Juan José Saer - Scars

Boozing and hunting. That’s all he did, said el Negro. Then he asked if I would defend him.

No, I said.

Just as he got up to leave, Delicia came in with the coffee. Another step and they would have collided. When he saw Delicia, el Negro hesitated.

I’m going to recommend a lawyer, I said. Someone better than me.

He didn’t move. Delicia left the coffee tray, walked out, and closed the door. I put sugar in el Negro’s coffee, stirred it, and held it out. I took mine black. El Negro drank his coffee. His skin was almost the same color as the drink. His eyes were wet.

Mr. Rosemberg, I said.

A comrade? said el Negro.

No, a friend, I said.

Can he be trusted? said el Negro.

Completely, I said.

El Negro sat back down, the coffee cup in his hand. The sofa groaned. I said I would call him, and I left the study. I dialed Marquitos’s number and a woman answered. I said it was Sergio.

Oh, said the woman. This is Clara.

Clara, I said. It’s been years since I’ve heard your voice.

Marcos isn’t here, said Clara. He went to the courthouse.

Her voice sounded hoarse.

I’ll call back later, in that case, I said.

At noon, said Clara. He will definitely be home for lunch.

Alright, I said, goodbye.

Ciao, said Clara.

We hung up. I went back to the study and found el Negro back at the window. He didn’t turn around. I approached him.

He’s sequestered, I suppose, I said.

Yes, said el Negro.

Then I asked him if he was still at the mill too. He said no, that he ran a domestic soda delivery. He said he had his own truck. I asked if he had a telephone, and he said no, but that I could call him at the corner store. I took down the number and said I would call him at one.

Things didn’t used to be like this, said el Negro, looking at me and shaking his head.

I said that, in effect, they didn’t. He asked if I was going to the wake for Fiore’s wife, and I said no. He said that he would leave me the address in any case, and if I wanted to go to the cemetery, the burial was the next day at ten in the morning.

Luisito is too hard-headed, he said at the door. I always told him.

Then he left. I followed him to the door and then I went back to the study. I stood exactly where he had stood, facing the window, looking out at the rain. The rain wasn’t the same, of course, but it was hard to tell the difference. It was the same gray sidewalk, the asphalt pavement, the tree on the opposite sidewalk covered in shining green leaves, the house behind it with the two latticework balconies and bronze railings. The rain seemed the same too.

At noon I called Marcos and explained the case. He said to tell el Negro to come by his house at three. I called the store and asked for el Negro. Ten minutes later, el Negro picked up, breathless. I gave him the message from Marquitos and the address, and then I hung up. After that I got in bed and took a nap. At five Delicia brought the mate , and at six the worker from the game called. He confirmed the address and said the game started at ten exactly. I stayed at my desk until after eight, and when I went out Delicia was setting the table. The kitchen smelled like cooking. Delicia had washed my wife’s black sweater, which was fitting her tightly now. It looked good. For the first time, I noticed how long her fingers were, and how dark. We didn’t say anything during the meal. Then I got up from the table, took the hundred-seventy-thousand pesos from the desk, and went to the game.

It was downtown, around the corner from San Martín. So I walked toward the avenue, turned at the Casa Escassany at nine forty-five, and walked three blocks north up San Martín. I passed the news ticker at the La Región building and stopped to read it, but it didn’t say anything about Fiore. I turned east on the next corner, walked a block and a half, and crossed to the opposite sidewalk. I didn’t have to look for the number because the worker was standing in the darkness, in the threshold to a house. I recognized him by the smell of the cologne. He shook my hand and told me to go in.

I don’t know why, but the room looked like a stage set. Five guys sat around a long table covered with a velvet-bordered cloth. Two chairs were still empty. In a corner, a guy was standing over a little wooden table, organizing a box of chips. Behind him, a discolored curtain covered a sort of arch. That was probably what gave me the impression of a stage. The guys at the table had stacks of chips in front of them. I sat down at a corner of the table, with my back to the curtain, and asked the cashier for a hundred thousand. He brought me ten green rectangles. I reached into my pocket for the money, but he said we would settle up at the end. Then he asked if I wanted a whiskey. I said I didn’t drink.

The worker sat down at the empty seat in the center of the table and started shuffling the cards. One of the other guys, who looked vaguely familiar, inserted the joker into the stack and the worker cut it. He separated the two halves of the deck, placed the top one below the bottom one, and then dropped the cards into the shoe. Then he opened the auction for the banco.

I offered ten thousand, and the guy who had cut offered twenty. I let him take it. Then I put twenty on punto and waited for the cards. I got a queen and a nine, both hearts. The guy turned over two black queens, and the worker passed me the four green rectangles. I left them on punto and it turned out punto again. I left the eight on punto and punto took it. I got sixteen green rectangles, and I waited. It turned out punto again, but at the next hand I was on the banco. I staked four green rectangles. The cards were dealt. I had a nine of clubs and a nine of diamonds. The punto only had six. I made three more bancos and on the fourth I passed it. The worker asked for chips, and the cashier brought him a stack of large golden plaques worth fifty thousand. I got ten of these and eight or nine green rectangles. The guy who had cut asked for two-hundred-thousand from the cashier and got four gold plaques. I kept getting distracted, fleetingly, by how familiar he looked.

He staked forty thousand on the banco, and I bet forty on punto. They dealt the hand and we pushed at six. After a push at six it’s presumed the hand will go banco, so I thought about pulling out the four ten-thousand-peso chips. But it seemed like a vulgar move, since I was up. It turned out punto.

See that? said the familiar-looking guy. He takes four hands on the banco, passes it, then he bets on punto and punto takes it.

That was all he said. And not to anyone in particular. He was thinking out loud. After that it went four more puntos, one banco, another punto, and then the banco came back to me. I made five hands and passed it. Then I played punto again and it turned out punto. No one else at the table seemed to have a cent left. They all looked like some guy who needs ten pesos for the bus. Then the familiar-looking guy stood up and whispered in the worker’s ear. The worker listened for a moment and nodded. Then he asked me if I would take a check. I said I would. Then the familiar-looking guy asked how much I would take a check for. I said any amount, as long as there were funds behind it. The guy said there were, but that it would be a little difficult to verify at that hour. He would have to call up the manager at the Banco Provincial in Rosario, get him out of bed, ask him to go to the bank and find his account book in the safe. I said I would rather believe him than waste a hundred and fifty pesos on the phone call to Rosario. With that the guy took a checkbook from the inside pocket of his jacket, sat down, and filled out a check. Then he handed it to me. I must have blushed. It was for a million. I counted out twenty gold plaques and took the check. He put two gold plaques on the banco and I took the bet.