Iosi Havilio - Open Door

‘If you like, another day we could go and see if there are any figs left on the other side of the polo field,’ she said to me in the almost darkness.

Jaime wakes up feverish again. He stays in bed all day, against his will. I make him drink lots of water and wrap him up well so that he sweats. He says he must have something because he’s not the kind to fall ill easily. I tell him it could be a virus, that nowadays they’re very resistant and that he’ll have to be patient. He looks at me distrustfully.

Amongst the books that I found in the round boxes on top of the wardrobe was one in French: En Argentine, De Buenos Aires au Grand Chaco , written by a certain Jules Huret, and published in Paris in 1911. On the second page, in smudged black ink, I can just about make out a dedication in Spanish: To Dr Domingo Cabred, great visionary and Creole . It is signed Jules Huret, Paris, Oct ’11.

At first glance it seems to be a kind of travelogue by a Frenchman who visited Argentina at the beginning of the twentieth century. The contents page lists several chapters devoted to Buenos Aires, its various neighbourhoods, its institutions and, of course, its people, los porteños . Further on, it talks about the countryside. What follows is an excursion in caravan to the north of the country, stopping at Tucumán, Jujuy, Salta, the Chaco Austral, the forest of El Impenetrable, Corrientes, the upper Paraná, Misiones, the Iguazú Falls, the Jesuit ruins and the Israeli colonies in Entre Ríos. I read the topics listed on the contents page several times and imagine a strange fascination in the eyes of this European confronted by so many things so far from home. In one of the initial chapters, entitled ‘Les criminaux et les fous’ , I discover a section on Open Door and Cabred. I look for the page but I needn’t have bothered, I can barely understand it at all.

That same afternoon I make a trip to the Open Door library with Huret’s book under my arm.

It must be about thirty blocks, half of them unpaved, half of them tarmacked. The village is at its best, full of life. A man carrying a pair of spurs shows me how to get there. Just before the level crossing, I turn right, pass the bar with the pool tables where they were selling beer on the day of the carnival, I walk a few more metres and there I am.

Behind the desk, Brenda, the librarian, attends to me, a village girl with hair down to her waist. I tell her that I’m looking for a French translator and she freezes as though I’ve insulted her. I tell her what it’s about. She pinches her lips and finally brings herself to speak. She tells me that she has quite passable French. A foreign language was obligatory at school and she never liked English much. But she’s never translated anything, she adds with a touch of panic. I show her Huret’s book, in particular the part devoted to Open Door.

She took an immediate interest. She examined the book with great delicacy, treating each page as if it were about to break. She ran her eyes along the lines, murmuring slightly to herself, nodding her head from time to time. She stayed like that for about five minutes, without saying a word to me. In the meantime, I entertained myself by leafing through a magazine that was on her desk. It was published locally, handmade and distributed free. The main article was about the history of Open Door, it was the second instalment. There were some photographs, the first villagers, the arrival of the train, a fiesta in the barn, all black and white.

‘This is a very valuable book,’ Brenda said finally and showed me the last page, which stated that only ten unique numbered copies had been printed, on Japanese paper. I was impressed.

‘And why do you want to get it translated?’ she wanted to know.

‘Out of curiosity,’ I replied and Brenda wasn’t entirely satisfied with my answer. ‘Do you fancy doing it?’

Brenda raised her shoulders, smiled and I saw that she did, that she would give it a try. I left the book with her. As we said goodbye, because she came with me to the door, I saw that her right leg ended in a stump and that she was in a wheelchair. I hid my surprise and thanked her. We agreed that I would call the following week.

By night-time Jaime’s fever had dropped a bit but he was still under the weather. I made him some broth and took it to him in bed. To distract him, I tell him about my trip to the library, about Brenda, and about what I learned of the history of Open Door. Jaime drinks his soup and, with every sip, produces a terrifying sound like broken turbines. I ask him how it was that Huret’s book, with its dedication to Cabred, had ended up in his possession. He tells me that it’s not his book. That he doesn’t read books.

Very early, we are woken by the telephone. We leave it ringing, but it persists and I have to get up to answer it. It’s Yasky, from the court. He says that today, as soon as possible, I have to attend the morgue again.

I don’t tell him this, but the truth is that I’m starting to forget about Aída. I don’t know whether to feel guilty. The appointment is for three in the afternoon. I wonder whether this time it will be her. Before hanging up, Yasky apologises.

I tell Jaime, who is slightly annoyed. He doesn’t understand how it can be so difficult to find a body. A body, he repeats.

Eloísa is gesturing to me from the gate. I gesture back for her to come in, but she stays where she is, waving her hand. I go over to her. I want to talk to you, she says and takes me along a path I’ve never been on, through the woods, as far as a fig tree, full to bursting, which we relieve of its fruit until we’re sated. Eloísa holds the figs by the base and with her tongue licks the sweet, sticky milk, before opening and devouring them. Her lips shine. She tells me that the other day a boy asked her to take her clothes off, after school one afternoon, near here.

‘And I got naked, I was bad,’ I don’t know if she’s expecting me to comment. She stares at me, her eyes wide, it seems as though she’s going to touch me, but she changes her mind.

‘Was I bad?’ This time she’s definitely asking me.

It’s almost two o’clock, I’ve got to go. Jaime is waiting to take me to the morgue. He insisted on coming with me, even though he isn’t completely better. But Eloísa keeps me, she ensnares my eyes. She says that I have very white skin. She says it so that she can touch me, to see if it really is that white. She strokes my legs. Are you ticklish? I don’t answer. She continues, and I laugh. And then, taking advantage of my distraction, she moves her face close to mine and gives me a dry kiss at the edge of my mouth, almost without meaning to, innocent. Then she becomes serious, she remembers something:

‘What about you? Have you taken your clothes off in front of many boys?’

In the city, Jaime drives the same way he does in the country. We are repeatedly hurried on by blasting horns. I get out at the door of the morgue and Jaime goes to look for somewhere to park. This time Yasky is punctual. He seems impatient. We say hello quickly and take the same route as before. It’s strange, I’m starting to feel secure in this place, fearless. We come across new faces, but there is still the same hubbub, subdued because of the proximity of dead bodies. Again, the Irish-looking man receives us. Yasky leaves us alone for a moment, he’s forgotten to make an urgent call. The man shows me into his office. He offers me coffee. I accept. On the back wall, behind the desk, there is a poster of a snowy volcano reflected in a lake. The man picks a subject just to strike up a conversation. He’s different, more amicable, he looks at me differently. He wants to know what I do, what my job is. I find it hard to believe, but he’s trying to seduce me. I wonder whether it would occur to him to fuck me right here, surrounded by all those corpses. It sounds ridiculous, yet so natural, he’s a womaniser like any other. Necrophilia is something else altogether. What must that be like, getting turned on by dead bodies?