So I went back to the telephone directory and placed some twenty calls to as many locksmith shops. The instant they heard the address, they all flatly refused to do the job.
"O.K., fine," I said to myself. "I'll find a solution elsewhere."
I called the janitor of the building and described the problem to him.
"Two things," he answered. "In the first place, I don't know how to open locks, and, in the second place, even if I did know how, I wouldn't do it, since my job is cleaning up the place and not letting suspicious birds out of their cages. Furthermore, you've never been too generous with your tips."
I then started to get very nervous and carried out a series of useless, illogical actions: I had a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, sat down, stood up, took a few steps, washed my hands, drank a glass of water.
Then I remembered Monica DiChiave; I dialed her number, waited, and heard her voice: "Monica," I said, feigning sweetness and nonchalance. "How's everything? How's it goin', honey?"
Her reply left me trembling: "So, you finally remembered to call? I can tell you really love me. I haven't seen hide or hair of you in almost two weeks."
Arguing with women is beyond my capacity, especially in the state of psychological inferiority in which I then found myself. Nevertheless, I tried to explain to her quickly what was happening to me. I don't know whether she didn't understand me or refused to hear me out. The last thing she said before hanging up was: "I'm nobody's plaything."
I now had to carry out a second series of useless, illogical actions.
Then I called the bank, in the hope that some fellow employee could come and open the door. Bad luck; it fell to my lot to talk to Enzo Paredes, a dimwitted joker whom I detested: "So you can't get out of your house?" he exclaimed abominably. "You just never run out of excuses not to come to work!"