Juan José Saer - La Grande

The possibility that Tomatis was thinking of was to speak to Mario Brando, whom he knew was married to the daughter of a general and whose brother-in-law was General Ponce, the right arm of General Negri, captain of the military district, whom everyone knew was directly responsible for all clandestine activity in the area, every kidnapping, every assassination, every raid, and every seizure. It was said that Negri liked to participate, personally, in the bloodiest and most sordid activities, in solidarity with the troops , a rumor that he often bragged about. He’d said publicly several times that, to strip the tree of subversion to its roots one has to dig broadly and deeply, and he was prepared to clear every inch of ground down to the last blade of grass in order to complete his task.

Brando and Tomatis had detested each other for years, but their interactions maintained a veneer of civility. Brando hated Washington and all his friends, among whom Tomatis was one of the closest. Tomatis was a long-time editor of La Región ’s literary supplement, where neither he nor his friends hardly ever published, and Brando, who was an assiduous contributor, couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him. Tomatis was obligated to read his submissions before sending them to the print shop, and sometimes even when the proofs arrived, if there wasn’t anyone else there to read them, and he felt a malevolent glee publishing them because they seemed to make plain their author’s mediocrity, not realizing that the public to which they were directed may not have had the capacity to perceive it. Ever since he’d first heard of him, when he was seventeen or eighteen, Tomatis had considered Brando an impostor: to him, his bourgeois lifestyle and his avant-garde pretensions seemed irreconcilable, not to mention the happy accident, Tomatis thought, that his beloved precisionism attempted to combine poetry with science, the only intellectual activity that the comfortable bourgeoisie respected, because it was a way to make money, to increase their longevity, and to substitute a salaried worker for a cheaper machine. Tomatis and Brando lived in different worlds: they had different readers, different relationships with institutions, with enemies, and with allies, both literary and political. And while they moved in different circles and their ways of conceiving and practicing the literary profession were mutually opposed, there were a series of common spaces — the literary supplement of La Región , for instance — where inevitably, however much they ignored each other the rest of the time, like fragments of expanding material, their trajectories pushing them always farther apart, sometimes relatively, in the present moment, trying to avoid a collision, trying as much as possible, with icy deference, to disregard the other, their paths crossed.

And so Tomatis, playing, as they say, his last card, decided to go and see him. The possibility was dubious and, Tomatis thought, possibly dangerous. He was in the midst of the most miserable years of his life: the world was falling apart around him, his marriage was a shipwreck, and, every night, he tried to swim away from the wreckage, the misery, and the fury. He still had the strength to go to the paper, but soon he would stop that too, first for a short while, and eventually forever. And so he went to the publisher’s office and, without explaining his reasons, asked him to arrange a meeting with Brando, and when the publisher didn’t act surprised he figured he already knew what they were but chose to disregard them, less from politeness than from a sense of caution. Soon enough, the publisher called him over the internal system and told him that Brando would be waiting for him at his house in Guadalupe at eight. The speed of the response intrigued him. Had Brando also guessed what would make Tomatis would put aside his reticence and decide to speak with him, or had the publisher, with his talent for finding a compromise even in the most irreconcilably contradictory situations, mistakenly let something slip about the reasons for Tomatis’s visit, maybe suggesting, without specifying anything, that the paper was preparing a special supplement and that Tomatis wanted to ask him personally for a submission? For years, with the hatred and humiliation as poignant as ever (and even now, as he’s telling the story in the Amigos del Vino bar), Tomatis wondered how he could have been crazy enough to speak to Brando, but would immediately reconcile himself to the certainty that, because it was the last chance they had to see Elisa and Gato again, not trying to see him would have been even worse. And so at eight on the dot he was ringing the doorbell at the house of Brando.

It was his father’s house, built in the twenties from the wealth of the pasta factory, two or three blocks from the beach. The well-kept house was on a corner, but withdrawn behind a garden that occupied at least a quarter of a block. After his father’s death, Brando had moved in. A light came on in the threshold and a uniformed servant opened the door, but rather than take him inside the house guided him through the trees to a sort of cubical pavilion topped with a semispherical cupola, constructed in an open space in the garden, and whose function Tomatis guessed immediately. It was Brando’s office, in which he’d built his amateur observatory: every so often La Región published an article or an interview in which Brando described his astronomical observations with such insight that Tomatis once commented that Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo — not a festive, happy bunch in the least — must have been doubled over with laughter in their graves.

The servant knocked, and immediately after hearing Brando’s voice, which was delayed a few seconds before reaching them, opened the door and lead him through. Brando was dressed in a wool dressing gown, but with an immaculate shirt and tie underneath. Tomatis had the sensation that he’d walked into a theater to see a play that was being performed just for him. He was leaning toward the telescope and maneuvering it with a single hand to find an optimum view, or a more exact framing, or adjusting it with slight movements to follow, at every moment, the regular path of the bodies that he was pretending to observe, so that with his free hand he could hold the edge of the dressing gown closed at his thighs to prevent it from opening too much because of the angle of his body, despite the fact that he had on excellent quality, carefully ironed pants beneath. He lingered a while in that position, not finding the perfect angle, or in all likelihood pretending not to, thereby forcing Tomatis to wait for him, whatever his reason for visiting, paying off, in this way, the first portion of the debt that each thought the other owed him, the accumulation of interests that their antipathy, suspicion, aesthetic and political differences, behavior, or the circles in which they respectively moved, the tradition of accumulated gossip, slander, satire, and rancor, on top of what each had written, and so on, transformed into legend by the passage of time. Seeing him with his eye glued to the telescope sight, Tomatis felt a violent sense of obscenity, of a slithering, contented perversion, as if Brando were spying on a naked woman, although that understandable perversion would’ve inevitably produced less revulsion than seeing him intrude, with his indecent gaze, upon the intimacy of the stars. Finally, Brando straightened up, walked over to him, and invited him to sit down, while he himself sat down at a desk chair, behind a desk that, Tomatis observed, was built a few centimeters above the visitors’ chairs, allowing him to look down on them and keep them in an imperceptible position of inferiority. For three or four minutes they exchanged pleasantries: it was obvious they didn’t have anything to say to each other. And then, at a certain point, in an overly abrupt way, Brando stopped talking and, widening his eyes, looked at Tomatis inquisitively, but when Tomatis started to talk, tripping over his words at first, Brando leaned back in his chair and stared at some vague spot in the room above them, frozen in that position except for his hands, which, held in front of his mouth, met silently at the fingertips, with the fingers extended, as he must have done at the law firm when he met a new client for the first time. Overcoming the revulsion, the shame, the humiliation — after leaving he practically ran to the first bar he found and drank his first gin, and though it was barely eight thirty, he spent the rest of the night, till the morning, going from bar to bar, drinking — Tomatis started telling him what had happened to Elisa and El Gato, all their fruitless inquiries and the official reports they’d made, adding that Elisa and Gato were completely inoffensive and apolitical and lived in their own world, which could have seemed strange from the outside and might be interpreted mistakenly by someone with dogmatic and suspicious inclinations. After they’d exhausted all the possibilities, and though their family and friends’ doubts were as strong as ever, Tomatis remembered that Brando had family in the military, and it occurred to him that they might obtain, though him, some help or information — Tomatis had thought, for instance, of General Ponce, his brother-in-law, which was why he’d called the publisher to ask for a meeting.