Juan José Saer - La Grande

As though its movements were discontinuous, their trajectory escaping the human eye, the bird moves from flower to flower without needing to obey the laws of space to do so, or as though it had been allowed to travel by means of sudden temporal cuts as compensation for the entropy produced by its constant flapping, until, suddenly, it shoots up into the sky and disappears among the trees. The statues into which its admirers had been transformed take on life again, once again endowed with movement, with the gift of speech, of laughter, of surprise. They seem to congratulate each other for the fleeting apparition — already an image of dubious reality in their memories — that they’ve just seen. Gutiérrez tells his guests:

— He appeared earlier than usual today.

— Because a storm is coming, Tomatis says.

Faustino concurs with an affirmative gesture of his head, after which the visitors from the city, through the silent confirmation of a representative of the rural zone, allow themselves to take Tomatis’s sententious assertion seriously, knowing that his taste for parody, for comic effect, for witty retorts, which have become a kind of second nature for him, are by now so intrinsic that sometimes not even he himself seems to have access to the less predictable corners of his infinite internal jungle.

At around six, though it was still sunny, and, at least from the courtyard, not a single cloud was visible in the blue sky, the sound of distant thunder could be heard, and because Amalia and Faustino had to leave, Gutiérrez offered to take them, but he insisted that his guests wait for him to return. Shortly before, Soldi had taken José Carlos and Gabriela to the city, because José Carlos was returning to Rosario that night and Gabriela had decided to go with him. Now, when the sound of Gutiérrez’s car can no longer be heard, his guests have gathered around (or inside) the swimming pool, waiting for the storm. And yet, apart from the thunder, which gives no indication of approaching, there’s no other sign of it: the afternoon is sunny and peaceful, and there’s no breeze at all. None among the people remaining in the courtyard seem at all worried about the development of the weather. The three couples plus Riera have scattered as a result of their conversations and their movements in the following way: Tomatis and Clara Rosemberg sit on the lawn, talking, in the shade projected at that hour by the house over a section of the courtyard; Riera and Violeta are playing in the water, and Diana is showing Marcos her sketch pad. Only Nula is alone, at a distance: he’s resting in the shade, in the same chair that, after lunch, Gutiérrez set up for Diana under an umbrella. Though he can see the courtyard, the pavilion, the pool, and can see or hear the others splashing in the water, it’s as though, as he thinks about Gutiérrez, he’s become absent: You’d have to include the relationship he has with his employees, even more mysterious because they actually didn’t meet that long ago, and yet there seems to be a certain familiarity, if not complicity, between them. It’s as though practical matters were also of secondary relevance in that relationship, and he applies the same elusive standards with them as he does for everything else.

He pulls his cell phone from the straw bag on the ground, under the pavilion, rummaging briefly among the clothes, the pencil case, some things of Diana’s, and then, looking hesitantly around, walks to the white gate, dialing La India’s number as he crosses the courtyard and stopping in front of the gate when she answers.

— It’s your favorite son, Nula says when he hears his mother’s voice.

— I don’t have a favorite son, La India says. But I do have some adorable grandchildren. All four are here, because your brother and sister-in-law went to watch the Clásico at seven and then they’re coming for dinner.

— So it would be okay if we came by for them a little later than planned? Nula says, aware that the question is actually a rhetorical one for which the response he expects isn’t long in coming:

— It would take much longer than a single Sunday for me to educate them properly.

— Despite what a disaster I turned out to be?

— You didn’t turn out that badly, La India says. And, after a short pause: And to what do we owe the delay?

— Because it’s going to storm, our host, who is a very friendly man, took the gardener and the cook home so they don’t get rained on, and he asked us to wait for him so we can have a drink before we go, Nula says. And Diana is showing her sketches to a senator. The house is magnificent; it has an amazing courtyard and pool. He’d make a good match for you, mamá .

— If I wanted a boyfriend I’d find one for myself, La India says, laughing intensely.

— Admit that you like the idea, Nula says. So, we could come by later than we thought?

— Get here whenever you want, La India says. The less contact my grandchildren have with their perverse father, the better off they’ll be.

— You’re a rock, India. I’m sending you a big kiss.

— And I’m dodging it, La India says. Goodbye.

She hangs up. Nula stops moving, thinking, next to the white gate posts, tapping the now disconnected cell phone softly against the palm of his right hand. Finally he decides, opens the gate, and goes out into the street. The cars, shaded by the large trees, seem somewhat more dusty than when they arrived from the city late that morning. Nula travels the few meters that separate him from the corner, and, stopping at the intersection, he looks two blocks down, at the asphalt road, on which, toward the city, numerous cars are driving, most of them returning from a weekend or a Sunday in the country, but there are also a few trucks, loaded with fans waving the flags of the clubs that will shortly battle over the Clásico . Nula disregards the cars and his gaze shifts toward the embankment where, three days before, during the Thursday siesta, he talked a while between cars with Soldi and Gabriela Barco. The weather had been good that day: for the first time in several days the sky was very blue, and there were immense, incredibly white, and apparently motionless clouds scattered among sections of open sky, but by Friday morning they had already disappeared. Nula takes a few steps along the sandy ground in the direction of the road, scanning the sky to the southeast; if there’s a storm, it’s sure to come from that direction: and he can just make out, beyond some tall trees, on the river side, the tips of dark clouds from which seem to come, precipitous and fleeting, numerous lightning bolts, along with the thunder that they engender, more sharp, prolonged, and audible than the weak spark of the distant flashes. If the wind picks up, it’ll be on top of us before long , Nula thinks, and as he thinks this he watches the movement of the trees behind which the clouds are gathering. He turns around slowly and, after traveling the meters of street that separate him from it, pushes the gate open and enters the courtyard, closing it behind him. He can now see that Tomatis, Clara, Marcos, and Diana have gathered in the middle of the courtyard, standing, enthusiastically discussing the sketchbook. As he walks up to them, Marcos is saying:

— The problem today is, who legitimizes the legitimizers?

— I agree, Nula says when he reaches them, though his gaze still scrutinizes the trees in the courtyard to see if they display the same movement as those on the distant mountain. There’s nothing for now: not one leaf moves on the highest, sunny branches, and so Nula leans over to see the sketch that the others are looking at. It’s the pencil sketch of him and Riera, sitting under the pavilion, perfectly recognizable despite their faces being invisible because Diana has drawn them from the back without their knowledge, except in the final minutes, when they invited her to go swimming and she asked them to pose a while longer so that she could finish.