Juan José Saer - Scars

I poured myself a glass of gin, put some ice in it, and sat down to read the book about women’s sexual behavior. By the tenth page I was so turned on, and had learned so little about women’s sexual behavior, that I went to the bathroom and ran cold water over my head and stood there a while without drying off, hoping it would pass. But just as I was getting ready to leave, I realized that I was much more excited than when I came in, so I masturbated to keep from staining the sheets because I knew that in any case I would be doing it the moment I got in bed. I ended up drinking the gin straight from the bottle, and I know I went to bed because when I woke up the next day I was in bed, fully dressed, with the light still on. If the atomic bomb had fallen on my room instead of Nagasaki, my head might have hurt a little less. I dragged myself to the bathroom and took a hot shower. Then I drank a cup of coffee and I felt better. When I went to look at myself in the mirror to adjust my tie, I saw my three-day beard and shaved. Then I left for the paper. Tomatis was at the typewriter, and you could tell he’d just shaved too. I sat down at my desk, picked up the phone, and told the operator to connect me to the courthouse. When they answered at the other end, I asked to speak to Ernesto. His secretary answered and transferred me.

— I couldn’t see you yesterday, Ángel, he said. I had a meeting.

— Don’t worry about it, I said. Is the inquest today?

— Yes, at four. I’m interviewing the witnesses, he said. But I don’t think you can come. It’s not allowed.

I was quiet. Ernesto didn’t speak either for a moment, on the other end. Then I heard his voice.

— This is some kind of blackmail, isn’t it? he said. Emotional blackmail. Come at four. I’ll see what I can do.

We hung up. Tomatis was still typing. He didn’t even look at me.

— I tried to talk to my mother, I said. I think things will get better.

— That’s great, said Tomatis, not looking up from the keyboard.

— I gave her a bottle of gin and everything, I said.

— Well done, said Tomatis in a distracted way, looking at the keyboard and then going over what he’d written.

— We talked a while last night, I said.

— You see? Everything has a solution, said Tomatis solemnly, not looking at me and striking at the keyboard.

He wasn’t listening. So I spent a while sending things down to the print shop, and then I went to eat. Tomatis followed me and caught up in the stairs.

— Let’s play a game of pool, after lunch, he said.

— I can’t today, I said.

— That’s fine, said Tomatis. Let’s eat together.

So we ate together. After lunch I felt like a king. Tomatis smoked a cigarette and told me to visit him more often. Then he said if he ended up going out that night he would come past my place to let me know.

— I’ll probably be out, I said, but come by in any case.

When we finished I went back to the paper and told the publisher that there was an important inquest at the courthouse and that I was going to attend. He was reading the paper from the day before, marking the news he found interesting for whatever reason with a red box; he didn’t even look up when I explained why I was leaving at three thirty rather than at five, like every other day. He told me to go, only be sure to see to my responsibilities, always, no matter the situation, that it would straighten me out and make a man out of me. He said this without once glancing up at me, feverishly looking over the pages of the newspaper and drawing a red box here and there with insane enthusiasm. I left with the impression that he didn’t know who I was or what he was telling me. At three forty-five, I was in Ernesto’s office. A blond man was with him, around thirty-five years old, with a blond beard and a Jewish face.

— Mr. Rosemberg, said Ernesto. A journalist.

The guy shook my hand.

— Mr. Rosemberg is Fiore’s lawyer, explained Ernesto. He turned back to him. As soon as he gives his statement he can speak to you, he said. So you can wait nearby, if you want.

— They’re bringing him at four, correct, Your Honor? said the blonde guy.

— At four, that’s right, said Ernesto.

— How long do you think it will take, Your Honor? asked the blonde guy.

— An hour should be enough, said Ernesto.

The blonde guy stood up. He was short and thin.

— I’ll be back in an hour, then, he said.

He shook my hand and left.

— It’s irregular for a stranger to be present at an inquest, said Ernesto. But I’ve taken care of it. In any case, the accused doesn’t need to know that you’re not on staff at the courthouse. You shouldn’t take notes or anything like that.

— I don’t want to take notes, I said. I just want to see. I’ve never seen a murderer up close, that’s all.

— A kind of unhealthy curiosity, I suppose, said Ernesto.

— I suppose so, I said.

We were silent a moment. Then I walked to the window. I had never done that before. It was large, made of four tall pieces of glass separated by a black wooden cross. The Plaza de Mayo was below, and the still palms were being washed by a slow rain that made their broad, jagged leaves more slippery and tense. A woman was crossing the plaza at a diagonal, on the red brick dust path, shielding herself with a bright blue umbrella. From the third floor I could see the blue circle of the umbrella and the woman’s legs pressing into the red path. I could feel Ernesto’s gaze on me, and I turned toward him.

— Where will the inquest be? I said.

— Here, said Ernesto.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Ernesto gestured toward me and then toward the door, to indicate that I should open it, but at that moment the door opened from the outside. It was the secretary, a man with gray-streaked hair.

— They’re bringing the accused, he said.

— You can stay, Vigo, said Ernesto.

The secretary walked in, leaving the door to the corridor open. He sat down at a typewriter and began inserting a long sheet of white paper into the roll. When he finished, he leaned back against the chair and crossed his arms. Ernesto was going over some papers on his desk, so I turned back to the window. The woman with the blue umbrella had disappeared, and another woman, crossing the plaza at a diagonal in the opposite direction, was advancing slowly, shielding herself with a pink umbrella as she slipped over the red earth. I heard steps coming down the hall and I turned. Through the doorway, a sliver of the empty corridor was visible, and, beyond the atrium, the opposite corridor and a closed door. The secretary still sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, and just as I was going to say who knows what to him, a uniformed guard looked in, bowing slightly.

— Pardon me, Your Honor, he said. He had some papers in his hand, and when Ernesto gestured toward him, the guard entered and left them on the desk. Ernesto looked them over while the guard observed him, leaning in respectfully.

— Bring him in, said Ernesto. The guard left. Then Ernesto had me sit on the other side of the desk, behind him and the secretary. From where he put me I could see everything well, especially the secretary’s profile and then Ernesto’s. Just as I was sitting down, the guy came in with the guard.

He came in first, handcuffed, and the guard followed behind. His beard was at least a week old, and his eyes were dim. It was obvious he hadn’t washed his face for three days at least. He wore a sweater that showed a wool shirt with a short v-neck beneath, and filthy, wrinkled pants of some color or other. His shoes were covered with dried mud.

— Take the handcuffs off, said Ernesto.

The guard removed the handcuffs. The guy didn’t even look at him, and when his hands were free he let them hang limp at his sides. If he was looking at anything, it was the gray sky through the window. But I’m not sure he was looking at it. He probably wasn’t looking at anything.