We went to a café on the avenida de Mayo. As soon as we sat down, Mirta covered the side of her face with her hand, warning me, “That guy over there is the section manager at the registry. If he sees me with you, I’m done for.” Far from concealing her, the gesture made her stand out, as did my spontaneous reaction of turning my head to watch him walk past. Mirta was out in the open, but the section manager, surprised and guarded because of our movements, did not recognize her. She loved scenes like that; in those moments she did not just imagine herself to be another, but many others at once; the others were also different — they could be other, too. After a while we cut to the chase: She told me that the only chance I had was to demonstrate my “longstanding use” of the new name, for which I was going to need proof. This proof would be in the form of documents, that is, I needed to present documents that made it clear that I had been called by the name that I wished to adopt. Personal documents like letters could help later on, but what mattered were the public ones: an extended and habitual use of the name that left no doubt as to its suitability to identify me. For example, she said, a photo of your graduation that shows you with the new name. Graduation photos, I thought. It was unthinkable; Mirta seemed to be from another planet. The only photo like that I could remember — and that, on the other hand, I was sure I did not have — was one from seventh grade, which of course showed me with my original name. I told her this, but her fatigue had latched on to the first opportunity to take over her mind and, having proposed a solution, even one that was of no use, she felt absolved of having to think of another. She looked out at the street, and it was as though she were sleeping with her eyes open. I observed the almost imperceptible down that covered her face, glowing in reflection from the window, as it grew more dense around her lips to form a delicate plush. Her neck was rough. Maybe it was true, what she said about her mother, I thought; next to her problems, the idea of changing my name with no justification must seem capricious to her. In that case, it would make sense that she would not want to offer alternatives. Until the very end, I wondered if I should tell her the truth. She might really be able to help me, I thought, but realized right away that it could ruin everything. After a while we left the café and walked in the direction of Congreso.

We got all the way to Montevideo without saying a word. I was thinking about M, about how different that walk would be if he were there, how different the city would be. One did not walk with Mirta; it was an operation that resembled being dragged, as though something had us in tow — if not with our participation, at least with our consent. Mirta acted pensive, but she made an effort to talk even when she had nothing to say, which was, after all, why she had been quiet. Whenever the car motors would allow it, I listened to the plastic rustling of her jacket as she walked. A few meters past Montevideo she said, “Well, this is me. This is where I catch the 56.” “All right,” I answered, “well, thanks a lot, Mirta.” She looked off to one side and hesitated: I watched the thought that had been forming over the past two blocks take shape in her head. “I thought you were going to take me somewhere else,” she finally said. In that moment, I understood that Mirta could not help me if I remained a stranger. We continued on toward a hotel on Rincón.

Once there Mirta’s skin radiated heat; it burned and yet, I don’t know why, the body did not seem to belong to its owner. A mix of desire and restraint impeded any externalization or connection, creating, as a result, a pitiable delay in movements and gestures, as though she were following orders sent from far away and each maneuver, gesture, or thought were broken down into so many specific, repetitive commands that it was impossible to accomplish anything in an efficient way. Mirta’s torpor in bed — which at times was frighteningly ecstatic, as though she were on the verge of unconsciousness or sleep — was similar to her silence as she walked, when she seemed to be at the mercy of lethargy, hard-pressed to move herself. At that moment I was another; not who I thought I was or who she thought I was. Her surrender was so disproportionate compared to my desire or my feelings that I was left with no choice but to concede: to be less, different, a third person. Mirta would get excited to the point of collapse, only to immediately trail off into languor. There was no connection between her breathing and any of this, and her fluctuations produced in me a vague sense of shame. In a moment of particular tumult, I caught sight of her credentials, her identification card, on the rug. “Mirta del Soto, Assistant,” it said. I imagined that fate had put her title in front of me to instruct me on the many possible meanings of the word assistance.

Afterward, I walked her to calle Moreno, where she could catch the 56. We had fallen quiet again, but now, as you can imagine, the silence was different. Mirta’s availability was no longer as passive; it had become obsequious. She could say the first thing that came to mind, as long as it corresponded to the tone of affectionate gratitude that she felt compelled to express. At the bus stop, across from a hospital, there was a shop that made shirts. As soon as we arrived, Mirta said, “I want to buy you one,” and set about looking at the different samples in the window. I stared at the wall in front of me; I sensed the vague memory of something having to do with M. Mirta, for her part, noticing that I had not so much as turned to look at the shirts, as she had hoped, turned and immediately remarked, “The bus is taking forever.”

I should say that Mirta’s help was essential, though I never did achieve my objective. We met on two other occasions, aside from the days when I went to visit her at the registry. It was impressive, how she could make a routine out of nothing; this certainly derived from a deep-seated need. She fell in love with the café, where we would sit in the same place and order the same drinks, and of course with the hotel, where she never actually managed to ask for the same room. Until the very end, I debated whether to tell her the truth, but I was sure that, for one reason or another, I would regret it. It might even be, I thought, that something similar had happened to Mirta, in fact, it was very possible; at the end of the day, the story about the crippled mother and the absent father could absolutely be one of those that cover up other, more painful, events and, as such, might be no more than the modified version of a less general tragedy. If that were true, however, if someone close to her had disappeared, my wish might be offensive to her.

I know that passivity, I said to myself as I watched her get on the crowded 56 bus as though stepping into a cave of shadows, that dream of peace that seeks out the void, assimilates it, but is flustered by the slightest discord. My confession would be like a thunderclap, which meant there was no room for the truth, though at least I didn’t lie: to this day, Mirta does not know why I wanted to change my name. If at any point she had directed the power of her portable magic kit at me, I might either have confessed to her or given up the idea of taking another name; but if, as I have said, I sometimes believed myself to be other, or less, or different, then these states are so fleeting and so autonomous, in their way, that I might not have been subject to her influence.

Once, resting my head on her back, I listened to the sound of Mirta’s heart beating; as an echo of her diffuse ugliness, it seemed even more unreal. There is nothing more enigmatic than someone’s back, a personal plain that one never sees in its entirety, upon which all strength, weariness, and betrayal converge, and where grease accumulates as it does on a face that’s been covered up. Mirta’s heartbeat sounded far away; it seemed to reach me from across not one, but many bodies, or at least to come from the depths rather than just a few centimeters beneath her skin. From the other side, I thought, against her breasts all it takes is a bit of attention to hear her pulse, but from this side her heartbeat is relegated to the distance. Lying on her stomach, Mirta did not speak. How I wanted to go on like that, to hold on to the silence for as long as possible and forget that it was her skin under my ear (it was no use).