The Swimmers Read online

  By the time Jonás leaves the water, he has put off these preoccupations for several hours; he has tried not to remember them, choosing instead to blame his excessive exhaustion. He’s so tired after finishing, and so sick of his own burdensome weight, so frustrated over his failure to abandon himself to that mental languor after such physical exertion, that he can think only of making it to the restaurant with Sergio and talking about the same things as always: as if the repetition of this routine could transport him back to another time, when everything was easy and more or less in the future. He sinks into the wicker chair and peacefully contemplates the sheets of rain striking against the glass walls, bursting in bunches of diffuse waves like linseed capsules letting fly their seeds, his legs hanging loose, the sweet fatigue of his arms supported by his wrists as they rest on the table, his back reclined against the green cushion of the chair. Sergio has already noted the clouds on the horizon, indoors as well as out, though there’s almost nothing the two of them can’t dilute with a good drink and a few recurring conservation pieces that are capable of dispelling even the bad weather, the cascading rain abandoned by the light, halting its flow like the linoleum covering under which Jonás has huddled ever since he said goodbye to his father, left the café, and plunged into the subway.

  In the pool, Sergio was a straight line on the water’s surface, with no need to stop and rest; today he’s breathing in another dimension. Jonás can see it in the way he sips his beer, holding his glass—chilled from rim to base—so close to his lips, his hair still slightly wet and the knot of his blue checkered tie compact and fitted close but not too tight, exactingly adjusted: Jonás has always noticed how his friend simultaneously exudes an assured elegance and agility, a sort of athletic bravura, with the jovial air of a college student recently come from the shower after a rugby match.

  It’s not imposture, however, or even a chameleonic gift, but the quality that makes some men appear so sure of themselves in any given situation. For Sergio, it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to sit back and savor his beer, letting the foam strike his palate and wash away any hint of chlorine, because he’s earned it. Jonás takes his first sip more hastily, without relishing it; he could have used another half hour in the water. While swimming at his leisure, he had spotted Sergio calling to him from the pool’s edge, telling him he doesn’t have much time after lunch because of a meeting.

  Today turns out to be one of those querulous days which Jonás resigns himself to getting through. It was the same in the water, despite the inner duel that always pushes him to secretly measure his power against his only worthy rival in the breaststroke: the tireless Aquaman, with that asymmetrical body, not too tall but squarely built in back and abdomen, with swift legs; a close-cropped, almost military haircut; a dark, penetrating stare under the halo of his goggles; and an undulating, amphibian fluidity. From the beginning, Jonás left him to Sergio, thinking as he first kicked off against the wall: I’m no match for him today, I’d better steer clear of this lane and find another, they’ll lap me there too, but not doing the breaststroke; his legs felt loaded down like sandbags, his shoulders out of sync, what’s with them today, it’s like they’re frozen stiff, and the water so heavy, denser now, mercurial, dragging him toward the bottom with its blue-rimmed tiles. At some point he looks across the pool and makes out that hard-packed body advancing two lengths with each stroke, propelled by an incredible kick, and he tries to mimic him; he remembers Leopoldo’s words: synchronization, oneness, his arms availing themselves of the impetus of his legs, continuing inert from the abdomen up, not two movements but one, or two integrated into a single, more organic whole. His father is there now in Leopoldo’s coppery gaze: Lunge, lunge, you can’t push your way through life, your strength will fail you; you have to learn to glide.

  It’s the same with photography: there are days when inspiration is not there, not even for the simplest of shots; there are days when it’s barely possible to stretch out his limbs without plummeting to the bottom. But these days will pass, thinks Jonás as he finishes off his first beer. Sergio has drained his and quickly ordered more. Ever since they first exchanged words at their lockers while they finished dressing, he has noted in Jonás an abstraction, a pale shadow in his eyes, but has decided to let the drink do what the swim couldn’t; in contrast to the fulfillment attained after exiting the water, invigorated by exercise, with the familiar candor that comes after, Jonás offers only that gentle and half-buried melancholy that overcomes him on very rare afternoons, when he drinks his whisky not as a nectar, but like the sinuous flight of a bee headed upwind in its search.

  Chapter 16

  “Did you catch Bongo and Pongo? Bongo was in your lane, wasn’t he? And Pongo was in the next one over. It seemed like they were faster than usual.”

  “Yeah, they were going at a good clip.”

  “A good clip? They couldn’t stop lapping you. Especially Bongo.”

  “I was a bit slow today.”

  “Maybe we should swim first and stretch after, like them. What can you do, though, if there’s no time? When I got there, they were just finishing their warm-up; I was surprised by how athletic Bongo’s looking. He’s got some muscle tone.”

  “For sure, he’s always been fit. Although I find Pongo and his listening skills even more admirable. Can you imagine spending the whole day with Bongo?”

  Bongo and Pongo are the other two men who come to swim together. Neither Sergio nor Jonás knows their real names, but Sergio has nicknamed them not so much for the way they swim or because they’re always together—both in and out of the water—but because of the conversations they engage in at considerable volume, Bongo especially, in the locker room. Bongo is an accountant, and he likes to give classes on high finance while he rubs body milk over his chest and between his thighs. He may be speaking solely to Pongo, who assimilates these lessons with that imperturbable attention of his, but there’s no denying that everyone around is forced to hear it—even if they’re on the other side of the room and couldn’t care less—through sheer acoustic obtrusion. Bongo is dark-skinned with a dour, refined gaze, as if it cost him a great deal of trouble to shift his attention elsewhere once he had fixed it on a given point; he seems to take an odd pleasure in the attention Pongo pays to his speeches, which are usually capped off by a comment not on his supposed victories in the stock market thanks to his financial acuity, but football, because Bongo knows as much about football and every other sport there is as he does about macroeconomics. He is likewise skilled in organizing weekend plans: he enjoys nature and camping, spelunking and hiking, a bit of rock climbing too, and sometimes hunting, but never horseback riding, because when he was a boy he fell off a horse and ever since he’s been terrified of their unilateral and irredeemable ways; in response, Pongo—barely five feet tall with eyes of light tan or amber, and a reddish, slightly bulky torso, despite swimming with a much more refined style than Bongo—almost always nods enthusiastically, while the rest of the swimmers, mostly silent, continue to concentrate on drying their toes, sitting on benches and tying their shoes or slipping on a pair of loafers, combing their hair, or tightening the knot of their tie around their necks: recovering the deliberate rhythm of their movements out of the water, as if gravity, in its eternal pursuit of wear and tear, had begun to weigh on them once again. Bongo, meanwhile, seems not to have lost even an ounce of oxygen or eloquence during his swim and speaks as if under obligation, with great force and without fail, from the moment he enters the locker room until he abandons it, giving way to widespread relief and a renewed gratitude for the soothing onset of silence. How pleasant it is to dry off and get dressed once Bongo has left the locker room, even if the air is still filled with his tips on the trendiest spots in the city, where it’s easy and cheap to track down the finest in female companions, and countless other master classes; Pongo, despite the inward glint of intelligence hinted at in his gaze, gestures, and expressions—to which Bongo is completely oblivious—p
ays him rapt attention, perhaps because he’s understood some time ago that Bongo wants to be heard not only by the other swimmers, young and old, tired or otherwise, but above all by him, because he needs that endorsement, just as he needs to lead their stretching routine after finishing their swim, with his sharp, demonstrative movements. One day he’s going to pull a muscle, laughs Sergio; more than a swimmer slackening his body, he looks like a crossing guard in a traffic jam, raising and lowering his arms with martial impetuousness: his voice too has the unbearable quality of a whistle, a factory alarm announcing lunch break, even projecting a certain bureaucratic ennui at times, as if it cost him an enormous effort to explain how much he knows and everyone else has filled out an unseen petition to gain access to the magisterial teachings of his strident voice. Bongo, meanwhile, divides his attention between his ramblings and the application of a moisturizing cream, contemplating his firm figure in the mirror, poised to torpedo even the briefest of silences.

  They leave their sirloin and brie unfinished, although they manage with their ham and their avocado salad. Sergio remains quiet for a few seconds, examining the texture of the beef, the melted cheese grown lumpy and solid, and the toast moistened by its juices.

  “Did you notice Australia still hasn’t come back? I kind of miss getting whacked.”

  The rain has tapered off and a glimmer of sun flickers between the clouds.

  “I have something I need to tell you; maybe my father’s just being paranoid, but I can’t get this off my mind.”

  “It’s about time. You’ve been in your own little world since we got out of the water.”

  For a second, Jonás doesn’t answer, and he raises his eyes until he meets Sergio’s.

  “My mother has disappeared.”

  Chapter 17

  When he gets off at Arco del Sur and leaves the two levels of subway escalators behind, a cold wave of gaseous air caresses his face, running over his scalp and entering his eye sockets in tiny, moist particles that bring him out of his numbed state after nearly an hour on his subterranean route, all his thoughts agglutinated in his plastic orange seat where he remained completely inert and relaxed, the backpack on his legs, his arms hugging it, surrounded by the other passengers traveling upright and crammed together as he analyzed the sequence of images and conversations he has strung together over the course of the day: a day seemingly identical to so many others, but marked always—almost from the start, since his morning coffee with his father—by an estrangement, not only from others, but from himself. Even during a seemingly habitual moment like his meal with Sergio, especially while trying to explain everything his father had told him that morning, Jonás felt as if he too was a witness to his tale, as if for a few minutes he had been able to contemplate his own narration, while his friend interrupted him every so often, trying to find a rational or unaccounted-for explanation for the story of her vanishing, perhaps the same arguments, or very similar, to those Jonás had used with his father: that his mother had started her life over without telling either of them, that she might be away on a trip, or maybe she simply decided to keep her distance for a time; all explanations that began to wither as Jonás reiterated the same counterarguments as his father, experienced the same growing perplexity and disquiet.

  “Do you have a copy of the key to the apartment?”

  “Of course.”

  “You have to go, then. Take a look around and really pay attention to everything: the closets and drawers where she keeps her clothes, whether they’re empty or full, and the refrigerator. If there’s anything there—I don’t know, milk, for example—check whether it’s been opened, whether it’s expired, whether the stove is clean or there are dirty dishes in the sink… Look at her mail too, whether the mailbox is full or empty; who knows, you should even open any letters you find, anything that could give you some idea of what’s going on: if it’s really been that long since she’s been there, or any indication that might lead you to believe she’s taken off. Check everything. Maybe she met someone; these things are obvious: a new picture in a visible place… Spend the whole day there if you have to, or stay overnight; I’d be willing to bet the explanation for your mother’s absence is there in her apartment.”

  Jonás seems to remember the set of keys stored away at the bottom of the drawer where he keeps his sweaters. He has never used them; the few times he’s been back to his former family home, he hasn’t needed them: his mother opened the door. She’d also been to see him on a couple occasions since his breakup. The two of them sat across from each other, in the living room which doubles as a bedroom when he pulls out the sofa bed; they stared at each other over two mugs of steaming coffee, and they both mentioned the magnificent view from the balcony, with the enormous window lit up by the sun even at dusk: the two church towers crowned by broad belfries and pyramidal cupolas, slicing through the placidity of the light with its reddish halo glittering on the roof tiles like a pale fire.

  The two visits were similar: they lasted as long as two people take to drink a cup of coffee when there isn’t much to say. Having seen the view, she left, not quite sorrowfully, but with the certainty that if she had ever been close with her son, that moment had now passed; it was closed shut as tightly as her own marriage. If her future held any affection, it would not be that of the silent boy from whom she had distanced herself too early, when Jonás was barely a teenager, when he took shelter inside his own armor.

  It could have been different while he was living with Ada, maybe there had been a chance, but that disappeared as well; the wound was too wide open and required emergency care, not just to be dressed but disinfected and then stitched up: a succession of closely-spaced stitches would have been best, even if there were many of them, rather than spacing them few and far between. In the first case, the scar would be practically imperceptible afterward, whereas the latter might be less noticeable while it healed, without so many knots, but it would leave a nasty mark later on. But they didn’t try, or it wasn’t enough. Jonás’s parents went to visit them once in that apartment on the north side, so close to the stadium and the pool. At first everything was fine, because of the novelty of it all: they were charmed by their son’s new girlfriend, delighted to discover that not only was she beautiful but vivacious, intelligent, and affectionate, too; at least if she put as much effort into pleasing him as she did them, maybe Jonás could make something of his life. They were even secretly surprised, with a parental pride that was unfamiliar to them, that Ada so expressively admired his photographs, that she was so involved in his work and recognized it as more than a mere source of income, as artistic creation; and that she involved herself not only by posing for the portraits that had already begun to embellish the walls of the house, but also suggesting new subject matter and ways of expressing himself, accompanying him to every exhibition he attended to see what others were working on, back when he still cared: learning their gazes, trying to capture them in his own, aspiring to encompass it all, like a giant wide-angle lens built into his eye and retina, his innermost vision the photograph itself, the true recreation of the instant foreseen before it occurs. Then, too, Jonás had that same sensation, sitting at the table before the oven-roasted chicken with organic vegetables Ada had prepared; when he looked at his parents, perceiving the warm presence of Ada there at his side, he felt a fleeting certainty that he had already lived that moment, marking the boundary between what could have been and what would be: never so much as that first time, when everything went so unexpectedly well between his parents and Ada, between the three of them and himself, did Jonás have such a deep and keen sense of a once-in-a-lifetime photo, of the future in its finitude.

  He noted something similar today, after crossing the rubber ramp to the information desk and ticket booth, passing beneath the clock and the blackboard with the day’s statistics, when he found himself facing the attendant, in his gray suit and black tie with a tiny knot against a bright white shirt, like an unarmed night watchman. Nearly fif
ty, if not older, he runs the desk, providing information on payment terms and attending to those looking to register, charging the entry fee during free swim as well as selling caps, goggles, and bathing suits with the school’s logo: a small red dolphin against a black background; they even sell towels there with an identical but enormous dolphin, its deep red acrobatic leap occupying the whole of the towel. Jonás has known him since he started swimming there with Sergio, because the fourth time they showed up together, the man asked them, with a perceptive air, “You guys are brothers, aren’t you?”

  In college, someone had once come to that same conclusion, maybe due to the distinct, dark gaze or the similar facial structure, slightly svelte with a square jaw and, coincidentally, the same dimple in their chins. Because of this, Sergio was quick to respond: “Ever since we were little.”

  “I knew it. These two guys who come swim together are brothers, I said.”

  “We always get that.”

  “It’s because you look so alike. It’s good to see brothers stick together.”

  They nodded and left him there with his musings. On days like today, when Jonás comes late and Sergio has arrived first, the man eagerly informs him, “Your brother’s already here.”

  Or, on those days when Jonás comes to swim alone, he also asks, “Your brother’s not coming?”

  “No.”

  “Tell him he shouldn’t work so much; nothing’s more important than spending time with family.” One day something unpredictable happened, and the man surprised Jonás: “You’re the photographer, right?”

  Jonás looked at him, perplexed. At that moment, with money in hand for the entry fee and an uncontainable desire to dive into the pool, having spent the last few weeks preparing for the opening of his second show, the last thing he was expecting was for the pool attendant to stand there on the other side of the counter and guess his occupation.