Woes of the True Policeman

was, like a matinee idol, with that shock of white hair—would rather sleep with boys (probably pimply ones) than women. “You fucked up and now you have to suffer the consequences, do what’s best for you, and for your daughter, especially. If you fight it, the literature department will bury you in shit,” she said as she filled three glasses to overflowing with Viuda Canseco.
    What a nice, blunt way to put it, thought Antoni Carrera, admiringly and gloomily.
    Anna handed them the glasses: “Drink up, we’ll need it. What we should really do is send the kids to the movies and get drunk.”
    “That’s not a bad idea,” said Amalfitano.
    “The university is rotten,” said Antoni Carrera without conviction.
    “But what does that mean?” asked Amalfitano.
    “It means that in the best of cases, you’ll be left with a near-indelible stain on your record. Worst case, you could end up in jail as a corruptor of minors.”
    Who was the minor, my God? thought Amalfitano, and he remembered the faces of the poet Pere Girau and a friend who sometimes turned up at Padilla’s studio, an economics student he had never slept with but whom he had seen in Padilla’s arms, the memory excited him, the boy surrendering to Padilla in a way that Amalfitano would never be able to, begging him between sobs and entreaties not to pull out, to keep going, as if the poor bastard were a woman, thought Amalfitano, and could have multiple orgasms. I disgust myself, he thought, though the truth is he didn’t disgust himself at all. He remembered other boys, too, whom he’d never seen before and yet who claimed to be students of his, Padilla’s gang, Padilla’s hangers-on, whom he favored upon grading exams (but not overly so) and whom he later saw at parties and on late-night pilgrimages to the James Dean, the Roxy, the Simplicissimus, the Gardel, Chance Encounters, the Doña Rosita, and the Atalante.
    “How could you risk so much?” asked Antoni Carrera.
    “I always used condoms,” said Amalfitano, remembering Padilla’s body.
    The Carreras looked at him in confusion. Anna bit her lower lit. Amalfitano closed his eyes. He thought. About Padilla and his condoms. And suddenly the act appeared to him in a terrifying light. Padilla always used condoms when they slept together! And I never noticed. What horrific thing, what gallantry, lay hidden in that gesture? wondered Amalfitano with a lump in his throat. For a moment he was afraid he would pass out. The music coming from the room where Rosa was persuaded him not to.
    “The rector has really behaved in a civilized fashion,” said Antoni Carrera.
    “Put yourself in his place,” said Anna Carrera, still thinking about the condoms.
    “I have,” answered Amalfitano despondently.
    “Then will you do what we suggest? Will you be reasonable?”
    “I will. What’s the plan?”
    The plan was for him to make an official request for a leave of absence, claiming some physical ailment. A nervous breakdown, for example, said Antoni Carrera, anything. For two months he would continue to receive his full salary, after which he would resign. The university, of course, would furnish all the requisite positive recommendations and draw a veil over the affair. Naturally, he should by no means show his face at the department offices. Not even to get my things? asked Amalfitano. Your things are in the trunk of our car, said the Carreras in unison, downing their drinks together too.

5
    I, thought Amalfitano, who was a creative, loving, happy child, the brightest at my elementary school lost on the muddy plain and the bravest at my high school lost in the mountains and the fog, I who was the most cowardly of adolescents and who spent afternoons of slingshot fights reading and dreaming over the maps in my geography book, I who learned to dance rock and roll and the twist, boleros and the tango, but not the cueca , though more than once I bounded under the leafy bower, handkerchief at the ready and driven by something deep inside me because I had no friends in my burst of patriotism, only enemies, purist hicks scandalized by my heel-tapping cueca , my needless and suicidal heterodoxy, I who slept off drinking binges under a tree and who met the imploring eyes of Carmencita Martínez, I who swam one stormy afternoon at Las Ventanas, I who made the best coffee in the apartment I shared with other students in the center of Santiago, and my roommates, southerners like me, would say wonderful