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of the ideas he had discarded in the course of his
fanciful planning was to adapt the format of false publicity brochures selling
prepaid access to healers. A lifelong monthly fee would allow members to benefit
from a Miracle Cure whenever they might need one. Like all the other projects he
was enthusiastic about briefly then dropped as soon as cold reason snuffed out
the flames of his fantasy, this one had not passed without leaving its mark.
Everything fit into the text, which was made of marks, and not only human
marks.
    Basically, the discipline of writing consisted of limiting
oneself to writing, to that work, with all its parsimony, its periodicity, its
use of time. It was the only way to quell the anxiety that could otherwise
overwhelm him, anxiety due to the immeasurable and self-propagating nature of
the things that filled the world and continued to emerge each and every step of
the way. There was a contrast, which could be defined as “curative,” between the
constant periodicity of writing, which was always a partial process, and the
totality of the present and of eternity.
    For many years it had been Dr. Aira’s habit to write in
cafés, of which, fortunately, there were many in the Flores neighborhood. This
unfortunate habit had combined with several practical imperatives until, during
this period, he couldn’t write a single line unless he was sitting at a table at
one of those hospitable establishments. The viciousness with which Dr. Actyn
carried out his campaign against him put to the test his will to continue to
frequent them, for they were public places, accessible to him as well as to his
enemies. But he had no choice if he wanted to keep writing. A dark cloud of
paranoia began to accompany him during each one of his outings. At moments he
felt observed, and with good reason. There were no direct assaults, nor did he
expect them. But indirect ones could take many forms, and during these writing
sessions on the Camino Real or on Miraflores or San José streets, anything could
happen, or could be happening without him noticing, while one of his frequent
raptures of inspiration was isolating him from his surroundings. He was certain
that Actyn could recruit any type of human, any formulation of the human, for
his operations of vigilance and provocation; hence it was not a question of
recognizing his adversary by his looks . . . He could not even say, just by
looking, if somebody was observing him, because in a café it is easy to sit in a
strategic position, avert the eyes, or stare at a reflection — dissemble in a
thousand ways. He had developed at least one sure method for finding out if
somebody was observing him: it consisted of yawning while secretly spying on the
one he suspected; if he yawned in turn, it meant his eyes had been on him,
because the contagious property of yawns is infallible. Of course, somebody who
just happened to be looking at him at that moment might have yawned; and anyway,
proof didn’t do him much good, though at least he knew what to expect, which was
enough for him.
    Among the “practical imperatives” that forced him to go
elsewhere to write was his wife’s superstitious disdain for his intellectual
activities, disdain that had been slowly turning into horror ever since Dr.
Actyn had mobilized the mass media in his campaign to destroy his prestige. More
and more frequently she made a fuss, complaining that people recognized her,
that they stared and pointed; she claimed that soon she would be too ashamed to
leave her house . . . She said it didn’t bother him because he could always pick
up and leave, as had so many other husbands who had gotten carried away. It
didn’t take much, not even an increase in hysteria. All a sweet young thing had
to do was walk past him and he’d fall in love . . . In fact, he wanted to love.
His poor health no longer seemed like an obstacle. In fact, he wanted to love in
sickness; suddenly this seemed to be the only true love.
    Thinking