La Grande

by Juan José Saer

  Américo is writing on a sheet of white paper sitting on top of the open ledger, tight lines riddled with strikethroughs, marginalia, and loose words inserted between the lines, above or below the ones he’s crossed out. Concentrating on his work, not looking away from the paper, he gestures with an apologetic smile for Nula to wait a second. Nula puts the briefcase on the floor, next to the desk, and waits. Although everyone calls him El Gordo, Américo isn’t really that fat, especially considering his height (1.80 meters) and his wife’s scrupulous control of his clothing and diet, allowing him a certain agility, nor does he seem old, because his closely trimmed gray beard is lighter than his thick, curly hair, which gives him a youthful look. Only his fingers are truly fat, but the grayish hair that covers them to the knuckles, tangled and solid across his hand, evokes virility more so than obesity. Nula leaves him to his work and walks into the office. Chela and the secretary are surprised to see him.

  —We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow, Chela says.

  —I’m a workaholic, and also I wanted to buy my wife a gift. I’ve heard about a shop here in Paraná, run by someone named Lucía Riera, Nula says, amazed at his capacity for inventing pretexts and offering them without stopping even for a second to think about it.

  —I don’t know a Riera, but there’s a Lucía Calcagno, Mis pilchas, the most posh boutique in Paraná, Chela says. They have everything, Cacharel, Yves Saint Laurent, all the international brands.

  —That must be her. Where does one find such a marvel? Nula asks, trying to hide his anxiety.

  —Downtown, half a block from the square. I have a card around here somewhere, Chela says, looking through a drawer.

  —Now I see why poor Américo has to work day and night, you have a special account there. Thanks, Nula says, and, taking the card and putting it in his jacket pocket, goes back out to the warehouse, just as Américo finishes silently rereading what he’s written, moving his head back and forth, correcting a final word, a line, a comma, and so on.

  —Ready! he shouts, satisfied. Should I read it?

  —What? Of course—Nula feigns offense—I drove all the way from the outer provinces just for this reading.

  —Don’t waste your breath on a mule like me, Américo says, and Nula cracks up laughing, but Américo remains serious, silently re-reading one last time, before doing so aloud, for an expert audience, the brief text he’s been composing. Of the five decades of his life, Américo has dedicated more than half to the sale of wine, first as an importer until the crash under the dictatorship, when hyperinflation and the volatility of the market busted him. With Chela’s inheritance they transformed their current space, an abandoned warehouse, into a table wine distillery, bottling their own brand—Aconcagua—a name that according to his detractors referred to the liquid additive that Américo introduced into a Mendoza wine, but that business, also because of hyperinflation, failed as well. Some time later, one of the owners of Amigos del Vino, whom he’d worked with in the seventies, offered him the distribution rights for the northeast part of the country. And with the collusion, on the national level, of publicists and cardiologists, and the fortuitous global fashion for wine, through conventions, indirect publicity, and the inevitable rhetorical advancements that from time immemorial have accompanied the embarrassing consumption of alcoholic beverages, and wine in particular, things managed to turn around. In the regions that border the banks of the Paraná, as far north as Paraguay and south to Brazil, the Amigos del Vino, which, it goes without saying, found favorable ground, and without major obstacles, quickly prospered. And though the two previous failures had forced him to keep his current success in perspective, Américo, who attributes his good nature to having had the privilege of his mother’s breast till the age of seven, is happy enough with the present, but this doesn’t stop him from developing survival tactics in case everything falls apart again, as has happened periodically.

  —Everyone in Entre Ríos is either a poet or a gangster, he says, as a preface, and ignoring the vaguely ironic but nonetheless friendly smile of his only listener, he starts: Wine, the measure of civilization, a precious nectar in every land, contributes to the good health of its faithful companion, the human being. Independent authorities have by now proven many times over that wine reduces stress, dissolves harmful fats in the blood which imperil the cardiovascular system, and contains vitamins, minerals, and enzymes that are beneficial to the body. But, above all, wine satisfies the palate, strengthens friendships, and multiplies and perfects moments of celebration. When he finishes, Américo pushes the tiny glasses to the end of his nose and, over the oval lenses, interrogates Nula with a look.

  —Not bad, not bad, Nula says. But you have to add something about the French paradox, something about the vines, and something about the sawyils, he says. purposefully exaggerating the rural pronunciation of the word. And, if at all possible, he adds, finish with a set of more or less potable quatrains from Omar Kayyám.

  —Good idea! Américo shouts, dipping his head slightly into his shirt collar in such a way that his beard covers the knot on his tie, and pointing at Nula with a fat, hairy finger on his left hand. But, he adds, it has to be quick. This draft has to go out next week to Resistencia, Corrientes, and Posadas. We’ll print up colored cards with different stanzas of the lofty poet. Turquito, one of these days I’m making you head of sales and locking you up in the office so you’ll quit your dicking around.

  —You mean like this? Nula says, and glancing quickly toward the office to make sure that Chela and the secretary aren’t watching, he forms a circle with his index finger and thumb on his left hand and passes the rigid index finger on his right hand back and forth energetically a few times.

  —No comment, Américo says, pushing his glasses back up and signaling that he’s ready to talk business with his salesman. Nula opens the briefcase, takes out a ledger and some loose pages. As he talks, Américo takes notes on a legal pad. Suddenly, Nula interrupts himself and looks at his watch.

  —What time do the stores in Paraná close? I have to buy a gift for my wife.

  Américo’s only answer is an incredulous snort. He doesn’t look up from the notepad, and stands frozen in the writing position, as though he were posing for a portrait—Américo Scriptori—and when Nula starts talking again, the portrait starts to move, taking quick notes with abbreviations and symbols that, like some private language, will only be legible to him in the future. Nula reads from a list in which he took down, that same morning, while he drank a few mates in the kitchen, the topics he had to cover. Some are straightforward comments that require no response, though Américo, in his private script, writes them down in the notepad, but others demand certain operations, the exchange of the deposit receipts and checks, for example. Their primary topics are the two afternoon appointments, which Nula postponed yesterday because of his walk in the rain with Gutiérrez, with the governor’s aide and the dentist that his brother, Chade, recommended, and whose wine cellar, with a capacity of a hundred and fifty bottles, he has to fill; Gutiérrez’s new order, which he’ll deliver tomorrow; the commission check that Américo owes him from March, if it’s ready (Chela has it in the office); the group sale to the law school for that Friday, if it’s ready; he also wants to order (on his tab) four bottles of merlot and two sauvignon blancs that he’s planning to take to the cookout at Gutiérrez’s, because it doesn’t seem appropriate to drink his own client’s wine; he should also take two local chorizos, for the governor’s aide, which he promised as a sample (it’s a typical gift for new clients); and finally, there’s the promotional sale at the Warden hypermarket, which starts Friday afternoon, culminates on Saturday, and lasts another full week; he, Nula, will be there at five o’clock sharp, making sure the stand is ready and everything is set up; that same afternoon, on his way back from the city, he’s thinking of passing by to finalize the details with one of the managers. When they finish, they go to the office to pick up the March commissions check. Chela takes it fro
m a drawer, has him sign a receipt, and hands it to him. Afterward, Nula loads up the four cases of wine—two cabernet sauvignons and one viognier for Gutiérrez, and one with four bottles of merlot and two sauvignon blancs for himself, plus the chorizos for Gutiérrez and two for the political aide—and before getting in his car he turns back to the doorway and shouts:

  —You haven’t heard the last of me!

  —I’m expecting some good stanzas from your countryman, for the cards, Américo says.

  When he pulls out, it’s ten of twelve. Because his trips to Paraná almost never take him downtown—the warehouse is on the outskirts—he ends up taking several wrong turns along one-way streets and promenades before finding the square. Mis pilchas is just half a block away, like Chela said, but because he doesn’t find a spot, he double parks and leaves the car running. The boutique isn’t very big, but it does seem very fancy for the city, and though it’s already twenty after twelve it’s still open. Lucía is talking with another woman, and when she sees him in the doorway, she starts laughing and comes to meet him.

  —I’m so glad you came! she says, and kisses him on the cheek, pressing herself momentarily against him and laughing even harder when she pulls away.

  The only thing that occurs to Nula to say is, I’m double parked, and, puzzled and excited at once by Lucía’s unexpectedly cheerful and affectionate reception, and by the at once full and tight curves of the body that was just pressed against his.

  —Go park. I’ll finish up with her and wait for you, Lucía says.

  Without thinking for a second about the purpose and possible consequences of his behavior, an exceptionally strange posture for a young philosopher—just imagine Descartes, Leibniz, or Kant in a similar situation—Nula obeys and goes out to the car. A pleasurable, hard tumescence tries to force its way through the barrier, over his left thigh, of his underwear and pants, ridiculous obstacles imposed by what we call civilization to the thing, difficult to name despite its many names, that insists on displaying, for all to see, and at all cost, its superabundant strength, the very source of the becoming, as Nula himself calls it, without which that very same civilization, assuming an ultimate end to time and matter, wouldn’t even exist. It’s only when he starts looking, slowly because of the thick midday traffic, for an open parking space, that, behind his forehead, a few thoughts begin to knock around. He wonders, first of all, if sending him out to park the car has been a pretext for disappearing, which would force him to guard the entrance to the boutique all afternoon and cancel, again, the two appointments that he already rescheduled yesterday, something which even Américo, who enjoyed the sedative effects of the maternal breast, shield against all future adversity, until the age of seven, may very well consider inexcusable. As soon as he started to think, the hard tension over his left thigh stopped pushing outward, but Nula is too absorbed in his thoughts to ask himself whether the thinking made it disappear, or if instead its disappearance allowed his thoughts to return to their normal function. He diagrams the complications that Lucía’s reappearance brings with it, and, curiously, realizes that what he wants more than anything is for his emergent friendship with Gutiérrez to stay sheltered from them.

  But Lucía hasn’t disappeared. She’s waiting for him, smiling even more broadly than before, which intrigues him to no end, because the Lucía that he knew several years before wasn’t in the habit of smiling so much. When he’s just a few meters away, her smile becomes a laugh and mixes with a conventional expression of irritation, to which she adds a negative shake of her head.

  —I had no choice but to say I didn’t know you last night. I was so surprised, she says with a pleading, happy tone of voice that displays no remorse at all.

  —Three times before the cock crows, to see me crucified, Nula says when he reaches her. Not to mention the catfish I missed out on, the first of the year.

  —I’m serious. Forgive me. It would’ve been too much to explain, Lucía says, taking his hand. And then, giving him a long, suggestive look, asks, Do you forgive me?

  Nula doesn’t say anything.

  —Come on, let’s go to my place, Lucía says.

  Though it’s still overcast, the day, possibly owing to the time, seems clearer and even a little brighter. The little black car that Nula saw parked the night before in front of Gutiérrez’s white gate is around the corner, and by day and up close it looks newer and even more expensive than the first time he saw it, in the middle of the night, in the rain, and in the state that its presence put him in. They leave the city center and head toward the residential district, in Urquiza park, above the city, from which, at any window or balcony in its cottages or apartment buildings, the full breadth of the Paraná is easily visible, far upriver to the north and downriver to the south, where it splits many times into a delta and passes through many channels around tangled islands, forming the estuary at the mouth of the river.

  —I did it for him, Lucía says. He’s so kind.

  —Your father, Nula says.

  Lucía doesn’t answer. In the silence that follows, Nula, though he regrets what he’s just said, also senses a charge of immanence between them. Nula secretly observes Lucía in the rear-view, and in the fragments of face he can see—her eyes, which are on the street, are outside his visual field—part of her right cheek, her lips, her chin, and the portion of her dark hair that covers her ear and half her cheek, he thinks he sees a slightly theatrical expression of determination, something a grave mission, or a sacrifice, would demand. Finally, they arrive. Of the many homes in the highest sections of the park, all surrounded by gardens, Lucía’s is among the largest and the most well cared for, with a good view of the river, and sheltered at the back by a grove of trees.

  —It’s my mother’s house, Lucía says when they’re outside the car and she sees Nula staring at the white facade, the balconies, the varnished doors, the tile roof, the white slab path that leads to the house and bisects the immaculate garden and lawn. I moved in with her when I came back from Bahía Blanca. Come in, there’s no one here. She doesn’t get back till Friday from Punta del Este, and the baby won’t be dropped off till five.

  Nula doesn’t interpret those last words as a supplementary incentive to accept her invitation, not only because it would be superfluous, but also, and especially, because he’s busy interpreting the second thing Lucía said when she got out of the car: when I came back from Bahía Blanca, which he takes to mean, when I got fed up with everything you already know about and moved here with my son. Despite the fact that, objectively speaking, the decision was a reasonable one, it’s difficult, if not impossible, for Nula to imagine Lucía without Riera. In his memory, they’re always together, they represent a kind of combined existence, a single entity with two bodies, a complex mechanism whose movements, though difficult to predict, could be mapped out, represented systematically, its behavior described, once its particularities have been observed, repeating continuously, without being necessarily, if the problem does in fact have a solution, unexplainable. When they’re inside, Lucía locks the front door, and Nula recalls the first time he saw her and followed her to her house after she’d walked around the block. The last thing he knew about her that spring afternoon was that, after going inside, she’d locked the front door. For the rest of the day the tiny metallic sound of the lock had echoed insistently in his head. And now, after hearing a similar sound, he’s inside with her.

  —Do you want a drink? Lucía asks.

  —No, Nula says, distracted.

  Lucía laughs quickly, and Nula, avoiding her gaze, half smiles. He’s just been overcome by a question that comes back to him over and over, less a problem than a riddle with no answer or insight or threat: How long does an event last, not as it’s measured by a clock? How long is a day for an ant, or, in the material world, how long does the sound of a coin hitting the floor last? Does it last only briefly and disappear forever, or does it vibrate indefinitely, does it have the same inextinguishable persistence c
ommon to everything that happens? Or does the totality of existence recommence at every instance of every event, as negligible as it may be, from nothing, its essence composed of perpetual, flashing intervals, infinitesimal and innumerable by any calculus that we know or that can be known? And this thing, which years earlier he wanted so badly to happen, in vain, and which is happening now, does it live and die fleetingly, like a momentary spark, or, to the more refined observer, does it last, at the same cadence and velocity as the birth of a star that burns for an equally fleeting, incalculable moment before it’s extinguished forever?

  —Come on, let’s go up, Lucía says, and turns toward the stairs. Nula follows her, hanging back a step so as to observe, in anticipation, the body already intending to abandon itself to his whims, but she slows down, waiting for him to come up next to her, and as they start up the stairs each knows that the other knows what’s about to happen, so they don’t speak, or even look at each other. Only when they reach the bedroom, next to the bed, does she say, in a low voice, I owed you this, and then starts to undress.

  For the first time in his life, Nula enters her, exploring the dark jungle of her tissue as though with a sensitive, vibrating probe, piercing the heavy silence of the organs that with exact and constant discipline, through some inexplicable design, sustain the attractive shapes that, for a given period, before disintegrating into darkness, giving way for the next wave fighting its way out, shimmer, fugitively, in the light of day. Despite the frenzy, the violent contortions, the pleasure of the skin, the hard and prolonged embraces, the damp caresses and the moans, Nula understands, in the minutes after they finish, when they are lying on their backs next to each other, that Lucía’s gift has come too late, and that she’s also thinking something similar. But neither one says anything. As a courtesy, Nula represses his usual impulse to jump out of bed, get dressed, and disappear, which takes over whenever he finishes the sexual act, and which is stronger than usual, and though he needs to piss, he refuses to let himself move even for that. His disappointment has been physical too: when he penetrated her, Lucía’s cavity offered no resistance, as though he’d entered a hole too large and formless, whose walls were too distended to hug his penis—a vast and empty cave. Ever since the day he saw her for the first time, the impossibility of possessing Lucía’s body had mythologized it, and his disappointment, which he tries at all cost to hide, makes him incredibly sad, though he tries to find a rational explanation for it, which translated into words would be more or less the following: We suffer the illusion of sameness, but five years ago it would have felt different because our bodies, and therefore our sensations, were too. It’s possible that childbirth distended the tissue, or maybe I’m accustomed to another kind of feeling compared to what I felt today. But the most likely explanation is that despite the apparent constancy that we take for granted even the most private corners of our being, corporeal or not, have changed and will continue to change till we become unrecognizable, especially to ourselves.