Juan José Saer - Scars

He takes off his hat and sets it on his knee. His hair is combed back with pomade, so polished and slicked to his skull that it looks like a lacquered helmet. His face, which is covered with fine wrinkles, twitches constantly, staring weakly now at the secretary, now at me. He say that he’s seen lots of things in his life, that he’s a man of experience. That he was a goalkeeper for Club Progreso in the forties and that he’s seen lots of strange things with his own eyes, that he could fill up a book with all the experiences he has to tell about. That from what he can tell, and he doesn’t mean any disrespect, there’s a lot going wrong with this country and what it needs is a strong hand to take the horse to the post without throwing the jockey . That he goes for humble folks, and being humble himself despite the glory he’s known , not to brag , he knows his place and knows how to be country with country folks, a gentleman with gentlemen, a roughneck with roughnecks. That nobody knows the city like he does, that he’s worked every job and walked every neighborhood and that’s why he knows everybody who’s anybody to the people or to the sport. With don Pedro Candioti, for example, he’s got to be like a brother, and he was with him when he swam the ten kilometers between Baradero and Santa Fe, without forgetting my place of course. That few men of experience from the old guard are left, and that the few that are left are outraged by the way things are nowadays . That he aims to be of service to the judge, sir, and the secretary, sir, because he doesn’t have anything to hide and this isn’t the first time that destiny has placed him at the service of the law. That with regards to what happened at the Turk’s bar he has plenty to contribute because what happened there was something really tremendous and it goes to show you what happens when people don’t know their propers or their place in the world. That as soon as he saw them coming, he knew something strange was going to happen but he didn’t want to open his mouth because that wasn’t his house and he’s always known his place in another man’s house. That it was obvious that man had some devilish intentions because he went and stood at the end of the counter and was looking at the clientele with an ugly face and listening to the conversation and not saying a single word. And it wasn’t good for that lady to be saying things unbecoming for a good woman, specially considering that there was other women present she might offend. He says that, as he sees it, with the flashlight stuff she was also looking for trouble, because shining it on her husband and making a fool of him in front of the present company showed very bad manners. But even with all that he doesn’t judge anybody, and if that woman was complaining that her husband made her life miserable, there was a reason for it. “So when I heard the shots I didn’t even flinch, because I’d seen it coming already,” he says. I ask him what he saw when he went out to the courtyard.

“What could I have seen?” he says. “What I supposed was going to happen since they walked in. ’Specially when he let her talk and say all those things, laughing all the while. I saw him laughing. And she was laughing too. I even thought that it was all a show and they were pulling our legs. When I went out to the courtyard, I saw the truck passing under the streetlight, quick as you like, and then it disappeared. Jozami the Turk was shining the light on the woman’s face, and then he stood up and said she was dead. I’m the kind of man who’s used to this sort of tragedy. I didn’t even flinch. When Domingo Bucci died, I was his mechanic. And I say, Domingo, I got an ugly preminishin about the next lap. I don’t like it a bit. And he says, You have to die from something, Pedrito, and the quicker the better . Just like that, señores. Soon as I saw them come in with the shotgun and the ducks, I wouldn’t have bet a single cent on that woman’s life.” I look up at the guard. “Take him out,” I say. He stands up and leans over, reshaping his black hat. “Not bragging or any of that,” he says, “but the devil’s wise like the devil he is, but even more so like the old man he is. Good day, your honorable,” and he holds out his hand. “That’s fine, go on,” I say. He leaves. Then the officer comes back. “Bring the accused at four tomorrow,” I say. “In the morning the secretary and I are going to the scene.” After the guard leaves I stand up and go to the window. It’s completely dark above the trees in the plaza. Behind me, the secretary continues typing. I put on my raincoat and walk out. The corridor is empty. I reach the top of the stairs, and looking over the railing, I see the group of witnesses crossing the black and white checkerboard square and then disappear toward the entrance. I go down the stairs slowly. When I reach the first floor, the lobby is deserted. I cross the dark, empty rear corridors and come out into the darkness of the courtyard. The rain hits my face, softly. The car is a dense mass in the penumbra, rising out of the rainy darkness. I feel its coldness when I touch the door handle. I sit down behind the wheel and start the engine. The red dashboard light reaches my face weakly, and I just manage to see it reflected in the rear view. I turn the car halfway around, slowly, and drive slowly across the narrow courtyard, coming out onto the Avenida del Sur. The rain condenses in whitish masses around the white light from the mercury gas lamps. I head west, and as I’m reaching the first intersection, the red traffic light turns green and I turn left and drive down the dark street of rough cobblestones. Small colonial houses with yellow walls and barred windows begin appearing to my left and right, crowded together on the sidewalk between more modern buildings. A dog slowly crosses the empty street, under the streetlight at the corner, and stops at the steps to a store. A blurred light filters through its doorway onto the street corner, and as I pass I make out the vague shapes of two or three gorillas, males and females, standing out against the background of crowded shelves. Then I see the mass of trees in the park advance toward me — black silhouettes attached to the more diffuse darkness of the night sky, rising out of the black horizon. I turn left when I reach the park, driving with the park on my right. Its paths descend in steps between the trees toward the lake; its lamps cast a weak light, revealing the condensed rain as it passes through the foliage. I follow the soft curve of the park and then follow San Martín until I reach the row of houses. I wait for a tractor trailer to pass. It’s coming in the opposite direction, its headlights illuminating the inside of the car. Then I cross and park the car in the middle of the street, pointing north. I shut off the engine, get out, and start up the illuminated stairway. I hang my raincoat on the rack in the bathroom and go to the study. I turn on the desk lamp and a sphere of light surrounds the desk while the rest of the room is left in a weak penumbra. I sit down briefly on the twin sofa, with my back to the windows, the curtains open. I close my eyes and rest my neck on the velvet arm. I stay in that position for a moment. Then I see the vast expanse of even flames again, spreading silently.

I see the empty checkerboard lobby of the courthouse, the empty corridors and offices, and then, for a second time, the even flames rippling softly, the flat, uninterrupted expanse that contains the entire visible horizon.

I open my eyes, shake my head, and sit up. I stand, pour myself two fingers of whiskey, neat, and drink it in a single swallow. Then I sit down at the desk. The notebook is open. The last sentence, written in cramped handwriting, in black, reads, Los detalles son siempre vulgares . The third, fourth, and fifth lines of page 115 are underlined with a light dashes, in green. The dictionary is open and the pens are scattered over the desk between the dictionary and the notebook. I start to work. I mark up, with crosses, vertical and horizontal lines, and circles in various colors of ink, the cramped handwriting that fills the white space on the page between the blue rules. When Elvira comes in I’m writing the sentence, El único encanto del pasado es que es el pasado . I look up after writing the word pasado . Elvira says that the man from the club came by, and that my mother called again, and she asks if I would like to eat. She stands motionless next to the desk, her hands alongside her thick body, her graying head tilted slightly to one side, at the outer edge where the sphere of warm light cast by the lamp begins to lose its intensity and blend with the penumbra in the room. I tell her to bring something to the study. When she leaves, I underline two sentences: They always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would end in a farce. At that moment the telephone rings.