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Ángeles MASTRETTA, "Ortografía", Maridos, Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 2007, págs. 237-238. 381 words
Al fin, su marido se cansó de quedar bien con ella y se fue a quedar bien con alguien más. Los primeros días Ofelia sintió la soledad como un cuchillo y se tuvo tanta pena que andaba por la casa a ratos ruborizada y a ratos pálida. [...]
Un día cambió los cuadros de pared, otro regaló sillas del comedor que de tanto ser modernas pasaron de moda. [...]. Al último arremetió contra su sala, segura de que urgía cambiar la tela de los sillones. El tapicero llegó al mismo tiempo en que le entregaron por escrito la petición formal de divorcio. La puso a un lado para pensar en cosas más tangibles que el desamor en ocho letras. Trajinó en un muestrario buscando un color nuevo y cuando se decidió por el verde pálido el tapicero llamó a dos ayudantes que levantaron los muebles rumbo al taller. [...] Ofelia los vio irse y siguió con la mirada el rastro de cositas que iban saliendo de entre los cojines: un botón, dos alfileres, una pluma que ya no pintaba, unas llaves de quién sabe dónde, un boleto de Bellas Artes que nunca encontraron a tiempo para llegar a la función, el rabo de unos anteojos, dos almendras que fueron botana y un papelito color de rosa, doblado en cuatro, que Ofelia recogió con el mismo sosiego con que había ido recogiendo los demás triques. Lo abrió. Tenía escrito un recado con letras grandes e imprecisas que decía: «Corazón: has lo que lo que tu quieras, lo que mas quieras, has lo que tu decidas, has lo que mas te convenga, has lo que sientas mejor para todos». «¿Has?», dijo Ofelia en voz alta. ¿Su marido se había ido con una mujer que escribía «haz» de hacer como «has» de haber? ¿Con una que no le ponía el acento a «tú» el pronombre y lo volvía «tu» el adjetivo? ¿Con alguien capaz de confundir el «más» de cantidad con el «mas» de no obstante? La ortografía es una forma sutil de la elegancia de alma, quien no la tiene puede vivir en donde se le dé la gana. Según el pliego que debía firmar, la causa del divorcio era incompatibilidad de caracteres. «Nada más cierto», pensó ella. «La ortografía es carácter». Firmó.
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In the end, her husband grew tired of trying to get along with her and went off to try to get along with someone else.
For the first few days, Ofelia felt the knife-like stab of loneliness and was so upset that she wandered around the house flushed at times and utterly pale at others. [...]
One day, she changed the paintings on the walls, on another she gave away the dining room chairs that, despite being modern, had gone out of style. [...]. Finally, she launched an attack on the living room, certain that the sofas required urgent re-upholstering.
The upholsterer arrived just as she was served with the official petition for divorce. She put it aside in order to focus on matters more concrete than the seven letters for falling out of love. She ploughed through the sample boards searching for a new colour and when she decided upon the pale green, the upholsterer called two assistants who carted the furniture off to the workshop.
[...] Ofelia watched them as they went and gazed at the trail of things dropping from between the cushions: a button, two pins, a pen that no longer worked, some keys for who knows what, a ticket for Bellas Artes that didn’t turn up in time to attend the performance, the arm off some glasses, two almonds served as snacks and a small pink piece of paper, folded in four, which Ofelia picked up with the same serenity as she had gathered up the rest of the bits of junk.
She opened it up. It contained a message written in large, inaccurate letters that said: “Honey: do what u want, what u want most, do whatever u chose, what is best for u, do what u feel is best for every body”.
“U”, exclaimed Ofelia aloud. Her husband had run off with a woman who writes the letter “u” instead of “you”? With someone who writes “chose” in past tense instead of the present “choose”? With a person who is capable of mixing up the “everybody” meaning all people with “every body” as in all the bodies?
Proper spelling is a subtle window on the elegance of one's spirit and anybody who doesn’t have it can live wherever they feel like.
The grounds for divorce, as stated on the paper she had to sign, were irreconcilable differences. “How true”, she thought. “Spelling differences”. She signed.
Finally, her husband got tired of pleasing her, and went off to please somebody else.
For the first few days loneliness pierced Ophelia like a knife, the pain forcing her to wander around the house, flushed and then pale by turns. […]
On one day she moved the pictures on the walls around; on another she gave away the dining room chairs—so modern they had gone out of style. […] Finally she attacked the living room, beset by an urgent need to get the armchairs recovered.
The upholsterer arrived at the same time she was served with the formal written divorce petition. She set it aside in order to devote her attention to things more tangible than that withdrawal of love expressed in eight letters. After rummaging through some samples for a new color, she finally decided on the pale green, and the upholsterer called for two helpers to take the furniture to the workshop.
[,,,] As Ophelia watched them leave, her eyes followed the trail of items that came falling out from among the cushions: a button, two pins, a pen that didn’t write anymore, some keys to who knew what, a Bellas Artes ticket that wasn’t found in time to make the performance, the earpiece from a pair of eyeglasses, two almonds from some long-ago snack, and a small scrap of pink paper folded in four that Ophelia picked up as calmly as she had the other bits and pieces.
She opened it up. There was a message written on it in large, indeterminate handwriting that said: “Darling, do what ever you want to do, what ever you want the most, do what ever you decide, do whats best for you, do what you think is best for every body.”
“What ever?” Ophelia said aloud. Her husband had gone off with a woman who wrote “what ever” as two words instead of one? A woman who didn’t know that you needed an apostrophe between the “what” and the “s” to denote the contraction of “what” and “is?” Someone who separated the words “every” and “body,” as if corpses were involved?
Correct usage is a subtle expression of elegance of soul, and those who don’t know any better can go off and live wherever the heck they want.
According to the document she was supposed to sign, the grounds for the divorce were irreconcilable differences. “That’s the truth,” she thought. “Good usage makes all the difference in the world.” So she signed it.
In the end, her husband got tired of having to humour her and went off to humour someone else. For the first few days the loneliness cut her like a knife: so upset was she that she used to pace about the house, at times flushed and at others pale. […] One day she moved the pictures around, and on another she gave away dining chairs, whose very trendiness made them passé. […] Finally, she set about her lounge, convinced that the chair covers needed changing forthwith. The upholsterer arrived just as the official petition for divorce was being handed to her in writing. She put it to one side in order to think about more concrete things than disenchantment in seven letters. She browsed through a pattern book, looking for a new colour, and when she settled on the pale green the upholsterer called two assistants, who hoisted the furniture off on its journey to the workshop. […] Ofelia watched them leave, her gaze following the trail of small objects that were escaping from between the cushions: a button, two clips, a pen that no longer worked, some keys from who knows where, a "Bellas Artes" ticket that they never found in time to get to the performance, the arm off a pair of spectacles, two almonds from an aperitif, and a small piece of pink paper, folded in four, which Ofelia picked up, as unperturbed by this as by the other odds and ends she had been gathering up. She unfolded it. On it was written a message in large and badly formed characters that said: “Sweetheart: do whatsoever you wish, what your happiest with, do what you decide is rite, do what your most comfortable with, do what you no is best for everyone”. “Your?” said Ofelia out loud. Had her husband gone with a woman who spelt “you’re”, as in “you are” – the second person of the verb “to be” – like “your”, the possessive pronoun? With someone who didn’t know “right”, the adjective, from “rite”, the noun, turning it into a ritual? Someone who couldn’t tell the difference between the verb “know”, and the adverb “no”? Spelling is a subtle form of refinement of spirit; whoever doesn’t have it can go and live wherever he pleases. According to the paper that she had to sign, the ground for divorce was incompatibility of character. “Too true,” she thought. “Spelling is character”. She signed forthwith.
In the end, her husband got tired of being nice to her and went off to be nice to someone else. Ofelia felt the loneliness in those first days like a knife and felt so sorry for herself that she went through the house at times flushed, other times pale. […]
One day she changed the pictures on the wall, another day she gave away the dining room chairs that tried so hard to be modern they were already dated […]. Finally she raged against the living room, convinced that the armchairs were in desperate need of a fabric change. The upholsterer arrived at the same time as the formal divorce petition. She put it to one side to think of more tangible things than un-love in seven-letters. She immersed herself in a sampler looking for a new color and when she decided on the pale green the upholsterer called two helpers to take the furniture to the workshop. […] Ofelia watched them go, her gaze following the trail of stuff that fell out from between the cushions: a button, two pins, a dried-up pen, a bunch of keys from who knows where, a ticket to Bellas Artes that they never found in time for the performance, the arm of a pair of glasses, two snack almonds and a rose-colored slip of paper, folded twice that Ofelia picked up with the same composure with which she had gathered up the other trinkets. She opened it. The message, written with large, imprecise letters, read, “Dear heart, do what you want, what you most want, its you’re decision, do what is best for you, what you feel is best for every one”. “Every one”, read Ofelia aloud. Had her husband really gone off with a woman who used the paired adjective “every one” instead of the pronoun “everyone”? With one who wrote the contraction “its” without an apostrophe turning it into the possessive pronoun? One capable of confusing the possessive “your” with the contracted “you are”. Writing is an elegant subtlety of the soul. Anyone who doesn’t possess it can go and live wherever they feel like. According to the paper she had to sign, the grounds for the divorce were “incompatibility of characters”. “Nothing more true”, she thought. "Writing is character." She signed.
At last, her husband got tired of making it work with her and left to go make it work with someone else. For the first few days, the loneliness cut like a knife, and Ofelia was so afflicted that she wandered through the house, at times flushed and at times pale. […]
One day she rearranged the paintings on the walls; another she gave away the dining room chairs, which, as modern as they once were, had gone out of style. […] In the end, she focused her energy on her living room, certain that the armchairs required urgent reupholstering. The upholsterer arrived at the same time her divorce papers were served. She laid them aside so she could think about things more tangible than those eight letters spelling the end of love. She rifled through swatch samples, searching for a new color, and once she had decided on the pale green, the upholsterer called for two assistants, who took the chairs back to the workshop. [...] Ofelia watched them go, her eyes following the trail of objects falling out from between the cushions: a button, two pins, a pen that had run out of ink, some keys from who knows where, a ticket to Bellas Artes that they hadn't found in time to make it to the event, the earpiece from a pair of glasses, two almonds that had been part of a snack, and a folded scrap of pink paper, which Ofelia plucked from the floor with the same placidity with which she had been scooping up the rest of the odds and ends. She unfolded it. Inside was a note written in large, flowing handwriting that said: "Sweetheart: Do whatever you want to, whatever you most want to. Do whats best for you, do what you feel is best for everyone." “Whats?” said Ofelia aloud. Her husband had run off with a woman who neglected to use the apostrophe required to contract “what” with “is”? With a woman who joined independent clauses with a comma? With someone capable of ending a sentence with a preposition? Proper grammar is a subtle reflection of a soul’s elegance; those without it were no friends of hers. According to the papers she was supposed to sign, the cause of the divorce was irreconcilable differences. “Isn’t that the truth,” she thought. “Grammar is character.” She signed.
In the end, her husband got tired of getting along with her and went off to get along with somebody else.
The first few days Ofelia felt the loneliness like a knife and she was so sad that she kept roaming around the house oftentimes flushed and other times pale. [...]
One day she changed the paintings on the wall, another day she gave away some dining room chairs which were so modern they'd gone out of style. [...] Finally she attacked her living room, convinced that the armchairs were in urgent need of reupholstering.
The reupholsterer arrived at the same time she was being delivered the formal petition for divorce in writing. She set it to one side in order to think about things more tangible than loss of love spelled out in words. She flipped through a set of swatches looking for a new color and when she'd settled on pale green the upholsterer called two assistants who picked up the furniture to take it off to the shop.
[...] Ofelia watched them go, her eyes following the trail of tiny objects coming out from in between the seat cushions: a button, two safety pins, a pen that no longer wrote, some keys from who knows where, a ticket to the Fine Arts center which they'd never found in time to make it to the show, the end piece from an eyeglass frame, a couple of almonds that had been nibbled on, and a little pink piece of paper, folded in four, which Ofelia picked up as calmly as she'd been picking up the other odds and ends.
She opened it. It had a message written in large unsteady handwriting which said: "Darling: Do whatever you want, if its what you really want, do whatever you decide on, whatever your most comfortable with, whatever you feel is best for everyone and there needs."
"Its?" Ofelia said the word out loud. Her husband had run off with a woman who wrote "its" meaning "belonging to" in place of "it's" meaning "it is"? With a woman who didn't put the apostrophe in the contraction "you're" and turned it into the possessive "your"? With someone capable of mixing up "their" meaning possession with "there" meaning location?
Proper spelling is a subtle expression of the elegance of the soul, and anyone who doesn't have it can go off and live anywhere they very well please.
According to the document she was supposed to sign, the grounds for divorce were incompatibility of characters. "Nothing could be more true," she thought. "Spelling is character." She signed it.
In the end, her husband got tired of pleasing her and went off to please someone else. For the first few days, the loneliness stabbed through Ofelia like a knife, and she felt so bad about herself that she went around the house either flushed red or quite pale.
One day, she changed the pictures on the walls; another day, she gave away the dining chairs that had suddenly started to look anything but so very modern. Finally, she set about the living-room, certain that the material on the armchairs was in urgent need of change.
The upholsterer arrived at the same time as the formal divorce papers were delivered to her. These were put to one side while she thought about less abstract matters than a love gone cold spelled out in seven letters. She busied herself with the swatches, looking for a new colour, and when she had settled on the pale green, the upholsterer called over two assistants, who took the furniture off to the workshop.
Ofelia watched them go, her gaze following the trail of oddments spilling from among the cushions – a button, two pins, a dried-up pen, some keys for heaven knew where, a ticket from the Fine Arts Institute that they had never found in time to attend the event, the arm to some spectacles, two almonds that had been served with drinks, and a small piece of pink paper, folded in four, which Ofelia picked up with no more curiosity than she had the other things.
She opened it. It contained a message written in large, badly-formed letters which read, "Sweetheart, do what you whant, what you whant most, do what you decide, whatever is best for you, do what you thing is write for everyone".
"Whant?" said Ofelia out loud. Her husband had gone off with a woman who put an "h" where no "h" should be? Someone who could change the last letter of "think" to make the verb into a noun? A person who couldn't tell the difference between the adjective "right" and the verb that sounded the same?
Spelling is a subtle way of displaying the elegance of the soul, anyone who did not possess it could go and live where they liked.
The document she had to sign stated that the grounds for divorce were their incompatible characters. "Never a truer word", she thought. "Spelling is character". She signed.
