by Camba, Julio (1884-1962)
I have something urgent to air out with my friend. But he’s been resisting to talk with me about it forever.
— What do you say we see each other tomorrow?
—Alright. What time?
—Whenever. After lunch, for instance...
I let my friend know that this doesn’t constitute a precise time. After lunch is something all too vague, too elastic.
—When do you eat?—I ask him.
—When do I eat lunch? Well, when everyone else in the world eats; at lunch time…
—Yeah, but when is lunchtime exactly? Noon? 1:00 in the afternoon? 2:00…
—Yeah, around then...—my friend says— I eat between one and two. Sometimes I pull up to the table around three, though... At any rate, I’m always free at four.
—Perfect. Let’s write in 4:00, then.
My friend agrees.
—Of course, if I’m a few minutes behind—he adds— you’ll wait for me. When one says four, one means four fifteen or four thirty... Ultimately, I’ll definitely be in the café between four and five. What do you say?
I try to get more specific:
—Let’s go for 5:00.
—Alright. Five…or between five and five thirty… I’m no train, you know. Damn! What if I break a leg or something…
—Ok, let’s go for 5:30—I propose.
At which point, my friend comes up with a brilliant idea.
—Why don’t we shoot for cocktail hour?—he suggests.
A new conversation defining the exact time of that hour ensues. Finally, we plan on meeting between 7:00 and 8:00.
The next day, 8 rolls around, and as expected, my friend doesn’t show. He comes in puffing at 8:30 and the waiter tells him I’ve already left.
—You have no right—he shouts days after running into me on the street—. You make me settle on a time, you make me run, and then you don’t even wait around 10 minutes for me. I was in the café at exactly 8:30.
The strangest thing about all this was that my friend’s fit was sincere. That two men who agree to meet at 8:00 actually meet at eight seems to him a complete absurdity.
It’s logical, for him, that they meet up a half hour, forty-five minutes, or an hour afterward.
—Alright, but just think about this—I tell him—. An appointment is something that is as limited by time as it is by space. What would you say to me if after agreeing to meet up in the Puerta del Sol, you later find out that I went to see you in the Cuatro Caminos? That’s how I see it when I say eight, and you show up at 8:30. By rejecting time, you reject space. So, if you respect space, why not pay a little attention to time?
—Yeah, but with that kind of precision, with that kind of exactitude, life would be impossible—my friend exclaims.
How to explain to him that this exactitude and precision on the contrary serve to simplify life? How to convince him that arriving on time actually saves time to devote to whatever else you want?
Impossible. Spaniards are never on time for appointments, not because they perceive time as being precious, but, just the opposite, because time means nothing to anyone in Spain. We are not time’s superiors, but its inferiors. We are not above, but below punctuality.
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