Juan José Saer - Scars

Gorillas move through the cold corridors, in and out of offices. A few I greet with a nod. I reach the wide lobby and start making my way up the broad marble staircase. The steps are still clean. At the first landing I stop and lean over the railing. A number of gorillas are rushing through the lobby, carrying briefcases and large dossiers. Others talk loudly in groups scattered around the vast, squared-off, black and white mosaic. They look like pieces on a chess board. I continue up the wide marble staircase, and when I glance down at the lobby one last time, from the third floor, the figures of the gorillas have diminished so much, flattened against the black and white board, that the chess piece effect is suddenly perfect. Only every so often a hurried blur will cross the board diagonally or vertically. I move through the cold corridor and enter my office. The secretary is at his desk in the waiting room, studying a document. He looks up and greets me, “Early morning, judge?” I respond that it’s almost eight thirty and pass into my office. I leave the briefcase on the desk, take off the raincoat, and hang it on the coat rack. Then I open the blinds. A gray light filters into the office. The trees in the plaza, the tall palms with shining leaves and the shorter orange trees whose fruits mar the green foliage, look flattened against the reddish paths. I sit down at the desk, open the briefcase, and take out the novel, the notebook, the pencils, and the thick dictionary. Then I put the briefcase on the floor, next to the chair.

The page is marked with a blank sheet of paper that’s been folded several times. When I open the novel, the paper falls on the desk and the book opens perfectly, its two halves flawlessly smooth and docile. The verso page, numbered 108 at the bottom center, is covered with pen and pencil marks in several colors. Some words are circled and joined to the white margin by a nervous line that ends with a word in Spanish or some other symbol. Others are underlined in red or green ink. One of the paragraphs, toward the bottom of the page, is set apart by a vertical, red line that follows it down the left margin. The other page, the recto side, numbered 109, is only marked up to the first paragraph. It ends with an underlined sentence: Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls . The phrase ever-present sign is underlined and circled in green.

Below this, the rest of the page is completely clean. I open the notebook on the desk, next to the novel. The left-hand page of the notebook is covered halfway down with my tiny handwriting, in black. Here and there a phrase is underlined in pencil, or with green or red ink, and some words are enclosed in a tight circle drawn in ink with one of those two colors. The rest of the page is blank, as is the right-hand page, except for the thin blue rules and the double vertical line at the margin. But the writing does not follow the margin or the rules, and the white space between the rules contains two manuscript lines and sometimes the corrections to these. I set the thick dictionary within reach.

I pick up the telephone, ask the operator for the press office, and wait while the line connects. This happens after the fourth ring. I say who I am. The office manager asks what he can do for me. “If the reporter for La Región comes by, tell him to come to my office, that I want to speak with him,” I say. “Sure thing, judge,” says the press office manager. I hang up.

I pick up one of the ballpoint pens from the desk and set to work. The last sentence written in the notebook is the following: Ahí había un imborrable (perenne) (siempre presente) (eterno) signo de la ruina (perdición) que los hombres llevaron (atrajeron) sobre sus almas . I turn to the book and read:

Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering .

In red, I mark the word chime . The dictionary says , armonía; clave; juego de campanas; repique; sonar con armonía; repicar; concordar . Then I look up stir . It says, removerse; agitar; revolver; incitar; moverse; bullir; tumulto; turbulencia . I turn to T and look up threads . It says, hilo; fibra; enhebrar; atravesar .

I put down the green pen and pick up the black. I write, Dieron las tres y después las cuatro, y después la media hora hizo sonar su doble repique (teo) (campanada), pero Dorian Gray no se movió. Estaba tratando de reunir (juntar) (amontonar) (hilvanar) (enhebrar) (atravesar) los hilos (pedazos) (fragmentos) escarlatas (rojos) (rojizos) de su vida, y darles una forma, para hallar su camino a través del sanguíneo (sangriento) laberinto de pasión por el cual (que) había estado vagando.

With the red pen I underline the words campanada, pedazos, and sangriento . Then I get up and look out the window. The rain is falling on the palms and the orange trees, and the reddish paths of ground brick glow. Three gorillas are crossing the plaza. They are coming from different directions: one is crossing at a diagonal from southwest to northeast, another in the opposite direction, and the third from northwest to southeast. They meet at the center of the square, in the wide reddish circle. They walk with difficulty, hunched over, blurred by the rain and wrapped in their raincoats. One of them, the one walking to the north, carries a black umbrella that partially obscures his body. The black circle moved rigidly, contrasted against the reddish path. Then I go back to the translation. I write, cross out, and make marks in the notebook and the novel: crosses, vertical and horizontal lines, circles, arrows. I return to page 109 and then turn over to page 110. The page fills up around its even printing with my nervous, quick symbols: crosses, vertical and horizontal lines, arrows, circles. I write, Hace dos días le he dicho a Sibyl que se case conmigo. No voy a quebrar mi promesa (faltar a mi palabra = to break my word to her) . I underline faltar a mi palabra . Then I write, “ Ella va a ser ,” and at that moment Ángel walks into the office. I close the dictionary and mark my page in the novel with the red pen and close it. Ángel’s raincoat is soaked on the shoulders, and his dark hair is a mess. He is very thin.

“I haven’t been able to call you,” says Ángel. “I have lots of problems at home these days.” Then he leans over the desk and touches the book. His thin fingers brush over the surface of the cover on which there is a face — drawn in white lines on a purple field — that covers most of the surface. The face is obliterated by jagged, white lines. Ángel asks if I’ve made much progress with the translation. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s already been translated so many times that it makes no difference if I make progress or not. All I’m doing is traveling a path that others have made. I don’t discover anything. Whole passages come out exactly the same as the versions of the professional translators.” Ángel is quiet a moment, and then he asks if I have sent many people to prison. “Lots,” I say. “Have you ever been in prison?” he says. “I’ve been a few times,” I say. “Visiting.” He’s thinking that I’m not bothered by sending people to prison just because I’ve never been locked up. “Try to avoid vulgar ideas,” I say. “That’s just advice. Thinking vulgar things is anti-aesthetic. No one is better off because they’re free, or worse in prison. It’s not better to be outside than inside. People who are alive aren’t happier than dead people. It’s all a shapeless, gelatinous mass where nothing is different from anything else. Everything is exactly the same.” “They said you were looking for me,” says Ángel. “I wanted to invite you over for dinner tomorrow night,” I say. “Alright,” says Ángel. “Actually,” I say. “I wanted to see how you were.” “I’m fantastic,” says Ángel. “You don’t look it,” I say. “You look skinnier every day and you have terrible bags under your eyes.” “Well I don’t spend all day sitting behind a desk judging people,” says Ángel. “I have my own life.” I get up and brush my hand over his head. His hair is wet. “Don’t make bad literature and everything will be fine,” I say. He blushes. I ask if he wants some coffee. He asks if it’s the same as the prisoners’ coffee from the press office. “Not the prisoners’,” I say. “But it’s the same as the press office.” “I will decline, in that case,” says Ángel. Suddenly, he stands up and says he’s leaving. I follow him to the door, holding him by the shoulders. “You’re getting very cynical and rebellious,” I say in a low voice. Then he disappears.