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looking at him. He grabbed my wife’s hand. She did not pull away. She didn’t show fear. Or familiarity. That’s good, I told myself, don’t take chances. I had decided to approach them at a normal speed, give Constancia a kiss on the cheek; we would go back to our house together, along Lincoln Street. Then another black man approached the bench, a younger man, and seemed to ask the other for something. The first man got angry, stood up, the two faced each other wordlessly, the only sound was their hissing, that’s what I particularly noticed, they were hissing like snakes, two black snakes glaring with fury, with blood in their eyes. Never have I seen so much hate concentrated in two human beings, they were trembling, both of them, not touching each other, just looking, the two bodies leaning close to each other.
    Constancia got up from the bench and left by Factors Walk, on the other side from where I was standing. I decided to watch her go while the two black men faced each other with a wild tension, though, as far as I could see, no violent consequences. When Constancia disappeared from sight, I lost interest and returned home. She came in a few minutes later. I preferred not to mention the matter. I would end up asking for an explanation, and a marriage is weakened when a spouse has to make explanations. Who excuses accuses. The best course was to maintain a sympathetic silence.
    Now, on this dying August afternoon, as the scissors of autumn slowly, mysteriously begin to snip through the heavy air of summer, and it’s not worth the trouble to recall that remote incident in the park, I can almost understand her feeling that love that has complete certainty is not true love; it’s too much like an insurance policy, or, worse yet, a certificate of good conduct. And indifference is the price you pay for it. So perhaps I am thankful for the moments of conflict that Constancia and I experienced in the past; they show that we had to test our marriage, we would not consign it to the indifference of perfect security. How could it be, when something of no importance to me—having a child—was a constant source of frustration and argument throughout the first twenty years of our life together, always raised by her: So you don’t care about having a child? No, I care about having you. Well, I do care about it, I need a child, I can’t have one, you’re a doctor, you know that perfectly well, I can’t, I can’t, and you don’t care at all, or else you care so much that you feign this horrid indifference that hurts me so much, Whitby, that hurts me so …
    10
    Conscious of the most obvious biological signs, I resigned myself to not having children. Her suffering was clear, but she refused to have any tests done. I urged her to see a doctor to have the problem diagnosed. We couldn’t go on blaming each other. But her determination never to see a doctor was stronger than her frustration, pain, and unhappiness. That’s a perfect example of the hermeticism of our marriage, which couldn’t avoid what might be called intramural problems, even though all outside contacts—friendships, doctors, shopping, social calls, trips—were zealously avoided. On the other hand, we were capable of exploring, usually with good humor, such other possibilities as adoption (but the child would not be of our blood, Whitby, it has to be our blood) or artificial insemination of a surrogate mother (But what if she falls in love with the child and refuses to give it up to us? —We’ll choose a poor woman, so if there’s a dispute the court will award the child to us, since we can assure it a good future …).
    â€”Children don’t need money to have a good future.
    â€”Constancia, you’re your own worst enemy, you’re the devil’s advocate. You think like a gypsy! I laugh then.
    â€”The Virgin was Blessed, she didn’t have to fornicate