The Air is Good Here by Mario Benedetti Should we sit down on this one?” the father asks. “That one’s better, there’s more shade,” says Gustavo. Despite the fact that no one is going to carry the bench away, Gustavo feels obligated to run and secure his claim on it. His father follows him, in no hurry, and with his jacket draped over his arm. “The air is good in this little spot,” says the father, and to demonstrate, he takes deep breaths. He then gets comfortable, takes out his tobacco pouch, and rolls a cigarette between his open legs. At ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning, Prado is peaceful. Peaceful and deserted. There are moments so tranquil that the nearest noise one hears is the metallic gallop of the Millan streetcar. Then a hearty wind shakes two twin pines and drags a few leaves across the sunny grass. Nothing more. “When do you start working?” Gustavo asks. “Tomorrow,” says the father. The father licks the edge of the rolling paper and distractedly smiles to himself. “If you were always at home... like now....” “You like being with your father, huh?” Gustavo picks up his father’s tone of comradeship like a prize. An onrush of tenderness forces him to say something, anything. “What do you do at the office?” “Well... I work.” “But... doing what?” “I write the dossiers and sign declarations.” For an instant, Gustavo imagines his father sitting at a large desk, signing declarations and writing dossiers as voluminous as the Biblical Scriptures. But he quickly places the mental image in his modest reality. “Then... are you a boss?” Gustavo asks. “Sure.” The boy sits back with his hands on his waist, and possessively tightens his blue elastic belt. The father often brings him little gifts. He always guesses correctly those insignificant objects the boy most fervidly desires. “As soon as I pass the entrance exam, I could begin to work in your office.” Gustavo’s father laughs, pleased. “You’re crazy,” says the father. “You’re too young. And besides, I want you to study.” The father looks at the twin pines and blows smoke through his nose. Gustavo knows with absolute accuracy what is expected of him. “What’s your favorite subject?” “History.” Not true. Gustavo likes accounting. But to acknowledge it is equivalent to admitting to an interest in pursuing architecture, or engineering, like Tito’s brother. “There’s no career based on history,” says the father. “That’s why the best thing for me to do is to work in your office,” says Gustavo. The father bursts out laughing. Evidently, he’s delighted with his son’s strategy. “So, history, huh?” says the father. “As if you didn’t know that you multiply and divide like a little machine....” Gustavo blushes. He’s not amused by his father’s praise. He wants to work in the office, position himself next to his father’s enormous desk, hand him the dossiers to authorize and use the drying blotter over his signature. “I don’t recommend the office,” says the father, who after many maneuvers has managed to spit out a grain of tobacco. At the end of the road, wobbling slowly like a duck, a gloomy, annoying man has appeared. “Mom once said there’s no point in studying.” “Your mother, poor woman, is tired and sometimes doesn’t know what she’s saying.” “But....” “On the other hand, you’re not tired, and I don’t like to hear you talk like that.” Gustavo’s father has become serious and Gustavo feels belittled. The duck-man is now nearby and has stopped to observe an araucaria pine tree. “And couldn’t I... study... and also... work with you?” “And couldn’t you,” says the father, deliberately mimicking him, “just relax? After all, we only have eight more years to think about it.” Gustavo knows that, like always, his father is right. But he also gets the feeling that he’s acting dumb. Nevertheless, now his father is also smiling, understandingly. He’s smiling with his thin lips and kind, gray eyes. The duck-man has stopped in front of them. “Hello,” he says. “Hello,” says the father, who hadn’t seen him approaching. “So, this is your son?” “Yes.” Evidently, the father is annoyed. The duck-man has wretchedly small eyes. He extends his sticky hand to Gustavo. “Well, imagine meeting you here... are you on leave?” asks the duck-man. “Yes,” says the father. “I had to collect payments for a few small accounts near Larrañaga, but the sun is so pleasant that I decided to go this way,” says the duck-man. “It’s true, the air is good here,” says the father, just to say something in response. Gustavo is also annoyed. He would give anything for the duck-man to disappear. But no, he’s settled in. Gustavo notices details: sticking out of the duck-man’s jacket is a handkerchief that should be white, and his pants have a crude and obvious mending on the knee. “And when are you going back to work?” asks the duck-man. “Tomorrow,” says the father. “Well, then I’ll come by to see you,” says the duck-man. Gustavo’s father becomes upset. He throws his cigarette on the ground and squashes it with his shoe. All of a sudden, he makes a strange face, as if to signal Gustavo. Gustavo doesn’t understand the gesture, but does understand perfectly that his father is annoyed. The duck-man, on the other hand, doesn’t notice anything. “I have to bring you a little gift... right?... So that money order can get through?” Now Gustavo’s father gets a desperate look on his face. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” says the father. “Tomorrow.” Gustavo feels giddy, but there is a terrible strangeness about him as well. One time, he gave freckled-faced Farias a furious punch in the nose just because he had said: “Last night, during dinner, my dad said that your father is a fine man.” “If I remember correctly, it’s a little money order for a hundred... what do you think?” “We’ll talk tomorrow,” said the father. “Tomorrow.” Gustavo notices that his father has suddenly aged ten years. He’s put his jacket back on, has put his legs together, and is bent forward. Finally, the duck-man has partly understood. “Well, I’m going. Goodbye, friend,” says the duck-man. The father doesn’t respond. Gustavo barely touches the duck-man’s soft, sticky hand. The duck-man moves away, wobbling slowly, enjoying the sun. Dangling behind him is the torn lining of his jacket. Without any facial expression, the father gets up and starts to walk in the opposite direction. Gustavo now feels his father’s dry, wrinkled hand. Sometimes, his mother teases him because he still likes to be led by the hand. Without looking up, the father clears his throat and then Gustavo senses that something is going to be explained to him. He would like to pray to God that something be explained to him. “It would be better if you didn’t tell your mother that we bumped into that guy.” “No.” Gustavo still doesn’t quite know what’s happening to him. But for the time being, he releases his hand, sticks it in his pants pocket and bites his lip until it begins to bleed.