La Grande

by Juan José Saer

  When he was almost back at his building he had to stop suddenly: he’d seen Doctor Riera climb out of a double-parked gray car, step between two cars parked against the curb, cross the sidewalk, and easily mounting the three steps that led to the apartments, disappear inside. Nula started walking again. When he reached the entrance he saw that Riera was standing with his back to the street, a few steps away, looking carefully at the two rows of apartments and the narrow, tidy garden between them, and not wanting to run into him, decided to keep walking to the corner, and because he didn’t quite know what to do he stepped into the ice cream shop, which was empty just then, not even the owner was there, just a girl who worked the counter every so often when the owner was out, and who greeted him inquisitively.

  —I forgot my key and have to wait for my mother to come home, Nula explained, but at that very moment he saw Riera’s gray car turn the corner slowly and he gave the girl a look that could mean several things at once, or rather none, and in two steps, two leaps practically, he was on the sidewalk, just in time to see Riera double-park the car again halfway down the block, climb out, quickly cross the sidewalk, and enter his office. Nula started walking under the trees, uncertain if he should walk fast or slow, or whether or not he wanted to run into Riera, if he should or shouldn’t ask him for an explanation—though he wasn’t actually sure that his visiting the apartment building had anything to do with him—but when he reached the office and saw that the door was open and the gray car was still running, he sped up, and when he reached the next corner, weaving through the traffic, which was heavy at that hour, he crossed the street and stopped at the next corner, in front of the hardware store window. Every so often he glanced furtively toward the office, until finally, though he hadn’t seen Riera come out, he saw the gray car pull away slowly, practically rubbing against the ones parked against the curb, intending to turn, surely, which in fact it did, stopping again, this time in front of the mysterious house that apparently provoked in Lucía, every time she passed its door, a kind of theatrical disapproval. Riera got out of the car and rang the bell. He didn’t have to wait, because the door half-opened immediately, and though he couldn’t see who’d opened it, because the person wasn’t visible from where he was standing, Nula presumed it must not have been the kid from the night before because Riera’s gaze, though it was directed slightly downward, was nevertheless inclined at the height of an adult, or in any case someone much older than five or six. For about a minute, Riera talked energetically with the person who’d answered, and eventually, smiling, he passed his hand through the doorway and made a quick gesture, and turning around, crossed the sidewalk and got in the car, at the exact moment that the door behind him closed. Riera pulled out again, slowly, and turned left at the next corner. Nula crossed to the other sidewalk and walked to the end of the block, intending to turn as well, and saw that the gray car was now parked in front of the house—now all that was missing, when he passed by, was to hear the small metallic sound of the lock that Riera turned from inside, but no, this time his prediction was wrong, too much time had already passed since the car turned the corner and stopped halfway down the block, and no matter how much he focused, slowing down considerably but not daring to stop as he passed the door, unsure why he’d been struck by an intense desire to hear it, that small, familiar sound didn’t reach his ears.

  Crossing his utensils over the few fries scattered across his plate, over the traces of egg yolk and toasted, oil-soaked bread crumbs, Nula leans back against his chair and, taking a drink of mineral water, decides that his lunch is finished. He smiles at his memories: the explanation for their behavior was much more simple than he’d imagined, and, at the same time, Lucía and Riera never really floated in that inaccessible, mythological space. His relationship with them started, lasted a while, and now, for the last hour, give or take, is once again unfinished, has entered that murky zone where, their cynicism exceeding their optimism, contradictory and awkwardly, the incomplete, mortal shadows that live there struggle over each other. His smile disappears and he sits thoughtfully for a minute, at the end of which, in order to move on, he takes his cell phone from his pocket and dials the manager of the supermarket.

  —Anoch, he says. How are you? I’m at the cafeteria. I’m on my way to your office. You’re coming for a coffee? Even better.

  He decides to move to a clean table, and he’s just finished settling down when he sees the manager, accompanied by a woman who entices him immediately, a decisive and professional demeanor yet conscious of the effect she produces in men, and who exchanges a probing glance with Nula, a momentary search for recognition which he’s unsure if the manager has noticed or even if it’s actually happened at all. Suddenly it’s like his sexual encounter with Lucía a little while earlier had never happened. It’s been discarded in the trash heap of the past, the incomprehensible limbo where, rather than vanishing suddenly, disappearing forever from the strange world in which things take place, we believe the events recently shuffled from the present go to rest, their tenuous threads unraveling in our memory, like the ghostly, colored silhouettes that linger on our retinas when we close our eyes and which disintegrate slowly behind our closed eyelids until they dissolve completely into the darkness. With an infantile yet detached curiosity, Nula wonders (as he does somewhat too often) if the manager and the woman have just come from doing the same thing that he and Lucía did a little while ago, together or on their own, indulging a different hunger than the one usually satisfied at lunch. And Nula imagines the possibility that just as he called them they were in the middle of an embrace, though they seem too clean, well-combed, spotlessly dressed, and too calm and sure of themselves to have emerged, less than a minute ago, from the paroxysm comprised of spasms, moans, sweats, discharge, and even tears, which shortly afterward, after a brief pause, anticipating the promise of the unattainable, desires its infinite and, if possible, even more intense and emphatic repetition.

  —How are you? the manager asks, giving him a brief, vigorous handshake, and adds, Mr. Anoch, from Amigos del Vino. Virginia is in charge of the whole beverage department, alcoholic and otherwise. You’re required to get along with each other.

  Nula and Virginia exchange a long handshake until her soft, warm hand slides effortlessly from Nula’s.

  —Should we have a coffee? Nula asks.

  —I can’t, the manager says. But Virginia has carte blanche to make decisions for the shop.

  —Don’t take this the wrong way, Nula says, but I think a conversation alone with Mrs. Virginia—or is it Miss Virginia, I hope?—would have its own advantages.

  —She’s our secret weapon, the manager says. Don’t let your guard down.

  —And here we see them practicing their beloved national sport, Virginia says.

  —You mean chivalry? the manager says.

  —No, machismo, Virginia says.

  —I dare you to find someone more feminist than me, the manager says, and looking at his watch, getting serious and thinking of something else, an urgent matter somewhere else in the hypermarket, he announces, With the way I love my women!

  He shakes Nula’s hand and practically runs away. As they’re sitting down, Virginia whispers:

  —Every asshole thinks he’s a comedian.

  Nula laughs and Virginia, satisfied that her comment has been well-received, reclines against the back of her chair, and looks around, smiling languidly, making her breasts rise and stand out from beneath the tight, pale green suit jacket. In her heels she’d seemed taller than Nula, but she must be more or less his same height. Her face is round and full, her lips fleshy, and her hair, dark and thick, curls down to her shoulders. She doesn’t seem inclined to show weakness, not at work or anywhere else.

  —Would you like a coffee? Nula asks.

  —Yes, she says. But don’t get up. They’ll bring it to us.

  And she makes a pair of signs to the cashier, the first consisting of curling the index finger and thumb on her right han
d slightly, the fingertips pointing at each other, three or four centimeters apart, and the second of extending her index and middle fingers on her left hand, curling the other three into her palm, and waving the extended fingers in the air, very conspicuously, to specify the quantity, signs that, translated into ordinary language, would signify two coffees. Nula follows her gestures admiringly, and though she doesn’t appear to notice, it’s clear that she’s used to being looked at in that way, and the gaze that would have produced distinct pleasure in someone else apparently slides off her shell, or ricochets against it, falling to the floor without having had any effect, like bullets off Superwoman’s chest, or prayers to an indifferent divinity, cloistered in her sanctuary, more self-absorbed than uncaring or contemptuous.

  —Friday around five is a good time to open the display, Virginia says, looking him in the eyes, probing, despite her professional tone, whether, ultimately, given the moment, she might decide, if Nula is worthy, of accepting her admiration. That’s when people start coming in, and it doesn’t let up till Sunday, she adds. During the week it’s slower. You’re staying till the following Sunday, right?

  —Yes, Nula says. Too bad we ended up with Holy Week.

  —That won’t change much, Virginia says. We’re open Wednesday and Thursday that week and lots of people come in, and we only close on Friday afternoon. And Thursday is like the night before a holiday.

  —So you’re saying that in his final moments on the cross, Christ authorized that the Warden hypermarket could open half a day on Good Friday? Nula says, and halfway through the sentence he regrets having opened his mouth.

  —I don’t think so, Virginia says. But our chain does have special permission from the Pope, and in any case the Vatican is one of our biggest shareholders.

  —Heaven awaits us, then, Nula says.

  One of the waitresses from the cafeteria walks over with their coffees and leaves them on the table. Nula takes out some money to pay, but Virginia stops him with a quick gesture.

  —It’s on the house, she says.

  —I’ll have to pay you back somehow, Nula says.

  —You’ll get your chance, Virginia says.

  They drink their coffee black, and Nula takes advantage, when she narrows her eyes as she brings the cup to her lips, taking short sips so as not to burn herself, to study her openly, almost hoping that she sees him do it, her attractive, regular features, her skin tanned by the recent summer, her thick, curly hair, her slightly compressed neck holding up her motionless head, her wide, almost masculine shoulders, her breasts bulging from the lapels of her pale green blazer made of a light and silky material. When they finish their coffee, Virginia looks at the time and nods vaguely toward the supermarket.

  —Come on, I’ll show you the place where the display will be set up, she says.

  Nula follows her obediently. They walk side-by-side, unreserved, familiar, like a couple who’ve known each other a long time, and Nula, completely indifferent to the Amigos del Vino’s commercial interests, wonders what the best way would be to advance his personal, and even intimate, relationship with Virginia, what means he might have to make that self-possessed, alert creature, attentive only to the interests of her own desire, fix him, if only for a passing moment, with a look that conveys abandon and submission. And suddenly, she takes the first step in that direction.

  —Since you’ll be calling me Virginia, I’ll want to know your first name.

  —Nicolás, but my friends call me Nula, which means Nicolás in Arabic, Nula says, scrambling to respond, hastily, almost servile.

  She laughs.

  —What a strange name. It sounds pretty feminine. But I like it, she says.

  —And in your case, Virginia, is there a discrepancy between the name and the person?

  —I have a two-year-old daughter, Virginia says, and though their conversation is light, she continues to look around, verifying, apparently, that everything in the Warden hypermarket, where she has a certain level of responsibility, is or at least seems to be in order, adding, however, I think you’re big enough by now to know what that means.

  —I’ll have to think about it, Nula says, noticing that Virginia’s smile widens.

  Leaving the cafeteria, they cross a wide passage that leads from the restaurants and the multiplex to the hypermarket itself (the heads of the business, the radio and television commentators, and the daily press call the group of buildings the supercenter), where the lights are brighter than in the cafeteria and in the passageway. Despite the windows facing the parking lot, numerous lights illuminate the giant space stocked with merchandise, and the same music, which in the cafeteria and in the passageway was almost inaudible, sounds somewhat louder. Almost all of the registers are closed, and because of this, though the place isn’t very crowded, at the few that are open the submissive customers gather in lines. The white plastic bags are emblazoned with a bold and conspicuous W of the Warden brand. From his trips here with Diana, Nula knows that the red ones come from the meat section, the green ones, not surprisingly, from the produce section, and the blue ones from the seafood section, but the yellow, orange, indigo, and violet ones are hard to match with a specific product, though in practice the bags end up combined together at the registers, and are only correctly organized at the sections operated by specialized workers, like the butcher shop and the fish section. According to Diana, who often works in advertising design, that set of colors, which evokes the refraction of light, must have been the designers’ effort to suggest, from the publicity office of the Warden firm, which branches into many countries, that the W hypermarkets, with their incalculable diversity, predicting and satisfying the infinite spectrum of human desire, contain the sum of all existence. Nula seems to recall that the bag that Chacho gave them with the catfish had a green W, and though he remembers that the woman who pointed to Escalante’s house through the rainy darkness was holding a couple of bags from the same supermarket, he can’t picture what colors the letters were. As they pass behind the registers, the people waiting in line look at them discreetly, and Nula hopes that the men think that his relationship with Virginia is more intimate than it really is, but it’s obvious and demoralizing that, at least to the youngest among them, each of which must be wishing deep down that he could possess such a promising body, he, Nula, is invisible next to her. The aisles between the shelves are like streets, and instead of houses with doors and windows there’s a series of labels, cans, cellophane, packages, cardboard boxes, jars, that continuously yield to other merchandise with other uses, other shapes, made from cloth, plastic, wood, rubber, metal, and so on. The section of bottles, mineral water, soda, beer, wine, and liquor is deserted, and, at an intersection, Virginia stops suddenly.

  —What do you think? she says, gesturing to the shelves around them. To one side are bottles of wine, and ahead of them the snacks and the liquor, but in the rows that start again after the intersection there are more bottles of wine, more snacks and more liquor, the same rainbow-colored profusion of labels that despite representing, in many cases, specific objects and shapes, seem abstract in repetition and lose their representative quality and seem more like a pattern or an ornamental design. Nula stares into the distance, but he can’t quite make out the end of the room through the infinite convergence of overloaded shelves that, beyond the food sections, hold the kitchen supplies, the tools, the clothes, the stationary, and, far off, hanging from the ceiling, a mist of wheelbarrows, colored globes, signs, and bicycles.

  —A tactical position, he says.

  —Starting tomorrow, they’ll be announcing the wine tasting over the loudspeakers, Virginia says. And you had some signs you were going to bring?

  —Everything will be here tomorrow, Nula says.

  —Tell me about the product you’re promoting, Virginia says. I was on vacation when everything was set up.

  —It’s a high quality table wine, Nula says. White and red. Our company is trying to launch more mainstream products.

>   —That sounds good, Virginia says.

  —If the launch on Friday is a success, how about if we have dinner together? Nula says.

  —Why not? Even if it isn’t, Virginia says. I finish at eight. My daughter always goes out on Friday nights, anyway.

  —And her father? Nula says.

  Virginia laughs.

  —What father?

  —Oh right, Nula says. I’d forgotten that in your case the name and the person corresponded.

  —That’s still to be determined, Virginia says. In any case, if we have dinner on Friday I’ll tell you a secret.

  —About you? Nula says.

  —About you, actually, Virginia says, smiling mysteriously. And suddenly, glancing at her watch, her professional demeanor returns.

  —Tell your friends of wine, she says, that when they come tomorrow, ask for Virginia. Until Friday, then . . .