The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri Page B

his while to confess the truth to the woman he loved, and his reply was no, no way, not possible. Wouldn’t declaring his love for her amount to acknowledging that he’d loved her for almost thirty years? Wouldn’t it be the same as confessing thathe’d spent his life longing for her from afar? Never, he thought vehemently. They hadn’t really spent much time together over the course of all those years anyway, Chaparro told himself, but deep in his heart, he knew he’d never stopped loving her, and a combination of chance, common sense, and cowardice had always kept them apart. His silence was his; he owned it. If he spoke, he’d end up sunk in the swamp of her pity. He was determined to avoid such a plight, to avoid hearing anything that sounded like “Poor Benjamín, I didn’t know …” The mere thought clouded Chaparro’s vision with anger and shame.
Let my love die with me,
he inwardly declared,
but don’t let it be spoiled.
    “Benjamín? That’s the case you’re talking about, isn’t it?”
    Chaparro jumps. Irene looks at him, smiling, questioning, and he wonders how long he’s been sitting there like an idiot. Actually, it can’t have been long. He’s so used to thinking on that topic, a source of both pleasure and pain, that at least he thinks about it rapidly. “Yes, yes,” he says. “That case.”
    “All right, then, I’ll give them a call.”
    Irene pauses a moment, holding his gaze, before looking up the archive’s number in her address book. When at last she lowers her eyes to the little book and the telephone, the knot in Chaparro’s gut relaxes. With her usual informality, she greets whoever answers thephone and asks to speak to the director. She has a smile on her lips, wide-open eyes, and the slightly absorbed expression of someone who’s talking to another person without seeing him. Since she’s turned toward the window with her face in profile, Chaparro can observe her as he pleases. Nevertheless, he restrains himself. He knows from experience that if he looks at her too long, the anguish of being unable to throw his arms around her and kiss her, meticulously and indefatigably, will overcome him. So, all things considered, he prefers to look in some other direction.
    “There you go, Benjamín,” she says as she hangs up. “No problem. In the archive even the floor tiles know who you are.”
    “Is that a compliment or a joke about my age, Your Honor?”
    She turns serious. Only her eyes keep smiling, very slightly. “Can I assume you’re not going to show your face around here again until you need us for something else?”
    If it’s a question of needing you, I could stay in this office for the rest of my life.
That’s the answer Chaparro would give her, if he had enough nerve. Since he doesn’t, he says aloud, “I’ll come back someday soon, Irene.”
    She doesn’t reply. Instead she rises from her seat, moves her face close to his, and gives him a big, loud kiss on his left cheek. Chaparro can feel the fullness ofher lips, her hair gently brushing against his skin, the warmth of her body so close to his, and he inhales her fresh, wild fragrance, an accursed scent that goes directly to his brain, lodges in his memory, exacerbates his desire for her, and promises him three nights of insomnia, with their attendant days.

Archive
    E ntering the General Archive always causes the same feelings in him. At first, a heavy sensation, as if he were descending into an enormous tomb. But then, once he’s inside the mute, dark, dungeonlike space and walking through the narrow aisles flanked by giant shelves crammed with bound dossiers, he feels a rare sense of security, of shelteredness.
    A few steps ahead of him, the archivist who’s serving as his guide leads him along. Chaparro thinks about how easy it is for us to detect the passage of time in the physical decay of the people around us. He’s known this man for … how long has it been? Thirty years? The fellow’s surely