In my youth, before becoming a farmer and cattleman, I was a bank employee. This is how it all came about:
I was twenty-four years old at the time and had no close relatives. I was living in this same little apartment on Santa Fe Avenue, between Canning and Araoz.
Now, it's well known that accidents can happen even in such a small space. In my case, it was a tiny accident; when I tried to open the door to go to work, the key broke off in the lock.
After resorting in vain to screwdrivers and pliers, I decided to call a locksmith shop. While waiting for the locksmith, I informed the bank I would be coming in a bit late.
Fortunately, the locksmith arrived quite promptly. Concerning this man, I remember only that, although he looked young, his hair was completely white. Through the peephole I said to him: "My key broke off in the lock."
He sketched a quick gesture of annoyance in the air: "On the inside? In that case, it's already a more difficult matter. It's going to take me at least three hours, and I'll have to charge you about ..."
He estimated a terribly high price.
"I don't have that much money in the house right now," I replied. "But as soon as I get out, I'll go to the bank and pay you."
He looked at me with reproachful eyes, as if I had suggested something immoral to him: "I'm very sorry, sir," he articulated with instructive courtesy. "But I am not only a charter member of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union, but also one of the principal framers of the Magna Carta of our organization. Nothing has been left to chance in it. If you should have the pleasure of reading this inspiring document, you would learn, in the chapter dedicated to 'Basic Maxims,' that the perfect locksmith is prohibited from collecting subsequent to the conclusion of the work."
< 2 >
I smiled, incredulous: "You're joking, of course."
"My dear sir, the subject of the Magna Carta of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union is no joking matter. The writing of our Magna Carta, in which no detail has been overlooked and whose various chapters are governed by an underlying moral principle, took us years of arduous study. Of course, not everyone can understand it, since we often employ a symbolic or esoteric language. Nevertheless, I believe you will understand clause 7 of our Introduction: 'Gold shall open doors, and the doors shall adore it.' "
I prepared not to accept such ridiculousness: "Please," I said to him. "Be reasonable. Open the door for me, and I'll pay you at once."
"I'm sorry, sir. There are ethics in every profession, and in the locksmiths' profession they are inflexible. Good day, sir."
And, with that, he left.
I stood there for a few moments, bewildered. Then I called the bank again and informed them I probably wouldn't be able to come in that day. Later on I thought about the white-haired locksmith and said to myself: "That man is a lunatic. I'm going to call another locksmith shop, and, just in case, I'm not going to say I have no money until after they open the door for me."
I searched in the telephone directory and called.
"What address?" a guarded feminine voice asked me.
"3653 Santa Fe, Apartment 10-A."
She hesitated a moment, had me repeat the address, and said: "Impossible, sir. The Magna Carta of the Argentine Locksmiths' Union prohibits us from doing any work at that address."
I lit up in a flame of anger: "Now listen here! Don't be ridic..."
She hung up without letting me finish the word.
< 3 >
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 sh