Juan José Saer - Scars

It’s the same voice as always, high-pitched, like a puppet’s. “Are you there?” it says. “Can you hear me, you bastard? Pay attention, I want you to hear everything well. Your father is a thief and your mother is a whore. Your wife is the filthiest whore of the bunch. Burning homos alive should be legalized. Nasty family! You should vanish from the face of the earth, you’re a disgrace to the city. You’ll get what’s coming to you. Your names should get printed in the paper for everyone to see.” There was a pause. “Are you still there, you coward? You pansy. You chickenshit. Son of a rotten whore. Are you there? Did you know your disgraceful wife is going around at the club polluting another man? The few decent people left in this city are going to take action one of these days. Tar and feather you, like they do with the deviants. And to think you’re up in the courthouse administering justice! You hear me, faggot? You’re there. I’m sure you’re there, hearing everything and laughing at me and all the decent people in this rotten city that have to put up with it all. You’ll get what’s coming to you, you chickenshit. You’ve been warned before. I’m hanging up, but you’ll know me soon enough, you and everyone else in your deviant family.” The line goes dead. When I hear the dial tone, I hang up too. Then I turn off the light and lie down on the twin sofa. I lie for a moment in the darkness of the study, breathing quietly, my mind empty, not thinking of anything. Then I sit up, and the desolation comes.

It comes suddenly. It’s a shudder — but it isn’t a shudder — sharply — but it isn’t sharp — and it comes suddenly. Because of it I know I’m alive, that this — and nothing else — is reality and that my body, piercing it like a meteor, is inside it completely. I know that I’m completely alive and that this can’t be avoided. But it’s not that either, because that’s been said before, many times, and if it’s already been said then it’s not that. The desolation has come many times, but not this desolation, which could only come now, because every millimeter of time has its place from the beginning, every groove has its place and all the grooves line up alongside each other, grooves of light that turn on and off suddenly in perfect sequence in something resembling a direction and never come on or turn off again.

I raise my right hand in the penumbra of the study — I have a right hand and I’m in a place I call my study, and my mind follows the movement, the right hand rising from my thigh, where it was resting, palm down, the fingers slightly bent, to my chest. Following this moment, all of it, step by step, is the desolation. Something against memory, that splits it, that lets reality filter in and rise through the cracks like a heavy miasma until it coagulates completely. Alright, so, I am somewhere, and I have a right hand, and a mind that follows its movement from my thigh to my chest, because I have a thigh and a chest as well. And with that it finishes.

I get up, walk to the desk, and turn on the light. I call Elvira. When she arrives, I ask her if everything is ready for dinner and she says it is. “Bring some ice, then, doña Elvira, and set up a table with drinks here in the study.” Then I sit down at the desk, open the notebook with the translation, and start to work. At nine twenty-five exactly the doorbell rings. Downstairs, I find Ángel at the door. “I was waiting,” I say. “It’s raining again,” Ángel says. “This damned rain won’t quit.” He follows me upstairs into the study. Ángel goes straight to the desk and leans over the translation. “Tough handwriting,” he says. “Tiny and cramped,” I say. “Are you making progress?” he says. “ Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about marriage. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word to her. She is to be my wife ,” I say. “I’m just at the word wife .” “Interesting,” Ángel says. “Would you care for another whiskey?” I say. “Your glass is empty.” “Yes, actually,” Ángel says. “Ángel,” I say, “did you know I was separated?” “I heard something like that,” Ángel says. “My wife left me,” I say. “Did you know that?” “I didn’t know who left who,” Ángel says. “There’s a rumor that you were separated, but that’s it.” “No, she left me. She walked out. I came home one night and she wasn’t there, just a note saying that she was leaving because I didn’t have a soul,” I say. “What’s that about a soul?” Ángel says. “I don’t know,” I say. Ángel approaches the window and looks out through the glass at the trees in the park. He grips his glass of whiskey, his back is to me. He’s thin, but he doesn’t seem at all fragile. “Your house is nice,” he says. “Yes, very nice,” I say. “When I read the note I wondered if she’d expected me to have a soul. She must have believed in the soul,” I say. “Maybe it was a manner of speaking,” Ángel says. “I understand,” I say. “But in any case she was expecting something. If you say someone is missing their soul, what are you asking for?” I say. “I don’t know,” Ángel says, “that they like me, that they make me feel good.” “People don’t have souls,” I say. “They just have a body. A body that starts at their fingers and ends in their skull, in an explosion. We’re just a horde of gorillas that came from nothing. And that’s it.” “Maybe slightly more than gorillas,” Ángel says. “No, nothing more,” I say. “Gorillas searching for what to eat and devouring each other in a thousand different ways. The only grace that man has is death,” I say. “If I were you I’d be dead already,” Ángel says, laughing.

Then we go to the dining room. We stand briefly next to the table. “I’ve come up with a great theory,” Ángel says. “There’s only one literary genre: the novel. Everything we can think of, the things we do, what we think, what we say, it’s all a novel. And everything that’s written down, everything’s a novel, the sciences, poetry, the theater, parliamentary discourse, advertisements. Some good, some average, some bad, but all of them better than the novels of Manuel Gálvez. Doesn’t that seem like an interesting theory?” “I’m not one for theories,” I say. The telephone rings in the study. A completely unfamiliar voice is asking for Justice Ernesto López Garay. “This is he,” I say. “Judge,” says the voice, “this is Sergeant Loprete, from the courthouse police. They’ve called from the precinct about a homicide; they’re asking if you can interrogate the accused tomorrow morning because there’s no space for him at the precinct.” “A homicide?” I say. “A man killed his wife in Barrio Roma,” says the sergeant, “He shot her twice in the face.” “When did this happen?” I say. “I couldn’t tell you, Judge,” says the sergeant, “but they’re asking at the precinct that if you could take his statement tonight rather than tomorrow morning; it would be much better.” “Tonight is impossible,” I say, “And tomorrow morning I have a hearing. And, in any case, I have to depose the witnesses first, if there are any.” “I couldn’t tell you, Judge,” says the sergeant. “Tell whoever called you from the precinct that I’m not responsible for their lack of space,” I say, “And say they can give him a room at the Palace, if they like. Or do they suppose I’m at the disposal of whatever some guard thinks?” “You’re right, Judge. I agree with you. You’re absolutely right,” says the sergeant. “What did you say your name was, sergeant?” I say. “Loprete, Sergeant Loprete,” says the sergeant. “Alright,” I say. “Tell them what I’ve told you. And tell them that I may not be able to interrogate the accused until the day after tomorrow. In any case, I’ll see what I can do tomorrow afternoon.” “As you say, Judge,” says the sergeant. “That’s fine,” I say. We hang up and I return to the dining room. Ángel is taking a drink as I come in. We sit down at the table. Ángel doesn’t say a word for a long time. Then I tell him about my phone conversation, and he asks if he can attend the inquest. “It’s not easy,” I say. “It’s not allowed.” “They should allow it,” says Ángel. “Don’t start criticizing the justice system,” I say, “It’s what puts food on the table.” “So this is a justice chicken?” says Ángel. “Precisely,” I say. “So it’s like I’m eating a prisoner,” says Ángel.