Irene never bothered anyone. Once the morning housework was finished, she spent the rest of the day on the sofa in her bedroom,
knitting. I couldn't tell you why she knitted so much; I think women
knit when they discover that it's a fat excuse to do nothing at all. But
Irene was not like that, she always knitted necessities, sweaters for
winter, socks for me, handy morning robes and bedjackets for herself.
Sometimes she would do a jacket, then unravel it the next moment
because there was something that didn't please her; it was pleasant
to see a pile of tangled wool in her knitting basket fighting a losing
battle for a few hours to retain its shape. Saturdays I went downtown
to buy wool; Irene had faith in my good taste, was pleased with the
colors and never a skein had to be returned. I took advantage of
these trips to make the rounds of the bookstores, uselessly asking if
they had anything new in French literature. Nothing worthwhile had
arrived in Argentina since 1939.
But it's the house I want to talk about the house and Irene, I'm not
very important. I wonder what Irene would have done without her
knitting. One can reread a book, but once a pullover is finished you
can't do it over again, it's some kind of disgrace. One day I found that
the drawer at the bottom of the chiffonier, replete with mothballs, was
filled with shawls, white, green, lilac. Stacked amid a great smell of
camphor—it was like a shop; I didn't have the nerve to ask her what
she planned to do with them. We didn't have to earn our living, there
was plenty coming in from the farms each month, even piling up. But