After that prodigious Scherzo, with its whirlwinds and its weapons, comes the Finale, a song of jubilation and freedom, with its celebrations and dances, its exultant marches and its laughter, and the rich volutes of its variations. And behold, amidst it all, Death, which lies beyond Victory, reappears. But once again Victory rejects Death. And the voice of Death is drowned out by the clamor of jubilation . . . The strings and woodwinds of the Presto were descending now in fortissimo toward the happy concerto for brass. “Can I open up yet?” asked the usher, seeing that the ticket seller was closing a book with a gesture of irritation, no longer paying any attention to what was being played behind the frayed damask curtain. Everything was exasperating him tonight: the symphony he had missed; the smell of the rain on his only suit; the forms of the flesh he had touched which still warmed his hands; the desire present in his throbbing heart, his annoyance at not being able to satisfy it; the penury of his obscure life—”in a cage”—and his messy room to make his insomnia all the more disagreeable. He berated Estrella in hushed tones, calling her what she was. And he recalled her complaints about the Inquisition and the things she’d said because she was threatened; she must have informed on someone; someone who’d relied on her, forgetting that a harlot is always a harlot, and her last name is garbage; it had to be that, because she’d informed on someone, she was trying to find excuses by working herself up: “that she might be thrown into the women’s prison, that she might have to leave the neighborhood; that now they even wanted to know who you made a life with.” And he’d listened to her without understanding, deaf to everything unrelated to the urgency of his desire. He slammed his fist down on the money drawer, but there was no satisfaction in it, repeating again and again the insult he preferred ever since he’d been thrown out of the house for want of a few coins. On his left, next to Beethoven: His Great Creative Years, printed on an official notice decorated with cut sugarcane, were the National Theater Regulations: The employee in charge of the public sale of seats will take charge of the sealed currency in order to check it for any discrepancies, then turn over the money from his shift; in order to do so, he will close the ticket office half an hour before the end of the performance. It was raining again, and the sound of the water on the nearby trees, on the sidewalk, on the granite of the stairs mixed in with the noise of the applause that rose up in the theater. “Open up,” said the ticket seller, locking his door. “The conductor is vile; the way he led the symphony, it couldn’t have lasted its full forty-six minutes.” He looked toward the old lady’s terrace; soon he would go to make sure she was not the one who had died. The audience was rushing out of the hall, afraid the storm would get worse, with those winds blowing in from the sea, presaging the bad weather that had just been forecast by the weather bureau. The side doors were closed and only a few indecisive people stayed on among the mirrors and allegories in the lobby to discuss the performance.
Then, two spectators who had remained in their seats in the next-to-last row slowly stood up, crossed the deserted hall, whose lights were going out, leaned over the rail of a darkened box, and fired into the carpet. Some musicians came out onto the stage with their hats on, clutching their instruments, thinking that the shots might have been a strange effect of the storm, because just at that moment a prolonged crash of thunder echoed through the roof of the theater. “One less,” said the policeman who had just been summoned, kicking at the body. “And besides, he was passing counterfeit money,” said the ticket seller, showing the bill with the General with the sleepy eyes. “Give it to me,” said the officer, seeing that it was perfectly good. “It will have to be included with the evidence in the case.”
The Chase Page 9
