—Just for a minute, she says, because she’s anxious to call Caballito and Rosario with the news, though she knows it’s too early to call because her father must still be at the courthouse and José Carlos still teaching class at the university. She’ll call later, after six, before their date at the Amigos del Vino. Her mother is home of course, probably in bed, where she’s spent most of her time for the last two or three years, after she stopped wanting to get up, or shower, or go out, or do any work for the firm, or go back to the courthouse. She’s not being eaten away by sadness or anguish, which would inspire sympathy, but rather something incomprehensible, which is confusing and at times revolting, a slow and apparently permanent flood of indifference. It’s not worth giving her the news: within minutes of getting it, tangled as she is in her tremulous labyrinth of heavy thoughts, she’ll forget it forever. Though she’d always been quiet, sometimes, in the middle of a party, she’d suddenly pull out some funny observation, some ironic or sarcastic comment whose unexpected elegance and precision always produced laughter in her surprised listeners. And she’d often sing, in an intimate, solemn voice, accompanying herself on the guitar, sometimes to songs she’d written herself by putting her favorite poems to music. During the black years she’d defended political prisoners with almost more courage and tenacity than Barco himself, to the point that on two or three occasions she’d been detained at a police station or at some army post, but because her family had come from Germany, in the southeast, their embassy protected her, and besides she was already too well-known by then to be disappeared. She’d survived so much, calmly and bravely, and one day the thing that had been slithering from the dark and remote corners inside her, probably since the moment she began to take shape in her mother’s womb, burst to the surface and when it had her it dove to the bottom till she blacked out, it confused itself with her and made her hateful by force of its insistence, it, the indifference, overpowering her completely.
In La Guardia, where the river road splits toward Paraná, the traffic is heavier, despite the fact that the road widens all the way to the bridge between the cities, and Soldi is forced to slow down behind a double-decker green bus on its way to Buenos Aires. In the opposite lane, cars, buses, and trucks move along at a slower speed, resigned to the caravan. In the hypermarket parking lot, beyond the countless parked cars that fill the designated spaces, a red tractor trailer, the top opening covered with a dark canvas, is parked near the warehouse entrance, and as they pass Gabriela turns around to see if there’s anything written on the back of the trailer, where to her satisfaction she’s able to read, in large printed letters, VISIT HELVECIA, FOR THE GOLDEN DORADO.
They pass the hypermarket, and before they reach the bridge Soldi turns off to the right, though still in the direction of the city, down a narrow parallel road that ends suddenly at a white curb, forcing them to turn right again, this time parallel to the waterfront on the opposite shore. The paving ends after a few meters and the road turns to reddish dirt—they must’ve mixed the earth with gravel or ground brick to make it harder—at the end of which, some two hundred meters ahead, there are a few cars parked along a recently installed chain link fence. Soldi slows down and maneuvers the car, reversing slightly to straighten it out, and parks facing the same direction as the others, perpendicular to the fence, in the ample space between a white truck and a light green Citroën. The soles of their shoes scratch against the gravel as they walk toward the entrance, and their shadows, which at midday had been compressed and reduced at their feet, have begun to stretch to the east, recovering a more or less recognizable human shape. Hanging on the fence itself, to one side of the gate, a small white sign with blue lettering announces, PIEDRAS BLANCAS TOURIST CENTER. As he passes the sign, Soldi, without further commentary, nods toward it and emits a short and sarcastic laugh.
The sunny beachfront—a section of which, off-limits to swimmers and decorated in white rocks and used as a mooring area, proving that the specifications on the white sign at the entrance were not superfluous—is almost empty, a condition explained by the fact that the season officially ended a few weeks ago, a closure validated by the rain over the past few days. Gabriela and Soldi, though, felt the heat of the sun on their faces, on their naked arms, and on their heads the moment they got out of the car. A good portion of the blue sky is visible over the open beach, over the water, over the low-lying city crowded against the opposite shore, and it’s clear that most of the massive white clouds that had earlier given a deceitful impression of stillness have disappeared, though the ones that do remain, too scattered to block much of the sunlight, seem just as motionless and vast. Several pitched roof buildings sit between irregular-shaped planters covered with shining grass that the recent rains have reanimated; the most important of these houses the bar-restaurant and the others serve as changing huts. There’s a play space for kids, with a curved bridge, painted blue, which ends at a platform with a sort of cabin and a horizontal yellow wheel, elevated on an axle, whose function is difficult to guess. Gabriela and Soldi walk past the bar, where a few tables, sheltered by umbrellas, are occupied, toward the shore fortified with white rocks that possibly serve to keep the water from eroding the sand too quickly. The planter closest to the water, the only one bordered by white-painted cement, is heart-shaped, and a flagless flagpole stands at the upper vertex, where the two halves of the heart meet, and which narrows as it deepens. Soldi emits another short, sarcastic laugh, but Gabriela barely hears him because she’s looking at something in the distance, at the far end of what strictly speaking would be called the beach, two people, a young woman and a two- or three-year-old child who seems to be her daughter, playing, hand-in-hand, mirroring each other’s movements, at the edge of the water: both have straight black hair that bounces over their shoulders, dark skin, not sun-tanned but naturally so, dressed alike in short-sleeve yellow T-shirts and faded jeans, and so identical from a distance, were it not for their size, that the daughter could be taken for a miniaturized reproduction of the mother. Gabriela realizes, meanwhile, that the mother and daughter represent not only a sequential order but also a continuum between the internal and the external. Of course what she’s seeing isn’t repetition, Gabriela thinks, because the girl, though she appears identical to her mother, as she takes shape in the external world, adds something new to it, something that never before existed, because no two splinters of time are the same, and therefore the simple accumulation changes everything, the present, the past, the future. In the external world, the girl interiorizes the mother from whom she’s separated, and one day, because of that same appropriation, she’ll bring her back into the world again. It suddenly seems to Gabriela that the whole universe is being played out in those two people of her same sex spinning hand-in-hand at the edge of the water. A vague happiness, not altogether disconnected from the warm April sun, the clear day, and the nearness of the water, comes over her, and her forgetting that she has personal reasons to feel happy might indicate that with her pleasurable shudder she now incarnates the Whole that is at once outside of her while, generously, containing her.
Beyond the bar, two or three sailboats—sails furled and decks empty—are anchored, several meters from shore, near the beach on the Piedras Blancas side of the river. Breaking up the sandy expanse are several trees, an acacia, two young eucalyptus, and two or three others whose species Soldi can’t identify at that distance. A group of single-color umbrellas, reds and yellows, are scattered around the empty space, separated from the two-colored ones, divided into ten alternating segments, also red and yellow: the brightly colored canopies project black circles onto the sand without the two circles coinciding completely, the position of the sun causing the black circle to be displaced slightly with relation to the red or yellow circle that projects it. Their feet scratching lightly against the sand, Gabriela and Soldi move away from the “port” toward what strictly speaking would be called the beach. When she senses their presence, the woman in the yellow T-shirt stop
s playing with the child, watches them a moment, and then, taking her own reduced image by the hand, moves away from the water and starts walking slowly toward the exit down a path that opens between the trees. Gabriela, slightly mortified by their departure, nevertheless acts as though she hadn’t seen them. Where the white rocks end the ground elevates to a high lifeguard tower, a white wooden structure consisting of a fixed ladder topped with a seat, and which because of its height dominates the whole beach, whose perimeter is marked by a semicircular chain of red buoys, one end of which is attached to the shore at the edge of the white rocks and the other to some vague spot beyond the shore. Not only are there no bathers, there are no lifeguards; the few people there are sitting at tables around the bar, under the shade of the umbrellas. It’s quiet enough that as they approach the damp edge of the shore they’re able to perceive the almost inaudible murmur of the water.
In the windless afternoon the almost transparent surface is furrowed by long, delicate wrinkles, parallel to the beach, that appear motionless and whose circulation is only visible in the final curl coming and going along the surface, betraying, inconspicuously, its movement.
—It’s not really noticeable right now, but there’s a rising tide, Soldi says, and he and Gabriela, simultaneously though in opposite directions, observe the river around them. The wide channel, two hundred meters across, framed at one end by the seawall at the waterfront, and to the north, on the Guadalupe side, by a circular expanse a few kilometers in diameter that everyone, even the cartographers, refers to as the lagoon because of its shape, though everyone knows that actually a branch of another branch of another branch (called rivers, streams, tributaries), and a few others that form the Paraná on its way to the delta, spill together on a northward bend to form the lagoon, then turning south again form the city’s port, eventually meeting another channel that, with many others, will return the dark current to the breast of the father that at some indefinite point, or everywhere at once starting at the first thread of source water upriver, engendered it. Soldi says that the beach seems so new because the floods, two in recent years, have submerged it. It had been rebuilt for the third time, Soldi says stoically, at the start of the season that had just finished. The ’82 flood washed away the Guadalupe beach and several of the houses that had been fearfully built up around it, and the water level never went back down at that spot in the river. And with him, Soldi says, nodding to the south, the one in ’82 shook him up, and the one the next year finished the job. Gabriela surveys the section of the suspension bridge that still stands a few blocks away, half of it more or less, the part closest to the city; halfway down, the structure drops off, suddenly, into the void. Several twisted black cables hang from the metal arch closest to the severed end, holding it in place. Behind the ruin, cars, buses, and trucks move slowly and indifferently down the parallel highway bridge, built twenty years before in anticipation of the immanent collapse. Soldi and Gabriela look at the remains of the bridge in silence, both slightly upset, although a slow, abstracted smile appears on both of their faces, wide enough that it’s even visible through Soldi’s curly, black beard. They both seem to have discovered, simultaneously, the two boys, much younger than them, leaning against the metal railing, no doubt enjoying the coolness of the river after a long walk before going home, taking a quick shower, and returning to the night’s rituals and promises. Resting their forearms on the metal railing, they watch the water swirl around the cylindrical cement pillars, and for a while they stand silently at the edge of the beach, feeling the three o’clock sun warming their bodies and faces. Gabriela and Soldi, without having agreed to, both observe them. They’re facing upriver, toward Guadalupe, and they recognize them easily, despite the distance. To the west, on the city side, the cloudless sky is a uniform, bright red stain, like melting lava, and on the other side, to the east, the night is rising. Suddenly the tallest one, the one who’s most calm and most patient, without warning but nevertheless gently, asks, What is the novel? And the other one, who’s slightly younger, without even looking up from the whirlpool, says, The decomposition of continuous movement.
When he leaves her at the door to her aunt Ángela’s, Soldi offers to pick her up that night on his way to meet Tomatis at the Amigos del Vino bar, but Gabriela, before closing the passenger door, says she’ll walk or take a bus, and crossing the gray pavement, heads toward the front door. Her aunt Ángela’s house is like a thousand others in the city, with the difference that hers is much better cared for, and was chosen carefully and with a specific purpose, the intention of satisfying a particular aesthetic taste (on the opposite sidewalk, a very similar house from the same period, but practically in ruins, long ago began displaying the ubiquitous sign: ANOTHER MORO PROPERTY FOR SALE). And yet both houses have been in a good location—far from the city center but within the quadrangular perimeter of the main avenues—since the twenties, more or less. Her aunt’s house has a front garden separated from the sidewalk by a metal door and a meter-and-a-half high yellow wall, and beyond the garden, behind a hibiscus heavy with flowers and two rose bushes, the yellow wall of the house itself, with a window and a door with frosted blue and yellow glass that leads to a covered gallery surrounded by four or five rooms. At the back are the bathroom and the kitchen, and behind these a larger courtyard with a medlar tree, a poinsettia, and an enormous magnolia, which has been there since the house was built and which provides good shade in the summer—only the magnolias lose their leaves, and the petals rain down on anyone who sits under its branches to talk on December or January nights. The red tiles in the gallery shine and the yellow walls all look recently painted, as do the gray doors, in front of each of which there’s a multicolored doormat so new-looking that Gabriela feels guilty whenever she steps on them, even when she’s barefoot. The parquet flooring in the dining room, the living room, and the bedrooms also shines, as does the furniture, some of which, like the dishes, antiques inherited after her parents’ death, receive special treatment. Before she retired, her aunt Ángela had taught geography at the technical college, though she could’ve lived without working because both of her sisters, who were married, had renounced their inheritance, which wasn’t enormous, but enough for one person. Because of the free time that being single allowed her, she’d been the one to care for their parents, who’d never wanted to leave the northern town where they’d been born and where they’d wanted to be buried. But her aunt didn’t have the sad, compliant, and dark habits that so many nineteenth-century novels attribute to spinsters. She’d traveled ever since she was young, alone or with friends—she’d hitchhiked across Patagonia with just a backpack; she’d been to Mexico and Europe several times; to California and to Egypt; and, in recent years, when the weather was right, she’d take trips with her friends to the mountains, to the Iguazú falls, or to Brazil. The third sister, Helena, had married a Uruguayan doctor and lived in Montevideo, and Ángela regularly took the morning flight, which left at eight thirty, transferred at Aeroparque, and by noon was having lunch at the Mercado del Puerto. In fact, that afternoon she’d gone to the Córdoba mountains with a couple of friends. On the kitchen table, held down by a glass ashtray, there’s a note:
Gabi dear, they’re coming for me at one thirty, and we get back on Monday afternoon. I left a few things for you in the fridge, the two bottles of white wine and the chicken too, in case José Carlos comes for the weekend. Put it in the freezer if you go to Rosario, and don’t worry, I’ll make it for you Monday night when you get back.
You-know-who called this morning wanting to talk about your work on Brando & Co. He insisted again that his name shouldn’t appear anywhere in the book. He doesn’t mind that you’ve given a copy to Gutiérrez, but the fact that Tomatis has a copy too has him very worried. I tried to reassure him that Carlitos could keep the secret and told him that otherwise you and Pinocchio wouldn’t have given him the manuscript. But he’s afraid that Carlitos, if he thinks about it, will realize who the author is. I reminded him
that Tomatis was still playing with blocks when the things he writes about were happening, which calmed him down a little, but, to be honest with you, I think our friend’s fears are perfectly justified. The moment he takes one look at it, Carlitos won’t have any doubt about who the author is. If he insinuates anything, you have to ask him to please be discreet.
Well, I should finish packing so I don’t make the girls wait. Big kiss till Monday from your auntie.
Gabriela stands by the table with the note in her hand, thinking. With a preoccupied air, she takes a glass from the cabinet, pours herself some seltzer from the fridge, and picking up the sheet that she’s just put down on the table, rereads it while she sips the seltzer. Though there’s no one else in the kitchen or in the rest of the house to provoke her level of worry, Gabriela’s expression, consisting of pinching her lips and slowly shaking her head in a vaguely circular way that isn’t negative or affirmative, while she rereads the note and for several seconds afterward, is unmistakably doubtful. She and Pinocchio should have kept Carlitos from knowing who the author of the text was, which means it was without a doubt a mistake to give him a copy. But she doesn’t think that he’d reveal it, and though it’s true that he’s been known to flirt with indiscretion for the sake of a joke, he only does so at the cost of people he considers undeserving of courtesy, Mario Brando for example. He does make cruel jokes about people he knows, but he’s just as capable of making them about his best friends or about himself. Some of his jokes are legendary, like the one about the writer who’d been accepted to the Academy of Letters, and who they said had been a prostitute and who’d gone to sadomasochistic orgies when he’d first moved to Buenos Aires as a kid; Carlitos once said that he personified all three philosophical schools at once, the Academic, the Peripatetic, and the Stoic. But no, there’s no way he would comment publicly on what he knew, given that she and Pinocchio had asked for his discretion. And besides, is there anyone left to listen? Gabriela’s face brightens, her head stops its doubtful movement, and her lips, softening, recover their normal shape. She finishes the last sip of seltzer, leaves the empty glass in the sink, and, taking her aunt’s note, walks to her room, opens a blue cardboard folder, and files the note inside along with several other papers. When she closes the folder, she freezes again and now it’s her forehead that’s pinched: And the wine salesman? Wasn’t it irresponsible of her and Pinocchio to reveal so many details about the fourth informant? Although he doesn’t have (nor will he have) access to the text before it’s published, Nula knows more about its author’s personal life after their conversation this afternoon than Tomatis and Gutiérrez combined, at least relative to what as she and Pinocchio have told them. His friendship with Pinocchio, though not very intimate, does validate the confidence, but his profession, which puts him in contact with many sorts of people over the course of the day, could offer many temptations, simply as a means for bragging—his overblown self-esteem is obvious a mile away—to prove his relationships in intellectual circles, or out of vanity, because those supposed relationships could help him close a sale or even engineer a sexual conquest. Gabriela sees the dark green station wagon again, moving slowly down the sandy road, turning at the intersection and parking some twenty meters ahead, alongside the white bars of the gate. Now she sees Gutiérrez and the wine salesman sitting in the lounge chairs next to the pool, drinking a coffee, and she thinks she hears Nula tactlessly telling Gutiérrez everything that he’s just learned about the anonymous author of the novelized history of precisionism, which creates a double layer of complication, the first relative to the author of the fragment and the second relative to Gutiérrez himself, because they’ve told Nula more about the fourth informant, not because they doubted his judgment but rather because they aren’t close enough to Gutiérrez to discuss certain things. She’s tempted to call Soldi and tell him all of this, but she realizes that he’s probably still not home, and, feeling suddenly more tired than usual—she might be a little hungry, because the two catfish with salad actually turned out somewhat thin for three people—she lets herself fall softly, face up, on the bed, and stretching out contentedly, careful to keep her feet over the edge of the bed, she uses her feet to slide her shoes off at the heels, letting them fall with a loud thud against the lacquered parquet floor. Sliding to the center of the bed, she spreads her legs, stretches her arms alongside her body, and assuming a satisfied expression (like everyone else, Gabriela is in the habit, which by now is unconscious, of displaying her inner life with gestures and expressions, especially when she’s alone), she smiles happily and half closes her eyes.
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