being childish, Ruth. I’m tired . . .”
“Tired of what? Go on, say it: tired of what?”
Jorge folded his arms and arched backward, as if he had been pushed by a gust of wind. He saw the trap coming and decided to be direct.
“That’s unfair. You’re taking my words literally. Or worse: you interpret them figuratively when they hurt you, and take them literally when it suits you.”
“Really? Is that what you think, Jorge?”
“Just now, for example, I told you I was tired and you play the victim. You act like I’d said ‘I’m tired of you,’ and . . .”
“And isn’t that deep down what you wanted to say? Think about it. It might even be a good thing. Go on, say it. I have things to say to you too. What is it you’re so tired of?”
“Not like this, Ruth.”
“Like what? Talking? Being honest?”
“I can’t talk this way,” Jorge replied, slowly picking up the things once more.
“Over and out,” she said, her eyes straying toward the waves.
Jorge suddenly let go of the things and made as if to seize Ruth’s chair. She reacted by raising her arm in a gesture of self-defense. He realized she was deadly serious and stopped in his tracks, just as he was about to cross the line. There it was. He was touching it with the tips of his toes. He considered taking another step. Trampling the sand. Rubbing his feet in it and putting a stop to all this. His own cautiousness made Jorge feel stupid. His shoulders were tense, hunched. But he didn’t move.
“Will you stop this already?” he said.
He instantly regretted having phrased the question in that way.
“Stop what?” Ruth asked, with a painfully satisfied smile.
“I mean this interrogation! This interrogation 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
