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By Root 1019 0

and proper with regard to his standard of dress, like those gentlemen in old photographs who appear to be imprisoned in their stiff frock coats and tight-fitting silk hats. He might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with oily black shoulder-length hair. His bearing, his movements, his expression appeared to be the absolute contrary of the natural and spontaneous, immediately mindful of an articulated doll, of puppet strings. He bowed to us politely and, with a solemnity as out of the ordinary as his person, introduced himself by saying: “I’ve come to steal a typewriter from you, gentlemen. I would be most grateful for your help. Which of those two machines is the best?”

His index finger pointed in turn to my typewriter and Pascual’s. Despite my having become quite accustomed to the contrasts between voices and outward appearances thanks to my habit of dropping by Radio Central between Panamericana bulletins, I was amazed to hear such a firm and melodious voice, such perfect diction, come pouring out of such a tiny, unimposing figure. I had the impression that in that voice not only each letter marched past in perfect order, without a single one of them being mutilated, but also the particles and atoms of each one, the very sounds of sound. Without even noticing the surprise that his appearance, his audacity, and his voice aroused in us, he had impatiently begun to examine both typewriters carefully, to sniff them over, so to speak. He finally chose my enormous ancient Remington, a big hulk of a hearse invulnerable to the ravages of time.

Pascual was the first to react. “Are you a thief or what?” he asked him point-blank, and I realized that he was paying me back for the earthquake in Isfahan. “Do you think you’re going to get away with carting off the typewriters of the News Department that way?”

“Art is more important than your News Department, you sprite,” the character thundered, looking at him in lofty disdain, as though at a mere insect he had just crushed underfoot, and went on with the job at hand. As Pascual watched him, openmouthed with amazement (and doubtless trying, as I was, to figure out what he meant by “sprite”), the visitor attempted to carry off the Remington. He managed to lift the monster off the desk by dint of a superhuman effort that made the veins in his neck swell and very nearly caused his eyes to pop out of their sockets. His face turned a deeper and deeper purple and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, but he went right on. Clenching his teeth, staggering, he managed to take a few steps in the direction of the door, but then he had to give up: in one more second his load would have come crashing to the floor, with him tumbling after. He set the Remington down on Pascual’s desk and stood there panting, completely indifferent to the smiles on our two faces that this spectacle had provoked and apparently not even noticing that Pascual had tapped his forehead with his finger several times to indicate to me that we were dealing with a madman. But the moment he’d caught his breath, he reprimanded us in a stern voice: “Don’t be lazy, sirs; a little human solidarity. Give me a hand.”

I told him I was very sorry but that if he wanted to carry off the Remington he would first have to pass over Pascual’s dead body and then, if it came to that, over mine. The little man straightened his tie, a wee bit out of place after his herculean effort. To my astonishment, with an annoyed expression on his face and showing every sign of possessing no sense of humor whatsoever, he nodded gravely and replied: “When challenged, no gentleman ever refuses to fight a duel. The place and the hour, if you please, sirs.”

The providential appearance of Genaro Jr. in the shack frustrated what threatened to become formal arrangements for a duel. He came in just as the stubborn little man, turning purple, was attempting once again to lift the Remington.

“Wait a minute, Pedro, I’ll help you,” he said, grabbing the typewriter away from him as though it were a box of matches. Realizing then, on seeing the expression