La Grande

by Juan José Saer

  Though the parking lot isn’t yet full, he has to drive around a couple of times before parking because there isn’t a single spot left in the first three or four rows closest to the main entrance. There are lots of cars from around the region that have been parked there all day, while their owners run errands downtown, leaving the shopping at the supercenter, the movies, and other activities for later in the afternoon, and even that night. The specialists who built the supercenter—the autonomous society to which they belonged must have been headquartered in the United States, in Europe, or in Switzerland, for instance, or in some other fiscal paradise like Monte Carlo, Luxemburg, or the Canary Islands—were not concerned in the least with the swamp on which they constructed it; after all, Venice and Saint Petersburg had been built on swamps, and they hadn’t sunk yet. The primary function of the supercenter was to create a strategic point where customers from many points around the region could converge; although a couple of bus lines from the city extended their routes across the river for the first time in the history of local public transportation, the city’s inhabitants would be grossly mistaken if they thought that the supercenter was intended exclusively for their use. The strategists hoped to attract (and they were quite successful at it) clients from upward of sixty or seventy kilometers away, and even beyond, along the coastal road, the route that runs north along the west bank of the Paraná and its tributaries, but also, across the Colastiné bridge and the underwater tunnel, several kilometers after the fork, people from Entre Ríos province, on the eastern shore, not only from Paraná, the capital, but also from important cities to the south and east of the capital. From the other side of the city, to the north, to the south, and especially to the west, the towns and cities of the plain also send their processions of the faithful every weekend. Every social class sends its delegations; everyone that has something to spend, however little that may be, spends it at the supercenter, where even the most intimate desires are anticipated, given that the hypermarket is intended to replace, by incorporation, every kind of business, large or small. Every new product that appears on the market has a place there, and unlike specialized businesses, in the supercenter every novelty is like a new song added to a performance. When, for instance, endives appear in the produce section, the customers rejoice and offer their commentary; and when a product that’s usually in stock is missing, the winds of dismay, if not panic, begin to blow, as they say, among the customers. For those who have nothing to spend, which is practically the majority, the hypermarket also has a feast prepared: every so often, tired of seeing the circus from outside, they take it by force, attempting, diligently, to demolish it, and, ultimately, it’s overrun.

  Before getting out of the car, Nula takes the copy of the verses by Omar Kayyám from his briefcase and, folding the white pages carefully down the middle, he deposits them in the side pocket of his jacket. As he crosses the parking lot, from the sixth row parallel to the entrance, the sun seems stronger than it did during his siesta, possibly because of the sensation of increased heat from the warm asphalt, over which his obedient shadow, the sharply drawn silhouette that follows him, diminished by the position of the sun in the cloudless sky, is projected. And when he enters the coolness inside the building, the change in climate, which includes, in addition to the air conditioning, a continuous loop of saccharine movie soundtracks in the background—“Love Is A Many Splendored Thing,” just now—contributes, Nula remembers every time he walks in, to the sensation of passing from the air to the water, like when, as a teenager, diving into the river from the floating dock at the regatta club, he’d penetrate the subaquatic medium, completely different from the land above. But immediately, to the left of the entrance, a small crowd, somewhere between passive and unruly, calls his attention: a disorganized line, gathering and dispersing in accordance with the contained agitation of its constituents, mostly men, but also a few women, teenagers, and children, from various social classes, judging by their clothes, causes Nula to wonder what new, magical product can produce that reconciliation of classes, genders, and generations, equalized by the common denominator of appetite. Apparently, certain sporadic irregularities in their behavior, motivated by the impatience and even the anxiety of some of its constituents, produces a momentary disturbance that disrupts the line, eventually reconstituted by the vigorous protests emerging from the crowd. Nula approaches a dark-skinned older man who watches the scene with cold, vaguely disdainful calm.

  —What are they selling? Nula says.

  —Tickets to the Sunday match, the man says, without even turning his head to look at the face of the person who’s asked him the question, concentrating instead on his observation of the crowd’s behavior, possibly with the intention of making use of his observations to find an advantageous place in line, or simply with the philosophical neutrality of someone corroborating with this scene a specific preconception of the human race. Nula hesitates a moment, observing for himself the people who swarm around the entrance to the small room, and then he takes a few steps away, toward the empty passageway, and taking his cell phone from his pocket, dials a number and waits a few seconds for an answer.

  —Good afternoon, he says. This is Mr. Anoch, from Amigos del Vino. Is Ms. Virginia there, please?

  —One moment, says a feminine voice. And after a few seconds: She’s in a meeting. Can you wait ten minutes in the cafeteria, please?

  —Of course, Nula says.

  The voice on the other end says thank you and hangs up. The cafeteria is almost empty just now; the customers seem to prefer, being as they are brighter and more suitable for light fare, the two bars in the hypermarket, one at each end of the building, the farthest one near the phone bank, and the other just before the entrance to the food section, in a wide passageway, along with a car dealership and, across the way, a few meters before the bar-cafeteria, a travel agency and a sporting goods store. Without intending to, or even realizing it, Nula sits down at the same table, in the same seat, and in the same position as Wednesday, on his way back from Paraná. The moment he sits down, a detail that he’d overlooked disorients him for a minute, and while amusing, insistently, though intermittently of course, it torments him: the guttural pigeon-like cooing, increasing in frequency and in amplitude as the paroxysm approached, that at once savage and tender cooing issuing, hoarsely, from Lucía’s chest the night when he decided, crawling on four legs, almost in tears, from their bedroom, to leave their lives forever, the cooing that, as he listened to it for the last time, from the living room, seemed to have transformed into a growl, hadn’t appeared the day before yesterday in Paraná, in fact no sound whatsoever had come from Lucía’s chest. She might have clung to his body somewhat more tightly at the moment when, shuddering, he finished, but the unequivocal signal of pleasure from another, more remote from her own body than the distant stars, the impotent and painful fury of desire reaching its upper limit of incandescence as well as its momentary obliteration, the sonorous evidence rising from the dark jungle of her organs, had remained silent during her calculated and blatant pantomime. And I felt guilty! She acts, thinks, and breathes for him. He commands her from a distance, like a remote-controlled robot. They’re beyond united; they’re a single entity in two separate bodies. He’s assaulted by a tenuous humiliation, and, almost immediately, by a battered, acquiescent relief. Remembering that he’s in a cafeteria, he stands up and, walking toward the passageway, separated from the room by a moveable metal railing a meter high, parallel along the full length of the shelves, refrigerated or otherwise, displaying food and drinks, picks out a carbonated mineral water, and after paying for it and having the cashier open it, he puts several cubes of ice and a slice of lemon, which he picks up with metal tongs from a receptacle, into a tall glass and, arriving at the end of the line, starts to cross the silent room, past the empty tables, toward his table. Halfway to the table, he stops, sprays some mineral water into the glass, shakes it, and takes a sip. And, while he’s drinking, the following idea,
like a surge of emotion, strikes him: Everything is real, probably, but if we sometimes see things as unreal it’s because of their transience. Only in dreams are things absolute, when in reality we see things as relative and transitory. And so, while dreaming, we believe more in the reality of the dream than in what we believe while awake in the reality of the world.

  When Virginia enters the cafeteria, Nula checks the time on his watch: it’s ten to five. She moves through the tables, dressed in yellow linen, so slender, firm, beautiful, and decisive, that, while she appears to incarnate the feminine ideal par excellence, her energy has a kind of virility that Nula intuits to be somewhat uncontrollable, and beyond his own powers. Nula stands up and waits for her.

  —What punctuality, Virginia says.

  —For you, I’d wait for hours, Nula says.

  —Please, no clichés, Virginia says.

  —Should we have a drink? Nula says.

  —There’s no time; it’s almost five, Virginia says.

  —Did you remember that we had a date if everything went well? Nula says.

  —Of course, Virginia says. And if it goes to hell, too. How about we meet at Déjà Vu, the little bar on the boulevard across from the Alianza Francesa, at nine fifteen? I get off at eight, and that’ll give me time to change.

  —Sounds perfect, Nula says, and he makes a small, parodic bow that produces in Virginia sudden, happy, surprised laughter. Don’t change too much, he says, because you’re perfect the way you are.

  Virginia shakes her head, defeated, and waits for him to come around the table before starting to walk. When they go out to the passageway, the music is interrupted and a masculine voice interjects the sonorous flow audible even in the most distant corner of the hypermarket: Two announcements, one for children and another for everyone over eighteen: In the toy section, there’s a raffle for a soccer ball, in honor of the Sunday Clásico; no purchase necessary, the raffle tickets are available at every register in the hyper. For the adults, starting at five o’clock and continuing all week, in the beverage section, there’s a free tasting from the prestigious Amigos del Vino, introducing a new line of red and white wines for the selective palate, at moderate prices designed for the discerning clientele of the Warden hypermarket. The voice is cut off and the volume of the music increases slowly, reoccupying, alone, the ambient space.

  —What do you think? Virginia says.

  —Exactly what we hoped for, Nula says.

  When they are close to the intersection where the stand has been set up, Nula sees Américo and Chela, approaching in the opposite direction that he and Virginia are, and when they’re almost there, Nula raises his arm, exposing his wrist watch, and shakes his head with exaggerated amazement.

  —Perfect timing! he says when they arrive.

  And Américo, falsely solemn and serious, announces: Punctuality is the politeness of kings.

  The four of them smile at each other.

  —This is Ms. Virginia, who runs the beverage section for Warden. Américo, my esteemed foreman, distinguished proconsul of the northeast region for the best wines in Argentina, and Chela, his exquisite wife, Nula says.

  —Ms. Virginia, charmed, Américo says, shaking her hand while he points to Nula with the other hand: Trust me when I tell you never to buy a used car from this youngster.

  The four of them laugh and approach the stand. Two girls, dressed alike—a white, short-sleeved blouse and a light green pleated skirt—are standing on either side of the stand, which is a narrow, collapsible counter at the ends of which two vertical metal bars sustain a sectioned wooden board painted a green similar to the skirts and on which a vine has been painted on one end and the word Amigos del Vino Tasting on the other. Two open bottles of white wine sit in a small ice bucket, and, on the counter, two of red, along with several rows of plastic cups and a stack of colorful brochures. Behind the stand, the shelves are full of bottles of red and white wine, differentiated only by the color of the label. Chela approaches the girls and gives each of them a kiss on the cheek.

  —Steady, girls, this only lasts a week, she says.

  —Alright, Américo, Nula says. A few words to start us off.

  —Always remember that Amigos del Vino isn’t a sect, but a revealed religion, Américo says.

  —Exactly, Nula says. I present to you the selected fragments of its godless mystic: the divine Omar.

  Reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, he pulls out the carefully folded white pages and hands them over.

  —With this, no one can stop us, Américo says, and he puts them in the side pocket of his own jacket. Then, turning to Virginia, he says, Have you ever tried our product, ma’am?

  —Of course. Behind the scenes, last week. It’s high quality; otherwise, it wouldn’t be here.

  From the end of the aisle perpendicular to them, Moro, the real estate agent, makes his sudden appearance.

  —Morito! Américo says. They’ve known each other since high school, and he held one of the first positions in the reliable client list that he gave Nula when he debuted as a salesman.

  —Américo, Moro says. And, turning to the others, he says, ironically, I heard them announce the event over the loudspeakers and decided to come by. Good thing I did, with the chief maximus here in person.

  One of the girls approaches him:

  —Would you like a taste, sir?

  Unsure, Moro quizzes first Américo and then Nula, the experts who guide his wine consumption, with his eyes:

  —It’s a high-quality product, Américo insists with a serious expression, further accentuated when he explains the premise of the marketing campaign they’re putting on: We want to put an end to the scandal that in a democratic society the table wines within reach of every budget are always terrible quality.

  —And you, Nula? Moro says.

  —Don’t think I’m going to commit harakiri contradicting my boss, Nula says, pleased to hear the others’ laugher, especially Virginia’s, which sounded vaguely surprised and somewhat stronger than the everyone else. But he adds, in a confidential tone, gesturing to the girls at the same time: Try the white and then tell us.

  —Why not? Moro says.

  The girl takes out a bottle of white from the ice bucket, pours a small amount of wine in one of the plastic cups, and extends it to Moro.

  —Would anyone else like to try? the girl says.

  —I’m saving myself for later, Virginia says, an apparently innocent sentence that Nula interprets as directed to him and overflowing with suggestion. And she adds: I have to get back to my office. Friday’s are always crazy. Make yourselves at home.

  Moro, seeing her walk away, beautiful, impeccable, and attractive, her firm body draped in yellow cloth, on high heels that click when she takes her first steps down the drink aisle before disappearing, stands frozen with the plastic cup in his hand halfway full of wine as yellow as Virginia’s clothes.

  —The longer you hold it, the hotter it gets, Américo says as his eyes, glowing maliciously, search fruitlessly for Nula’s, standing motionless with a calculated expression of indifference.

  Moro raises the plastic cup, trying to see the color of the wine in the light, but the plastic isn’t transparent enough for him to see clearly what’s inside, and so he resigns himself to lowering his hand and examining the wine through the cup’s circular opening. Then, slowly, he brings it to his lips, but before allowing the plastic edge to touch them, he pauses mid-movement and shifts his nose slightly toward its contents. Under the eager and curious looks of Chela, of the girl who’s just served him (the other one, curious to know what’s happening in the rest of the hyper, isn’t even paying attention), of Américo and Nula, Moro takes the first sip and, rather than swallowing it immediately, holds it behind his teeth, attempting to lift it to his palate, murmuring slightly, narrowing his eyes, until finally he swallows it, shaking his head solemnly in approval, still concentrating, overdoing it somewhat, in Nula’s opinion, as he thinks that Moro, were he alone w
ith the wine, wouldn’t have felt the need to demonstrate so excessively an experience that, ultimately, even for him, Nula, and for Américo, who know the wine by heart, having tried it many times before deciding to sell it, is now and will continue, till the end of time, to be unique, incommunicable, and remote. Forgetting the wine, Nula thinks, Moro was the first to see Gutiérrez when he returned to the city without telling any of his friends. He’d picked him up at the Sauce Viejo airport, had taken him to the house in Rincón that Doctor Russo had built with every luxury with the fraudulent credit from the bank that because of so much shady business between the doctor and his friends ended up banca rotta, and when he, Moro, the man who at this moment is taking the second sip of white wine, which he detains intentionally in order to qualify as exactly as possible the fugitive evidence of the experience, the man who on behalf of the real estate agency in Buenos Aires collaborated on the sale of the house, allowing Nula to see Lucía, after five years, coming out of the swimming pool in that fluorescent green swimsuit, and had suggested to Gutiérrez, with the recommendation of the agency in Buenos Aires, to have some fish at a fancy restaurant in Guadalupe he, Gutiérrez, had preferred to go to the San Lorenzo grill house, which had last been fashionable in the late fifties, probably, and which Nula knew because, when he was finishing high school, he and some friends would often go there to learn the ways of drunkenness. Moro had shown him the features of the house one by one and Gutiérrez had passed through them practically at a run, thinking not on the state of the amenities, corroded prematurely by neglect and the humidity, or on the price they were offering, which he didn’t even discuss and which he could’ve lowered significantly because very few people were interested in the house and almost no one had the means to buy it, but rather on ghosts that, for decades probably, he had been projecting into it. The houses in this city, Moro had told Nula one day when he’d come on a sales call, that my family has bought and sold and rented for the last three generations are the result of a compromise between the whims of their owners and the whims of their architects, constrained, fortunately, to a certain level of realism by zoning laws and the laws of economics, and so Nula figured that from a man who could speak in such an exact and disillusioned way about what he was compelled to sell, the rather gentle, sympathetic assessment that he made of Gutiérrez the day he first met him, suggesting that he lived in a different dimension than everyone else, actually seemed plausible.