhood came to his mind, and then those of his adolescence; school mornings and hurried outings to picnics. How many years had it been since he went on a picnic? What could have happened to Aurora? They must've already demolished the house where she lived, with those pots of hortensias on the balcony. How many children would she have? On his desk there's an inkblot that looks like Greenland, but Greenland should be white because of all the snow, and the inkblot is black. The garden smells very nice, especially this rose meadow.

Ah, caramba, if it's precisely today before eleven o'clock that he has to finish the memorandum on the petroleum tanker question. What a fool the head of the department is! It's strange that it keeps getting cloudy when February mornings are clear.

But he couldn't find anywhere to buy cigarettes and he left the garden along a perpendicular street, in the opposite direction from the office. On the corner, at a tea with brandy spot, two sleepless gendarmes were each drinking out of jugs. It seemed strange to him that it was open so late, but there were cigarettes there and he bought some. He turned to the right and continued along the avenue to then resume his path to the office. It must be getting close to when he has to clock in and it would be absurd to arrive late after getting up so early. He had certainly already punched the card, but still...

The sky continued to cloud over and the nightclubs on the avenue were still open. Over there, that café still open was where the girls from the cabaret went to have lunch, some of them drunk, and was where musicians and servers also frequented. He glanced inside as he passed and saw the tables were still full. At one, he could make out the dancer from the nearby tent, the one who they said would die young for living so fast. Plácido felt even colder still and quickened his pace. Turning the corner violently, he quickly walked down one block and took the street to the office again. He arrived at the building and it was closed; not even the custodians were sweeping the hallway. Plácido stood stupefied, standing in front of the door, contemplating the large metal latches and thick glass. Could the manager have died?

Slowly, Plácido turned around and stood with his back to the door, looked around the buildings opposite. Neither the corset shop, nor the general store were open yet. On one of the balconies, an electric light could be seen. He looked up at the sky and realized it wasn't exactly cloudy. It was a clear sky, but a purple color with reddish tones, like when it's dawn. He remembered that one time Luque and Fernández invited him out for a drink, then to dinner and finally to one of those cabaret bars in the slums: inside the place there was an electric light that was absolutely dazzling, but when they left, it was start to get light and the sky was like this...

Plácido had a strange suspicion and headed towards the jewellery store. He wanted to see the display case with the three watches. They were about three blocks away and he walked slowly, as if he hadn't really wanted to get there. He passed by the newsstand again and now found that the newspapers were stacked in large piles on the floor, as if they had just been delivered by the distributors. The stand's attendant was on her knees, counting and sorting through them. He still managed to see the promise that the famine would end in a year, and this eased him a little.

He arrived at the clock shop, where he had seen the six hands pointing to the same time, and found it closed. Plácido began to feel afraid. What could be happening? And, strangely enough, the street that just had so much traffic where the shuttlebus had to stop several times, was now nearly deserted. One or two omnibusses and one or two cars were now rapidly passing by, some with their lights turned on.

Plácido turned his step towards the avenue. He found men passing by him, hurrying with wet hair; workers walking with long strides, bakers and milkmen going by bicycle, newspaper distributors. Not a single bureaucrat.

— I V —

WHEN Plácido reached the avenue, the street lamps were lit; the sky was black and the stars were visible. Then he had a feeling of terror, an inexplicable, elemental terror, like the terror felt by someone who fell asleep in their bed and woke up alone, in the middle of some strange jungle full of noises and unknown vegetation.

Was he mad? Along the sidewalk, drunk men were staggering and groups of night owls were talking and laughing loudly.

- "That old lady's bad news..." he clearly heard one individual saying loudly to another on the opposite sidewalk.

And he could make out musical murmurs coming from afar. The night stalls selling magazines and crime novels were located on the edge of the sidewalk, and in a vestibule he saw a pot of chicken broth, seasoned with ground red chili powder. A girl who came from a bad life, thin, thin, and wearing an old coat, was approaching from the opposite direction.

- "Won't you give me a cigarette, king?"

Plácido mechanically took his out and gave her one.

- "What time is it?"

- "I dunno," she replied, looking at him in the light of the match. "You got crazy eyes, bignose. Thanks."

Plácido continued walking as if he were strolling on clouds. Suddenly he quickened his pace: he recollected that Rodríguez lived nearby. He would go and visit him to see what was going on. He couldn't be alone for a moment longer. He almost ran down the avenue.

- "Where are they paying you to walk so fast, señor! Stop here for a bit," he heard them say, but he didn't stop. He was walking at a furious pace when he passed by café.

"I never thought that you loved me," he tried to modulate the voice of a hoarse songbook. [Translator's note: The popular song by Pedro Vargas, "Nunca, Nunca, Nunca", released on a shellac 10" 78 in the 1930s.] Further out was a cheap tavern, and as he passed by he saw numerous dancing couples. Fine, fine, how am I going to see Rodriguez at this hour? He must be asleep. But is he really...

- "What's up, Plácido? What're you doing? You look like a ghost."

It was Ramón who showed up with Roberto. The faces of both bore happiness and friendly smiles. Plácido saw the sky open.

- "What time is it?" he asked hurriedly.

- "What do you care, man? The night is long and life is short. Let's go get a beer."

- "Yeah, Plácido: don't feel bad, come with us. We're going out to El Sordo."

And Plácido let himself go out. Ramón and Roberto had round, open faces springing with satisfaction and joy. And that relieved Plácido. They had the air of someone who'd been drinking, but who weren't inebriated.

- "Estéfano and I," one of them said, "we got paid nine hundred pesos today and we're celebrating. That Turk didn't want to pay, but I know how to collect, I'm not like you."

- "And by the way, what day is tomorrow?", asked Plácido anxiously.

- "Don't feel bad, don't feel bad, tomorrow's another day."

Yes, another day, Plácido thinks, but will it be the 27th or the 25th? And he shudders.

They enter El Sordo. Plácido turns towards the old clock on the wall. It's stopped. The long, motionless pendulum leaves no room for doubt. The place is illuminated with a dull light. Some of the customers are at the bar and others are sitting at some tables. They choose one at the back and all three of them sit down. The drowsy waiter brings them three bottles of beer. Roberto and Ramón resume a conversation that was probably interrupted by their encounter with Plácido. He looks at them without paying attention. They're saying something about business with a foreigner while Plácido drinks slowly, unable to forget his strange situation.

He looks at the faces of his friends, as if to convince himself that they are real. He watches the bartender smoking absentmindedly behind the counter. Two tables away, a group of four people are playing dice amid loud voices. At the bar, there's a guy drinking tequila mixed with orange soda and another who has a mug of beer in front of him and is looking at himself in the mirror. They're all of flesh and blood, undoubtedly. The painting on the wall depicting a bullfighter in mid-action is a well-known reproduction; Plácido has seen it many times and even commented on its artistic defects: it looks like the bull only has three legs. Further back, there's an advertisement with the image of a cold, expressionlessly attractive girl in a bathing suit who's inviting people to drink glasses of light beer. No, it's not possible. What could all this mean?

Plácido quickly gets up and goes over to the telephone and dials the office number. The peculiar noises of communication are heard, but no one answers. While waiting, he notices the six digits of a telephone number written on the wall in pencil with a name underneath: Anita. Plácido convinces himself that there's no one in the office and hangs up. He immediately dials Anita's phone number and listens to the rings, once, twice, three, four times. On the fifth ring is answered, not by Anita's voice, but the hoarse voice of a stranger in a bad humor.

- "Excuse me, señor, what time is it?" - asks Plácido, and surely he does not receive the requested information as an answer, but instead another one that's rather harsh, as he blinks repeatedly and hangs up the receiver.

Meanwhile, two more people have arrived at Ramón and Roberto's table, and Plácido takes the opportunity to sneak towards the door without being seen.

He needs to be alone now, just as a few moments ago he needed company, and starts walking through the night.

— V —

Walking at random, he ends up in the streets of the city's old district. Narrow streets lined with two and three-story tezontle houses, with closed vestibules and balconies. In one of them, illuminated, he can see the heavy cornice of a dresser and the fragment of a large portrait with an engraved frame. As he passes through a door, he hears the sound of a press working at that hour. Suddenly he hears a bell and attentively waits: only one more. It's the half-hour signal, but which half-hour?

Is it possible that time is running backwards? Plácido no longer has the slightest doubt. It must be almost four in the morning and he left his house at five to eight. And Plácido hasn't gone mad. Where would that blonde be now who asked about la Calle de la Moneda in the shuttlebus? The fact that he remembers her is proof that he's not mad. Let's see, what's twelve times thirteen? Twelve times ten is one hundred and twenty. Twelve times three is thirty-six. One hundred twenty and thirty-six is ​​one hundred and fifty-six. Twelve times thirteen is one hundred and fifty-six. Morelia used to be called Valladolid, where Morelos was born. "Morelos, your giant name is written by the heavens," as the old school song goes.[Translator's note: "Himno a Morelos", written in 1930 by Manuel León Díaz, frequently sung by young school children, somewhat of an unofficial anthem of the state of Morelos]. The sum of each side squared is equal to the hypotenuse squared. The cell, the cell... well, he never remembered anything about the cell. No, I can't be mad. And he remembered that madman he knew in his childhood: he walked around the gardens, barefoot, wearing jeans and a long, old jacket with the lapel missing. The children threw stones at him and at first he became furious and then he began to cry. He remembered those horrible sobs and the tears running down a dark, dirt-covered face until they were lost in a gray, sparse beard. Doña Florencia used to say that children who make fun of madmen become mad themselves; but Plácido was sure that he never threw any stones at that poor madman. Besides, what did Doña Florencia know, if she spent her life praying for her son who got killed in the Revolution, and also said that molecules are molars of fish? Besides, it's impossible for a madman to remember another madman, or to recognize that sane people are not mad. And he knew very well that Roberto and Ramón were not mad. Neither were Torres, nor Mr. Vázquez, nor Josefina, nor even the fat guy in the shuttlebus. No, they weren't mad. Neither was he. It was just that time was moving in reverse. 

And, looking at it carefully, it's not so absurd. Have all the laws of nature been discovered? Aren't they making new discoveries every day? So, every few hundred centuries, the Earth changes direction in its orbit around the Sun and the motion of the solar system reverses? Didn't they believe the Earth was flat for several centuries?

Yes. There was no longer any doubt: time was moving in reverse. The problem was that no one had noticed it. What a scandal the newspapers would make when they found out! What a fright that meddlesome individual who answered the blonde in the shuttlebus must be getting in now! And El Sordo? They'll surely won't believe it.

Well, and now when would the workday begin? Because, surely, the day would have to start in the afternoon. Time would continue to pass and it would be midnight, then eleven, then ten, until it reached six in the afternoon and then it would be light again. The day would be from six in the evening until six in the morning. There would have to be a new work schedule and while things are getting back to normal, there should be a couple days off. That would be very nice. What a fit the boss would throw!

And Plácido was overcome with good humor.

But then he remembered Ramón and Roberto. They had the air of drinking for two or three hours before he found them. How is it possible that they didn't notice anything? And, additionally, it would have been absurd if they had started drinking at seven or eight in the morning. Unless they were such barbarians that they'd been drinking all night and instead of being interrupted by the dawn, night fell again, which is why they didn't notice it.

But no, if that were the case they would've been thoroughly drunk, and they weren't. Plácido continued walking without understanding anything.

Could it be that time was turning back for him only? That would be absurd. And then all the explanations would crumble to dust. Because how can one comprehend that time remains the same for everyone else, but for him it's turned around? Is he mad? Let's see: he works at the third desk on the right; in front of him, in the first workspace, is González, the translator, and then there's that young lady statistician who always wearing dark suits and flat shoes. She belongs to a women's club or something like that and loves to talk about the fluctuations in silver and the Symphony concerts. Behind him is Márquez, who spends his afternoons playing dominoes and drinking habanero; then shows up to a private meeting with the boss. Opposite, is the insufferable Mrs. Galindo who says that a friend lends money through her and has you sign - she did this with Plácido one time - confidential deposit receipts in which she includes a fifteen percent monthly interest. Further on, the hysterical Hermelinda, behind Adela, the one who got entangled with Torres. And finally, the cartoonist. Everything is fine. If he were mad, he wouldn't be able to remember the office so clearly. So? But they say that there are madmen whose analytical powers sharpen. Yes, but no; it couldn't be: he wasn't mad...

— V I —

Suddenly a serenade emerged from the night. The music was sweet, old, melancholic. Something that Plácido knew long before and that reminded him of forgotten poems, very forgotten. When he reached the corner he discovered the small string orchestra and managed to make out an obese musician, dressed in black, who was playing the violin and seemed to be directing the others. A young man behind a doorway would peek out sometimes, so that he could look out onto a first-floor balcony that remained dark.

Plácido stopped at the corner. The streetlight shone directly on him and he was able to examine the lapel on his jacket. It was well ironed but had a small stain. The music was really agreeable. Slow and sentimental. The music might not have pleased the blonde in the shuttlebus. Who knows! Why not? Plácido had turned around and now his silhouette appeared on the bench. In it, the hat didn't look so old, it looked very well drawn, elegant.

Where is Aurora and her house with the pots full of hortensias? The music stopped without the balcony being opened or otherwise engaged, and the young man began to whisper with the musicians. One of them pulled a bottle out of the back pocket of his pants and took a swig, then passed it to the fat musician, and the others followed. After a brief murmur of voices, the music resumed: now it was a pathetic, faint tone, with strange hints of nostalgia. Plácido lit a cigarette. It'd be nice to have a drink of what they were having. A car passed by, and a shout was heard from inside directed at the serenader:

- "I'm invited to the baptism!"

The music continued and Plácido looked up at the sky. It was clear, metallic. There was Ursa Major above. If he were mad, he wouldn't have recognized the constellation. Well, who knows? And the notes of the melody continued. This music made Plácido younger, and he noticed it. A slightly warmer blood flowed through his veins and things appeared like they were starting to regain their lost sheen. And suddenly he felt convinced: coming back to him, little by little, he told himself, are the hours of his early youth. There can be no doubt: time is regressing. However, he soon began to wonder: does time regress and with it, our lives? Or is it only the empty hours that come back and we continue forward, towards old age, while time walks backwards?

He looked up at the sky again and found the stars unchanged.

If time were regressing, bringing back the life's lost hours, if it really was walking backwards and dragging itself back into existence, he could find Alicia again and he would no longer lose her. Besides, Alicia would have to be as she was then: thin and flexible, with those flowing dresses and those sparkling eyes. Alicia looked pretty when she walked and when she laughed. He wouldn't be so stupid as to lose her anymore. And something would begin that never started in that time. Plácido began walking slowly, crossed the street and started to take the opposite sidewalk so as not to miss the serenade. How beautiful it would be to correct the past! When one reads the draft of an old love letter, suddenly found mixed up among forgotten papers, and thinks that they feel ashamed of having written such things: of course it could be corrected with today's experience; but what's the use of correcting a dead draft? Now it's as if an old letter can be corrected, with greater knowledge and mastery, and give it new life. Ah, now that violent man wouldn't humiliate him because he'd already know how to thwart his aggressions. And that afternoon's adventure, which was only frustrated by his foolishness, would now be real.

Would Sara still be in that café?

But there's a minor inconvenience: next Saturday he'll have to see Juanita. Juanita has a very ugly name: but she's enchanting and, above all, she has no prejudices. And, as things stand, Saturday will not come because today is Thursday, but tomorrow will be Wednesday, and the day after tomorrow will be Tuesday. Fine, but he should study at the University then, and there will be girls much prettier than Juanita there. Furthermore, he'll become an economist and now he won't be so careless in wasting his opportunities. He'll participate in the assemblies and give speeches and with his experience, his malice and his coldness, he'll be better than all the others at it. He will write statements on whatever is necessary. Or no, the university's not all that great, but it can establish good relationships and good business. Fine, the University can help a great deal with all that, and a degree in economics would allow him to be a bank advisor and a shareholder in prominent and prosperous industries.

Caramba! He forgot that on Monday he'd have to go to a dinner where the Director would be attending and perhaps his future would depend on it. It's not unlikely that he'll get a promotion or a transfer to a more advantageous position. Only that... maybe that Monday will never come. The next to come will, surely, be last Saturday.

Yes, there's no doubt about it; the future won't come anymore, but the past will; but with the past comes the future, and certainly, a better future. And now that he remembers, why not, instead of taking a path that leads to some bank, choose other, perhaps one that's better? It's not bad to travel to unknown lands, nor to sail across the seas. Fortune can also be found in this way, and at the very least, one obtains a beautiful life. Time wasn't regressing so quickly where it would take him back to ages of romantic winds, not even to the times of the Revolution, where he could travel the country on horseback, enter the cities amidst gunfire and become a general; but it can take him back to a day when he can board a ship in a faraway port bound for distant places.

All this may be fine, but in the year to come he may have an opportunity to play an important role in a provincial town. And that's not a contemptible prospect. It's about time to find a good place in life. But... will it arrive in the year to come?

Plácido, without realizing it, was moving away and lost the music. Walking, he now finds more open spaces and more numerous cars passing by in the street. Even the occasional tram in the distance. He's a long way from the office and much further, even, from his house, but he's not fatigued. The whistle of a distant train is heard. Where will that train go? And, above all, what time of what day will he arrive at his destination? Will it arrive? And he remembers Alicia again. Now she presents herself to him on that morning, on that crowded sidewalk where they couldn't converse because, every now and then, a passerby separated them, until he suggested a quieter street and she accepted; over there was a theatre costume shop, through whose shopwindow they looked at several horrible reddish wigs and ridiculous tailcoats. They talked about how he would never wear a tailcoat because he would go and live, one day, by the edge of the sea, and there he would always walk around in his shirt sleeves and corduroy trousers. She laughed a great deal and said the sea contains iodine.

The sea. The people who live by the sea drink rum in winter and wear big dark jackets. And Plácido felt again, as he had that morning when he was with Alicia, a great desire to smoke a pipe in front of the sea in the winter. Mechanically, he made a gesture of raising his lapels as if he really felt cold. And suddenly he imagined himself walking, without a hat, in the middle of the rain whipping down on his face. And he began to walk with a firm and calm pace, as people do when they walk in the rain when it whips down on their faces. Or as Plácido supposes they do.

Yes, decidedly, he would take advantage of this regression of time to find Alicia. And they would go to the seashore. And it would surely rain. Plácido's face would tan in the sun and the wind. Alicia's beautiful hair would become tangled and her skirt would cling to her legs... And if you were sincere with my love... [Translator's note: From folklore song "La mancornadora"/"The Ensnaring Woman"]

A car passed by with a group of voices singing this song. And Plácido remembered Juanita's slightly hoarse voice and her forearms and the nape of her neck. On his next vacation, perhaps, he could go to the sea with Juanita. She should know how to swim very well and he could give her a blue bathing suit. It was already time, after all, for Plácido to get to know the sea.

— V I I —

On the corner, a cantina is open. Plácido enters and orders a rum. It's probably counterfeit rum because it tastes very bad, hot and sugary and has a very penetrating smell like perfume. But he drinks it and orders another one...

What would be better, tomorrow being Friday the 27th or Wednesday the 25th?

The mirror is very close to Plácido and he's able to observe his face. He carefully does so and discovers a new wrinkle and two grey hairs that he didn't have before. He realises then that the music of the serenade deceived him. Alicia's time will come without her and Juanita's time will never come.

And the moment he leaves the cantina, he begins to hear the resounding, sonorous chimes of a temple's clock. One, two, three, four, five, six, eight, nine, - nine? no - ten, eleven, twelve. The last chime was still ringing out a little bit in the shadows; then there was a long silence and then the distant sound of a tram. Plácido disappeared into the night.

Then, like in the stories, it started to rain.