Juan José Saer - Scars

I set the briefcase on the table and start putting things away: the dictionary, the pens, the notebook, and the novel, which I mark again with the folded paper after removing the red pen. Then I close the briefcase, put on my raincoat, and leave the office. The secretary looks up from a document. His hair is going gray. “Leaving already, judge?” he says. “Yes, I’m leaving. It’s almost noon.” “I have some reports for you to sign,” he says. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Yes, tomorrow,” he says. “There’s no rush.” I say goodbye and walk out, then down the dark corridor, stopping at the railing to look down at the floors below. The lobby is crowded with gorillas talking in groups or walking across the black and white mosaic in every direction. I make my way slowly down the white marble stairs toward the first floor. As I approach the wide lobby the gorillas’ voices grow louder but no more intelligible. They make strange noises in a strange register that blends together and rebounds off the tall ceiling. It’s a shapeless blend of sound, and when I start to make my way through the mass of gorillas toward the rear of the building, the sounds reach me charged with vibrations and echoes: some are shrill, others harsh, others guttural, blending with shouts and laughter to produce an incessant crackle. With pale faces, bulging eyes, with fur that covers their heads, wet from the rain, their arms gesticulating strangely, some gorillas cluster in groups and some hurry across the black and white mosaic. The stairs are covered in muddy tracks, and the impressions left by their shoes on the mosaic have filled with water. Finally I reach the end of the lobby and walk into the cold, empty corridor. Office doors open to the corridor, revealing, every so often, shelves piled to the ceiling with documents. I reach the end of the corridor and walk out into the rear courtyard. The rain covers my face. I get in the car. I put down the briefcase, and when I turn on the engine and the windshield wipers I hear their sounds again, the monotone hum of the engine and the rhythmic scrape of the wiper blades over the windshield, soaked from the hours when the car was parked in the rear courtyard. I back up slowly, then steer down the narrow passageway toward the exit until I reach the street. After crossing the intersection I turn right and start driving around the plaza and the courthouse is left behind. On the corner, the traffic light stops me, but the engine keeps running. When the green light comes on I turn left up San Martín to the north. The gorillas, males and females, crowd the sidewalks in both directions, and their number grows as I approach the city center. At the corner of the municipal theater I have to brake suddenly when a bus rushes through the intersection, full speed, just as I’m starting across. Then I start moving again, observing the old facade of the theater, its curved marble staircase washed by the rain. Then I leave the theater behind and continue north. Two and a half blocks later I pass the corridors of the arcade, cross Mendoza, and continue up San Martín. The number of gorillas has grown considerably; they huddle in the thresholds of shops and under the eaves of houses to protect themselves from the weather. The female gorillas’ colorful umbrellas move stiffly, filling the sidewalks with circular blurs, red, green, pink, yellow, black, and white. Farther along, as I pass the entrance to La Región, I see Ángel hurrying inside, but he doesn’t see me. I’m only just able to see him stride quickly up the two steps at the entrance and then disappear. I go on, slowly, block after block, until I reach the boulevard, then I turn right, then I pass the university, a pale yellow building, its windows painted green. To the west, through the portion of open sky above the boulevard, I can make out the vast, blurred horizon, a gray that grows more dense as it moves into the distance. The wiper blades sweep across the windshield glass with an even rhythm while the fine droplets fall and collide and form strange, momentary shapes. I drive to the west end of the boulevard, and then, after some fifteen blocks, I turn left again, to the south, down the Avenida del Oeste. Restless gorillas wait silently under bus stop shelters. I can see them through the windshield, and less distinctly through the side windows soaked by the rain. I go about twenty blocks down the avenue, passing, in succession, the Avenida cinema, the wholesale market, then the regimental gardens, until finally I reach the Avenida del Sur again and turn left, to the east, down the avenue. Eight blocks and I pass the rear courtyard of the courthouse again. At the corner I turn right, circling slowly to the south, in front of the courthouse, and then I turn again at the corner, to the west again, between the gray facade of city hall and the southern walkway of the Plaza de Mayo, where the waterlogged palms and orange trees appear momentarily between the reddish paths that crisscross the plaza at angles and arcs. I reach San Martín and turn right, to the south. On my right is the lateral facade of city hall, on my left the historical museum, and at the first intersection the San Francisco church on the left and the row of single-story houses on the right. I move through the rain. The monotone hum of the engine blends with the regular rhythm of the wiper blades sweeping over the glass, where fine droplets of rain collide and explode into strange, momentary shapes. After the convent begin the woods of the southern park. I travel half a block past the second intersection and stop the car on the left side. For a moment I wait inside the car, hearing only the echo of the monotone hum of the engine and the regular rhythm of the wiper blades, which have now stopped but which continue resonating momentarily before they disappear completely. I take the briefcase from the back seat, step out of the car, lock the door and open the front door of the house, go inside, close the front door behind me, and start up the stairs. I go straight to the study and hang up the raincoat that I’ve been removing since I started up the stairs. I leave the briefcase on the sofa. I open the curtains, and the gray light from outside enters the study, a gray and rain-soaked gleam coming down. I observe the trees and the lake beyond, also gray, and also gleaming. The trees appear to be surrounded by a soft halo, and the drops form an evanescent myriad suspended momentarily around the wet foliage before they fall. What I can see of the park from the window is completely deserted. I turn around as Elvira comes in and asks if I’m going to eat now or if I prefer to wait a while longer. I say I’ll wait a while longer and I sit down on the twin sofa, with my back to the window, and soon I’m asleep.

I wake up almost at once. I think it’s at once but I look at my watch and see that it’s two ten. I get up. I cough. Straightening my clothes, I leave the study and walk to the dining room. Elvira is at the head of the table, which is half-covered with a tablecloth and set with two covered plates and a glass. There’s also a bread basket with two or three crackers. “I came in and saw you were sleeping and didn’t want to wake you,” Elvira says. “I fell asleep,” I say. Elvira’s gray hair concentrates a gray light that I can’t place; perhaps the hair itself is what produces it. I sit down at the head of the table. Elvira hobbles into the kitchen and disappears. She returns with a steaming soup tureen and serves me a ladleful of simmering, golden broth. She disappears into the kitchen. I take three or four spoonfuls of soup then leave the spoon submerged in the dish. Slowly, the golden broth stops steaming. Gold-colored lumps form on the surface and turn pale. With the edge of the knife I clink the stemmed glass three or four times. Elvira reappears with a bottle of water that she leaves on the table. She takes the plate with the cold soup and returns with a dish containing three potatoes and a piece of meat. She serves me the meat and a potato and leaves the dish on the table. Then she leaves. I take two or three bites of meat but the potato is left untouched. I clink the glass again, this time with the back edge of the knife so as not to smudge the crystal, and when Elvira reappears I look up. “Tomorrow I’m having company for dinner, doña Elvira,” I say, “I want you to make something special.” Elvira looks at me for a moment. “How about a chicken?” she says. “Yes,” I say, “And something more.” “I’ll see what I can make,” she says. Then she looks at my plate and at the silverware crossed over what’s left of the meal. “Is that all you ate?” she says. “I’m not hungry,” I say. Elvira sighs and gathers the dishes. I get up, go to the bathroom, urinate, and then I brush my teeth and wash my hands. My face is reflected momentarily in the bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth, but when I lean over to spit it disappears. I rinse out my mouth and then I wash my hands. When I straighten up to dry them on the towel hanging from the rack next to the sink, my face reappears in the mirror. Then I turn off the light and walk out. In the study I sit down on the twin sofa. When I wake up, it’s dark. Or rather, it’s about to get dark.