Juan José Saer - Scars

The courtyard is empty.

It’s raining. When we head back to the car and cross the bridge I watch the fine rainfall as it pocks the surface of the dirty water in the ditch. The bridge is covered in mud. The onlookers step aside to let us pass. Among them, in passing, I notice the gorilla in the black hat who gave a statement. We get in the car and head back to the courthouse. We pass the lateral wall of the wholesale market again, this time to our right, then alongside the front entrance to the market and the regimental gardens, to our right, and when we reach the Avenida del Sur, we turn left and head west. We cross at the light, turn on the next corner, and stop in front of the courthouse. We get out. The secretary walks next to me. We go up the wide marble steps and cross the lobby at an angle toward the stairs. The secretary veers off and says he’s going to take the elevator. The roar of voices echoing in the lobby quiets down as I move up the stairs. When I reach the third floor, they’re no longer audible. I lean over the railing and look down at the flattened shapes on the black and white floor, which is almost completely covered by the mass of them. When I reach the office the secretary is sitting behind his desk. I go straight into my office and to the window. In the Plaza de Mayo, a number of flattened gorillas wrapped in raincoats walk in different directions, blurred by the rain. I sit down at the desk. Ángel calls and asks if he can attend the inquest. He insists, and finally I say he can. We hang up. Almost at once a worker enters with the payroll and has me sign three copies. He hands me the envelope. Without opening it, I put it in the inside pocket of my jacket. I walk out and tell the secretary that I’ll be back at exactly half past three. I cross the corridor, go down the stairs, and across the checkerboard lobby, through the roar of the voices of the multitude, and out into the rear courtyard. The rain hits my face. I get in the car, steer slowly toward the street, and then turn west onto the Avenida del Sur. When I reach San Martín I turn right just as the green light changes to yellow. I drive toward the government buildings, cross the intersection, pass the San Francisco convent, and a block and a half later I stop the car next to the sidewalk, in front of my house. The rain falls over the trees in the park. Water pours from their black and fissured trunks. I go up the stairs and into the study. Elvira comes in as I’m taking off my raincoat. She says it’s barely eleven fifteen; would I like to eat now or wait? I tell her to bring something to the study.

I sit down with the novel, the dictionary, and the open notebook and the pile of pens and pencils of various colors scattered over the desk. I don’t even have time to start writing before I fall asleep. Elvira shakes me awake. She’s brought a dish with a piece of boiled meat, some bread, and a bowl of golden, steaming soup. “You have to sleep more at night,” she says. She puts down the tray and leaves. I eat the boiled meat and the bread and swallow two or three spoonfuls of soup. I leave everything on the desk, draw the curtains — in the park two young, male gorillas, one with glasses and crooked legs, the other older and fatter, with a bulging belly, are walking slowly under an umbrella, reading a book out loud, one of them holding the book and the other the umbrella, the one with glasses, who’s holding the book, gesturing as though he’s reciting — and the room gets dark. I lay down on the velvet-covered twin sofa and close my eyes.

The desolation comes just as I’m laying my head down on the velvet cushion, and then it passes.

Then the phosphorescent blurs appear, drift, and disappear. Then I don’t see anything, and I hear, but don’t see, the muted crackling of the flames growing and then fading away. Then the fire appears, and the immense wheat field burning to the horizon and going out silently.

I fall asleep. When I wake up it’s three fifteen and I barely have time to wash my face before leaving for the courthouse. I park the car in the rear courtyard, and when I get to my office the secretary is there with a thin, blond gorilla, waiting for me. He says he’s Fiore’s lawyer. “He’s sequestered,” I say. I have him sit down in a chair in front of my desk. “They’ve got him in some awful room in the precinct,” he says. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but that has nothing to do with me.” “Yes, I suppose not,” he says. We’re silent. I hear Ángel’s voice in the secretary’s office. He comes in and shakes my hand. I introduce him to the lawyer. “As soon as he gives a statement, the sequestration will be lifted,” I say. The thin, blond gorilla with a blond beard stands up and leaves, saying he’ll be back in an hour. I tell Ángel that nothing can be published about the inquest, and not to say a word or take notes of any kind. The secretary comes in and says they’re bringing the prisoner. Suddenly, the murderer appears in the doorway. His beard is several days old, his eyes are dull, and his hair is a complete mess. The guard follows. He gives him a soft push into the chair, then he hands me the police docket and leaves. The murderer looks out the window, from which a gray light comes in. “Your name is Luis Fiore?” I ask. He nods. Then he looks me straight in the face and says Judge and then he says something or other and jumps out the window. There’s a shattering of glass and then nothing. I get up and walk toward the corridor, moving quickly. Before reaching the door to the office, I collide with the secretary and push him aside. I go down the stairs and out the front door. A group of people has gathered around the crushed, bloody body. The blond gorilla who was in my office a minute before approaches me. “How could this happen?” he says. “He jumped,” I say. “He’s dead,” he says. “You know this is terribly serious, Your Honor.” “Come to my office,” I say. At the entrance to the courthouse we pass Ángel. He says something or other and I say something and keep going. The blond gorilla walks quickly, forcing me to keep pace. He goes straight to the elevator and we go up to the third floor. We cross the corridor and go into the office. The secretary has disappeared. We’re standing in the middle of the office. He says, “I was standing at the bus stop, and I saw him fall from up here. I could hear the sound.” “Typical for a falling body,” I say. Suddenly, he slaps me. “That was the body of a person,” he says, staring at me with his burning, sky blue eyes. “That’s your opinion,” I say. “You’re a coward,” he says, and he leaves.

Cold air and rain enter through the hole that used to be covered in glass. When the secretary returns I tell him to take care of everything and not to bother me until the next day. “They may want to take a statement today, Judge,” he says. “Well, they won’t find me, in any case,” I say. “Just do as I say: have everything ready for tomorrow morning.” Then I leave, go down the stairs, and cross the checkerboard lobby. The black and white tiles are clean and polished and the lobby is empty. I cross the corridors on the first floor and go out to the rear courtyard. It’s getting dark, and it’s raining. I turn onto the Avenida del Sur, heading east, with the Plaza de Mayo to my right, and then turn at the corner, where the green light allows me through. Then I leave the government buildings and the convent behind and park in front of my house. I hang the raincoat in the bathroom, walk to the study, and turn on the desk lamp. I pour myself a whiskey and sit down with the notebook and the novel open on the desk, then I pick up one of the pens. The dictionary is closed. The telephone rings. It’s the same voice as always. It insults me and laughs and then it’s gone. It hangs up and I do too. I work until after midnight. I underline a last sentence— You call yesterday the past? — and go to bed.