Yesterday the two men, purportedly, went through their usual nighttime routine, returning home in a state of complete drunkenness. According to some neighbors, the violent argument started as soon as they’d entered their room. It quickly degenerated into a fist fight, during which Pérez picked up the knife he used to attack his assailant, managing to inflict ten fierce wounds on various parts of his body. As a result of the attack, the victim collapsed and died.
“How horrible,” said a lady. “Just look at this, Estercita, the things that go on! ”
“It’s in the paper?” asked Estercita, who was cross-eyed.
“Every single gruesome detail. Poor man, no one’s safe these days. If it weren’t for God, we’d all be dead.”
“Listen to what they’re playing,” said Estercita. “That record Cuca has. Her boyfriend’s brother gave it to her. The one with the record shop. Divine.”
“Yes, a classic,” said the lady. “Like what the lady in Apartment 8 was playing Saturday, when we were at your aunt’s house.”
“How divinely she played! How grand! If I had a hi-fi, all I’d do is listen to classical music. How divine! Just listen to the violin!”
“It’s very grand,” said the lady. “It sounds like the Clair de lune.”
“It does,” said Estercita. “It’s almost the same, except Clair de lune is more romantic.”
“Shit,” said the chronicler. “And now in we go, children, it’s our turn. Everybody hold on to everybody else, and make sure no dogs sneak into your pockets.”
They were entering when they heard yet another speaker bidding farewell to the column of people moving out. I think he’s speaking in verse, thought Andrés. This is getting to be ridiculous.
The gods, thought Juan, and he remembered:
The gods walk among trampled things, holding up
the hems of their mantles, an expression of disgust on their faces.
Among rotten cats, smashed larvae, accordions,
feeling the moisture of corrupt rags through their sandals—
the vomit of time.
They no longer dwell in their naked heaven, thrown
out of themselves by a pain, a turbid dream,
walking wounded by nightmares and slime,
pausing to recount their dead, the clouds face-down,
like dogs with their broken Assyrian tongues.
They lie without dreams, loving one another with the
expression of sleepwalkers,
mixed together in tombs and sponges, amid kisses
dark like weeping;
peering enviously into the abyss
where erect rats fight and squeal
over shreds of flag.
“Silence!”
“Okay, okay,” said the chronicler resentfully, and the guard stared hard at him: “Less okay and more respect, mister. This is the house of adoration. Get into single file, form a line. Silence!”
In the half light, fearfully picking their way over the soft ground (as if the ground were given a different, almost menacing quality by the enclosed space), the fifteen members of their group lined up. It was almost impossible to see, but the guard showed the way, shining his flashlight on the ground. From outside came the noise of barking,
and the canvas trembled as if an enormous dog were scratching.
Voices, a kind of melopoeia. (Now, on top of perorating in couplets, the son of a bitch is going to sing, thought Andrés, enraged; but knowing that his anger was because of Abel, that he was transferring it to the orator—although, not even because of Abel but because he knew that Abel was nearby: actually,
a desire to have a reason for being angry—after all, Abel, so what?—and for something to do. But that is the question, o Arjuna: to do something and why?)
The beam from the guard’s flashlight hit the ceiling. It was curious to observe how the white beam perforated the canvas, you could see the light go right through to the other side— and the searchlight outside illuminated the whole area with a weak column of light that copied the movements of the flashlight inside. The light from the flashlight smashed into a brilliant disk at a seam in the canvas; when the guard waved it around, it looked as if two enemy searchlights were looking for each other;
but the one outside was weaker.
On the plane of the canvas they joined ferociously, following one another, coupling, biting the cloth. From the inferior beam outside, there came a sufficient glow to see the figure of the guard, the line of those in the group, and a square black box on four legs, raised about five-and-a-half feet from the floor. It had a glass top (the tiny moon of the flashlight on the canvas, its course over the ceiling, was reflected weakly in the glass. It was extremely beautiful).
“You can move forward one at a time,” said the guard, suddenly lowering the flashlight (which ran like a whip along the body of the line) and shining the light on the interior of the box. “Careful, the ground is slippery.”
Stella was the first to pass through, she had a right to be first. Juan was having fun seeing her stop when she got alongside (fun, without having fun—a cutaneous fun to pass the time), she was poking her tongue out, her purse held tightly
to her bosom,
on tiptoe
trembling, illuminated by the reflection on the glass— darling, bone bearer, adorer without vocation, idle
supplicant—
ogling by decree of nature.
START COMING BACK, MISS.
There was some cotton; and the bone on top of it. The light from the flashlight got it to reflect some sparks, as if it were made of sugar. They all stared at it,
COME ON BACK NOW, DON’T FALL ASLEEP THERE,
they could see the bone clearly, despite the fact that it was almost as white as the cotton; up against the cotton, the bone seemed almost pink, each end a very light yellow.
ALL RIGHT, TELL US IF YOU PLAN TO SPEND THE NIGHT!
When the line turned, passing by the box, it proceeded straight out the exit, a flap of loosely hanging canvas. The chronicler, who brought up the rear, paused next to the bone, studying it slowly. Then the guard turned off his flashlight.
YOUR TURN’S UP, MOVE ALONG.
So they had to leave, and ran into the others who had stopped in front of the speakers platform. The speaker they were assigned to was ruddy and potbellied, with a double-breasted vest and a gold chain. “Well, let’s hope he’s a good speaker,” said Clara. “We want to get the full effect of this experience.”
The line had collapsed when they moved out, and trapped them against the podium. A flood of light (the searchlights occasionally moving) cascaded down on them, pinning them in place like insects on a board. They reacted by forming a knot—Andrés and Stella, Clara and Juan, with the chronicler forming the center. A drum was beating some sixty feet from them, women were singing, and all of them had their eyes fixed on the orator, who was waiting for something.
“But I will not speak,” said the orator, standing on tiptoe (he was tiny and had a singsong voice). “Instead,” pointing a little pink finger toward the Sanctuary, “I’m going to ask for a moment of silence”—no one was speaking—“as a tribute to the great” (indecisive pause) “to the greatest of the”—still no one was speaking—“to the unique, the unique!”
“This just had to happen to us,” said the chronicler. “You expect a fiery sermon and look what you get.”
“Silence,” said a gentleman with a black tie.
“Silence,” said Andrés. “Yes, a moment of silence, by the clock.”
“Would you please shut up,” begged Stella, looking all around.
The orator once again stood on tiptoe and waved his arms as if he were shooing away mosquitoes. He counts the seconds like a referee at a boxing match, thought Juan. Then he was opening and closing his mouth, his audience waited expectantly; but the strip of loose canvas was rising, and the group that had followed them in the Sanctuary began to flood in. The jam of people around the podium got tighter, th
ere were mutterings of protest, instantly silenced by the orator with a terrible flutter of his arms. This would be the perfect moment to kick over the podium and send this rosy-cheeked twit to hell, thought Juan. He pushed Stella away so he could get a clear shot and was just getting ready to pretend he was being pushed by the people emerging from the Sanctuary—when the orator emitted something between a shriek and an entreaty, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his hands stretched forward (his gold chain swinging back and forth on his belly).
“Hey, just a minute, everyone!” he shouted. “A minute. What’s a minute, when all the centuries combined wouldn’t be enough time to silence and humble ourselves in the presence of this testimony …”
Listen here: do you think my feet are made of concrete?
“in the presence of which, ladies and gentlemen…”
“Let’s get out of here,” said the chronicler. “This is going to turn into a real speech, mark my words.”
“the grandeur of the greatest…”
Get that elbow out of there. I’m begging you in the name of God!
“the paternal authorities that over the course of history took on the supremacy and majesty—because this is the moment to say it; we ARGENTINES …
“The little word that fixes everything,” said Andrés. “Let’s go, there’s an opening over there. Follow that longhaired dog; he knows what he’s doing.”
The dog got them out in a flash, and the thankful chronicler felt obliged to scratch his ear. The dog snapped at him but missed.
In the Bolívar Café, they liberated themselves from some of their mud and fatigue. The waiter, a frowning man from Galicia, talked about the fog as if it were a personal enemy. The mud was worse—they had to use a knife to scrape Stella’s shoes; and Clara was ashamed to look at her stockings. The waiter was stupendous; for him the only topic was that thing, the fog. He brought them their lemonade and some sandwiches and then started in once more on the fog.
“But it isn’t fog,” said the chronicler. “No one knows what it is. They’re doing tests in a lab.”
“And then there’s that little matter of the jaguar,” said the waiter, who knew the chronicler. “Didn’t you read about it? In Colonia Cerrillos, which is in Entre Ríos. A jaguar that’s put the fear of God into people. It’s a terrible thing.”
“All felines are ferocious,” said Andrés. “The jaguar is a feline.”
“Is the jaguar ferocious?” asked Clara.
“Yes,” said Stella. “All felines are ferocious.”
The chronicler and Stella began to talk about the bone. The waiter would slip away to the counter and other tables and then come back to chat with them. The table was long and seated around it were
Clara next to Juan (but with a chair between them, occupied by the cauliflower and Clara’s purse); then Andrés right next to Juan, occupying both the head of the table and one side, so that at the other end in the first chair, opposite Juan and Clara, was Stella —chatting with the chronicler (and the waiter periodically pushing his nose between them).
And there was a loud, tense noise brought in from outside by the fog—amplified and at the same time dissolved. Just noise; not the noise of something or other; and inside the café the teaspoons always tinkling like little bells in the style of Lakmé and the shouts of the other waiters from Galicia with precise orders SIX SANDWICHES DELUXE, TWO WITH ANCHOVIES!
Andrés wasn’t sure he could speak with Juan without Clara’s hearing. Clara was looking toward the Cabildo, the reddish streetlights, a soft mass in the fog, a balcony with shadows. A balcony filled with fog and shadows.
“I imagine you saw him, too,” said Andrés.
“Abelito? Of course I saw him,” said Juan. “It was certainly Abel. That makes twice in one night.”
“At the House, you said you’d seen him. But running into him again here makes me wonder.”
“You know he’s crazy,” said Juan. “It could just be a coincidence.”
“I can’t imagine Abel in the Plaza de Mayo,” said Andrés. “If he came it was because he followed us.”
“Let him have his fun.”
“I don’t like the idea of him having fun at Clara’s expense,” Andrés was about to say.
Instead: “If I were you. I’d forget about it.”
It’s sad, he thought.
All fog, thought Clara. We came fog, we talked fog, but it isn’t really fog.
“It isn’t really fog, is it?”
“No,” said the chronicler, turning around. “No one knows what it is. Down at the paper they’re working on figuring it out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Juan. “He’s crazy, what does it matter?”
“Listen to this,” said Andrés. “Fiery souls are more open to rage. They aren’t born equal; they’re like the four elements of nature—fire, water, air, and earth.”
“What’s all that?”
“Seneca. I read it this morning. It sounds like Abel, too.”
“Abel? Abel doesn’t have a fiery soul. His ardor is like his clothes, which he wears on the outside. He can change his ardor the way he changes ties.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Andrés. “Shadowing people, spying. Those are jobs that require dedication.”
“How about being bored?”
“Even worse. Everything around you grows then.”
“It may well be,” said Juan, looking Andrés in the eye, “that what Abelito is doing is studying to be a boy scout. He’s earning his merit badges.”
“Okay, okay,” said Andrés, shrugging his shoulders. “If you don’t want to talk about it, fine.”
But I do want to, thought Juan, turning around to smile at Clara, I'd like to go on talking about Abel, protecting myself from Abel—together, with Andrés.
“All those pumas and mountain cats are very counterproductive animals,” said the waiter as he walked away. The chronicler, looking meditative, nodded agreement, and Stella had goose bumps because of the jaguar story.
“I’m tired,” said Clara, stretching. “I’m not sleepy, I couldn’t sleep. But no one is talking with me. I’m all alone like a character in Virginia Woolf, surrounded by lights and voices, like a character in Virginia Woolf, and so tired.”
“Let’s go home,” said Juan nervously. “We’ll grab a taxi and take Andrés and Stella. We can drop the chronicler off at the paper.”
“The thing is, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. It’s like being on death row—I’d dream of horrors, my special nightmares. You know my nightmares as well as I do, Juan. Models A and B. Model A for the night before. Model B for the lendemain.” She ran her fingertips over her face as if she were searching for cobwebs. “No, Juanacito, let’s not go home. Let’s wait until the sun comes up in the city, let’s walk and sing old songs.”
“She really is a character out of Virginia Woolf,” said the chronicler. “Count me out. As we say in the foyer of the club, I must sleep.
(Il était trois petits enfants
qui s’en allaient glaner aux champs
s’en vinrent un soir chez un boucher;
“Boucher voudrais-tu nous loger?”
“Entrez, entrez, petits enfants,
y’a de la place assurément.’)
“Have some more lemonade,” said Andrés. “That way you can gather more material and causticity for your articles. By the way, how pretty that tune you’re humming is.”
How pretty she is with her eyes closed, he thought.
(Ils n’étaient pas sitôt entrés,
que le boucher les a tués,
les a coupés en petits morceaux,
mis au saloir comme pourceaux …)
“Clara,” said Stella, poking her. “And you say you’re not sleepy. She’s nuts.”
“I’m not sleeping,” said Clara. “I was remembering … Yes, the song was also like a nightmare. How horrible childhood is, Stella. Weren’t you afraid when you were a little girl? Didn’t you feel an incessant fear? I did, an
d it comes back every night. Those nightmare images from childhood are the only ones that remain fixed and shining. Or, better put, have the sensation of being fixed and shining. Everything I see now is like the Cabildo over there, a whitish clot in the fog.”
“What you’re saying, it’s very good,” approved Juan, staring at her.
“That stuff probably isn’t fog,” said Andrés with a sigh. Probably, just to continue Clara’s line of thought, you’re just getting old.”
“Things used to have volume—they came to an end, they glittered,” said Clara. “Now all we do is know that they have all these, attributes, and spread them on when we look at them like a coat of paint. I’ve gotten so dumb that I suppress my senses. I don’t let them function. When I wait on a corner for Juan—and God knows the worm makes me wait—it happens that I see him two or three times. That’s right, I see him—his face you see right here, his way of moving. It happened again tonight.”
“He’s so common that anyone can stand in for him,” said Andrés.
“Don’t laugh, it’s really sad. It’s the filthy projection of concepts, the logic machine. One day I was waiting for a letter from Mom. The mailman would always leave the mail on a chair in the living room. I went over and there were three letters. From the door, I saw the one on top (Mom always used long envelopes)—with large, beautiful letters. I saw my name, the ‘C’ round and potbellied. When I had it in my hand, I saw:the envelope wasn’t long, it wasn’t Mom’s handwriting, and the ‘C’ was an ‘M.’”
“Desire, a magic lamp,” said Juan. “Poor Clara, you’d love to abolish everything that gets in the way.”
“I’d like to know who I am or who I was. And be that. Not this convention accepted by you, by me, by everyone else.”
“I feel the same way,” said Juan. “Why do you think I write poems? There are states of being, moments … Look. Astonishing things happen when you’re in between sleep and being awake: suddenly you feel like a wedge about to knock all obstacles out of the way. When you wake up (doesn’t this happen to you, Andrés?), sometimes you have a knowledge, a memory. Then you look around—and standing there is the night table and on top of it is the alarm clock no less, and just beyond it, the mirror … That’s why I’m usually sad in the morning, at least until I have lunch.”
Final Exam Page 7
