Juan José Saer - Scars

I’m lying in complete darkness, my eyes open, motionless in the bed. It’s a darkness without breach, without fissure, the room has no windows and the door to the anteroom is closed, so not a single sliver of light enters. Once again the murmur swells among the phosphorescent shapes. Between the internal darkness and the external darkness there is no longer a barrier or distinction, and the shapes float in the direction — if there is such a thing — toward which my eyes focus, and then disappear.

Now the gorillas appear in a long procession, dressed in garish clothing and gold and silver trinkets — with stones that glitter in the sunlight — hanging from their necks, their ears, and encircling their wrists and fingers. The drum has been exchanged for brass instruments that produce a strident noise when brought to their lips. The chiefs march at the head of the procession in long purple tunics hoisted at the ends by half-naked slaves, to keep them from dragging on the stone path. They are followed by secondary attendants, dressed in black, and then the tertiary, in green tunics. They form even rows and march and dance to the rhythm of the music. Behind them are the women, in dresses of every color that reveal their white breasts and some their violet, circular nipples. And father back, behind the women, come the multitude of ragged gorillas that try to catch sight of the ceremony and every so often are driven back by the whiplashes of bodyguards on horseback. As the first ones fall, the ones coming up behind collide with them and fall too, and by the time they begin gathering themselves up, the long procession led by the marching band has moved off a good distance and the bodyguards push their horses into a gallop over the stone path, to catch up with the rear guard of the procession and secure it. The multitude rushes forward, reaches the procession, and is once again driven back by the whiplashes of the bodyguards, so the distance recovered is lost once again. And again, while the multitude of ragged gorillas struggles to incorporate itself, the hooves of the bodyguards’ horses sound on the hard cobblestones as they gallop back to the procession. The chiefs, wrapped in purple robes, hold their swollen faces up with dignified expressions. The secondary attendants stare at the necks of the purple-clad chiefs, and the tertiaries, in green, stare at the necks of the black-clad secondaries. The women ceaselessly rearrange their garish clothing and glittering trinkets. Some rearrange their bodices to reveal even more of their breasts. And the bodyguards on horseback, when they are again reasonably close to the procession, turn suddenly, producing a loud pounding over the cobblestones. The bodyguards glare menacingly at the multitude, though the mass of ragged gorillas has not managed to regain even half the distance. They have arrived at the ceremonial place. Suddenly, from the wrought iron railing on the third floor, I see the square courthouse lobby, its empty checkerboard floor. The white staircase that curves downward is empty as well. The railing, curving and forming three sides of a square, surrounds the vast emptiness that falls steeply over the black and white tiled lobby floor.

The ceremony takes place in a vast, high-walled enclosure with tall windows ending in points, with motifs of the gorilla chiefs painted in spectacular colors on their glass surfaces. A long, broad table is set. It has three sides: a central section and two lateral extensions projecting at a right angles from the ends, enclosing a wide, open area. Two rows of bare-chested slaves, carrying torches, flank the procession as they enter. The chiefs in purple enter the cavernous enclosure, their heads held even higher and wearing even more dignified expressions, and they take their places at the central table. To their right, the attendants in black. To their left, the ones in green. The women gather together at the back of the vast open space in the center and wait nervously. The multitude has gathered before the large entrance, fighting for a view of the scene. The bodyguards have dismounted and strike at them from inside the enclosure, forcing them back. But they’ve been ordered to allow them to watch, and their attacks are softer than their menacing expressions suggest, so that the hordes will understand that they are attempting to gain a forbidden privilege while not denying the chiefs their audience.

Then the banquet begins. Bare-chested slaves carry in large dishes to the central table and start carving up the sacrificed animals under the gaze of the chiefs, who dictate the size of the portions and their recipients. They barely taste the food, and the top chief doesn’t even notice the slaves’ work. He sits at the exact center of the table, and over his purple tunic hangs a large obsidian medallion on a gold chain. His long bony fingers play with the medallion. The multitude of gorillas stare at him in ecstasy, with a mixture of astonishment, fury, admiration, and terror at the luminous halo that seems to surround his large graying head and the pale face that emerges from behind a carefully tended black beard. When the attendants finish eating, under the negligent gaze of the chiefs, the bare-chested slaves gather the leftovers, carry them to the entrance, and throw them over the multitude of gorillas. In the struggle the gorillas punch, shove, bite, and curse each other. There is scrambling, spitting, blood, shrieking. Back inside, as the gorillas recline under the fading sunlight to chew the last filaments of bloodless meat from the bones, the parade of women has started, to the rhythm of the music. One by one they leave the nervous and anxious cluster pressed into a corner of the room and enter the open space, twisting and moving their hips and jumping in ways that make their multicolored trinkets jingle. Some undress as they dance. Others are already nude when they reach the open space between the tables. The green and black attendants remain still, tense, silent, observing the twisting of the women without speaking. Only the chiefs in purple comment to each other about each woman. Some laugh and point at the dancers. Others make obscene gestures. But the top chief remains silent, ceaselessly fingering his obsidian medallion. Finally he raises his hand toward one, silently, and points to her. The slaves disappear into one of the deep side corridors and return carrying a narrow bed over their heads. They place the bed in the center of the open space. The chosen woman lays down on the bed, nude, her legs open. The top chief stands and approaches the center of the cavernous space. Two naked slaves follow close behind. The top chief stops next to the bed, makes a gesture, and the slaves undress him. One of them applies unguents to his member. The other kisses his medallion. The chief takes one last look around, to make sure everyone is watching him. He makes an imperceptible gesture to the bodyguards, allowing the multitude to approach the entrance. Then he leans over and enters the woman. A roar and cry rises from the multitude and the rows of attendants and the slaves and the group of women crowded into a corner at the moment the chief penetrates the woman. Then the music starts again.

It reverberates inside me, inaudible, and then the confused horde evaporates. Once again my eyes are open, in complete darkness. Not even the shapeless, phosphorescent, sparkling forms pass by. No sound enters from the street, the room is completely silent. I move, not shifting or turning, only shaking my legs slightly, and the bed creaks. I see the checkerboard courthouse lobby again, the black and white tiles. No one is in the lobby. I see the iron railing and the staircase.

The wiper blades rhythmically sweep away the drops that crash against the windshield, producing a monotonous, even sound. Through the side windows, the blurred city passes around me.