Juan José Saer - Scars

— You could’ve said you were getting a drink, without making such as fuss, she says.

The light coming through the door is weak. I slip on the mud and then grope with my foot for the brick path that leads to the door. She’s walking ahead. We go inside.

There’s Jozami the Turk, don Gorosito, and two women. I touch la Gringa on the arm and whisper to her, Watch the way you behave and what you say.

— You’re going to pay, she says.

We say hello. I order two rums. I leave the shotgun and the ducks on the counter, near the edge, and just stand there. I see everything clearly.

— Out hunting? says Jozami.

— Lots of ducks out this time of year, says don Gorosito. There was a time when me and the boys would go out duck hunting and come back with all our bags loaded up. We could eat duck till we were sick of it and there was still some left over to share around the neighborhood.

— What we got today isn’t even enough for us, she says. My husband’s a bad shot, is the thing.

— Where’d you go? says Jozami.

— Over by Colastiné, she says.

Jozami pours the two rums. He comes over and leaves mine next to the ducks and the breech of the shotgun.

— A roasted duck is really tasty, says don Gorosito.

— There aren’t many tasty things left in your life, are there don Gorosito? says one of the women.

She has her back to me. The three others are standing in a semicircle opposite her, facing me. Jozami’s hands are resting on the counter.

— But don’t forget what don Gorosito was in his youth, says the other one.

— Ask around and they’ll tell you who Pedro Gorosito was, says don Gorosito.

— Men these days, she says, aren’t worth a thing.

— That’s so true, says the woman who spoke first.

— It’s like I’m always saying, says the other one. She’s standing next to the counter, her shoulder almost grazing against don Gorosito’s.

— Join us, Fiore my friend, says don Gorosito. Come enjoy this friendly circle with us.

— Watch out, she says. He’s pissy.

— It’s like I’m always saying, says the woman standing next to Gorosito. Men today aren’t good for anything .

— All they’re good for is chasing after negras , she says. Like this one here — every blessed day he spends chasing after las negras .

— Just ask and they’ll tell you who Pedro Gorosito was, says don Gorosito. Not bragging, but I was a slick dresser in those days, and remember I was a goalkeeper for Progreso in the forties.

— He spends all day chasing after las negras , as if I wasn’t as female as anybody, she says. As anybody , and even more so.

I take a drink of rum and leave the glass on the counter. The other woman, the one standing next to the cans of food, is looking toward me, though she doesn’t stop talking. That’s what she wants. Even though her back is to me, I can tell, from her tone. She’s got her back to me, next to the counter. If I turn my head toward the pile of cans and I close an eye, I can erase her. Now there’s just her voice, because I’ve erased her. I open my eye and she reappears. I close my eye again, my head turned slightly toward the pile of cans, and I erase her again. Because she wants that, she’s asking me for it. I don’t understand what she is saying. I know she’s talking about me. For me.

— You can’t trust men these days, says the woman standing next to Gorosito. They’ve got a lot of interests , and all they’re good at is lying about it.

— This one here goes crazy when he sees a negra , she says. He goes nuts. The filthiest negra could make him drop everything. Could make him steal or whatever else. Like if I wasn’t as female as anybody or even more so.

I erase her again, turning my head slightly toward the pile of cans and closing my right eye. I open my eye slowly, and the cloudy image sharpens again, until she reappears, moving her shoulders and gesturing.

— I used to have a place right downtown, near the government offices. You can go down to the neighborhood and ask who Pedro Gorosito is, says don Gorosito.

While she talks her head moves. Her neck and her back follow the movement, and then her arms come up and then they fall alongside her body.

— One’s never enough for them, says the woman standing next to Gorosito.

— Some parts of them are good, says the other woman, looking at me.

— Pour me another gin, Jozami, che , says don Gorosito.

— What good? she says. They’re all dogshit, that’s what they are.

— Let’s see if you can shut your mouth right now, Gringa, I say.

— All they think about is drinking and chasing skirts, she says. And this one here is the worst of them.

— Shut up, Gringa, I say.

— Then they try to shut you up, just when you’re starting to air out the laundry, she says.

— Gringa, I say.

— Easy now, I say.

She turns toward me, smiling. I smile.

— It’s alright my love, she says.

She opens the bag and takes out the flashlight. Suddenly my eyes are filled with light. I close them and throw my head back. She switches the light on and off, on and off. It’s obvious that’s what she wants. It’s obvious she’s trying to make me understand it.

— Turn that light off, Gringa, or you’ll get what’s coming to you.

She turns it off. The scene reappears, covered with sparks of light and red blurs, until eventually everything is clear like before.

— That’s how I’ve got him, she says. In the light. He makes life bad for me.

— You know what’s coming to you, I say.

— He makes life so bad for me, she says.

— Let’s go, I say.

— Kids these days have no memory, but the name Pedro Gorosito used to be on everyone’s lips, years back, says don Gorosito.

I finish my rum in one swallow and leave a fifty-peso bill on the counter.

— Finish that rum and let’s go, I say.

— I decide if I want to go or not, she says.

— No. Let’s go, I say.

She drinks her rum slowly, deliberately, to piss me off. She’s got the flashlight in her hand. Then she picks up the bag from the counter and gets ready to leave.

— Good night everyone, she says.

I wave. We leave. It’s raining.

— Didn’t I say it was going to rain? she says.

— Yes, you did, I say.

— When I say something it’s because I know something, she says.

In the darkness I feel her stop in front of me, blocking me from the truck.

— Get going, I say.

— Didn’t I say a thousand times that it was going to rain? she says.

— Yes, I say. Keep walking.

— When I say something is going to happen, it happens, she says.

I’ve got the shotgun under my right arm, the ducks in my left hand.

— I’m not going anywhere, she says.

She stands between me and the truck. I can feel her breathing in the darkness, and the clicking sounds of her bag against the flashlight. For a moment, I do nothing. Then I step forward and touch her, push her, and I feel her stumble back. She lets out a sound and then the light comes on — a beam of white light that flashes and searches for me until finally, after grazing my hand, my chest, and my neck, it covers my face. It’s a blinding flash charged with burning sparks, issuing from a core of rigid whiteness. It pins me down in the darkness.

— Didn’t I say it was going to rain? says her voice. Didn’t I? Didn’t you hear me say so?

Then I raise the barrels of the shotgun up into an oblique line. Then I just pull the triggers, one after the other, and when I do the blasts sound so close together that the second one is like a stutter of the first, the echo of the first, and it fills the damp air with an explosive sound that’s pregnant with the smell of gunpowder. At the moment I pull the triggers my left hand lets go of the ducks and they fall to the ground. The flashlight falls too, and the beam of light casts off in a random direction and then is still. The light hits something and is interrupted and then continues, breaking up toward the dark street. I walk around the flashlight and get in the truck.