Clark M. Zlotchew

HELP! CRITICALLY IMPORTANT!


Something of critical importance came to me this morning. If people don’t read this very short story by Fernando Sorrentino and I do not receive a good number of ‘likes’ and comments, the entire population of the world will change to stone. However, unlike the characters in this short fiction who have strong superstitions, my belief is no superstition – it’s the truth.

REWARDING SUPERSTITIONS by Fernando Sorrentino
I live off the superstitions of others. I don't earn much and the work is pretty hard. My first job was in a seltzer plant. The boss believed, who can say why, that one of the thousands of siphon bottles (yes, but which one?) harbored the atomic bomb. He also believed that the presence of a human being was enough to prevent that fearful energy from being released. There were several of us employees, one for each truck. My task consisted of remaining seated on the irregular surface of the siphon bottles during the six hours daily required in the distribution of the seltzer. An arduous task: the truck jolted; the seat was uncomfortable, painful; the route was boring; the truckers, a common lot; every once in a while a siphon bottle would explode (not the one with the atomic bomb) and I would sustain slight injuries. Finally, tired of it, I quit. The boss hastened to replace me with another man who, with his mere presence, would prevent the explosion of the atomic bomb.

Immediately, I learned that a spinster lady in Belgrano had a pair of turtles and that she believed, who can say why, that one of them (yes, but which one?) was the Devil in the form of a turtle. Since the lady, who always wore black and said her rosary, couldn't watch them continually, she hired me to do so at night. "As everyone knows," she explained to me, "one of these two turtles is the Devil. When you see one of them begin to sprout a pair of dragon wings, don't fail to inform me, because that's the one, without a doubt, who is the Devil. Then we'll make a bonfire and burn it alive so as to make all evil disappear from the face of the earth." I stayed awake during the first nights, keeping an eye on the turtles: what stupid, clumsy animals. Later I felt my zeal to be unjustified and, just as soon as the spinster lady went to bed, I would wrap my legs in a blanket and, curled up in a folding chair, I would sleep away the entire night. So I never managed to discover which of the two turtles was the Devil. Later I told the lady that I was going to give up that job because it seemed it was bad for my health to stay awake all night.

Besides, I had just learned that there was an old mansion in San Isidro overlooking a deep ravine and, in the mansion, a statuette depicting a sweet French girl from the end of the nineteenth century. The owners, a very old, gray-haired couple, believed, who can say why, that that girl was sad and pining for love and that if she didn't get a beau she would die shortly. They provided me with a salary and I became the statuette's boyfriend. I began to call on her. The old folks left us to ourselves, though I suspect they spied on us. The girl receives me in the gloomy parlor, we sit on a worn sofa, I bring her flowers, bon bons or books, I write poems and letters to her, she languidly plays the piano, she glances at me tenderly, I call her "my Love," I furtively kiss her, at times I go beyond what is permitted by the decorum and innocence of a late nineteenth century girl. Giselle loves me too, she lowers her eyes, sighs slightly and says to me: "When will we be married?" "Soon," I answer. "I'm saving up." Yes, but I keep putting off the date since I can't save more than a little towards our wedding; as I've already said, you don't earn very much living off other people's superstitions.… (altro)

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
― Frank Herbert, Dune

When it comes to fear, this Frank Herbert quote expresses the key: the more we are a captive of fear, the more our personhood is destroyed; when we overcome our fear, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, our personhood is restored in all its splendor and beauty.

Perhaps you are familiar with "House Taken Over" by Julio Cortázar, a short story where a man and woman, brother and sister, sense a mysterious, diabolical, unseen presence lurking in the back rooms of their house. The fear of the brother feeds the fear of the sister and the fear of the sister, in turn, feeds the fear of the brother, fear spiraling, escalating, until driven by fear, both brother and sister, completely terrorized, hastily pack their bags and, hand in hand, flee, running out the front door, down the front steps, along the sidewalk, never to return.

What I enjoy about this very short Fernando Sorrentino comic tale is the way the author plays with how we can be held by fear without even mentioning the word. Rather, the narrator alludes to how he falls prey to the power of suggestion - case in point, one late Thursday morning, drawn deep into the pages of his horror novel, his imagination runs wild with the power of suggestion. What is he reading that provides the trigger? Stephen King, perhaps? Cuijo? Misery? Carrie? Any other suggestions, Stephen King fans? Please take a moment to read below and let me know.

MERE SUGGESTION by Fernando Sorrentino

My friends say I am very suggestible. I think they're right. As evidence of this, they bring up a little incident that I was involved in last Thursday.

That morning I was reading a horror novel and, although it was broad daylight, I fell victim to the power of suggestion. This suggestion implanted in me the idea that there was a bloodthirsty murderer in the kitchen; and this bloodthirsty murderer, brandishing an enormous dagger, was waiting for me to enter the kitchen so he could leap upon me and plunge the knife into my back. So, in spite of my being seated directly across from the kitchen door, in spite of the fact that no one could have gone into the kitchen without my having seen him, and that there was no other access to the kitchen but that door; in spite of all these facts, I, nonetheless, was fully convinced that the murderer lurked behind the closed door.

So I fell victim to the power of suggestion and did not have the courage to enter the kitchen. This worried me, because lunch time was approaching and it would be indispensable for me to go into the kitchen. Then the doorbell rang.

"Come in!" I yelled without standing up. "It's not locked."

The building superintendent came in, with two or three letters.

"My leg fell asleep," I said. "Could you go to the kitchen and bring me a glass of water?"

The super said, "Of course," opened the kitchen door and went in. I heard a cry of pain and the sound of a body that, in collapsing, dragged with it dishes or bottles. Then I leaped from my chair and ran to the kitchen. The super, half his body on the table and an enormous dagger plunged into his back, lay dead. Now, calmed down, I was able to determine that, of course, there was no murderer in the kitchen.

As is logical, it was a case of mere suggestion.… (altro)

“Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.”

The above quote from the nineteenth century English bestselling novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton who also, incidentally, coined such catchphrases as "the great unwashed’, "pursuit of the almighty dollar", "the pen is mightier than the sword", "It was a dark and stormy night," magnificently captures the inner spirit of this Fernando Sorrentino tale of a conscientious bank employee turned spirited trumpeter.

Oh, Fernando, I can so relate! You see, I played the trumpet as a boy, retreating to my room to blast out bottled up energy and emotions to my heart’s content. Well, actually, there were those times when my family demanded I either stop playing or stick a mute in my trumpet. Then, after college, as a young married man in my twenties and thirties, I worked in the same type of suffocating grey flannel office environment our main character/hero finds himself in.

I’ve included the story in its entirety below. In many ways, a perfect story: charming, true to life and, similar to Guy de Maupassant’s The Diamond Necklace, forming a graceful dramatic arch from opening to inevitable conclusion. The steps run roughly as follows: wounded heart, discovery of music, overflowing joy, temporary restoring of the humdrum, the horn player’s intent to properly prioritize, the unleashing and triumph of Dionysian frenzy, the humdrum caught up in the frenzy, eventual restoration of order.

To add to the charm, we have not only a trumpet, but a fifty-cent plastic toy trumpet; not a musician but a man who is as far removed from musical talent as is humanly possible; not only blasting away in the privacy of his apartment but in the very public space of his employer. I would like to share this story as a way to celebrate the holiday season. Enjoy:

THE HORN PLAYER by Fernando Sorrentino

1
Without even shedding a tear, Maria Alejandra left me, making her way along Oro Street in the direction of Charcas. At first I sadly thought: "She's leaving for ever; it's an irreversible act. It's the end of a chapter in my life." Then the spiteful thoughts occurred to me: "It's the best thing that could have happened; she only complicated my life anyway. It's her loss, not mine."

But life - as they say in songs on the radio - must go on and, for openers, I had no reason to be standing on the corner of Santa Fe and Oro. Besides, the greasy smell of the pizzerias as well as the pushing and shoving of the crowds getting on and off the buses were grating on my nerves. I tried to walk home slowly and it's very difficult to walk slowly when you're being crushed by the idea that a meaningful relationship has come to an end. I couldn't help thinking about Maria Alejandra, but my thoughts were so vast that it was almost as though I weren't thinking about anything. I distractedly looked at the multiplicity of confused store windows on my left. To make the walk home take longer I stopped to look at a toy-shop window just before coming to Carranza Street. It was a heterogeneous multicolored world in which toy soldiers, guns and automobiles seemed to predominate. When I'm in a tough situation I tend to think about trivial matters. At that moment I thought about the injustice there was in the disproportion of sizes which prevailed among the toys. A dog made out of felt was ten times larger than a little tin train which was ten times larger than a little plastic puppy. I prophesied - but no one heard me - that life would be horrible in a world in which everything were out of proportion. I suddenly lost interest in those weighty matters and the image of Maria Alejandra forced its way back into my consciousness. That's when it occurred to me to fight the annoying reiteration of Maria Alejandra by means of a truly trivial act; I went into the toy-shop and acquired a fifty-cent plastic horn. The horn was divided into three sections: the mouthpiece was green; the middle was red and had three little holes; the bell was white and looked like a calla lily.

At home I started to play the horn. I fruitlessly tried to squeeze some melody out of it. I didn't attempt anything sublime; I was only looking for something simple, catchy: popular songs, half-time tunes, television jingles. But the horn could barely manage to emit a few isolated, strident tones. I believe that this was due to the fact that I don't know music and also to the fact that the horn was only a toy.

At that moment I heard the sound of Monica's key in the lock. "The poor kid," I thought with unaccustomed tenderness, "she's back from work. She must be tired and bored to death with the routine of her job," because the sudden image of Maria Alejandra afflicted me with the first feelings of remorse in four years. To escape them, so that my wife would secretly forgive me, I decided to act like a little kid; I decided to cheer her up. I took off my shoes and stood on the living room coffee table. Startled, my wife looked at me, first with surprise and then with relief when she realized that I hadn't scratched the table. Then I blew with all my might and my horn let out some really joyful, shrill blasts. Monica laughed like a little girl and kissed me. The simultaneous laughter and kiss brought me back to those loving times when we were sweethearts.

From that day on, when I left my job at the bank each evening, I filled in for those past meetings with Maria Alejandra by going straight home to play my horn. I'd play only till dinner time; I'd prefer to go to bed after I ate. I don't know whether it was because of the work my lungs were subjected to during the two hours a day I'd play the horn; the fact was that I'd doze right off and fall into a deep and peaceful sleep without dreams, a sleep like I'd never had before. Consequently, on the following morning I'd awaken in great mood with a rosy outlook on life.

Then seeing how beneficial the horn was for my spirits, I decided to add morning session. That's why I acquired the habit of playing every morning for three or four hours, depending on the time I'd spend on the daily shopping. Then I'd have lunch and leave for the bank, where - - it goes without saying - I never played the horn.

2
My ten years of banking experience have taught me that you can divide banker's work into two great periods. The first four hours - in which customers come and go, have consultations, handle business, make inquiries - were bearable, even if not quite entertaining. But afterward, from four to seven - when the bank is closed to the public and whatever animation there is has to stem from the employees alone - a kind of sadness and restlessness invade my soul. It's true that when there are no customers around the employees usually engage in conversation and joke around. It's no less true that some of the conversations weren't too boring and that once in a while a joke might be more or less amusing. Yet these pale pleasures were in no way comparable with playing the horn.

Therefore, it was to be expected that on Friday the 27th of March of 1970 I should place the horn in the attache case meant for carrying my daily sandwich. At about five in the afternoon I went into the bathroom and, facing the lavatory mirror, I began to play the horn. At first I blew prudently, almost inaudibly, almost sighing. And even though the notes issuing from my horn never managed to form a melody, I succeeded in giving them a plaintive tone and a certain romantic quality tinged with an ineffable nostalgia. When I noticed that I was becoming depressed and that my eyes were filling with tears, I fell back into a happier vein; I played cheery, optimistic music. Gradually, my playing became louder and louder until I reached the intensity with which I usually played at home. Depending on the mirror to guide me, I simultaneously made an effort to assume the facial expressions and gestures of a soloist (while admitting the non-existence of horn soloists). During that time, carried away by my own music, I was performing with my eyes closed. When I opened them I saw that my face no longer monopolized the mirror. Attracted by the stentorian notes of the horn, all the employees had entered the washroom. They were laughing their guts out.

One person who wasn't laughing was Mr. Ansinelli, the branch manager. His heritage is Italian; his face consists of three features: a sharp nose, a straight moustache and an imposing pair of eyeglasses. His manner tends to be imperious. Coldly staring at me, he dryly ordered me to cease playing the bugle and to get back to work. I had no choice but to obey him, but not without first setting him straight, courteously but firmly, with regard to my instrument's identity as a horn. Following this brusque epilogue we all stampeded out of the bathroom. My head high, I walked with dignity past the female employees who, not having dared to penetrate beyond the unseen barriers of the gentlemanly enclosure, crowded together in a chaste throng in front of the men's room.

I returned to my desk feeling that a frozen rage directed at Mr. Ansinelli, the man who wouldn't let me play my horn, had taken possession of my soul. But his jurisdiction stopped at the bank doors. I didn't allow my repressed desires to Freudianly manifest themselves in my sleep; I played my horn at home till two in the morning, at which time my bleary-eyed neighbor from the floor below made his appearance. I, probably respectful of the rights of others and certainly exhausted from lack of sleep, put away my horn and went to bed. Monica, insensitive to the charms of music, had been sleeping for quite a long time, her ears stopped up with cotton plugs.

Luckily, the next day was Saturday. I didn't let that Saturday and Sunday go to waste; the horn gave out with the bravest sounds of freedom. Lamentably, inevitably, the fearful Monday arrived and, after it, the other four days in which I couldn't be the absolute master of my horn.

3
If I had any reputation at all at the bank, it was for responsibility and for having will power. That Friday, March 27, 1970, Mr. Ansinelli's implacable face definitely established the incompatibility which kept the horn separate from the bank. Two opposing forces mutely struggled in my soul: I loved the horn, I feared dismissal. My sense of responsibility told me that in no way was it advisable to lose a position in which I earned a good salary, enjoyed the esteem of my numerous superiors - Mr. Ansinelli included - and had the respect of my few subordinates. To the customary and incessant expenditures for electricity, gas and the telephone, I had just boldly added the anomalous and exorbitant payments for the apartment and the car. As a result, both abstract nouns - responsibility and will - substantially conspired in favor of my abstaining from playing the horn at the bank.

4
In order to obviate an unjustifiable state of anxiety in my multitudinous readers, I shall begin this paragraph by getting ahead of myself and saying that on Monday, February 1st, 1971, I was fired. The housekeeper said it was fate. I, in no mood to debate, think other factors were involved. Mainly the unfortunate disposition of the calendar. From a general point of view, I had hardly advanced a twelfth of the year and before me stretched, obstinate and lined up in an orderly row, eleven lethal months. And, more specifically, that week still had four days to go.

On the other hand, that decisive Monday found me in a terrible mood. I was just beginning to overcome, or to be overcome by, some marital difficulties. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's having my enjoyment contaminated by anger. And that very last Sunday in January was a day on which the joy of playing my horn had been clouded by an exasperating bit of stubbornness on my wife's part.

On Sunday I got up early feeling content. I leisurely lingered over my coffee and read the rotogravures unhurriedly. Later I devoted myself to playing the horn. Toward nightfall, Monica, incredibly enough, preferred our going to the movies to having me play the horn. A shocking scene ensued in which Monica thought it appropriate to go in for screams, tears and reproaches. Her arguments were varied and contradictory. I had just one coherent argument: I repeated that they don't allow horn playing at the movies. My point of view won out and we stayed home. While my sour-faced wife watched an endless television program in the living room, I locked myself in the bedroom and kept playing the horn until I fell with exhaustion. I missed dinner and slept with my clothes on. My exhaustion was extreme and on Monday I awoke after eleven-thirty. And that's how I entered the frigid, mechanistic enclosure which is the bank without having eaten and without having been able to play the horn even for an instant.

Even those who don't cultivate psychological fiction will be able - maybe - to imagine the frenzied state of nervousness and excitation with which I was seized. I suddenly realized that I wouldn't be able to make it to seven in the evening without playing my horn. Pretending to have forgotten my glasses I asked Mr. Ansinelli for permission to go home to look for them. Since I promised to return in ten minutes and since Mr. Ansinelli knew that I lived only two blocks away from the Pacifico branch of the bank, he granted me permission, not without first assuming the severe look with which he reproved me for having morally obligated him to slight his duty.

Running with desperation, I devoured the two blocks which separated me from my house and, as if in a fit of insanity, I frantically began to play the horn, trying to make the absolute most of the few minutes I had. Going down in the elevator I pressed the STOP button when I was between the third and fourth floor and went back up to my apartment. I wrapped the horn in a newspaper and returned to the bank. On the way I thought that it would be a good idea to sell the car. I really didn't need it anyway; after all, I walked to the bank and on weekends I preferred staying at home playing my horn.

"This gentleman is the assistant to the credit officer. He'll be very glad to advise you." Mr. Ansinelli directed these remarks to an impeccably dressed gentleman who looked like a retired general and who awaited me in my office. I learned that he was the proprietor of the famous Patriotic Bubble soda pop plant on Fitz Roy and that he had "hied himself" - he had recourse to this strange verb - to the bank to request a loan toward the acquisition of I don't know what cryptic equipment which, nevertheless - before I could prevent him from doing so - he described at length with an abundance of extractors, pistons, governors and other incomprehensible terms. The man was excessively polite. He aggressively squeezed my hand, lighted my cigaret, absolutely refused to sit down before I did. Then, in a melancholy tone he orally composed a detailed outline of his struggles to advance along the arduous road of progress. Attracted by the sudden remembrance of the first horsedrawn streetcar - one of the horses figures in an ample collection of anecdotes - he suddenly backed away to 1947 only to vertiginously return to 1971 at the controls of one of the modern German trucks of his fleet. Next he spoke to me about his family in general and in particular about a highly intelligent daughter who was studying public relations and on whom he and his wife pinned their highest hopes. At this point he took out his billfold with a furtive gesture that made me think he would attempt to bribe me in an effort to obtain the loan. However, what he showed me was a snapshot of the daughter who was studying public relations; I glimpsed some hair and a pair of eyeglasses.

To mitigate his uncontainable autobiography I handed him some blank forms and told him to fill them out. While the soda man was writing with an iron hand, I bent over - as if to look for a piece of paper in the box under the desk - and quickly blew on the horn. The man didn't hear a thing and kept writing. Now he had unfolded his identification and his social security card whose numbers he determinedly was copying. Then, taking advantage of the fervent buzzing of voices that held sway in the bank at that hour of the day, I'd bend over from time to time and stealthily play my horn, producing a few short and muffled notes.

And playing the horn under those circumstances is just like smoking in a railroad car in which it's not permitted. The lawbreaker smokes nervously, fearful of the conductor's approach, a passenger looks at him disapprovingly; smoking is no longer a pleasure but only a reason to be fined. In that kind of situation it's better not to smoke, not to play the horn. The soda man, his mouth over the papers as if he were going to eat them, framed a question for me every so often (he called it a doubt). The passenger, even though it's at the risk of having to stand for the rest of the trip, can change cars. This is not possible for the horn player.

Without thinking about it I took the horn out of the box, and pointing its white, calla lily shaped bell at the greyish head of hair poring over the forms, I blew with all my heart and soul and wrung a short high-pitched note out of it which blew a few strands of hair out of place on the soda man's head. Frightened, he raised his head and stared at me in wide-eyed wonder.

"Oh, for your kids," he smiled as he doubted.

"I have no children," I responded with tranquil ferocity. "It's mine and I play it whenever I feel like it."

To emphasize this affirmation, I blew even harder, and not for just a few seconds this time, but for more than a minute. My office is nothing more than a glass partition with a little sign saying CREDIT: I rose in my seat a little to be able better to observe the effect produced by the unexpected sounds. All the employees and customers conticuere intentique ora tenebant, as if I were Aeneas and the soda man, though it grieve us, queen Dido. Then, idiotically epical, I thought: "Let it be as God wills."

I brought my horn to my lips and, having recourse to all the variants permitted to me by the rudimentary structure of the instrument, I began to play in earnest. At times I'm a bit theatrical; not satisfied with the confined quarters of the credit office, I emerged in the lobby, climbed onto the counter with an agility not devoid of a certain faun-like quality and began to march up and down on it from one end to the other. The customers fearfully removed their elbows from the counter. It gratified me to be the unquestioned protagonist of the episode; it cheered me to see everyone else in confusion. I heard fragmentary comments: "It's a strike"; "It's an act of repudiation"; "I think it's an employee whose wife just died."

At that moment I saw Mr. Ansinelli swiftly advancing; he had the bearing of a Providence-sent man whose appearance was breathlessly awaited by a multitude which faced insoluble problems. Scarlet, he entreated me in quite a loud voice. "Mr. Del Prete, be so kind as to go to the Manager's Office immediately. I must speak with you."

(STORY CONTINUED IN COMMENT #1)… (altro)

Take it from a seasoned veteran of the uptight, white-collar office world, someone who worked for a large insurance company as a young man, there are many lessons to be learned from this short-short story. Here are several that immediately come to mind. Below my bullets, please take a moment to read the story itself.

• If you find yourself working around unpleasant people with whom you have nothing in common, take the necessary steps to extract yourself as soon as possible;

• Uptight superficiality is the norm – even the elevators are segregated by rank;

• The noble, lordly bearing of the higher-ups is only a thin outer crust – as this story shows, scratch the surface and you have a power-hungry, low-grade manipulator;

• Regimentation and conformity for the sake of regimentation and conformity. We read: “I had to — without fail — leave a bundle of papers containing summaries of all the tasks carried out in our section that day.” How silly and ridiculous – keep everyone's stomach churning so as to keep their mind shut.

• The whole scene with don Fernando and the elevator underscores how the manager employs language as a tool to establish complete control and make sure no questions are asked;

• The subtle putdown regarding the narrator’s ethnicity. Very common in companies, particularly among the higher-ups: categorizing people in such a way that the person doing the categorizing always is on top and everyone else is several levels below;

• Ha! Don Fernando’s reaction to the narrator’s studying literature at the university: any of the liberal arts, particularly something like literature, is seen as a threat, the solemn enemy. Company men try their hardest to make the company the whole world. Anything outside the company is not “real” and should at no time be considered worthy of thought or reflection.

• Don Fernando wants the narrator to internalize his lesson: Always, always reduce yourself to a “yes man” and never question your superiors; always live in fear and never identify with anything or anybody outside the company.

----------------

THE LESSON by Fernando Sorrentino

After my graduation from high school I took a clerical job with a Buenos Aires insurance company. The job was extremely unpleasant and I found myself among some pretty annoying people with whom I had nothing in common, but as I was barely eighteen years old, I didn't much care.

It was a ten-story building served by four elevators. Three of them were assigned to the personnel in general, without regard to rank or position. But the fourth elevator — which was carpeted in red and had three mirrors and special décor — was reserved for the exclusive use of the company president, the members of the Board of Directors and the general manager. This meant that only they could ride the red elevator, but this would not prevent them from using the other three.

I had never laid eyes either on the company president or the members of the Board of Directors. But, every once in a while, and always from a distance, I caught sight of the general manager, with whom, nevertheless, I had never exchanged a single word. He was a man of about fifty years of age, and had a "noble" and "lordly" bearing. I considered him to be a sort of cross between an old-time Argentine gentleman and a thoroughly incorruptible magistrate of some supreme court. His graying hair, his neatly-trimmed mustache, his conservative suits and his affable manners had made me — and I detested all my immediate bosses — feel some degree of fondness toward don Fernando. That is how they addressed him: don plus his given name and without the family name, a form of address somewhere between what might seem like familiarity and the veneration owed to a feudal lord.

The offices occupied by don Fernando and his retinue took up the entire fifth floor of the building. Our section was on the third floor, but, since I was the least important employee, they would send me from one floor to another to run errands. On the tenth floor there were only some ill-tempered old men and ugly women who always seemed to be enraged about something or other. Up there a kind of dossier was kept active in which, five minutes before leaving the premises, I had to — without fail — leave a bundle of papers containing summaries of all the tasks carried out in our section that day.

One evening — having already handed in those papers — I was on the tenth floor, ready to go home. I was waiting for the elevator. I was no longer in shirt sleeves, I had put on my jacket, my hair was combed, I had adjusted my necktie and looked in the mirror. I was clutching my leather attaché case.

Suddenly, don Fernando himself was standing beside me, looking as though he too was waiting for the elevator.

I greeted him with the utmost respect: "Good evening, don Fernando."

Don Fernando went beyond a simple greeting. He shook my hand and said, "I'm pleased to meet you, young man. I see that you concluded a fruitful day's labor and are now leaving the premises in search of your well-earned rest."

That attitude and those words — in which I thought I perceived a certain nuance of irony — made me nervous. I felt my face redden.

At that moment, one of the elevators assigned to the "commoners" arrived, and the door opened automatically, revealing a deserted interior. I held the door open by keeping my finger on the button, while saying to don Fernando, "After you, sir."

"No, no; by no means, young man," don Fernando replied with a smile. "You go first."

"No, sir, please. I couldn't. After you, please."

"Get in, young man," he sounded impatient. "Please."

This "please" was pronounced in such a peremptory manner that I had to take it as an order. I bowed slightly and entered the elevator. Don Fernando came in after me.

The doors slid shut.

"Are you going to the fifth floor, don Fernando?"

"To the ground floor. I'm going home just as you are. I believe that I too have a right to some rest, don't you think?"

I didn't know what to say. The presence of that captain of industry — and so close — made me extremely uncomfortable. I forced myself to bear up stoically under the silence that would last for nine floors until we'd come to the ground floor. I didn't have the nerve even to look at don Fernando; instead, I kept staring at my shoes.

"What section do you work in, young man?"

"In Production Management, sir." I had just noticed that don Fernando was quite a bit shorter than I.

"Aha," he stroked his chin with index finger and thumb, "your immediate boss is Mr. Biotti, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes, sir. It is Mr. Biotti."

I detested Mr. Biotti, who I thought was a conceited imbecile, but I did not give this information to don Fernando.

"And didn't Mr. Biotti ever tell you that you ought to respect the chain of command within the company?"

"Wha, what, sir?"

"What is your name?"

"Roberto Kriskovich."

"Oh, a Polish name."

"No, sir, it's not Polish. It's a Croatian name."

We had finally landed on the ground floor. Don Fernando, who was next to the doors, stepped to one side to allow me to go out first.

"Please," he ordered.

"No, sir, please," I answered. I was extremely nervous. "After you."

Don Fernando gave me a look that seemed to bore a hole in me.

"Young man, please, I implore you, get out."

Intimidated, I obeyed.

"It's never too late to learn, young man," he said, as he stepped out into the street ahead of me. "Have a cup of coffee on me."

And so we went into the corner cafeteria, with don Fernando leading the way, me following behind. This is how I found myself face to face with the general manager with nothing but the table separating us.

"How long have you been working for the company?"

"I began last December, sir."

"In other words, it hasn't even been a year that you've worked here."

"It will be nine months next week, don Fernando."

"Well then: I've been with this firm for twenty seven years." He gave me another of those hard looks.

Since I felt he expected some reaction from me, I nodded my head, trying to show some kind of restrained admiration.

He slipped a small calculator out of his pocket.

"Twenty seven years, multiplied by twelve months, make a total of three hundred twenty four months. Three hundred twenty four months divided by nine months come out to thirty six. This means that I've been with the company thirty six times longer than you have. What's more, you are merely a common employee while I am the general manager. Lastly, you are only nineteen or twenty years of age, and I am fifty two. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Besides, you're taking courses at the University, aren't you?"

"Yes, don Fernando, I'm majoring in Literature, with a specialization in Greek and Latin."

He made a face, as if he had been personally insulted. He said, "At any rate, let's see if you actually graduate. On the other hand, I have the doctorate in Economics, having graduated with extremely high grades."

I lowered my head to show humility.

He continued, "And, things being as they are, don't you think I deserve special consideration?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

"Well then, how did you have the gall to get into the elevator ahead of me…? And, as if that show of audacity weren't enough, you got out before I did."

"Well, sir, I didn't want to be impertinent or stubborn. It's just that you were so insistent…"

"Whether I'm insistent or not is my business. But you should have realized that under no circumstances whatsoever should you get into the elevator before I do. Or get out before I do. Or, worse yet, contradict me. Why did you tell me that your family name is Croatian when I told you it was Polish?"

"But it really is a Croatian name; my parents were born in Split, Yugoslavia."

"I don't care where your parents were born or where they weren't born. If I say that your name is Polish, you cannot, and must not, contradict me."

"I apologize, sir. I'll never do it again."

"Very good. So your parents were born in Split, Yugoslavia?"

"No, sir. They were not born there."

"And where were they born?"

"In Krakow, Poland."

"How strange!" Don Fernando opened his arms, showing his amazement. "How can it be that you have a Croatian family name when your parents are Polish?"

"The fact is that, due to a family dispute with legal ramifications, all four of my grandparents emigrated from Yugoslavia to Poland. And my parents were born in Poland."

Don Fernando's face darkened with an enormous sadness.

"I am much older than you, and I believe I don't deserve to be made a fool of. Tell me, young man, how could you even think of weaving such a web of bald-faced lies? How could you even think that I could believe that hare-brained fairy tale? Didn't you tell me previously that your parents were born in Split?"

"Yes, sir, but since you told me that I shouldn't contradict you, I admitted that my parents were born in Krakow."

"Be that as it may, you have lied to me."

"Yes, sir, that's right: I've lied to you."

"Lying to your superior betrays an enormous lack of respect and furthermore, just like any false information, constitutes a danger to the welfare of the company."

"That is true, sir. I agree with everything you're saying."

"Well said, my boy, and I'm even inclined to see a modicum of value in you, now that I see you so docile and reasonable. But I want you to undergo one final test. We have had two cups of coffee. Who will pick up the tab?"

"I would be glad to do it."

"You have lied to me once again. You, who receive a very low salary, cannot be happy to pay for the general manager's coffee when you know the general manager makes more in one month than you will in two years. So, I'm asking you not to lie to me and to tell me the truth: Is it true that you like paying for my coffee?"

"No, don Fernando, the truth is that I don't like it."

"But, despite the fact that you don't like it, are you prepared to do it?"

"Yes, don Fernando, I'm prepared to do it."

"Well then, go ahead and do it! Pay and don't make me waste more time, for heaven's sake!"

I called the waiter over and paid for the two coffees. We went out into the street, don Fernando ahead of me. We found ourselves at the entrance to the subway.

"Very well, young man, I'm going to have to take my leave of you now. I sincerely hope you have internalized the lesson and that you will profit from it in the future."

He shook my hand and went down the stairs to the Florida subway station.

I've already said that I didn't like that job. Before the year was up, I took a less unpleasant job with another company. During the last two months I worked for that insurance company, I saw don Fernando a couple of times, but always from a distance, so I never again received any other lessons from him.… (altro)