Woes of the True Policeman

to him, spooked as she was by her previous relationships.
    “Once,” said Isabel, “he came to my house and invited me to a Larry Rivers show in San Antonio. I just stood there looking at him and I thought: this guy wants to sleep with me and he can’t figure out how to say so. I don’t know why I said yes. I had no intention of sleeping with him, or at least I didn’t plan to make it easy for him, and the idea of a car trip to San Antonio wasn’t tempting, either, but suddenly something made me want to go, I felt like seeing the Larry Rivers and even the hours on the road seemed appealing, the meals along the way, the motel where we planned to stay in San Antonio, the excruciatingly monotonous scenery, the weariness of travel. So I packed some clothes, a volume of Nietzsche, and my toothbrush and off we went. Before we crossed the border I realized that the Texan had no interest in getting me into bed. What he wanted was someone to talk to (strangely enough, he had taken a liking to me). Basically, I realized that he was a pretty lonely guy and sometimes that got to him. The trip was very nice, not much to report, luckily things were clear from the start. When we got to San Antonio we checked into a motel on the edge of town, into separate rooms, ate fairly well at a Chinese restaurant, and then we went to the show. Well, it turns out that this was the opening and the press was there, a couple of TV cameras, lights, drinks, local celebrities, and—in a corner, surrounded by people—Larry Rivers himself. I didn’t recognize him, but the Texan said: that’s Larry over there, let’s go say hi. So we went up to him and shook hands. It’s an honor, Mr. Rivers, said the Texan, I do believe you’re a genius. And then he introduced me: Miss Isabel Aguilar, professor of philosophy at the University of Santa Teresa. Larry Rivers looked him up and down, from the Stetson to the boots, and at first he didn’t say anything but then he asked where Santa Teresa was, Texas or California? and I shook his hand, not saying a word, a little bit shy, and I said Mexico, the state of Sonora. Larry Rivers looked at me and said wonderful, Sonora, wonderful. And that was it, we said goodbye very politely and we moved on to the other end of the gallery, the Texan wanted to talk about the paintings, I was thirsty but I wanted to talk about the paintings, too, we spent a while drinking wine and eating caviar and smoked salmon canapés, and drinking wine, the two of us growing more enthusiastic about the show by the minute, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I found myself alone, sitting at a table full of empty glasses and sweating like a mare after a wild gallop. I don’t have heart trouble, but suddenly I was afraid I’d have a heart attack, a stroke, whatever. I made my way to the restroom as best I could, and spent a while splashing off my face. It was a strange experience, the cold water never came into contact with my skin, the layer of sweat was so thick—even solid, you might say—that it blocked it. My chest burned as if someone had stuck a red-hot bar between my breasts. For a moment I was sure that someone had put some drug in my drink, but what drug? I don’t know. I can’t remember how much time I spent in the restroom. When I came out there were hardly any people in the gallery. A very beautiful woman, a Scandinavian blonde, maybe thirty-eight, was standing next to Larry Rivers and talking nonstop. I was amazed that Larry Rivers and a few of his friends were still there. The Scandinavian woman dominated the conversation, talking and gesticulating, but the strangest thing of all was that she seemed to be reciting something, a long poem that she illustrated with her hands, hands that were surely soft and elegant. Larry Rivers watched her carefully, his eyes half-closed, as if he were seeing the blond woman’s story, a story about tiny people in constant motion. Jesus, I thought, that’s nice. I would have loved to join them, but my shyness—or sense of propriety, I guess—prevented me. The Texan was nowhere to be found. Before I left, the Larry Rivers group smiled at me. On my way out, I bought the catalogue and took a taxi back to the motel. I went to the Texan’s room, but he wasn’t there. The next day, at the reception desk, I was told that he had left the previous night, and that before he left he had paid for everything, including my room and my breakfast that morning at the motel restaurant. I