Conversation about a Conversation

A: Absorbed in puzzling out immortality, we'd let the dusk gather without lighting a lamp. We could no longer see each other's face. With a casual gentleness more convincing than any vehemence, Macedonio Fernández's voice reiterated that the soul is immortal. He assured me that the death of the body is of no significance and that dying must be the most meaningless incident that can befall a man. I was toying with Macedonio's old-fashioned razor; I opened and shut the blade. A nearby accordion kept pumping out 'La Cumparsita', that appalling piece of inanity which so many people delight in because they are told wrongly that it's old. I suggested to Macedonio that we commit suicide so we could go on talking in peace.

Z (scoffing): But in the end I suspect you didn't.

A (with a detached air): That night? Frankly, I can't remember.

[1936]