Final Exam

by Julio Cortázar

  and the masseur signaled to the blind man not to move from the daybed. He tossed a blanket over his naked torso and ran to the door to listen. (In the box, Clara heard a shout.)

  although no one could locate the site of the disturbance, because the first usher was still trapped with the men who’d come in after him—the doors could no longer be opened from the outside and in the access cubicle there was a horrifying agglomeration;

  through a rare acoustical phenomenon,

  you could hear the terrible, anguished blows: the men locked in the stalls striking against the doors, vainly trying to open them against the sea of shoulders and backs that rippled in all directions, pinning Luisito Steimberg like a mummy in a urinal,

  encased back-first in a way no one had ever before seen. Steimberg was cursing in Yiddish, which suddenly came to his mouth like hot nails, but was unable to get out—even though the chronicler (who asked himself, what the hell, but no, it was a mistake) tried to reach his hand to him over the head of the very short, bleeding gentleman in order to get him out of the hole;

  he was wondering at the same time if he’d seen clearly among those men who came in at the end, wondering —although in fact there would be nothing odd to it, it’s a small world and if the guy liked violin music—

  no doubt he was wrong.

  There went Mr. Funes pushed by others. In the air a piece of chain—Pincho with a hand in his mouth was extremely pale—

  shoulders blocking, Juan like a top delivering blows to get to his father-in-law; the comb was in the hands of a heavy man with dark hair who held it aloft shouting “Drop it! Drop it!” as if someone else were actually holding it; a stall door opened inch by inch, on the side where Luisito Steimberg had just freed himself from the urinal and was stupidly smoothing his jacket over his hips,

  opening little by little and a shaved head, some eyeglasses, really a turtle that comes out to see what’s going on—

  the opposite of what good turtles do—

  with huge blows on the other stall doors by trapped men, and one final, ferocious general shake that sent the comb flying through the air until it fell into the sink, into the water

  and no one put his hand in there, where there were a few hairs but calm was being restored, starting with the aggressive guy who was near the exit to the cubicle, his arms fallen, and staring at the cop who was entering like a projectile, breaking the shell of bodies—terrible, respectable, the end of the affair.

  The chronicler (now he was sure he’d seen correctly, seeing a few even escaping in the back, into the cubicle),

  he sighed as if coming out of anesthesia. It’s crazy, he thought. And then, Which is why it happens.

  “You’ll see,” Pincho was saying to Juan, who was straightening out Mr. Funes’ clothes. “Now the virtuoso’s going to get mad because of this mess. I’ll bet you money he doesn’t play the third part and he screws up the matinee.”

  Juan was laughing, smoothing out Don Carlos’ jacket, putting the shoulder pads where they should be. He took a comb out of his pocket and lent it to him, it was still difficult to move his arms.

  The chronicler heard the policeman’s order and showed him his press card. For a second he thought the cop was going to take him in with the others.

  “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “The other day. That case with the kid on Peña street.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Okay.”

  “I’ll tell Clara,” the chronicler shouted to Juan. “Where are you going to take them, officer?”

  “To the press room. Then we’ll see.”

  “Aah, it was nothing. No need to cause a panic. Bye-bye, then.”

  How he disappears, thought Juan, amused beyond belief but breathless from a punch in the ribs. Well, so much for the exam. He carefully put away the comb Don Carlos had returned to him; they began to walk between a double file of spectators who crowded the corridor. The lights in the hall were going out. Wally stared at them making the kind of serious expression where the mouth seemed on the point of whistling.

  “It was incredible,” said the chronicler. “You can’t imagine, Clarita. It was the apotheosis, the end of the carnival, the apocalyptic, the universal mess!”

  “But are they all right?” asked Clara, astonished at how calm he was.

  “Juan got in several good shots, and your Dad fought like a lion,” the chronicler said with a bow. “Everything’s okay except that they’re under arrest.”

  “Well, that certainly finishes everything,” said Clara, without unduly upsetting herself.

  “Think so? There’s too much going on outside for them to worry about this. They’ll just say it was because of general nervousness and in half an hour—

  But I wonder why they’re turning off the lights when there’s no concert?—

  Oh,” said the chronicler, remembering. “Something very odd did happen. I saw someone you all know. That guy who was following you last night.”

  There was a hasty meeting in the Manager’s office. The man in the pearl-gray, double-breasted suit delivered the final statement: “He refuses to play. First, he insulted me in the grossest possible fashion, and then he started in about art and respect and all that bullshit.”

  “We can’t make him play,” said the Manager.

  “Right, but it’s going to be my job to go out and be a jerk in front of the audience.”

  “You do it better than anyone else,” said the Manager. “I mean, you know how to talk to those sons of bitches.”

  “Abel?”

  “That’s the name you all use.”

  “But you don’t know him,” said Clara, staring at him in surprise.

  “Madam, I’m a reporter, ergo, I use my eyes; ergo, it wasn’t hard to spot the lad who’s got you all upset. In the bushes at Plaza Colón?”

  “And he was in the fight just now?”

  “Not exactly. He peeked in at the end. I think the cop didn’t give him enough time to dip his toes in. Okay, here we go …”

  The man in gray indicated to the people in the orchestra that they should sit down. People were shouting everywhere. The air was unbreathable.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. We regret to inform you that the final part of this concert will not take place. A minor indisposition afflicts our great artist

  who was crying, face down on the day bed

  and will deprive us of the charm of his art. I also want to calm the ladies who have been upset by an insignificant incident that took place a few moments ago. Nothing serious has occurred, I assure you …

  he was wailing with his face in his hands and the masseur was contemplating him.

  The exits have been opened.”

  “Abelito?” repeated Clara. “Then it’s true.”

  “What?”

  “That he’s crazy.” She glanced involuntarily toward the shadows of the forward part of the box. “It’s unbelievable. Please, where is Juan?”

  “In the press room, with the others.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Certainly, but let’s not hurry. Let everyone leave, look how furious they all are.”

  The man in gray was sent on his way with three claps and a terrible whistle from the last balcony, and in the orchestra the people were moving around listlessly, dying from the heat, shouting to each other from row to row. So Abel—but the absurd has degrees too, who can accept the idea of voodoo while standing in the heart of Buenos Aires? The box, that tower they would have to leave (and the chronicler, full of good will, was waiting with his back turned to the front, like Lancelot, or Galahad, or Geraint.)

  AND THE FULFILLMENT OF THE OBSCURE PREDICTIONS

  I just can’t believe it, thought Clara, imagining herself disdainfully (one eye; nose; half a mouth; the other eye little mirrors those replicas of the soul, that continuous parcelling out

  never tell your left hand what …

  Yes, but my right will never know. What does my tongue know about how my foot lives? What a horror—and now there wa
sn’t even pure

  thought, no words—like that disgust at the avoidance of thought when you’re listening to the radio; an evasion of oneself that she should somehow impede, reorder, distribute. Now that Juan was another region of her skin:

  find him and—

  but where might they be holding him? I asked Andrés to come. Feeling the need for Andrés (because where might they be holding Juan?) …

  Poor chronicler, poor Kurwenal …

  I asked him to come, and he didn’t want to. He’ll come to …

  with a final glance at the stage (but not seeing it), where one of the bewigged employees was lowering the top of the piano.

  There was a detective in plain clothes, the uniformed cop who arrested them, and two more policemen. Outside, there was the murmuring of those leaving the theater without having found out much.

  “Form a line facing me,” said the detective. He was standing solid and safe behind his table.

  “Please don’t all of you speak at once,” he said. “Who started the fight?”

  Mr. Funes stepped forward, but a cop put a hand on his shoulder. “Please,” stammered Mr. Funes, staggering a bit. “I did it, sir, in defense of my rights.”

  “Did you now?” said the detective, as if distracted.

  “The gentleman is my father-in-law,” said Juan stepping forward, “and as you can plainly see, he is not psychologically capable of explaining anything.”

  “Get back in line,” said the detective.

  “Certainly, but let me explain what happened.”

  “Okay, start talking.”

  Juan realized he knew nothing about what happened. He vaguely identified the comb as some kind of spoil of war, and then—strange slip of the tongue—as a war flag. He smiled involuntarily, and the detective stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “I know what happened,” said Luisito Steimberg. “This gentleman with the big wave in his hair took the comb away from this gentleman’s father-in-law.”

  “You saw it?”

  “Not exactly, because at that moment …”

  “That’s what happened,” said Mr. Funes. “It was my turn to comb my hair.”

  “Whatever,” said the man with the wave, who seemed bitter. “I saw the comb on the shelf and picked it up.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Mr. Funes, trying to step out of line. “You weren’t on line, and you didn’t grab the comb, you grabbed the chain.”

  “What’s the difference?” said the man with the wave. “If you’re closer to the chain, you pull on it and get the comb.”

  “But it was my turn to use it. And besides, I had it in my hand. I’d just picked it up when you yanked on the chain and snatched it away from me.”

  “Seriously endangering the gentleman’s hands,” said Pincho López Morales. “Look at my fingers. The comb cut them when some bastard or other snapped it away from me.”

  “Watch your language,” said the detective. “And don’t speak until spoken to—the same goes for you and you.”

  “They’re making a big deal out of nothing,” said the man with the wave, not very calm.

  “Shut up. So it was pulled away from you?”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Funes, calmer now. “And then I was shoved, yes sir, a BIG shove, that almost knocked me flat on my back against the other gentlemen.”

  “Bull,” said the man with the wave. “You should have seen the shove he gave me.”

  “So what was I supposed to do—say thank you?”

  “Shut up!” shouted the detective. “And then what happened?”

  “Well, sir, after that things got confused,” said Pincho. “I’d dare say it was as if twenty people were trying to liquidate nineteen and take control of the comb. Sociologically … ,” and he began to laugh, looking at Juan, who was just as tempted. What an incredible nut, thought Juan. At least he’s all set now for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Things won’t go well for you,” said the detective extending a telescopic finger, “if you keep on being a smart aleck. Okay, you over there”—he pointed to a young man with a frightened face who hadn’t said a word—“what happened next?”

  “Pandemonium,” he said. “I was shoved all over the place.”

  “And you of course, like a saint, never lifted a finger.”

  “At first I did nothing,” was his surprising response. “Then I did what I could to get the comb.”

  “You too, eh?”

  “Well, the comb was going from hand to hand.”

  “Like counterfeit money,” murmured Pincho.

  “And when did the fighting stop?”

  “When I came in, sir,” said the fierce patrolman. “Straightaway, I brought them here.”

  The detective looked the man with the wave up and down. He wiped his face with a filthy handkerchief. Outside, there was a warning whistle, and the door opened a few inches. It remained that way, as if waiting for someone to walk in.

  “Get out your identification,” said the detective, looking down at his handkerchief, wiping his face again. Without saying a word, he listened to the mutterings, the but-I-didn’t-bring-anythings, who’d-ever-think-he’d-have-to-go-to-a-concert-with-his-identification-papers, you can call my house! this is an abuse of my rights, I have nothing to do with all this!

  and my wife is waiting for me outside …

  “Shut up, all of you,” said the detective, slapping his hand down on the table. “Start giving me your names.” He sat down with a blue notebook in his hand. The telephone began to ring sharply; one of the policemen looked over at the detective as if waiting to be told to answer it. Through the partially open door came the conversations of those outside, the high-pitched shout of a newsboy, another whistle.

  “Campos, answer that,” said the inspector to the cop who’d made the arrest. “Why is that door open?”

  “Someone’s come down from headquarters,” said the cop standing next to the door. “He was just coming in, but he stopped when …”

  “All right now, you,” said the detective to Mr. Funes. “Your I.D.”

  “I didn’t bring anything,” said Mr. Funes, panting a little. His shirt collar was soaked. “If my social-security card will do …”

  “Ma sí, ma sí,” said the patrolman on the telephone. “Call later, there’s no one here now.”

  The detective looked at the card, at Mr. Funes, at the card.

  “I will cooperate in any way I can,” said Mr. Funes. “I behaved as it was my obligation to behave in the face of an indescribable abuse. I put myself in the hands of justice.”

  “That much I do believe,” said the detective. “Now shut up.”

  Juan slipped around the patrolman. Only the table separated him from the detective.

  “You shut up,” he said. “You have no right to treat this gentleman that way.”

  “Get over here,” Pincho was saying behind him. “Don’t start anything.”

  The detective stood up. The patrolman at the telephone was instantly next to Juan, his hand on his holster. Through the partly open door came an enormously fat, mulatto officer. After him came the noise: “Knock it off!” shouted by a high-pitched voice, but the door shut, cutting off the words.

  “You wait a minute,” said the detective in a low voice, fixing his eyes on Juan, who felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. He left the table to speak with the officer waiting for him near the door.

  “I know what’s going on,” said the officer. “Get back to Moreno immediately. It’s serious.”

  “But these people …”

  “Send them home right now. Nothing happened here. Get rid of them.”

  “But look …”

  “These are orders from higher up, man.”

  Pincho walked out first, saluting courteously. Juan picked up Don Carlos’ card, which had been left on the table. He walked out with Mr. Funes and Luisito Steimberg. The detective turned his back on them, and one of the policemen held the door open as if he had a branding iron in
his hand.

  “Finally,” said Clara, trying to smile. “Did they torture you?”

  “Yeah, they gave us a real third degree. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “What heat,” said Pincho, sighing. “And all those people packed in there, you’d think we were in the Nuremberg trials. Excuse me, madam, excuse me.”

  The light on the street made him blink in confusion.

  “I forgot it was so early,” he complained. “Wally, mirror of fidelity, let’s go somewhere cold and dark.”

  Steimberg, tacit and somewhat fearful, followed without saying good-by. Juan and the chronicler escorted Mr. Funes and Clara. By chance there was a cab on the corner of Tucumán and Libertad. Juan looked at his watch.

  “You go home, Don Carlos, and rest for a while. Clara and I will go downtown,” he said.

  “You’ve got time. Come home and have hot chocolate.”

  “No, no,” said Clara. “Go home, Dad. Take a nap and a bromide. Tomorrow …”

  A fire truck passed by, drowning out her voice. Juan sniffed the air in surprise. He saw Luisito Steimberg standing in the shelter on Libertad waiting for a streetcar. None to be seen, just a few cars.

  “All right then,” said Mr. Funes. “Good luck to both of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Thanks, Don Carlos.”

  “Can I drop you off?” Mr. Funes asked the chronicler.

  “No thanks, I’ll walk a bit with these youngsters.”

  A police car, its siren wailing, turned onto Tucumán. They thought it was going to stop at Teatro Colón, but instead it went up Libertad. They saw Mr. Funes leave in his taxi, waving his hand.

  “Poor old guy,” said Juan. “What he went through. Let’s go have a beer, I’m dying of thirst. It’s a good thing that you’re coming with us, chronicler. I’ll tell you all about the interrogation. It was really something.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t newsworthy,” said the chronicler spitting out some dust. “But the beer part is.”

  There was no beer in the Edelweiss, where a white-haired garçon tried to convince them to drink cider. They made no fuss, it was well known that there had been a lack of beer in Buenos Aires for three days. They went to the Nobel instead, and Juan washed the fresh blood off his left hand—not his, but someone else’s.