Juan José Saer - Scars

The third witness is a fat lady who calls herself Zulema Giménez. She’s not talking for the sake of talking, she says, but she knew something bad was going to happen with that woman running her mouth so much. “I’ve got a lot of psychology,” she says, “and I knew something bad was going to happen. I expected it from one moment to the next.” I ask her what her profession is and she stops suddenly. “My chores,” she says. “What are your chores?” I say. “I stay at home,” she says. “A stay-at-home woman doesn’t go drinking at a bar,” I say. She doesn’t respond. “Tell us what happened and don’t give a single opinion you aren’t asked for,” I say. Then I turn to the guard standing behind her. “Does this woman have priors?” I say. “Prophylaxis law,” says the guard. Then she says that Fiore had been winking at her the whole time and his woman noticed and that’s why she shined the flashlight on him. The typewriter sounds for several moments. Then it stops. “Did anyone else notice?” I say. “My friend, and Jozami the Turk, everyone noticed. And that’s why she started provoking him, saying he was going around with this one and that one.” “Is that literally what she said, that he was going around with this one and that one?” I say. “I don’t know,” she says. “She meant as much, that’s for sure.” “Why?” I say. “Because he started winking at me and she shined the flashlight on him. Then he told her to turn it off and she turned it off. And then she said he was going around with this one and that one,” she says. “Did you know the accused or the victim, previously?” I say. “I recognized them,” she says. “Where had you seen them?” I say. “I don’t know,” she says. “Their faces were familiar. They were from the neighborhood.” “Did you see anything that took place in the courtyard?” I say. “I saw something,” she says. “The flashlight turning on and off and then something moving.” “What was moving?” I say. “I don’t know, a body, a person,” she says. “Him, maybe, or her. Then we heard the shots and we ran out to the courtyard.” “Was the door open?” I say. “A little,” she says. “Barely. It was May first and the store was supposed to be closed.” “And what were you doing in the store?” “I was buying some sausage and cheese,” she says. “And you stayed for an hour,” I say. “We started talking, me and don Gorosito and the Turk and we lost track of time,” she says. I look up at the guard. “Bring in Mr. Jozami,” I say. The guard leaves. A moment later he comes back with the blond gorilla. He stands next to the woman. “This young lady claims that the accused was winking at her the whole time, and this infuriated the victim,” I say. The blond gorilla shrugs. “I didn’t see anything,” he says. “He was winking at me, me and Zita,” she says. “Who is Zita?” I say. “My friend,” she says. “And that’s why she—‘the victim’—got infuriated. She started saying she was more of a woman than anybody. And when he told her to shut up, she started shining the light on him. She was shining it in his eyes and he put his head back, like this, and he told her to shut it off. And then she shut it off.” “This man says he didn’t see the accused winking at you,” I say. “He must not have seen,” she says, and she turns toward the blond gorilla. “Probably you didn’t notice, Turk. But didn’t you hear her saying she was more of a woman than anyone and he wasn’t saying a thing and just standing at the counter?” “He wasn’t talking, I saw that, and I heard the things she was saying, but I didn’t see him winking at anybody,” says the blond gorilla. “Where were you standing?” I say, looking at the blond gorilla. “Behind the counter,” he says. “Was the place lit up?” I say. “Yes, there was plenty of light,” says the blond gorilla. “Could he have winked at the young lady without you noticing?” I say. “Maybe,” says the gorilla, and he shrugs. Then he says his store is a respectable place and that he has a license to sell drinks from the counter. I tell the guard to take him away. When they disappear from the office I turn back to the woman. “You heard the shots and went out. What did you see?” “First I saw the truck pulling out and then Jozami bent down where she was sprawled out. The flashlight was on, pointing at her. Then the truck slammed on the brakes, skidded, and it disappeared. The door was open. Oh, and the ducks were on the ground too. Jozami grabbed the flashlight and shined it in her face and then he stood up and said she was dead.” “And then what did you do?” I say. “ ’Magine,” she says. “It was real scary for a minute. That animal had killed her.” “Were they carrying anything when they came into the store?” I say. “She had this big bag, and he came in with the shotgun and the two ducks and he put everything on the counter,” she says. The guard comes back in just then and stands by the door, looking at us. “Take her out,” I say. “Should I bring in the other woman, Judge?” says the guard. “Yes, bring her in,” I say. They disappear and soon the guard reappears with the other one. Her lips are painted red and the powder she has on doesn’t quite hide the blue veins under her translucent skin. Her name is Luisa Luengas, she says, she’s married, and she’s thirty-two. She says that what she saw made her blood run cold. That she never could’ve imagined it. Just like that, from one minute to the next, that man had killed her. And they’d left that poor innocent child alone in the world, you know, this kind of thing happens in the world and you just don’t want to go on living. “What is your occupation?” I say. “My chores,” she says. I look over her head at the guard, who is standing behind her. “Does this witness have any priors?” I say. “Prophylaxis law,” says the guard. “Alright,” I say. Then I look at her. “What were you doing in Jozami’s store?” I say. “I was there with my friend buying some things for dinner.” “Were you drinking?” I say. “One drink, which Jozami offered,” she says. “Was there anyone else in the store when you got there?” “Jozami and don Gorosito,” she says. “Did you know them?” I say. “Of course I knew them,” she says. “Me and my friend live half a block from the store and don Gorosito is always there.” “You live with your friend?” I say. “Yes,” she says. “I’m separated.” “How long have you lived in the neighborhood?” I say. “Four months,” she says. “Did you know the victim and the accused?” I say. “I think so,” she says. “But I’m not sure. They were familiar.” “Tell me what you saw in the store,” I say. “We were having a drink and were about to leave when we heard the truck and then the doors opening and closing. Don Gorosito asks Jozami who it might be and Jozami says he doesn’t know. The door opens and they come in, her first, with the bag, and then him, with the shotgun and the two ducks. He put the ducks, they were dead, and the shotgun on counter. They say hello to everyone and they order two rums. He stands at the end of the counter and he’s not saying anything, but she’s shouting. Once it looked like he was laughing, but I’m not sure because of his beard. I saw his white teeth. She starts talking about how she’s more of a woman than anybody. I thought she was trying to provoke us, me and Zully, and I didn’t say anything. He tells her to shut up. ‘Shut up, Gringa,’ he says. ‘Shut up, Gringa.’ Then she takes the flashlight from the bag and shines it on him. He tells her to shut it off. You could tell it was bothering his eyes. He put his head back and closed them and told her to shut off the flashlight. She shut off the flashlight and started talking about what a bad life he made for her. ‘He’s always chasing after las negras ,’ she says. ‘He goes crazy if he sees a negra .’ Then he said they were leaving and they walked out. Not even a minute goes by and we hear the shots. We run out to the courtyard and she’s lying on the ground with the flashlight pointing at her face. He’s starting the truck and then he takes off fast. He peels out and disappears. The door was open. Jozami said she was dead and went and called the police. Then they came and took us all in to make a statement.” “Apart from the incident with the flashlight, did anything else happen in the store that would make the accused decide to shoot the victim?” I say. The secretary’s typewriter follows my words. Then it stops. She hesitates. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe they’d already gotten loaded someplace else.” “What do you mean loaded ? What does that word mean?” I say. “Maybe they had been drinking someplace else, or they’d been fighting on the way there,” she says. “Besides saying hello, he didn’t say a thing. Maybe he was angry.” “Did the accused look at you at any time, or make any gesture with his face, anything significant?” I say. “At me?” she says. “At you or anyone else,” I say. “At me, no, but Zully says that he was winking at her,” she says, “that she saw it perfectly well and pretended not to ’cause she didn’t want problems with the woman. But apparently the woman noticed and then started saying she was more female — um, more of a woman than anybody.” “Did she use that exact word, woman ?” I say. “No, she said female. She said she was more female than anybody,” she says. “Then he told her to shut up and she took out the flashlight and shined it on him. He told her to shut it off and then they left. And they’d just walked out when we heard the shots and ran out and found her on the ground with the truck pulling out full speed. The door was open, and I saw that it still was when it passed under the light at the corner.” “Did anyone touch the shotgun while it was on the counter?” I say. “I didn’t see anything,” she says. I look up at the window. It’s getting dark, a greenish half light. It’s still raining. I look at her again. “You can go for now,” I say. I can feel the secretary’s gaze on my face, but I pretend not to notice. The guard disappears with her and returns with the other gorilla. He has on an old, black suit, shiny at the elbows and knees, and a black hat. He’s very thin, and pale. It smells like alcohol when he talks. He smiles constantly, and when he reaches the desk he leans over and holds out his hand. “Good to meet you,” he says. I don’t hold out mine, and I tell him to sit down. “Your name?” says the secretary. “Pedro Gorosito, ex-sportsman, fifty-four years, at your service,” he says. “Nationality,” says the secretary. “Argentine, and proudly so,” he says. I have him tell me everything he saw in Jozami’s store.