Juan José Saer - Scars

Ramírez said all the rain was caused by sun spots, which in turn had been caused by the atomic bombs. I said that the sun spots and the atomic bombs must have been what caused the coffee in the press office to taste like ass, and Ramírez laughed as best he could, but didn’t manage to hide the infamous, brown sierras that were all that was left of his rotten teeth. Then I went to Ernesto’s office and asked for him. The secretary told me that the judge was in a meeting. I told him to say that the La Región reporter was here and ask when the inquest we’d talked about would be. The secretary came back immediately.

— The judge says tomorrow at four, because he has to interview the witnesses first, he said.

So I went back to the paper. I typed out the courthouse report that Ramírez had given me on transparent paper, submitted the headline for the weather report— No Change in Sight —and then went to lunch. I didn’t see any sign of Tomatis in the office, but when I went to the administration to pick up my check, they told me that Tomatis had been in that morning to pick up his check and then had gone off who knows where. When I got back, Tomatis was opening correspondence addressed to the “Director of the Literary Page.”

— Regrettably, everyone in the world has feelings, he said. Because of this, everyone makes literature.

— I know a guy who doesn’t have feelings but still makes literature, I said.

— Must be a great writer, said Tomatis.

— He writes with his dick, I said. He dips it in ink and writes like that.

— Those must be some broad strokes — his penmanship I mean, said Tomatis.

— I don’t know, I said. I never saw the originals.

— Gloria says hi, said Tomatis. She said she’s going to call you up some afternoon to play poker and then invite you to dinner with her winnings. And she said you shouldn’t have stepped on her underwear and that she was just waiting for you to pull back the covers so she could slap you.

— Some day I’m going to put a bullet in your heads, both of you, I said.

Tomatis laughed.

— Angelito, all grown up, he said.

I don’t like to spit in people’s faces, so I walked over to the police reporter and asked him if he knew about a guy who had killed his wife in Barrio Roma the night before.

— Yeah, he said, and read me the part where it said that some guy had blasted his wife’s face off with a shotgun.

— The inquest is tomorrow at four, I said. The judge told me.

— Apparently they were out hunting and on their way back they had a brawl in a bar, said the police reporter.

— I understand that that’s the most humane way to treat a woman, I said.

— I disagree, said the police reporter. A slow death works better. When you’re married you’ll see.

— I’m not getting married, I said.

— You never know, said the police reporter.

I went back to Tomatis’s desk and found him shaking his head over a typewritten poem.

— Some guy shot his wife in the face, twice, I said.

— What for? asked Tomatis without looking up.

— I don’t know. It was at a bar in Barrio Roma. A Luis Fiore, I said.

— I know a Fiore, said Tomatis.

Then I went and typed out the weather report. At five, as it was getting dark, I left the paper. I went to a bookstore and bought three books: Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, Modern Sexual Techniques , and The Homosexual in the Modern World . Around eight I went home with two bottles of gin and locked myself in my room. I was sitting down for less than two minutes before I got up and went to my mother’s room.

— Mamá, I said. Can I come in?

My mother answered a second later.

— Just a moment, she said. I waited at the door and heard the sound of papers and bare footsteps on the wood floor. Then I heard the bed squeak and my mother’s voice again.

— Come in, she said.

She was in bed with the sheets up to her neck.

— I’m in bed like this because I’m naked. I hope it doesn’t bother you. I was changing to go out, she said.

— I won’t keep you, I said. I just need a minute.

We were silent. My mother’s room was the same dump it had been the night of the fight, just with a little more trash. I hadn’t been in there since.

I couldn’t speak.

— Say what you’re going to say, my mother said.

— I brought you a present, I said. I passed by the store and got you a bottle of gin, since I saw there wasn’t any.

— You could have found a more subtle way to call me a drunk, my mother said.

— It doesn’t bother me if you drink, or even if you walk around naked, if that’s what you want, I said.

— I don’t see why it would bother you, my mother said. Who are you to be bothered by it? I don’t think I’m accountable to you for how I dress or what I drink.

— I just wanted to tell you, that’s all, I said. One of the bottles is yours. It’s in the fridge, for when you want it.

I went back to my room and picked up my book. I could hear her moving around her bedroom, and I got caught up listening to the sounds made by her heels, the rustling of her dresses, the creaking of the bed, the squeak of the her closet door. I got completely distracted from my reading. Then I heard her heels clicking to the bathroom, and the light turned on, and in the silence that followed I imagined her leaning toward the mirror, carefully applying her makeup and pasting on false eyelashes. Then I heard her turn off the bathroom light, and the sound of her heels was softer as it passed by my room, fading away as she walked down the corridor toward her room. When she went in, the sound, echoing off the wood, changed in quality. It deepened, and was drier than off the tiles. Then I heard her turn off her light, close the door to her room, and leave the house. I threw myself on the bed, with the light on, and closed my eyes after putting the glass of gin down next to the bed. Every so often I would turn over and take a drink. I must have been like that for an hour. I had never felt the house so quiet. No boards were creaking, and the rain was falling so quietly that it seemed more like a fine cloud moving over the dark city in a slow rotation. I went out to the corridor and turned on the light. In the lamplight the rain was a dense, whitish mass of floating particles. I stared at it for several minutes. Then I walked into my mother’s room.

The door was unlocked, which surprised me, because I had supposed she always locked her door when she left. I turned the handle and I was inside. Without her there the odor was still the same, though less intense. I turned on the light and glanced around: the bed was a mess, with the sheets and blankets bunched up and halfway to the floor. There was still an impression where she’d been lying, and where she’d rested her head. Both night tables, separated by the queen size bed, were covered with bottles of medicine, jars of cosmetics, and glasses with spoons and caked up dregs at the bottom. There was an ashtray on each side full of butts and ash. I touched the impression and realized it was still warm. Then I opened her wardrobe.

A bunch of dresses in every color were hanging from the bar, and opening the side door I saw a small compartment with four drawers and a hanger where three or four pairs of pants were folded. On the inside part of the door, a string was suspended on two nails, from which colored ribbons and hair ties were hanging. Above the string was a picture of Cary Grant, cut from a magazine and pinned up with four thumbtacks. I opened one of the drawers and found a bundle of letters; a worn out Saint Cajetan prayer card; fake pearls from an old necklace, which were scattered around the bottom of the drawer; and some object of unclear purpose, either mother-of-pearl or tortoiseshell, which wasn’t for her hair but was too narrow to be a bracelet. Under the bundle of letters I found a book that was missing the first few pages. It was an old edition, worn out and yellowed. When I read the first paragraph I realized it was a pornographic novel — most likely it had been my father’s — and flipping through I realized it was illustrated. I closed the first drawer and opened the next. It was full of photos: one was of me at my first communion, in white shorts; in another my father was holding me on his lap and my mother was smiling at me; in a third is my mother, so young she’s almost unrecognizable, in a bathing suit, holding onto a swimming pool handrail as she comes out of the water. I closed the second drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed. I imagined my old man reading a chapter from the book to my mother every night before they made love. I was so enthralled by this image that I ended up lying back and looking at the ceiling, which was stained with damp in the corners. Then I got up and opened the third drawer. It was full of bras and panties, and I closed it without touching a thing. Then I turned off the light and shut the door on my way out.