Juan José Saer - Scars

I asked about a guarantee as regards the police, and he said that without guarantees they wouldn’t have the game. But that in any case he would call me on the second to confirm. Then he was gone. He left an odor of cologne that I wouldn’t get rid of for the rest of the afternoon and the next day. Even after I opened the window it was still there. It felt like the whole house was saturated with it. I watched the rain through the window until Delicia brought me the mate . She had on one of my wife’s sweaters. It was fitting well now. She asked if I wasn’t planning to shave, and I said that it was possible that one of these days I would shave. Then she went to leave, and I said she should stay. She asked what for.

Just because I want you to stay, I said.

She stared at me and I had to look away. Then I started talking.

Delicia, I said. You know that gambling is my obsession. That if I can’t gamble, I can’t live. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but that’s how it is. I’ve been invited to a large baccarat game. With any luck, I could win millions of pesos. I have a few systems, and if they’re not perfect, my odds are as good as anyone else’s. It all depends on luck. So, from what I got with the mortgage, the last of what I have, there’s only a hundred thousand left. Unfortunately, to play in this game you have to stake at least a hundred thousand. That means I can’t show up with less than a hundred thousand, but it also means that if a hundred thousand is the minimum, that amount is just enough to get started. I think I need to take a hundred and fifty, or more. At best, anything I could get together from now till the second. And all I can get together between today and the second is the hundred thousand left from the mortgage. There’s also the sixty thousand in the tea tin. That’s yours. You don’t have any obligation to me. I want to borrow them from you. To be honest, if I lose them, it’s going to be very difficult to get them back. Impossible, practically. Here’s what could happen: they could take the house, sell it, and give me what’s left over. But before that could happen, lots of time will go by. Under those conditions, would you want to loan me the sixty thousand? Again, it would be pretty difficult to get them back to you if I lost.

I told you to keep it and use whatever you needed, said Delicia.

I stood up and kissed her forehead.

Little angel, I said. God love you.

So I waited for May second. It rained every day but the first of the month. And on the first, at around nine at night, it started again. I kept busy writing my eighth essay, Chic Young: A Modern Hero . I drew mostly from Blondie , but used a lot of material from Colonel Potterby and the Duchess as well. My thesis was that, bearing in mind the observations he had made about the daily life of the middle class, anyone else would have committed suicide, or at least would have chosen an easier form, the tragedy. As an epigraph I used what I had written a few days before about comedy and tragedy. I spent all of May first writing out a clean copy, and by the time it was dark out I felt euphoric. I asked Delicia if she wanted to eat out, and she said that was stupid, that it was raining and we could eat just as well in the kitchen, as usual, without taking the table into the courtyard. I was about to say that I hadn’t meant it like that, but it didn’t seem worth it. In any event, she was right.

After dinner I helped wash the dishes. When we finished, I took out the five decks of cards, shuffled them, wrote Delicia’s name and mine in the upper corner of a clean sheet of paper and separated them with a vertical line. For the rest of the night we guessed hands, and so accurately that long stretches of time would pass before we changed turns. Next thing we knew, it was morning, and we went to bed.

The next day I was woken up by knocking at the door. Delicia said there was someone asking for me. I guessed it was the worker from the game. I told her to have him wait in the study. I got dressed, washed my face, and went down. In the study I saw a fat man with gray-streaked hair. He had his back to me, and the skin on his neck was dark. When he heard me come in he turned. It was el Negro Lencina. For a second we just stared at each other.

You’ve gained weight, Negro, I said.

We shook hands.

Luisito killed his wife, said el Negro.

I sat down at the desk and offered him a seat on the leather couch. Then I asked if he wanted coffee, and he said no.

Alright, I said, looking at him. Luisito killed his wife. But Luisito who?

Luisito, said el Negro. Luisito Fiore.

Fiore? I said. When?

Last night, said el Negro, in Barrio Roma. Pumped two shots in her head. He’s totally crazy.

I insisted that he have coffee, and finally he agreed. I shouted to Delicia to bring some coffee. Then I sat back down behind the desk.

Two shots, I said. In the head.

In the head, right, said el Negro. He put two rounds in her head.

Thanks for coming to tell me, I said.

I didn’t just come to tell you, said el Negro. I came so you would defend him.

I don’t practice any more, I said.

I can see that, said el Negro.

Was he still in the union? I said.

He wasn’t, said el Negro. He worked at the mill, but he wasn’t in the union.

That’s too bad, I said.

I knew it would end up like this, said el Negro. I knew. I told him.

He stood up and turned toward the window. A gray light came from the street. Then el Negro turned toward me.

I told him. Always, he said.

I told him to calm down.

He sat back down on the leather sofa. It groaned under his tense, dark body. For a moment he looked so vigorous that I asked myself what the hell he was feeding himself. His eyes were wide open and his graying hair was starting to look distinguished. There was a time when, after a couple of drinks, el Negro would pick up an accordion or sit down at the piano.

Do you still play the accordion and the piano? I said.

Sometimes, said el Negro. He looked at me severely. You used to defend the workers, he said.

Yes, I used to, I said.

They’ve told me you live off gambling, said el Negro.

Just the opposite, I said.

Then I asked him to tell me about Fiore. He said that he had gone hunting in Colastiné Norte with his wife and their girl. In the truck from the mill. That on the way back they stopped at a bar. There was an argument, and when they were leaving he shot her, twice. I asked if the argument had been violent. He said he didn’t really know. He said that he had used the shotgun.

That could actually help, I said.

They’re going to give him twenty years, at least, said el Negro.

He’ll be comfortable in prison, I said. Much more than on the outside. It’s always more comfortable in prison, in a way.

El Negro stared at me. The skin on his face was thick and taut. Two cords curved from the base of his nose, dropped to the corners of his mouth, and died at his jawline.

I never thought I would find you like this, said el Negro.

Come on, Negrito, I said. We go back. Tell me what you can, because I’m not asking out of curiosity.

I asked if Fiore and his wife got along, and he said that they fought sometimes. Normal stuff, said el Negro. I asked if he often went hunting and if the wife always came along and if he always brought the shotgun. El Negro said that it looked that way. I asked if the wife was cheating. He said it wasn’t likely and added that Fiore was a drunk. Luisito is a good kid, but I was always telling him, said el Negro. Then I asked how long Fiore had been out of the union. A long time, said el Negro. Things got bad, and worse, and finally he left completely. I asked if he had been sanctioned, and he said no.