and this ridiculous line!”
“If our conversation bothers you that much, we can end it right here. And if you want to go home, carry on, enjoy your dinner. But the line is non-negotiable. It isn’t ridiculous and don’t cross it. Don’t go there. I’m warning you.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“I do, unfortunately,” Ruth replied.
Disconcerted, Jorge noted the frankness of her retort. He bent down to pick the things up again, muttering inaudible words. He rummaged vigorously through the contents of the basket. Rearranging the bottles of suntan lotion several times, piling up the magazines furiously, folding the towels again. For a moment, Ruth thought Jorge had tears in his eyes. But she saw him gradually regain his composure until he asked, looking straight at her:
“Are you testing me, Ruth?”
Ruth remarked that the almost shocking naivety of his question brought back an echo of his former dignity: as though Jorge could make a mistake, but not lie to her; as if he were capable of every type of disloyalty except for malice. She saw him squatting, bewildered, at her feet, his shoulders about to start peeling, his hair thinner than a few years ago, familiar and strange. She felt a sudden desire both to attack and to protect him.
“You go around bossing people about,” she said, “yet you live in fear of being judged. I find that rather sad.”
“No kidding. How profound. And what about you?”
“Me? You mean what are my contradictions? Am I aware of always making the same mistakes? Yes. All the time. Of course I am. To start with, I’m stupid. And a coward. And too anxious to please. And I pretend I could live in a way I can’t. Come to think of it, I’m not sure what is worse: not to be aware of certain things, or to be aware but not to do anything. That’s precisely why I drew that line, you see? Yes. It’s childish. It’s small and badly drawn. And it’s the most important thing I’ve done all summer.”
Jorge gazed past Ruth into the distance, as though following the trail of her words, shaking his head with a gesture that veered between dismay and incredulity. Then his face froze in a mocking expression. He started to laugh. His laughter sounded like coughing.
“Have you nothing to say? Not bullying any more?” Ruth said.
“You’re so impulsive.”
“Do you think what I’m saying to you is impulsive?”
“I don’t know,” he said, standing up straight. “Maybe not exactly impulsive. But you’re definitely proud.”
“This isn’t simply a question of pride, Jorge, it’s about principles.”
“You know something? You may defend a lot of principles, be as analytical as you like, think yourself terribly brave, but what you’re actually doing is hiding behind a line. Hiding! So do me a favor, rub it out, collect your things, and we’ll talk about this calmly over dinner. I’m going to cross. I’m sorry. There’s a limit to everything. Even my patience.”
Ruth leapt up like a spring being released, knocking over the deckchair. Jorge pulled up before having taken a step.
“You’re damn right there’s a limit to everything!” she yelled. “And of course you’d like me to hide. Only don’t count on it this time. You don’t want dinner: you want a truce. Well, you’re not getting one, you hear me, you’re not getting one until you accept once and for all that this line will be rubbed out when I say so, and not when you run out of patience.”
“I can’t believe you’re being such a tyrant. And then you complain about me. You’re not allowing me to come close. I don’t do that to you.”
“Jorge. My love. Listen,” Ruth said, lowering her voice, brushing her fringe into place, righting the chair, and sitting down again. “I want you to listen to me, okay? There isn’t one line. There are two, do you understand? There are always two. I see yours. Or at least I try to see it. I know it’s there, somewhere. I have a suggestion. If you think it’s unfair that this line is rubbed out when I say so, then make another. It’s easy. There’s your racket. Draw a line!”
Jorge guffawed.
“I’m serious, Jorge. Explain your rules. Show me your territory. Say to me: don’t step beyond this line. You’ll see that I never try to rub it out.”
“Very clever! Of course you wouldn’t rub it out, because it would never occur to me to draw a line like that.”
“But let’s say you did, how far would it reach? I need to know.”
“It wouldn’t reach anywhere. I don’t like superstitions. I prefer to behave naturally. I like to be free to go where I want. To quarrel when there’s a reason for it.”
“All I’d love is for you to look a little bit beyond your own territory.”
“All I’d love is for you to love me,” he replied.
Ruth blinked a few times. She rubbed her eyes with both hands, as though trying to wipe away the damp breeze that had been buffeting her that afternoon.
“That’s the most awful answer you could have given me,” said Ruth.
Jorge considered going over to console her and thought he had better not. His back was stinging. His muscles were aching. The sea had swallowed the orb of the sun. Ruth covered her face. Jorge lowered his eyes. He looked once more at the line: he thought it seemed much longer than a meter.
Who dares to swim to El Cerrito? asked Anabela, her face, I don’t know, like something moist and very bright. I imagine a cookie as big as the sun, an enormous cookie dipped in the sea. That’s sort of what Anabela’s face looked like when she asked us.
Nobody dares? she insisted, but I don’t know what face she made then because my eyes slid further down. Her bathing suit was green, green like I don’t know what, I can’t think of an example right now. It was light green and the top was sort of pinched in the middle.
Anabela was always laughing at us. And that was okay, because she was two, or maybe three years older than we were, she was almost a woman, and we, well, we were staring at the top of her bathing suit. It was worth having her laugh at us, because her shoulders went up and down and the light green material moved around inside as well.
Since no one replied, Anabela folded her arms. And that was bad, because now we could no longer see anything and had to look at each other and notice our fear of the water and our irritation at not being good enough for Anabela. Good enough for, I don’t know, those big waves, like the ones the older boys surfed, and then we realized that only one of them could make Anabela happy. Except that she never took any notice of them, which made us even more confused.
Every afternoon, Anabela would swim out on her own to El Cerrito, a dry rock about two kilometers east. We couldn’t go there. Well, we could, but we weren’t allowed, because it was dangerous and besides they said strange things went on over there, like naked people sunbathing and other stuff. It took nearly an hour of long, hard swimming to get to the rock, and made us a bit nervous to watch Anabela plunge in, to watch her head appear and disappear until it became, I don’t know, a buoy, a speck, nothing. She would swim over there, sunbathe for a while, two of us reckoned without the top half of her bathing suit on, and three others reckoned with nothing on at all, and at sunset she would come back in a motorboat, because there was always someone with a motorboat coming back to the beach. That was the worst part, we all agreed, of her going off on her own. We all felt sure nothing bad would happen to her on the way there, she was older and very fast, she was a really strong swimmer and always knew what to do. Besides, Anabela was amazing at floating, when she got tired she would lie on her back, her arms and legs spread wide apart, and she could stay like that, almost asleep, as long as she wanted, like a mermaid or, I don’t know, a green lifebelt, with only her mouth,