{"id":280786,"date":"2010-11-22T16:00:10","date_gmt":"2010-11-22T16:00:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.wdev.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent-dev\/2010\/11\/22\/nocturne-by-andres-barba\/"},"modified":"2018-04-16T16:28:25","modified_gmt":"2018-04-16T16:28:25","slug":"nocturne-by-andres-barba","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/2010\/11\/22\/nocturne-by-andres-barba\/","title":{"rendered":""Nocturne" by Andres Barba"},"content":{"rendered":"

See this post about Barba<\/a> for more information about this piece, which was translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman.<\/em><\/p>\n

The ad in the \u201cmale seeking male\u201d section said: <\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto. (91) 3077670.<\/em><\/p>\n

and was in amongst others listing predictable obscenities and a series of oral necessities. Page 43. At the top. Above a bisexual named \u00c1ngel soliciting a threesome and beneath the photo of a man of indeterminate age and sadness who wore a mask that gave him the pathetic air of a terrorist just emerging from the shower; it said so alone<\/em> just like that, like it was nothing, it said it with the afternoon languor pressing in through the living room window (the one that overlooked the park) almost the way you accept the ritual of Sunday afternoon boredom, with no resentment.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone.<\/em><\/p>\n

If he had accepted Marta\u2019s invitation, now he would have an excuse to get dressed, go out; the doorman\u2019s little desk would be empty, the street would be empty, the dog would stare up at him, watery eyes, panting tongue, tail wagging to the rhythm of his desire to go for a walk, \u201cPlatz. Paw. Sit,\u201d repeated, the same as the light, an anonymous conversation beneath his bedroom window (the one that overlooked the patio), traffic.<\/p>\n

He bought it last night and the first thing he did was check the ages of the men who\u2019d placed the ads (almost never stated, which was worse because it meant that the majority of them were probably young). The ones who dared to send a photo took the risk of being recognized. He had gone out to buy cigarettes and ended up buying the magazine. When he got home he started to masturbate to one of the personals but ended up using an erotic art catalogue he\u2019d bought last month. When he finished he washed his hands, made some soup and fed the dog. There were no movies on TV. Marta called to invite him over for Sunday lunch with Ram\u00f3n and the kids and he declined, saying he had other plans. But he didn\u2019t have other plans. The movies playing at the theater didn\u2019t appeal to him enough to make him want to go out, deal with the hassle of the ticket and refreshment lines, and then return home without being able to rave about or even discuss what he\u2019d seen. He hadn\u2019t been to an art exhibit in years. He fell asleep thinking tomorrow he would take it easy at home, and it didn\u2019t sound like a bad idea. Sometimes he liked to stay in, lose track of time watching TV after lunch, listen to Chopin while lounging on the sofa, leafing through a book. The magazine lay on one of the armchairs like a long-drawn-out, accepted failure. After having used it last night, he thought he\u2019d throw it away, but he\u2019d left it there and when he finished watching the afternoon movie it had sat there, looking up at him saying Madrid Contactos<\/em> on the cover in red letters and death to hypocrisy<\/em> in smaller ones, under the headline and above the photo of a woman who looked like his brother-in-law Ram\u00f3n\u2019s sister because, like her, she wore half a ton of mascara on each eye and her thin lips were made up to look fuller, filled in beyond her lip line. He opened it back up to the \u201cmale seeking male\u201d section. He lingered over the pictures again and became excited again. <\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto. (91) 3077670.<\/em><\/p>\n

Then it dawned on him that this had been going on for many years. Simply, almost painlessly, he had become resigned to the fact that he himself would never demand the things the personals were asking for, and although on a couple of occasions he had contracted a rent boy and brought him up to his apartment, the fact that he had to pay, the whole act of the wallet, the question, the exchange, turned him off to such a degree that he would then become uncomfortable at how long he took and once or twice ended up asking the guy to leave out of sheer disgust.<\/p>\n

The dog barked and he found his shoes to take him down for a walk. He left the light on and put on his coat.<\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

Monday everything looked the same from the bank\u2019s office window. A Coca-Cola sign flashed on and off, as did the recently hung lights announcing the imminent advent of Christmas. He had heard something about an office party and, although he\u2019d said he would go \u2013 declining would have launched a desperate search for excuses \u2013 they knew, as he did, that it had been years since he had last liked Alberto\u2019s jokes (always the same, whispered to the new secretary or the newest female graduate to be hired), Andr\u00e9s\u2019s toasts and Sandra\u2019s conversations about the kids. The fact that he was the oldest employee at the office allowed him to decline those invitations, ignore them without having to worry about subsequent hatreds that were felt but never expressed. He enjoyed that in the same way that he enjoyed his solitude, his collection of consolations and little excesses (Napoleon cognac, fancy cigarettes, a weekly dinner at an expensive restaurant) that he had grown used to and that led him to grant that he was a reasonably happy man. Jokes about his homosexuality told in hushed tones at the office met with his indifference, making him invulnerable, and although his exterior coldness had begun as a survival technique, now he really did feel comfortable in it, like someone who finally finds a warm place to take refuge and decides to make do, without yearning for anything better.<\/p>\n

But the ad in that magazine said:<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto. (91) 3077670.<\/em><\/p>\n

And those few words had begun, since he read them on Saturday night, to unravel everything. When he finished work on Monday he felt anxious and he didn\u2019t know why. Or he did, but didn\u2019t want to admit it. Accepting that he wanted to call that number would have meant accepting disorder where, for many long years, there had reigned peace, or something that, without actually being peace, was somehow akin to it: his Napoleon cognac, lunch at Marta\u2019s house once every two weeks, walking the dog, the nightly TV movie he watched until tiredness overcame him, maybe the occasional rent boy he\u2019d bring home in his car and whose presence he would then try to erase as soon as possible, fluffing up the sofa cushions (not the bed, never the bed), opening the windows, repenting.<\/p>\n

That night he took the dog for a walk earlier than usual and then it became undeniable. Something had broken. Something fragile and very fine had broken. He always ate dinner first, smoked a cigarette watching TV and then took the dog out. Why hadn\u2019t he done that today? The dog hadn\u2019t even wagged his tail when he saw him approach with the leash and, on the way down in the elevator, had looked up at him with an expression of bovine wonderment.<\/p>\n

\u201cPaw,\u201d he said. \u201cPaw\u201d and the dog gave him his paw, tongue out and eyebrows raised, as if his owner were teaching him the rules of a new game.<\/p>\n

When he got back he looked for the magazine. He\u2019d left it on the table, he was sure, and now it wasn\u2019t there. He looked in the bathroom, and in the kitchen. He shuffled through his desk drawers. Any other day at this time he would have already had dinner and be smoking his cigarette, getting ready to walk the dog, yet that night not only had he not done it but he was nervous, desperately searching for that magazine that he wouldn\u2019t even have been able to masturbate to without the help of the erotic art catalogue he\u2019d bought last month. Finding himself in this situation increased his desperation, but he didn\u2019t give up until he found it. It was on the floor beside the sofa. He opened it again and became excited reading the personals again, but there was something a little different. It wasn\u2019t the TV, or the cognac, or the dog, but himself, in the midst of all those other things. Reading all of the ads was a game he submitted to, fooling himself and yet all the while knowing precisely what he was looking for. Page 43. At the top. Above a bisexual named \u00c1ngel soliciting a threesome and beneath the photo of the nude man with the mask.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto. (91) 3077670.<\/em><\/p>\n

Finding it was like feigning surprise when an expected visitor arrived, except this time the surprise was real; it was as if the ad had never been there and he had invented it at the bank. He had never met anyone named Roberto, so \u2013though it was a common name \u2013 it had hung in the balance on page 43 like a riddle waiting to be solved. It wasn\u2019t an ugly name. Roberto. Anxiety made him eat the steaks he was saving for the weekend. Now he\u2019d have to go shopping again because the leftover rice he\u2019d been planning to have tonight would have gone bad by tomorrow. This was no good at all. Not that it was bad to have eaten something he was saving for another time; that was one of the sorts of luxuries that made him reasonably happy. But doing it the way he\u2019d done it, just like that, for no reason. But really, had there been reasons the other times?<\/p>\n

Half an hour later he couldn\u2019t sleep. He always went to bed early, capitalizing on television\u2019s soporific effect, and that night he couldn\u2019t sleep. He\u2019d taken the magazine with him to bed and left it on his nightstand. He picked it up and opened it but then felt ridiculous. It was all Roberto\u2019s fault. In the open wardrobe door, he could see the dark, faint reflection of his fifty-six year old body in the glow of the television, projecting tiredness and an obesity that, while not obscene, he had never made a serious attempt to combat. He felt pathetic for having entered into the game Roberto was proposing. How \u2013 after so many years of reasonable happiness, of peace \u2013 could so blatant a ploy have gotten the better of him? Crumpling it up, he took it to the kitchen and threw it in the trash. Then he tied the bag and left it by the door, hoping that the doorman would not have made his rounds yet. Sleep descended upon him that night serene and unburdened. He was proud of himself.<\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

In the morning the trash bag was gone. He could have verified this simply by looking out the peephole but instead he opened the door. At the bank, they asked him if he felt all right when he arrived.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a little bit of a headache,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the flu. People are dropping like flies.\u201d<\/p>\n

But it wasn\u2019t the flu. The Coca-Cola sign flashed on and off, as did the Christmas lights. It was Christmastime. How had he not realized? Two years ago he\u2019d felt a slow-burning sadness during the holidays, too, and he hadn\u2019t been able to shake it off until they had taken the lights down. But what he felt now wasn\u2019t really sadness. He was anxious. He made a mistake keying in the number of a bank account and spent almost half an hour arguing with a customer who claimed his deposits were not being credited correctly. At lunchtime he went to get the first-aid kit to take his temperature. But he had no fever. He took an aspirin. But he didn\u2019t have a headache. The ad said:<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto<\/em>, and then there was a phone number. He couldn\u2019t remember the number. He, who had always been so proud of his numeric memory, couldn\u2019t recall the number. It started 307. It started 307 and then there was something like 4680. It wasn\u2019t 4680 but it was similar to 4680. 5690. 3680.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone. Roberto<\/em>, and then 307\u2026<\/p>\n

When he left the bank he didn\u2019t go home but instead walked to the kiosk where he\u2019d bought the personals magazine the other day. <\/p>\n

\u201cCheck over there,\u201d the newsagent said.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you have any more?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t there any there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t see any.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen we must be out.\u201d<\/p>\n

He couldn\u2019t find it at the sex shop three blocks down, either, and the clerk hadn\u2019t even heard of the magazine. He thought about filing a complaint but that seemed ridiculous. When he got home the dog was restless because he\u2019d been gone so long. He was hungry and wagged his tail. Any other day he\u2019d have felt relaxed arriving home, but this time he didn\u2019t know what to do, he didn\u2019t know if he should sit down or watch TV. He hadn\u2019t eaten dinner yet. He had to walk the dog. Suddenly every act that, for years, he had performed in a ritual of leisurely contentment seemed an unbearable obligation. He put on the dog\u2019s leash and went down to take him for a walk but didn\u2019t follow his usual route. When he got back, though he had no appetite, he ate dinner and then took two sleeping pills. He dreamed of someone he had loved for three long years a long time ago, but he couldn\u2019t see his face; there was only the familiar presence of that body lying beside him, his smell, his saliva.<\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday he went to the bank with a fever. He felt weak but at the same time he wanted to scream. It seemed impossible to him that he had held on this way for so many years. During his lunch break he went out to his usual caf\u00e9-bar for a sandwich and coffee but he felt excluded from everything around him. Wherever he looked, all he saw were couples, kisses, little signs of affection. The cold condescendence he once looked on with now turned against him, blowing up in his face with envy and anxiety. He had to find that magazine. Now.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m so alone<\/em>, said Roberto. He was alone, too. He wanted to be kissing someone, like all those couples, holding someone\u2019s hand, buying presents. Irony was a game he could no longer play. <\/p>\n

\n<\/a>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

See this post about Barba for more information about this piece, which was translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman. The ad in the \u201cmale seeking male\u201d section said: I\u2019m so alone. Roberto. (91) 3077670. and was in amongst others listing predictable obscenities and a series of oral necessities. Page 43. At the top. Above […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":292,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[67486],"tags":[8326,8366,36466,7766,36456,1646,6516,8356],"class_list":["post-280786","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-articles","tag-andres-barba","tag-granta","tag-la-recta-intencion","tag-lisa-dillman","tag-nocturne","tag-review","tag-spanish-literature","tag-young-spanish-novelists"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/280786","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/292"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=280786"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/280786\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":321626,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/280786\/revisions\/321626"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=280786"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=280786"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=280786"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}