Scars

APRIL, MAY

THE WIPER BLADES RHYTHMICALLY SKIM THE windshield surface, where rain droplets strike faintly from the off-white mass that surrounds the car and thickens at a distance and through which the dripping wet facades appear at breaks in the fog, the two rows of facades moving backward, away, down the narrow, gleaming street. The side windows are steamed over, and looking through them I can only make out blurs moving slowly through the fog, the mass of wet particles colliding, and the thick gray or yellow smudges of the facades. Ahead on the corner a solitary gorilla, wrapped in a blue raincoat, a hat smashed low on his head, so that his face is barely visible, doubles over, coughing. Then I pass by and leave him behind.

I turn on Mendoza, where the sun should be, and the car glides slowly, and I pass the bus station. Several gorillas pace or stand motionless on the platforms next to packages and suitcases. The platforms, open at the back, fade into the fog and the still-present shade of night that contrasts with it, almost blinding. A smooth shade, polished and dense. And the gorillas who shake their head or wipe a hand over their brow or bring a cigarette to their lips introduce a white smudge that disappears immediately into the dark penumbra. No buses are on the platforms, and the closed windows keep out the sounds. I can’t tell whether the loudspeakers that announce the arrival and departure of the buses are on, or if the gorillas’ footsteps or their voices, echoing over the oil-stained cement and the platforms’ sloped roofs, are loud or soft. All I hear is the steady hum of the engine, which varies only when I slow down to take a corner or accelerate suddenly, and then only for a moment, if from distraction I have pressed down too hard on the gas.

I make a left and pass the already-illuminated post office. Gorillas pass behind the windows on the first floor and behind the large counters. Through breaks in the fog I see their torsos moving past the counters as though by conveyer. Now the car’s movement, rumbling over the shining cobblestones of the harbor road, becomes less regular. Through the windshield I see tall palms approach me, wrapped in fog, and the poles of streetlamps that end in white globes that emit a weak light, swallowed now by the morning. The tree trunks drip water. The harbor road is completely deserted. The palms and the globes of the streetlamps approach me and then disappear behind. And the damp cobblestones advance toward the wheels of the car, and when I pass over a dip in the road, where a puddle has formed, they make a liquid murmur that blends with the monotone hum of the engine. Briefly the windshield fills up with thick splatters that the wiper blades sweep away, first spreading them over the glass where they struck and then sweeping them to the edges of the windshield, leaving me just enough space to see the road ahead. The clean space on the windshield blurs at the edges, and the drops that fall ceaselessly over it hold their shape for a moment, emitting a highly delicate shining fringe, and then they disappear.

Soon I reach the suspension bridge, which I have seen approach me. Its columns, darkened and gleaming from the water, are only half-visible here and there through breaks in the fog. A gorilla wrapped in a black cloak, his head covered by a watchman’s cap, is standing outside a gray sentry box. He is completely still, his eyes fixed on the fog. Then he disappears. He is behind me. Then the bridge too. Now the old waterfront extends ahead, its oil-stained asphalt covered with fractures and holes. Now the concrete railing, its endless, weathered balustrade. Every so often, a missing column breaks the uniformity. And sometimes a broken column has fallen to pieces over the enormous gray slabs of the wide sidewalk. From beyond the waterfront I see the leafless, tall poplars approach me and then disappear. The fog approaches, a solid, white wall. The car moves through it, a shining wedge behind which the fog closes again. Now I’m on the new waterfront, wider, without immediate reference points, and for a moment there is nothing but the car and the fog, in a kind of stillness. Nothing but the solid, off-white mass where particles rotate in space, like tiny planets, and the car moving but with the illusion of not advancing through the uniform density of the fog. Suddenly, the decayed top of a tree appears and then disappears, behind me, and for a moment it’s clear that I have been advancing, although the return of the complete fog renews the illusion of motionlessness.

By now the gorillas will be leaving their burrows, vacating their foul-smelling nests, examining their decaying teeth in the bathroom mirror, voiding their excrement, looking at the fog through the window, turning groggily in the beds where they’ve copulated with their reddish-sexed females, with quiet moans and brutal sobs; the females are looking now at the males in bed, hearing them move through the poorly illuminated kitchens as they prepare breakfast before leaving for work. Then they will shut their eyes, curl up between the warm sheets, and fall back to sleep until midmorning, after which they will get up and go out to the market to buy food while the males write incoherent reports on oversized log books in offices with tall ceilings and wood floors. They open their front doors, belch stupidly, look at the fog, and hunch over as they walk in the rain to the corner to wait for the bus. In the bus they plaster themselves against each other, still puffy from sleep, rubbing their fleshy asses and smearing the scent over their faces. They utter broken sounds, shake their heads, open their eyes enormously wide, and make unintelligible gestures with their hands.

The yellow walls of a bus stop shelter pull me momentarily from the illusory stillness, then they pass and are left behind. The first houses on the new waterfront, opposite the river, start to appear, withered and blurry. On the other side, the river has disappeared. At a spot where the waterfront makes a wide turn toward the river I stop the car and shut it off. The silence of the quiet engine becomes more monotonous than the monotonous hum of the running engine; the sound echoes for a moment in my head and then dissolves. I stare at the fog, toward what I imagine is the riverbank. Slight breaks in the fog allow me to imagine that I see the surface of the water. Suddenly, a shining black blur appears and disappears. It reappears and is erased again. Then it reappears and hangs for a moment. I just make out the back legs and tail of a horse. The tail shakes and then everything disappears again. Once again the fog through the windshield is empty. With the stillness of the wiper blades, the glass is covered with tiny drops that leave a thin trace of their impact. I turn on the wipers and again the droplets gather and disappear and the glass is left clean. For three minutes I wait for the dark blur of the horse to reappear, but nothing does, so I turn the engine on again, harshly, and move on.

I reach Guadalupe, drive through the roundabout, and turn back onto the waterfront in the opposite direction. If not for the memory of having reached the end of the waterfront and having gone through the roundabout, there would now seem not only to be no movement, but no direction. No direction, except that I face something — my face, like the front of the car, looks at something — but without the memory of having gone through the roundabout on Guadalupe, I wouldn’t know what. Then the tree reappears, fragmentary and wet, above me, the top branches swallowed by the fog; it approaches slowly and is left behind.

I retake the old waterfront, and when I reach the mouth of the suspension bridge — the gorilla in the police hat has disappeared, only the gray sentry box remains — I turn onto the boulevard instead of continuing on the harbor road. I follow the boulevard to the west, and after passing the tracks I see the old train station, a large, brown building. Its walls are wet, and its broad doors and windows are dim. Two female gorillas with identical pink umbrellas exit from the main entrance. A row of taxis is parked on the street, parallel to the immense facade. In some, I can make out the blurred figures of the gorilla drivers. They are barely distinguishable. On the boulevard, the large trees are still and wet. Now there is a bit more traffic, slow-moving cars and buses. When I reach the first streetlight, ten blocks from the avenue, the fog is already clearing. The light is red and I stop instinctively. The engine hums, and the wiper blades, with a regular, even sound, form semicircles as they gather and sweep the water away. The red light turns off, and by the time it changes to green I’m already crossing the intersection. Above me, out of the fog, the gothic spire of the Adoratrices appears. Five blocks later, just before I reach the second streetlight, I slow down to pass the mill. The light is green. I turn north onto Rivadavia. On the left-hand side stands a row of old, modest, single-story houses, and on the right the rail yard wasteland, and beyond that the long wall surrounding the mill, barely visible through the side window. The long, solid wall of un-plastered brick is bowed at intervals toward the rail yard by some cylindrical structures that, seen through the side window, take on insane proportions. Then I turn left again, onto a rough cobblestone street that makes the car frame vibrate and shudder, and then I turn south onto 25 de Mayo. I drive one block and cross the avenue, still south on 25 de Mayo. As the fog clears the streets fill with gorillas. But the rain continues. I pass the Banco Provincial — its doors are open and gorillas hurry in and out. First I see the round clock, its roman numerals marking eight twelve, then the momentary flash of glass in the revolving door as it swallows and spits out the gorillas. Then everything is left behind. Next I pass the Palace Hotel, and at the end of the same block, on the opposite corner, the Monte Carlo bar. To the left is the back of the post office, and beyond that the plaza, and on the opposite side the bus station platforms. I cross the intersection, still on 25 de Mayo to the south, and everything is left behind. On the next corner I turn right, travel a block, then turn left onto San Martín to the south. Every minute more gorillas flood the streets. Some are driving, others stare stupidly from bus windows, still others crane their necks out of their raincoats as they peer from their doorways, preparing to leave. San Martín looks washed by the rain. Washed, but still dirty, since the days-long rains have turned the streets into dark swamps, thick and wet with mud from the shoes of the thousands of gorillas that walk them. Six more blocks and I reach the Plaza de Mayo. I have to wait briefly at a streetlight; the red light keeps me from moving. Then the red light shuts off, the green light comes on, and I turn right onto the plaza and follow the road around toward the courthouse. To my left are the palms and the orange trees, and then the tall oaks, in between which the reddish paths intersect. Ahead, the front of the courthouse approaches. I cross the intersection and turn into the rear courtyard. I park the car in the thin, cobblestone space and stop the engine and the wiper blades. For a moment I wait inside the silent interior of the car, still hearing the fading echo of the engine and the rhythmic murmur of the wiper blades. A uniform sound. Then I pick up the briefcase from the rear seat, step out of the car, the rain on my face, lock the door, and enter the building.

Gorillas move through the cold corridors, in and out of offices. A few I greet with a nod. I reach the wide lobby and start making my way up the broad marble staircase. The steps are still clean. At the first landing I stop and lean over the railing. A number of gorillas are rushing through the lobby, carrying briefcases and large dossiers. Others talk loudly in groups scattered around the vast, squared-off, black and white mosaic. They look like pieces on a chess board. I continue up the wide marble staircase, and when I glance down at the lobby one last time, from the third floor, the figures of the gorillas have diminished so much, flattened against the black and white board, that the chess piece effect is suddenly perfect. Only every so often a hurried blur will cross the board diagonally or vertically. I move through the cold corridor and enter my office. The secretary is at his desk in the waiting room, studying a document. He looks up and greets me, “Early morning, judge?” I respond that it’s almost eight thirty and pass into my office. I leave the briefcase on the desk, take off the raincoat, and hang it on the coat rack. Then I open the blinds. A gray light filters into the office. The trees in the plaza, the tall palms with shining leaves and the shorter orange trees whose fruits mar the green foliage, look flattened against the reddish paths. I sit down at the desk, open the briefcase, and take out the novel, the notebook, the pencils, and the thick dictionary. Then I put the briefcase on the floor, next to the chair.

The page is marked with a blank sheet of paper that’s been folded several times. When I open the novel, the paper falls on the desk and the book opens perfectly, its two halves flawlessly smooth and docile. The verso page, numbered 108 at the bottom center, is covered with pen and pencil marks in several colors. Some words are circled and joined to the white margin by a nervous line that ends with a word in Spanish or some other symbol. Others are underlined in red or green ink. One of the paragraphs, toward the bottom of the page, is set apart by a vertical, red line that follows it down the left margin. The other page, the recto side, numbered 109, is only marked up to the first paragraph. It ends with an underlined sentence: Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. The phrase ever-present sign is underlined and circled in green.

Below this, the rest of the page is completely clean. I open the notebook on the desk, next to the novel. The left-hand page of the notebook is covered halfway down with my tiny handwriting, in black. Here and there a phrase is underlined in pencil, or with green or red ink, and some words are enclosed in a tight circle drawn in ink with one of those two colors. The rest of the page is blank, as is the right-hand page, except for the thin blue rules and the double vertical line at the margin. But the writing does not follow the margin or the rules, and the white space between the rules contains two manuscript lines and sometimes the corrections to these. I set the thick dictionary within reach.

I pick up the telephone, ask the operator for the press office, and wait while the line connects. This happens after the fourth ring. I say who I am. The office manager asks what he can do for me. “If the reporter for La Región comes by, tell him to come to my office, that I want to speak with him,” I say. “Sure thing, judge,” says the press office manager. I hang up.

I pick up one of the ballpoint pens from the desk and set to work. The last sentence written in the notebook is the following: Ahí había un imborrable (perenne) (siempre presente) (eterno) signo de la ruina (perdición) que los hombres llevaron (atrajeron) sobre sus almas. I turn to the book and read:

Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering.

In red, I mark the word chime. The dictionary says, armonía; clave; juego de campanas; repique; sonar con armonía; repicar; concordar. Then I look up stir. It says, removerse; agitar; revolver; incitar; moverse; bullir; tumulto; turbulencia. I turn to T and look up threads. It says, hilo; fibra; enhebrar; atravesar.

I put down the green pen and pick up the black. I write, Dieron las tres y después las cuatro, y después la media hora hizo sonar su doble repique (teo) (campanada), pero Dorian Gray no se movió. Estaba tratando de reunir (juntar) (amontonar) (hilvanar) (enhebrar) (atravesar) los hilos (pedazos) (fragmentos) escarlatas (rojos) (rojizos) de su vida, y darles una forma, para hallar su camino a través del sanguíneo (sangriento) laberinto de pasión por el cual (que) había estado vagando.

With the red pen I underline the words campanada, pedazos, and sangriento. Then I get up and look out the window. The rain is falling on the palms and the orange trees, and the reddish paths of ground brick glow. Three gorillas are crossing the plaza. They are coming from different directions: one is crossing at a diagonal from southwest to northeast, another in the opposite direction, and the third from northwest to southeast. They meet at the center of the square, in the wide reddish circle. They walk with difficulty, hunched over, blurred by the rain and wrapped in their raincoats. One of them, the one walking to the north, carries a black umbrella that partially obscures his body. The black circle moved rigidly, contrasted against the reddish path. Then I go back to the translation. I write, cross out, and make marks in the notebook and the novel: crosses, vertical and horizontal lines, circles, arrows. I return to page 109 and then turn over to page 110. The page fills up around its even printing with my nervous, quick symbols: crosses, vertical and horizontal lines, arrows, circles. I write, Hace dos días le he dicho a Sibyl que se case conmigo. No voy a quebrar mi promesa (faltar a mi palabra = to break my word to her). I underline faltar a mi palabra. Then I write, “Ella va a ser,” and at that moment Ángel walks into the office. I close the dictionary and mark my page in the novel with the red pen and close it. Ángel’s raincoat is soaked on the shoulders, and his dark hair is a mess. He is very thin.

“I haven’t been able to call you,” says Ángel. “I have lots of problems at home these days.” Then he leans over the desk and touches the book. His thin fingers brush over the surface of the cover on which there is a face — drawn in white lines on a purple field — that covers most of the surface. The face is obliterated by jagged, white lines. Ángel asks if I’ve made much progress with the translation. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s already been translated so many times that it makes no difference if I make progress or not. All I’m doing is traveling a path that others have made. I don’t discover anything. Whole passages come out exactly the same as the versions of the professional translators.” Ángel is quiet a moment, and then he asks if I have sent many people to prison. “Lots,” I say. “Have you ever been in prison?” he says. “I’ve been a few times,” I say. “Visiting.” He’s thinking that I’m not bothered by sending people to prison just because I’ve never been locked up. “Try to avoid vulgar ideas,” I say. “That’s just advice. Thinking vulgar things is anti-aesthetic. No one is better off because they’re free, or worse in prison. It’s not better to be outside than inside. People who are alive aren’t happier than dead people. It’s all a shapeless, gelatinous mass where nothing is different from anything else. Everything is exactly the same.” “They said you were looking for me,” says Ángel. “I wanted to invite you over for dinner tomorrow night,” I say. “Alright,” says Ángel. “Actually,” I say. “I wanted to see how you were.” “I’m fantastic,” says Ángel. “You don’t look it,” I say. “You look skinnier every day and you have terrible bags under your eyes.” “Well I don’t spend all day sitting behind a desk judging people,” says Ángel. “I have my own life.” I get up and brush my hand over his head. His hair is wet. “Don’t make bad literature and everything will be fine,” I say. He blushes. I ask if he wants some coffee. He asks if it’s the same as the prisoners’ coffee from the press office. “Not the prisoners’,” I say. “But it’s the same as the press office.” “I will decline, in that case,” says Ángel. Suddenly, he stands up and says he’s leaving. I follow him to the door, holding him by the shoulders. “You’re getting very cynical and rebellious,” I say in a low voice. Then he disappears.

I set the briefcase on the table and start putting things away: the dictionary, the pens, the notebook, and the novel, which I mark again with the folded paper after removing the red pen. Then I close the briefcase, put on my raincoat, and leave the office. The secretary looks up from a document. His hair is going gray. “Leaving already, judge?” he says. “Yes, I’m leaving. It’s almost noon.” “I have some reports for you to sign,” he says. “Tomorrow,” I say. “Yes, tomorrow,” he says. “There’s no rush.” I say goodbye and walk out, then down the dark corridor, stopping at the railing to look down at the floors below. The lobby is crowded with gorillas talking in groups or walking across the black and white mosaic in every direction. I make my way slowly down the white marble stairs toward the first floor. As I approach the wide lobby the gorillas’ voices grow louder but no more intelligible. They make strange noises in a strange register that blends together and rebounds off the tall ceiling. It’s a shapeless blend of sound, and when I start to make my way through the mass of gorillas toward the rear of the building, the sounds reach me charged with vibrations and echoes: some are shrill, others harsh, others guttural, blending with shouts and laughter to produce an incessant crackle. With pale faces, bulging eyes, with fur that covers their heads, wet from the rain, their arms gesticulating strangely, some gorillas cluster in groups and some hurry across the black and white mosaic. The stairs are covered in muddy tracks, and the impressions left by their shoes on the mosaic have filled with water. Finally I reach the end of the lobby and walk into the cold, empty corridor. Office doors open to the corridor, revealing, every so often, shelves piled to the ceiling with documents. I reach the end of the corridor and walk out into the rear courtyard. The rain covers my face. I get in the car. I put down the briefcase, and when I turn on the engine and the windshield wipers I hear their sounds again, the monotone hum of the engine and the rhythmic scrape of the wiper blades over the windshield, soaked from the hours when the car was parked in the rear courtyard. I back up slowly, then steer down the narrow passageway toward the exit until I reach the street. After crossing the intersection I turn right and start driving around the plaza and the courthouse is left behind. On the corner, the traffic light stops me, but the engine keeps running. When the green light comes on I turn left up San Martín to the north. The gorillas, males and females, crowd the sidewalks in both directions, and their number grows as I approach the city center. At the corner of the municipal theater I have to brake suddenly when a bus rushes through the intersection, full speed, just as I’m starting across. Then I start moving again, observing the old facade of the theater, its curved marble staircase washed by the rain. Then I leave the theater behind and continue north. Two and a half blocks later I pass the corridors of the arcade, cross Mendoza, and continue up San Martín. The number of gorillas has grown considerably; they huddle in the thresholds of shops and under the eaves of houses to protect themselves from the weather. The female gorillas’ colorful umbrellas move stiffly, filling the sidewalks with circular blurs, red, green, pink, yellow, black, and white. Farther along, as I pass the entrance to La Región, I see Ángel hurrying inside, but he doesn’t see me. I’m only just able to see him stride quickly up the two steps at the entrance and then disappear. I go on, slowly, block after block, until I reach the boulevard, then I turn right, then I pass the university, a pale yellow building, its windows painted green. To the west, through the portion of open sky above the boulevard, I can make out the vast, blurred horizon, a gray that grows more dense as it moves into the distance. The wiper blades sweep across the windshield glass with an even rhythm while the fine droplets fall and collide and form strange, momentary shapes. I drive to the west end of the boulevard, and then, after some fifteen blocks, I turn left again, to the south, down the Avenida del Oeste. Restless gorillas wait silently under bus stop shelters. I can see them through the windshield, and less distinctly through the side windows soaked by the rain. I go about twenty blocks down the avenue, passing, in succession, the Avenida cinema, the wholesale market, then the regimental gardens, until finally I reach the Avenida del Sur again and turn left, to the east, down the avenue. Eight blocks and I pass the rear courtyard of the courthouse again. At the corner I turn right, circling slowly to the south, in front of the courthouse, and then I turn again at the corner, to the west again, between the gray facade of city hall and the southern walkway of the Plaza de Mayo, where the waterlogged palms and orange trees appear momentarily between the reddish paths that crisscross the plaza at angles and arcs. I reach San Martín and turn right, to the south. On my right is the lateral facade of city hall, on my left the historical museum, and at the first intersection the San Francisco church on the left and the row of single-story houses on the right. I move through the rain. The monotone hum of the engine blends with the regular rhythm of the wiper blades sweeping over the glass, where fine droplets of rain collide and explode into strange, momentary shapes. After the convent begin the woods of the southern park. I travel half a block past the second intersection and stop the car on the left side. For a moment I wait inside the car, hearing only the echo of the monotone hum of the engine and the regular rhythm of the wiper blades, which have now stopped but which continue resonating momentarily before they disappear completely. I take the briefcase from the back seat, step out of the car, lock the door and open the front door of the house, go inside, close the front door behind me, and start up the stairs. I go straight to the study and hang up the raincoat that I’ve been removing since I started up the stairs. I leave the briefcase on the sofa. I open the curtains, and the gray light from outside enters the study, a gray and rain-soaked gleam coming down. I observe the trees and the lake beyond, also gray, and also gleaming. The trees appear to be surrounded by a soft halo, and the drops form an evanescent myriad suspended momentarily around the wet foliage before they fall. What I can see of the park from the window is completely deserted. I turn around as Elvira comes in and asks if I’m going to eat now or if I prefer to wait a while longer. I say I’ll wait a while longer and I sit down on the twin sofa, with my back to the window, and soon I’m asleep.

I wake up almost at once. I think it’s at once but I look at my watch and see that it’s two ten. I get up. I cough. Straightening my clothes, I leave the study and walk to the dining room. Elvira is at the head of the table, which is half-covered with a tablecloth and set with two covered plates and a glass. There’s also a bread basket with two or three crackers. “I came in and saw you were sleeping and didn’t want to wake you,” Elvira says. “I fell asleep,” I say. Elvira’s gray hair concentrates a gray light that I can’t place; perhaps the hair itself is what produces it. I sit down at the head of the table. Elvira hobbles into the kitchen and disappears. She returns with a steaming soup tureen and serves me a ladleful of simmering, golden broth. She disappears into the kitchen. I take three or four spoonfuls of soup then leave the spoon submerged in the dish. Slowly, the golden broth stops steaming. Gold-colored lumps form on the surface and turn pale. With the edge of the knife I clink the stemmed glass three or four times. Elvira reappears with a bottle of water that she leaves on the table. She takes the plate with the cold soup and returns with a dish containing three potatoes and a piece of meat. She serves me the meat and a potato and leaves the dish on the table. Then she leaves. I take two or three bites of meat but the potato is left untouched. I clink the glass again, this time with the back edge of the knife so as not to smudge the crystal, and when Elvira reappears I look up. “Tomorrow I’m having company for dinner, doña Elvira,” I say, “I want you to make something special.” Elvira looks at me for a moment. “How about a chicken?” she says. “Yes,” I say, “And something more.” “I’ll see what I can make,” she says. Then she looks at my plate and at the silverware crossed over what’s left of the meal. “Is that all you ate?” she says. “I’m not hungry,” I say. Elvira sighs and gathers the dishes. I get up, go to the bathroom, urinate, and then I brush my teeth and wash my hands. My face is reflected momentarily in the bathroom mirror as I brush my teeth, but when I lean over to spit it disappears. I rinse out my mouth and then I wash my hands. When I straighten up to dry them on the towel hanging from the rack next to the sink, my face reappears in the mirror. Then I turn off the light and walk out. In the study I sit down on the twin sofa. When I wake up, it’s dark. Or rather, it’s about to get dark.

Through the window I see the blue sky. It rains. A blue penumbra covers the trees in the park, and behind them, through the foliage, the lake is still and blue, but near-black and murky. Two indistinct figures — a female and a male gorilla, surely — walk slowly between the trees, toward the lake. I scratch my head. The telephone rings and I pick it up. It’s the same voice as always, high-pitched, like a puppet, pouring out its long, rapid string of insults. It calls me a thief, a slut, a lowlife. It says I’ll get what’s coming to me soon enough. I listen impassively until it finishes, and when I sense that it has hung up, I hang up too. Then I pour myself a whiskey, neat, and take a sip.

I put on the raincoat and the waterproof hat and go out. I descend the stairs quietly. At the door I stop for a moment, look down the empty street toward the park, and then I get in the car. It’s been getting rained on all day and the windshield is soaked. Through it I can only make out a shapeless, blue penumbra, where a few jagged lights glimmer at a distance. I wait a moment, in the silence, before turning the key. The engine hesitates two or three times before finally turning over. I turn on the windshield wipers and wait for the rain to clear before moving. As they sweep the water from the windshield, the wiper blades reveal the curve of San Martín to the south and the trees beyond that seem to intersect the street where the curve of the park follows of the curve of the blue pavement. I turn on the headlights and they pierce the bluish penumbra. A pair of young gorillas is coming up the sidewalk toward me, arm in arm. They blink at the headlights. I wait for them to pass the car, and then I start moving, but so slowly that it takes me a long time to reach the first corner, where I turn right. The rough cobblestones make the car’s frame shudder. At the next corner I turn right again, onto the smooth asphalt of San Gerónimo to the north. At the third corner I come out on the Plaza de Mayo. I go on, the plaza to my right and the courthouse, where no lights are visible, to my left. I cross the intersection with the Avenida del Sur and turn right at the next corner, then I drive one block and turn left onto San Martín to the north.

I cross the Avenida del Sur, and at the next corner I turn right, then drive one block and turn left onto San Martín to the north. Ahead I can make out the neon signs on San Martín, growing more varied and dense. Their lights — green, pink, yellow, and blue — tarnish the night sky, nearly black by now. The streetlights are also lit up, and the shop windows are brightly illuminated. The lobby of the municipal theater is lit up, but I don’t see anyone inside. Suddenly, the rain thickens. Through the windshield the street becomes a luminous blot, a blot that takes on a clear but unstable form momentarily, and then returns to the luminous blot, where the colors blend violently. I go slowly, at the end of a long line of cars. Another line advances slowly in the opposite direction. After I pass the illuminated corridors of the arcade, the downpour of thick rain returns to the barely perceptible mist of days and days. I drive two blocks, slowly, following the slow line of cars ahead, and then I turn right, leaving San Martín. At the Banco Provincial I cross 25 de Mayo and continue east. I turn onto the harbor road, where the rough cobblestones make the car frame shudder, and drive the length of it and reach the mouth of the suspension bridge. A weak light filters out from the gray sentry box. I turn onto the boulevard, to the west. I cross the tracks and then pass the facade of the train station — the lobby is illuminated — stop at the first traffic light, start up when the light changes, around the Adoratrices convent, briefly catch sight of the mill before crossing the tracks again at the second light, then drive two more blocks and turn again onto San Martín, to the south. As I approach the city center I fall into a long line of cars that moves more and more slowly. Then I pass the La Región building, where the only visible lights are from the news ticker, and farther on the brightly lit passageways of the arcade, now to my left, the lobby filling up with gorillas, pomaded and dressed in dark clothing, and female gorillas covered in jewelry and dressed festively, and then finally the Plaza de Mayo, circling on its east side. The city hall building approaches, and through the right side windows, between the foliage in the plaza, appears the dark mass of the courthouse. City hall is left behind. I cross the first intersection, and the second, and finally stop the car halfway down the block, in front of the house. The trees are dark. I step out of the car and close the door, and I can feel the rain falling on my face and on my hat. Over the roof of the car, through the trees, I see the water on the lake shine momentarily and darken again. I make an effort to keep my shoes clean, tiptoeing across the sidewalk and into the house. I lock the door and start up the stairs.

Elvira is in the dining room. “Will you eat now?” she says. I tell her to leave something out, that for now I’m not hungry. Elvira disappears into the kitchen. “Bring some ice to the study,” I say. I hang up the raincoat and the hat on the rack in the bathroom, urinate, and go into the study. The curtains are open, so I close them again. Now the only light, a bright circle, comes from the desk. I pick up the briefcase from the sofa, take out the dictionary, the notebook, the novel, and the pens, and put them on the desk. I drop the empty briefcase on the sofa, pour myself a large whiskey, and sit down at the desk, glass in hand. I take a short drink. Then I open the notebook to the first page and study the black handwriting of the manuscript, which is full of strikethroughs and markups in various colors, green, red, blue. Elvira knocks at the door and then comes in with the ice bucket. “I left you some sandwiches in the kitchen,” she says. I ask if she has gone shopping for tomorrow, and she says she has. Then she says goodnight and disappears. I put ice in the whiskey and take a slow drink after swirling the glass, making it clink. Then I leave the glass to my right on the desk, within reach, and open the novel to the first page — it’s covered in marks in three or four colors. I read from the notebook. The first word, in capital letters in the center of the page, reads PREFACIO. Below this is a line in regular script. It reads, El artista es el creador de cosas bellas. The word El is in parentheses. I pause a moment and then pick up a red pen and cross out the word El, then superimpose an uppercase A over the lowercase a of the word artista. I’m left with, Artista es el creador de cosas bellas. The second line reads, Revelar el arte y ocultar el artista es el fin (propósito) (finalidad) del arte. I pause a moment and then cross out the word fin, to avoid any sort of misinterpretation.

I cross out and correct, line after line, in various colors, green, blue, red, over the black handwriting. The marks, crosses, circles, lines, and arrows are superimposed on the marks made during the first draft. At ten after twelve I get up from the desk, take a last sip of whiskey, and go to bed. I undress slowly and put on my pajamas. The sheets are warm, and the light on the nightstand casts a long cone over the white wall. I cover myself to my chin with the sheets and stare at the ceiling. Then I stretch out my hand, keeping the rest of my body still, and turn off the light. It doesn’t start right away. The common thoughts come first, the memories, the pieces of visual or auditory sensation lingering on the retina or the ear drum, the slow, weak murmur, growing more confused, the vast diurnal sound extinguishing. Then the actual murmur begins. For an immeasurable period it blends with the previous sound. The combination of the two is disorienting. At this hour the gorillas begin to undress and slither toward bed. The female gorillas wait, their legs open like enormous carnivorous flowers, their eyes half shut and their hands open on the pillow, palms up alongside their faces. I’m in complete darkness, hearing the two murmurs blending. The real murmur will start to grow, while the other is extinguished, until it completely takes over the inside of my mind. Phosphorescent blurs will rise from the murmur, then pale, then phosphorescent again, until figures will begin to take shape around the murmur, momentarily focused in the dark camera. Fragments of the faces of long-dead gorillas, their furry hands, a meteorite, incandescent and expanding as it falls to the earth through the darkness. But the external murmur remains, extinguishing gradually. The wiper blades sweep rhythmically across the surface of the glass where the drops fall, and myriad brilliant lights decompose into violent shapes, while through the side windows the blurred facades of houses — repeated blurs, yellow, gray, white — slide slowly backward. Dark windows, pale faces. Newspapers in the street, trampled, covered in mud. An empty package of cigarettes, twisted, the silver rim of the inner wrapper sticking out. Dead leaves piled up into a damp blanket under the trees. Coins stacked on the night stand, a glass of water holding a teaspoon. Stacks of thick, dusty files in the courthouse offices, yellowed at the edges, with faded red covers, on the desks or in file cabinets, piled to the ceiling. The gray sentry box at the mouth of the suspension bridge, empty, glowing in the fog. Silent umbrellas, in every color, sliding rigidly, horizontally, in every direction. The solitary train station building, the illuminated lobby. A gorilla wrapped in a blue raincoat, coughing and then disappearing behind me. The green traffic light coming on. The tracks extending, crossing the street. The landscape, still, moving, still, the orange trees and the palms in the Plaza de Mayo receiving the ceaseless rain and glowing momentarily in the darkness.

As the murmur increases there comes a moment when the external murmur, extinguishing, and the internal murmur, growing, have the same intensity, the same quality, the same rhythm. They are the same. This stability of their intensity, their quality, and their rhythm holds, suspended, until finally the external murmur diminishes, but so slightly that it’s imperceptible, and the internal grows, suddenly, and like two passing cars superimposed momentarily and then separating in opposite directions, they reveal the distance between them. I’m face up, the sheets to my chin, in the darkness. My eyes are open, and they grow wider as the murmur grows. I see the phosphorescent blurs, the pale blurs, the brilliant, fleeting shapes accompanied by an inaudible shrillness, trying to make out an image that pulls the blurs from the pure fire, and the shrillness from the pure, senseless sound. But for the moment nothing happens, and I wait in the drift. It lights up, quivers, and disappears, and the inaudible shrillness swells and suddenly retreats, sensible yet remote. I step from the jetty to the vessel, unmoored, and as the vessel moves off, the jetty can be seen more clearly, more distinctly, until soon it can be seen completely. But then the images are called up to fill in the darkness and time that make up the black space.

Generation upon generation of gorillas rise from the darkness. Rough hordes drooling, with a mixture of terror and desolation, in the early twilight. Emerald-colored flies land on their open wounds, from bites and scratches, products of the recent battles. The hordes drift uneasily through a clearing in the woods, looking at each other desolately, waiting for the night. The males’ genitals dangle between their lower extremities, jiggling. The females’ are a reddish gash. They gnash their teeth and narrow their eyes, gazing at the open space around them, the persistent likeness of the trees and the rocks that remain ecstatic night and day and block their view. And when night falls they gather together, excited, rubbing up against each other around the large bonfire they’ve lit with dry branches and which fills the ridges and hollows of their brutal faces with shadows. When the tom-tom starts the gorillas form circles, concentric rings, rows that thrash relentlessly with an awkward rhythm until the weakest, panting, collapse on the earth, their pink tongues hanging out and licking the corners of their black lips. In the center of the ring, near the roaring, crackling bonfire, which emits a bright glow that dies out as it ascends into the black sky, a female and a male gorilla embrace and fall to the ground. They roll around, sending up clouds of dust. The circle of upright gorillas looks on, clapping. They make a dry sound, multiplied, following the thunderous tom-tom. The female and the male come up and fall again, embracing, punctuating their brutal movement with gasping, muffled shouts, panting, moaning, laughter, pounding. Then the female turns onto all fours, expectantly, and the male gorilla enters her. The female screams. He’s entered her completely, to the testicles, which slap against the female’s backside. Without coming out, his legs half bent, his bare feet planted securely on the ground, the male gorilla straightens up as much as possible, raises his arms as though to prove there’s no sleight of hand, and greets the circle of expectant faces. The clapping explodes, and the circle of gorillas begin furiously stamping their feet in satisfaction. Clouds of dust lift. The rhythm of the tom-tom picks up. To this mixture of clapping, muffled pounding of feet, and the constant resonant explosion of the drum is added a shriek of voices, laughter, and wailing. The pair in the center is jumbled with a mass of other pairs that have formed in the circle and now embrace and fall to the ground and lift a cloud of dust that turns red in the glow of the flames. From out of that blood-splattered dust, a pair rolls across the ground and into the bonfire, lifting a violent shower of sparks. They don’t separate, but keep rolling, covering their burns with dust as they roll. The entire clearing has become a shapeless mass of thrusting and howls. They squirm, pile on top of each other, hit, lick, bite, caress, penetrate each other with their genitals. Then the upheaval in the clouds of reddish dust starts to subside. The dust settles and clears. The gorillas settle into strange positions, some thrown face down, flattened against the ground while others lie on top, also face down with their belly on the other’s back, forming a cross. Others are on their sides, an arm stretched alongside their body and the other propping up their head. Others are face up, their legs splayed. One quietly moans while masturbating. Their breathing grows deeper and more even, interspersed with sighs and snoring. A sudden burst of laughter rises and falls. Soon, only their breathing is heard. Dawn finds them asleep, bleary-eyed, snorting and sniffling. They shift restlessly and huddle up against the cold of the dew. They grow uncomfortable in the rising light and half sit up, looking around desolately, disoriented. The corners of their mouths are sticky with dried saliva. Not a single ember remains of the bonfire, which is now nothing more than a pile of white ash. Blood-colored stains from the wounds produced overnight blend with the grass and the earth. They barely exchange a fatigued sign or gesture. Every so often some sound escapes their mouth. Some, lazier, toss and turn before they get up. Others caress, mechanically, the arms of the females one last time. From inside their caves — formed by erosion of the rocks — they take pieces of raw meat. As they eat them their beards are covered with bloody stains. Blinking in the sunlight, they take huge bites from the hunks of meat. They’ve returned to the same clearing, to the squared-off horizon of trees and rocks where their gaze rebounds. The same rocks and the same trees, and above them the same blue sky and the yellow, incandescent disk that crosses it with maddening, mute slowness, dull, that polished blue surface that fills with glimmers and which at midday is impossible to look at directly. It is the same space that every day surrounds them. They move through it, not comprehending. The one who crosses the line of rocks and trees, the motionless, constant, and endless horizon, disappears and never returns. Likewise the animal that crosses the horizon in the opposite direction, into the clearing. The teeth, rocks, spears, and arrows that patrol the clearing they’ve taken over fall onto it and tear it to pieces. With their spears and rocks and arrows they wait, crouched, for some living thing to make the precarious crossing, and then they fall onto it and tear it to pieces. After the animal has exhausted its last warm breaths and lies still, dead, they carry it to their cave, where it is distributed, the most succulent parts to the chief and the rest to the horde. The emerald flies barely have time to gather, buzzing, over the remains. When they have filled their stomachs, the gorillas squat in the shade, pensively, and survey the horizon, one arm folded over their abdomen with the other elbow propped on their palm and their chin resting on their hand. Every so often they sigh and narrow their eyes to sharpen and clarify the space that separates them from the horizon line, where the trees and rocks bear silent evidence of the other side, witnesses that make evidence from their silence. Other gorillas perform bewildered examinations of their bodies, of the rocks in their knees, their furry vegetation, the dark caves inside their sphincters, the slow, grim life of their genitals swelling or opening, damply, of their own accord. They pass the idle hours in this desolate melancholy until once again the sun begins its descent and the horizon grows red and the darkness falls finally on the bonfire they lit at the twilight, and around which the nocturnal ceremonies begin anew.

I’m lying in complete darkness, my eyes open, motionless in the bed. It’s a darkness without breach, without fissure, the room has no windows and the door to the anteroom is closed, so not a single sliver of light enters. Once again the murmur swells among the phosphorescent shapes. Between the internal darkness and the external darkness there is no longer a barrier or distinction, and the shapes float in the direction — if there is such a thing — toward which my eyes focus, and then disappear.

Now the gorillas appear in a long procession, dressed in garish clothing and gold and silver trinkets — with stones that glitter in the sunlight — hanging from their necks, their ears, and encircling their wrists and fingers. The drum has been exchanged for brass instruments that produce a strident noise when brought to their lips. The chiefs march at the head of the procession in long purple tunics hoisted at the ends by half-naked slaves, to keep them from dragging on the stone path. They are followed by secondary attendants, dressed in black, and then the tertiary, in green tunics. They form even rows and march and dance to the rhythm of the music. Behind them are the women, in dresses of every color that reveal their white breasts and some their violet, circular nipples. And father back, behind the women, come the multitude of ragged gorillas that try to catch sight of the ceremony and every so often are driven back by the whiplashes of bodyguards on horseback. As the first ones fall, the ones coming up behind collide with them and fall too, and by the time they begin gathering themselves up, the long procession led by the marching band has moved off a good distance and the bodyguards push their horses into a gallop over the stone path, to catch up with the rear guard of the procession and secure it. The multitude rushes forward, reaches the procession, and is once again driven back by the whiplashes of the bodyguards, so the distance recovered is lost once again. And again, while the multitude of ragged gorillas struggles to incorporate itself, the hooves of the bodyguards’ horses sound on the hard cobblestones as they gallop back to the procession. The chiefs, wrapped in purple robes, hold their swollen faces up with dignified expressions. The secondary attendants stare at the necks of the purple-clad chiefs, and the tertiaries, in green, stare at the necks of the black-clad secondaries. The women ceaselessly rearrange their garish clothing and glittering trinkets. Some rearrange their bodices to reveal even more of their breasts. And the bodyguards on horseback, when they are again reasonably close to the procession, turn suddenly, producing a loud pounding over the cobblestones. The bodyguards glare menacingly at the multitude, though the mass of ragged gorillas has not managed to regain even half the distance. They have arrived at the ceremonial place. Suddenly, from the wrought iron railing on the third floor, I see the square courthouse lobby, its empty checkerboard floor. The white staircase that curves downward is empty as well. The railing, curving and forming three sides of a square, surrounds the vast emptiness that falls steeply over the black and white tiled lobby floor.

The ceremony takes place in a vast, high-walled enclosure with tall windows ending in points, with motifs of the gorilla chiefs painted in spectacular colors on their glass surfaces. A long, broad table is set. It has three sides: a central section and two lateral extensions projecting at a right angles from the ends, enclosing a wide, open area. Two rows of bare-chested slaves, carrying torches, flank the procession as they enter. The chiefs in purple enter the cavernous enclosure, their heads held even higher and wearing even more dignified expressions, and they take their places at the central table. To their right, the attendants in black. To their left, the ones in green. The women gather together at the back of the vast open space in the center and wait nervously. The multitude has gathered before the large entrance, fighting for a view of the scene. The bodyguards have dismounted and strike at them from inside the enclosure, forcing them back. But they’ve been ordered to allow them to watch, and their attacks are softer than their menacing expressions suggest, so that the hordes will understand that they are attempting to gain a forbidden privilege while not denying the chiefs their audience.

Then the banquet begins. Bare-chested slaves carry in large dishes to the central table and start carving up the sacrificed animals under the gaze of the chiefs, who dictate the size of the portions and their recipients. They barely taste the food, and the top chief doesn’t even notice the slaves’ work. He sits at the exact center of the table, and over his purple tunic hangs a large obsidian medallion on a gold chain. His long bony fingers play with the medallion. The multitude of gorillas stare at him in ecstasy, with a mixture of astonishment, fury, admiration, and terror at the luminous halo that seems to surround his large graying head and the pale face that emerges from behind a carefully tended black beard. When the attendants finish eating, under the negligent gaze of the chiefs, the bare-chested slaves gather the leftovers, carry them to the entrance, and throw them over the multitude of gorillas. In the struggle the gorillas punch, shove, bite, and curse each other. There is scrambling, spitting, blood, shrieking. Back inside, as the gorillas recline under the fading sunlight to chew the last filaments of bloodless meat from the bones, the parade of women has started, to the rhythm of the music. One by one they leave the nervous and anxious cluster pressed into a corner of the room and enter the open space, twisting and moving their hips and jumping in ways that make their multicolored trinkets jingle. Some undress as they dance. Others are already nude when they reach the open space between the tables. The green and black attendants remain still, tense, silent, observing the twisting of the women without speaking. Only the chiefs in purple comment to each other about each woman. Some laugh and point at the dancers. Others make obscene gestures. But the top chief remains silent, ceaselessly fingering his obsidian medallion. Finally he raises his hand toward one, silently, and points to her. The slaves disappear into one of the deep side corridors and return carrying a narrow bed over their heads. They place the bed in the center of the open space. The chosen woman lays down on the bed, nude, her legs open. The top chief stands and approaches the center of the cavernous space. Two naked slaves follow close behind. The top chief stops next to the bed, makes a gesture, and the slaves undress him. One of them applies unguents to his member. The other kisses his medallion. The chief takes one last look around, to make sure everyone is watching him. He makes an imperceptible gesture to the bodyguards, allowing the multitude to approach the entrance. Then he leans over and enters the woman. A roar and cry rises from the multitude and the rows of attendants and the slaves and the group of women crowded into a corner at the moment the chief penetrates the woman. Then the music starts again.

It reverberates inside me, inaudible, and then the confused horde evaporates. Once again my eyes are open, in complete darkness. Not even the shapeless, phosphorescent, sparkling forms pass by. No sound enters from the street, the room is completely silent. I move, not shifting or turning, only shaking my legs slightly, and the bed creaks. I see the checkerboard courthouse lobby again, the black and white tiles. No one is in the lobby. I see the iron railing and the staircase.

The wiper blades rhythmically sweep away the drops that crash against the windshield, producing a monotonous, even sound. Through the side windows, the blurred city passes around me.

A dark, crackling blur emerges from the fog, where I imagine the riverbank to be.

A piece of gray meat, surrounded by boiled potatoes, in the dish, on the table, the murmur of Elvira’s skirt as she disappears into the kitchen.

I drive down San Martín, toward the city center. Myriad colors from the neon signs form brilliant, momentary images through the windshield, where the thick rain explodes and distorts my vision before the wiper blades sweep away the water and leave the glass clear again.

The gray sentry box appears and disappears quickly into the fog at the mouth of the suspension bridge.

I turn on the light.

The white marble staircase, descending from the third floor, is illuminated.

I sit up and look around the room. The white walls don’t glow because the light from the nightstand doesn’t reach them, except for the cone of pale light that softly illuminates the wall where the headboard rests. I remove the spoon from the glass and take a drink of water. I turn off the light again and close my eyes.

I see the trees in the park and the lake flashing suddenly and then disappearing into the foliage. I see the marble courthouse stairs again, the checkerboard lobby, the black and white tiles, from the railing on the third floor, the illuminated corridors of the arcade, the dark windows in the train station, the white marble stairs in the courthouse again, the checkerboard, the black and white tiles, the trees in the Plaza de Mayo, palms and orange trees. The oranges, yellowing among the green leaves polished by the rain.

Ángel enters the La Región building quickly, waves, and disappears.

I see the chief fingering the obsidian medallion.

In the open space walled in by trees and rocks, the gorillas wander and pause, resting their palms on their backsides, bewildered, gazing at the mute horizon.

The gray sentry box appears and disappears into the drifting fog. I see the profile of the uniformed gorilla, cut in half by the edge of the door.

Gorillas cough and hunch over as they smoke on the bus station platforms. Their pale hands and faces shift in the early penumbra.

From the third floor, the courthouse lobby looks empty. The black and white tiles are clean and polished. The white staircase descends, forming a wide curve, toward the second floor.

The windshield wiper sweeps away fine droplets of rain that fall on the glass and distort the bright lights of the neon signs as I move north up San Martín.

I wake up. For a moment, I don’t realize that I’m awake. The room is gray. Then I turn on the light and look at the clock on the night stand. It’s two. I get up and go to the bathroom. I see gray through the skylight. I undress, defecate, and then take a hot shower. Then I go to my room, wrapped in my bathrobe, dry off, and get dressed. In the long mirror over the bureau I examine my face. My beard has grown in two days. After dressing I go back to the bathroom and shave slowly. The electric razor buzzes, monotonously, quietly. I pass the back of my hand softly over my face, against the grain of the hair. Then I unplug the razor, put it away, and leave. I find Elvira in the dining room. “Your mother called,” she says. “I’ll call her in a minute,” I say. “Judge,” Elvira says, “It’s three in the afternoon. Will you eat?” I tell her to bring some soup to the study and I go up. I open the curtains and a gray, tense light filters into the study.

I dial my mother’s number. I hear her voice. “It’s been two days since you’ve come to see me,” she says. “I’ve been very busy Mamá,” I say. “Are you alright?” she says. “Perfectly fine. Never better,” I say. “You’ve heard the news about your wife?” she says. “I haven’t, nor do I want to,” I say. “She’s come back to the city, to stay this time. I heard it at the club, yesterday afternoon, that she had been showing up with some new man, all smug,” mother says. “That doesn’t interest me, Mamá,” I say. “And she gets drunk, Ernesto. She gets drunk and goes around talking garbage about our family,” Mother says. “It can’t be her,” I say. “How can it not be her?” Mother says. “Even after she walks out you still have the nerve to defend her.” “I’m not defending her,” I say. “I’m just saying it might not be her.” “So you’re saying the girls don’t know my daughter-in-law when she was married to my son for eight years?” Mother says. “I don’t know why she would come to this city,” I say. “You never know anything,” she says. “How’s Father?” I say. “The same,” Mother says. “Well,” she says, “it’s about time you remembered that you have a mother and come visit me. I don’t even remember your face.” “It’s the same as always,” I say. “Someone from the club might come to your house soon,” Mother says. “You might pay him the two months I owe.” “Do you need anything?” I say. “Nothing, for now,” Mother says. We say goodbye and hang up.

Almost at once, Elvira arrives with the soup. It’s the same as always, a thin broth, steaming and golden. I sit down on the twin sofa, my back to the window, and drink the soup slowly. Then I set the empty dish on the desk, walk to the window, and gaze out at the park. The gray light forms a halo over the trees above the ground that slopes slowly downward to the lake. The paths are dark and covered in a decaying bed of leaves. Bare tree branches crisscross in the green foliage. A pair of gorillas sit on a flat stone bench, their backs to the window, gazing at the lake. The female’s head is resting on the male’s shoulder. They are still. Suddenly they stand up and start walking toward the lake, then they turn right, following the path, and then they disappear.

I take up the corrections to the translation until it starts to get dark. Then I close the curtains and turn on the desk lamp. I work briefly by the lamplight, which casts a bright, warm circle over the desk and the surrounding area. The rest of the room is in a kind of half darkness. Then I get up, put on a blazer, and go to the kitchen. “Is everything ready for tonight, doña Elvira?” I say. “It’s getting there,” Elvira says. “I’m going out,” I say. “I’ll be right back.” I go downstairs and out into the street. I’m submerged in cold, blue air. Very soon it will be dark.

I have to turn the key several times before the engine starts. After it turns over I wait a moment for it to warm up. Then I put it into first and start driving slowly. At the corner I turn right, and the car begins to shudder and vibrate as it moves over the rough cobblestones. At the third intersection, the Plaza de Mayo appears to my right, the broad facade of the courthouse to my left. I turn onto the Avenida del Sur, heading west. The avenue is illuminated with mercury gas lamps that cast a whitish, cold light from the sidewalks toward the middle of the street. The Avenida del Oeste is lit up with the same lamps hanging from curved columns that extend toward the street. Beyond the flowerbeds in the center island, to my left, are the regimental gardens, and then, also to the left, the yellow facade of the wholesale market, and farther on the Avenida cinema, completely dark, and then the rows of one- and two-story houses until I reach the boulevard. I turn right, driving slowly to the east. By the time I reach the first traffic light, after passing the yellow facade of the university, with its green window frames, it is already dark. I have to wait at the traffic light for the red light to turn off and the green light to turn on, and as I move forward, after passing the traffic light, the train tracks make the car shudder slightly. The mill is to my left. The second traffic light doesn’t stop me — the light changes from green to yellow just as I’m crossing the intersection — and I accelerate slightly. The train station lobby is illuminated, as is the ground outside the tall windows that cast patches of light into the dark air. I cross the tracks and reach the roundabout by the suspension bridge. The gray sentry box is lit up inside, and the outline of a uniformed gorilla interrupts the passage of light through the doorway. I turn onto the old waterfront, which is practically deserted — I’ve passed only two cars on the way to the suspension bridge — and accelerate when I touch the smooth asphalt of the new waterfront, lined with broad jetties. The red tile roofs of the villas on the waterfront stick out between the black foliage. Every so often, a half-obscured light illuminates the wet leaves. I reach Guadalupe, circle the roundabout, and start driving in the opposite direction. Now the river is to my left. I can’t make it out. In the distance, the tall columns of the suspension bridge can be distinguished clearly by the four red lights that blink on and off. I’m alone on the avenue. The headlights illuminate a section of the pavement, and when I switch them on, the high beams cause the surface of light to sort of jump and expand abruptly forward and to the sides. When I lower the lights, its surface area diminishes, illuminating only the pavement in front of the car again. Inside the car, the red dashboard light reaches my face weakly. Every so often I can see a fragment of my face reflected momentarily in the rearview mirror, which fills up with light suddenly when a car approaches and passes me quickly. I watch its rear lights, two red dots, shrink until they disappear. Then I reach the old waterfront again and slow down now that the asphalt is less smooth and covered with patches, potholes, and bumps. When I reach the mouth of the suspension bridge, a sky-blue truck with the inscription Molino Harinero S.A. on the bed exits quickly from the bridge and forces me to stop abruptly. The truck stops abruptly as well. Inside the dark cabin I can just make out the silhouette of a man behind the wheel and a woman with a girl sitting on her lap. The truck starts up again and quickly disappears up the boulevard. I continue straight ahead and then circle the plaza next to the waterfront and turn onto the harbor road, which crosses at a diagonal toward the city center. The avenue is dark despite the white spheres of the streetlights, shorter than the palms, whose leaves flash momentarily. And except for the complex structure of the central power plant, which is covered with lights, nothing is visible but dark walls half-obscured by the foliage. On the other side, to my left, loom the silver petroleum tanks of the port warehouses and the operations switchyards of the port railway. I reach the city center, pass the dark post office, the sides and deep passageways of the bus station, and then I turn right, drive two blocks, and turn left onto San Martín, to the south. The street is illuminated, but practically deserted. Then comes the darkened municipal theater, and a few blocks later the traffic light at the Avenida del Sur. I stop, waiting for the light to change from red to green. When I start, after the light has changed, I see the city hall approach, and sliding backward, past the right side window, the east end of the Plaza de Mayo, and beyond, between the trees, the dark, blurred facade of the courthouse. I cross the intersection — the city hall plaza is left behind — drive two and a half blocks, and after passing the white arches of the Franciscan convent and the tree line of the southern park, I stop the car next to the sidewalk, in front of my house, and turn off the engine. I turn off the lights as well. Then I get out, lock the door, and go inside. I haven’t finished climbing the stairs when the telephone rings. I hurry into the study and pick up the receiver at the same moment as I turn on the desk lamp.

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.

After dinner, we go back to the study. I put Schönberg’s Concerto for violin and orchestra on the record player, and we sit down to listen. Ángel takes on a grave expression, sunk in the chair, his legs stretched out toward me — I’m sitting on the twin sofa, my back to the window — and every so often he takes a sip of whiskey. He looks completely absorbed in the music. I don’t look away from him for a single moment, but he avoids my gaze. When the concerto finishes, he gets up and approaches the window. I follow, and stop very close behind him. “Now, after the music,” I say, “there is an immense silence.” I take the whiskey from his hand, brush his fingers with mine, and take a sip. Then I return the glass and pour myself a drink and sit back down. He continues standing in the center of the room, between the chair, the sofa, and the desk. He asks if I’ve sent many men to prison recently. “None,” I say. Then we’re silent again. I examine him, completely. Then he starts talking about things he has seen in the sky, in the moon. He’s lying. When he leaves, an hour later, I get in bed and turn off the light. No sounds reach me, not a single trace of light enters the room. I’m in complete darkness and silence. My mind is empty.

Then I see wide fields of wheat burning soundlessly. Their crackling is muted. The flames are low, even, and the fire extends to the horizon. There are no trees, or slopes, nothing. Just a flat plain covered with yellow wheat, over which extends the even flames cracking mutely.

I wake up early, before dawn. I get dressed and go out. There’s a light rain. The sun is coming up. The inside of the car is freezing. It takes two or three tries before the engine turns over. Finally it does. The blue dawn air is filled with fine droplets of rain that condense and rotate slowly around the spheres of light. The park is deserted, and the motionless trees imprint their complex black patterns against the blue penumbra. I turn on the headlights, illuminating the empty street, their beams of light colliding, at a distance, with a curve in the road. Then I start. At the corner I turn onto the rough cobblestones that make the car vibrate and shudder, then right onto San Gerónimo, to the north. As I pass between the Plaza de Mayo and the courthouse, I see the first gray daylight concentrating around the tall tops of the palms, their broad metallic leaves shining, fragmentary. I turn onto the Avenida del Sur, heading east, drive a block and then, when the green traffic light allows me passage, I turn onto San Martín. I drive north down the empty street. The wiper blades rhythmically sweep the glass. The tiny droplets collide against the glass and break apart, blurring it momentarily. The wiper blades pass again, rhythmically, the glass is cleaned, and the street appears ahead, clear again. If I turn my head I can see, through the side windows, soaked and covered with drops of water, the facades of buildings sliding backward to my left and right. I pass the municipal theater, to my right, and then, father on, the arcade corridors, empty and dark, and farther still the dark windows of the La Región building, whose illegible news boards are submerged in the penumbra. When I reach the boulevard I turn right, driving slowly. At the taxi stand on the corner with 25 de Mayo four taxis are parked, their red lights on. The gorilla drivers are barely visible through the half light in their cars. A gray sphere of rain covers the entire city, a hazy transparency of suspended fine droplets concentrated around the tree tops. The red light at the next intersection forces me to stop. Around the light the drops take on a reddish color then turn suddenly green when the light changes. I cross the empty streets and pass the flour mill to my right behind the tall trees of the boulevard’s center walkway. The second traffic light forces me to stop. As the green light comes on, a bus crosses the boulevard full speed, forcing me to stop abruptly just as I’m starting up. I move again. An old gorilla in ragged overalls is sitting on a bench in the center walkway, protected from the rain by the trunk of a eucalyptus. He is digging through a bag. I pass very close to him, on his right, alongside the curb of the walkway. The blackish tree bark drips water and glows darkly at moments. Then I see the train station, its tall windows illuminated and its bright lobby casting light onto the street through the enormous main entrance. Its tall, solid facade slides slowly backward, to my right. I cross several streets, watching the suspension bridge approach. Its columns, first visible at their highest point, send out their four red signals that flash on and off. As I advance, the top edge of the windshield cuts off more and more of the bridge. First the red lights disappear, then the first rods that connect the lateral columns. When I reach the mouth of the bridge itself, all that’s left is the railings, the base of the columns, the gray stone ramp, the thick, tense cables that rise in a cluster toward the sky, and the gray sentry box, on the sidewalk to the left of the ramp, empty. A weak glow filters into the rain outside. By the time I turn onto the waterfront and begin traveling down the asphalt that’s covered in cracks, potholes, and tar patches, the sun has come up. The morning light comes from the river side, and beyond the even balustrade, interrupted ever so often, at regular intervals, by a staircase landing, I briefly make out the silvery glow of the river, where the gray sheen on the surface tends to smooth out the ripples produced by the gentle breeze and rain. The poplars on the central walkway of the waterfront, beyond which the villas project, between the foliage, their red roofs soaked with rain against the gray background of the sky, form outlines with their sharp, brown, wet needles. I enter the new waterfront and to my left the gray river expands, widening, blending with the sky at the horizon. The river and sky appear to be the same surface, without transition. I accelerate slightly. The monotonous hum of the engine intensifies and then stabilizes at the higher velocity. Under the yellow bus stop shelter, in the center of the wide avenue, a gorilla in a raincoat smokes, slowly. Another leans against the wall, its legs crossed at the calves. They look up and follow the path of the car, turning their heads slowly. I pass a bus traveling in the opposite direction, toward the city center. It’s almost empty, but I manage to make out the blurry, abstracted faces of three or four gorillas, males and females, looking toward the river through the wet windows. The roundabout at Guadalupe approaches, the gray-colored power plant beyond. Its metallic, fluted blinds are lowered. The gray door is shuttered, and dense, humid, and stationary patches form on the wet facade. I circle the roundabout, leaving the facade of the power plant behind, and turn again onto the new waterfront toward the city center. I pass behind the yellow shelter, to my left now like the river and the slope, where a row of pines glows deep green, contrasting against the gray sky, condensing whitish masses around it. The black trunks grow straight and their branches form perfect triangles curving slightly upward at the bottom ends. Beyond the trunks, the river blends with the sky. I reach the old waterfront and slow down slightly. The sound of the engine returns and stabilizes, monotonous, after it has diminished. The arc of the wiper blades continues, regularly sweeping the small drops that fall and collide on the windshield. In the distance I see the bridge, the full length of it, its tall columns. On the bridge a tiny, green truck advances slowly toward the city. It leaves the bridge, turns, and accelerates toward the harbor road. I pass the mouth of the bridge — at the entrance of the sentry box there is now a gorilla watchman in a black, waterproof cap — and continue toward the harbor road, watching the backward slide of the waterfront plaza, its arbors covered in vines. The red paths of the plaza are covered with dead leaves flattened by the rain. On the harbor road the rough cobblestones make the car shudder and vibrate. The green truck is two blocks ahead. I accelerate slightly and approach behind it. A large puddle of water that covers the street forces me to slow down, and as I cross it I hear the sound of the water under the tires and see the side windows getting sprayed with droplets. The truck has recovered the distance. I accelerate again and soon I’m right behind it. Less than six meters separate us. Then I make a slight movement, shifting the car to the right — we are in the left lane, alongside the center flowerbeds from which the tall palms grow — and accelerating suddenly I come even with the truck and then leave it behind. For two blocks I don’t slow down. I sense the intense reverberations in the car as it moves over the rough cobblestones. Then I slow down again. Reaching the city center, I pass the illuminated post office and the depths of the bus station, where many gorillas are gathered, carrying suitcases, or waiting on the platforms or in line at the ticket windows. At the first corner I turn right. Two blocks later I cross San Martín, continuing straight. I pass the central market and farther on the municipal buildings, their narrow front plaza shadowed by the trees. To my left the broad staircase to the entrance slips backward, beyond the trees in the plaza and the empty parking lot. I continue straight, to the west, passing intersection after intersection. Gorillas fill the sidewalks, the entrances to shops, the street corners, their thresholds. Two young gorillas, high school students surely, wait on a corner carrying books and folders under their arms. A child gorilla in a duster crosses the street, holding his mother’s hand. She looks fearfully in my direction, afraid that I’ll turn toward them, and then decides to cross when she sees me continue ahead. An old gorilla in a bathrobe picks up an empty trashcan and takes it inside his house. Another gorilla, also old, looks out at the rain through a window. I reach the Avenida del Oeste, turn left, and drive past the regimental gardens to my right. Beyond the trees that grow from perfectly manicured flowerbeds, I see a gray building, the armory. The sidewalk is interrupted suddenly at the entrance, where two soldiers, rifles on their shoulders, stand guard, pacing in front of the gate. I leave the armory behind. Next to me, on the seat, is the closed briefcase. At the Avenida del Sur I turn east. Paradoxically, the daylight has faded. I wait briefly for the traffic light to change from red to green and then I cross the intersection. Before reaching the next corner I turn right onto the sidewalk and enter the narrow, cobblestone rear courtyard of the courthouse. Two or three cars are there, empty. I turn off the engine and stop hearing its hum at the same moment as the wiper blades stop. Then I pick up the briefcase and get out. Water hits me in the face, fine, cold droplets that explode on my skin. I reach the lobby, empty but for two gorillas sitting on a bench next to the right staircase. I pass the open doors to the elevator. The operator, sitting on a stool, his hand resting on the control lever, watches me pass and greets me indifferently. I start up the wide marble staircase, resting my right hand on the wooden banister that caps off the iron railing. When I reach the third floor I stop and look down at the empty square of black and white checkerboard tiles and the two figures sitting on the bench, next to the staircase. Then I continue down the corridor and into my office.

It’s empty. Beyond the cross-shaped window frame in the waiting room the gray daylight shines darkly. I turn on the light, leave the briefcase on the desk, take off my raincoat, and hang it on the coat rack. I cross the polished wood floor to the window. In the plaza the rain soaks the palms and the orange trees. Their yellow fruit mar the hard, green leaves. The reddish paths are deserted. I turn back to the desk and sit down. From the briefcase I take out the notebook, the novel, the dictionary, and the variously colored pens. Most of page 110, marked with the folded sheet of white paper, is covered with tick marks and lines. I open the notebook, in which the black handwriting is also covered with every kind of markup: crosses, circles, vertical and horizontal lines. There are no markings on page 111 of the novel, only the evenly printed type. I read the first unmarked paragraph of page 110, softly underlining it with dashes as I go. “Your wife! Dorian!. . Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man.” “Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams.” The page ends on the word epigrams. I also underline, with soft dashes, in blue ink, the first sentence of page 111: You know nothing then? In the notebook, I write in black ink with my cramped handwriting: “¡Tu esposa! ¡Dorian! ¿No has recibido mi carta?”

By the time the secretary comes in, I’ve reached the bottom of page 111. I’m translating the third to last line. All of page 111 is now covered with symbols and markups made in variously colored pens and pencils. The secretary approaches the desk, leaning his graying head toward me. “Judge,” he says, “I’ve been given a report from the precinct about a homicide that took place last night in section six.” “Yes,” I say, “They called me at home last night.” “They say there’s no space at the precinct, and if you might take his statement,” says the secretary. “We have a hearing this morning,” I say. “That can be postponed,” says the secretary. “And the witnesses?” I say. “There are some,” says the secretary. “I can’t interrogate the suspect without speaking to the witnesses first,” I say. “That’s absolutely true,” says the secretary. “Tell them to send me the witnesses early in the afternoon,” I say. “And if you can postpone the hearing, postpone it. If anyone calls or asks for me, tell them I’m at the hearing.” “When do you want the witnesses?” says the secretary. “At four,” I say. The secretary leaves. I lean over the third to last line of page 111 and softly underline, in green dashes, They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. When the secretary returns I’m underlining the thin, green dashes on the third, second, and last lines of page 113, “Harry,” cried Dorian, coming over and sitting down beside him, “why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t think I am heartless. Do you?” He comes in just as I’m underlining the last two words. “The reporter from La Región is here, Judge,” he says. “He wants to speak to you.” “Tell him I’m busy with the deposition,” I say. “He asked me when the inquest you mentioned is going to take place,” says the secretary. “Do you think that by noon tomorrow we’ll be done with the witnesses?” I say. “I think so,” says the secretary. “Then tell him tomorrow at four,” I say. The secretary leaves. I get up and look out the window. The air has cleared up, but the rain continues. In the plaza, the palms glow. Several gorillas, hunched over in the rain, walk across the reddish paths, toward the government buildings. My watch tells me it’s ten fifty-five. I sit back down and continue translating until twelve. I put everything away in the briefcase, put on my raincoat, pass the secretary’s office, tell him that at four exactly I’m going to begin questioning the witnesses, and walk out into the corridor. I walk to the edge of the stairs, lean over the railing, and look down: the square of black and white checkerboard tiles is filled with compressed figures that swarm in close groups that break apart and reform in different parts of the checkerboard. I start to descend and the voices grow clearer until eventually they become an incomprehensible clamor when I reach the ground floor and cross the lobby toward the rear courtyard. I pass the emptier back corridors and reach the courtyard. The rain covers my face. I close my eyes for a moment and pause, but immediately I continue to the car. I get in, turn on the engine, and back out, slowly, toward the street.

I steer the rear end of the car to the east and then start driving down the Avenida del Sur. When I reach the Avenida del Oeste I turn right and pass the regiment, the wholesale market, the cinema, and then I reach the boulevard. I turn right again, headed east. I reach San Martín after passing the yellow facade of the university with its green latticework incrustations. I turn south. On San Martín the gorillas gather under eaves, in thresholds, and under awnings to protect themselves from the rain. I pass the windows of La Región, to my right, the illuminated corridors of the arcade, to my left, the municipal theater, to my left, driving slowly, behind a long line of cars, the progression halted every so often by young gorillas that jump over the puddles and run across the street so as to not get wet. I stop at the traffic light on Avenida del Sur. When the green light comes on I cross the intersection and pass the Plaza de Mayo on my right. The gray government offices approach and then are left behind. Then the convent and finally the trees in the park beyond which the waters of the lake shine. I stop the car along the right-hand sidewalk, in front of the house. I pick up the briefcase and get out.

I go upstairs and straight into the study. Almost immediately, as I’m taking off the raincoat, Elvira comes in. She asks if I’ll eat something. “Yes, something,” I say, “Bring it here, to the study.” Then I tell her that if the manager from the club comes by for my mother’s dues, to pay him. I put Concerto for violin on the record player and sit down on the twin sofa to listen to it, my back to the window. Soon, Elvira comes in with a tray and softly crosses the room. I gesture with my head for her to leave the tray on the desk. Before leaving she takes the raincoat from the chair and then she walks out. I get up and examine the tray. Some crackers on a dish and a bowl of thin, steaming, golden broth. As the music plays I drink the soup slowly and eat three or four of the crackers. Then I pour myself a whiskey, neat, and finish it in two or three swallows. Then I lay down on the sofa until the concerto finishes. Soon I hear the sound of the return and then nothing.

The room is completely silent. No sound comes in from the street, just the gray, somewhat opaque light, through the window. I start to hear the muted crackling and then I see the vast plain, devoured by the fire. The flames extend evenly into the horizon. There is no smoke. Only sudden sparks rising briefly above the flames before they disappear.

I approach the window. The park is deserted. The waters of the lake can be made out, here and there, between the trunks rising from the earth. Then I turn back and sit down at the desk and open the briefcase. When everything is ready — the notebook, the novel, the dictionary, and the pens — I get up and go to the bathroom and then return to the study to work. At ten to four I underline the third, fourth, and fifth lines of page 115, One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar. Then I get up, leaving everything on the desk. I take the raincoat from the bathroom, put it on, and go out into the street. It’s raining. The sky has darkened a bit. I look up. The gray has grown deeper, darker, and the storm clouds have taken on steely edges. I get in the car, and after turning on the engine, I come around slowly onto San Martín and drive north. At the first intersection on San Martín I turn left and drive a block, pass the courthouse, the north side of the plaza moving behind me, and turning onto the sidewalk I enter the rear courtyard. I park the car and get out. I cross the corridors and the deserted checkerboard lobby and climb to the third floor. In the corridor I see a group of gorillas, two of them in uniforms. The ones in uniforms straighten up when they see me. There are two males, two females, and a tiny girl. I enter the secretary’s office without looking at them. The secretary is at the typewriter. He looks up when he sees me come in. “The witnesses are here, Judge,” he says, “here’s the report.” He hands me the file — a thin, red folder — and I take it into the office with me. On May first, it says, around nine P.M., outside a store in Barrio Roma, Luis Fiore, thirty-nine years of age, discharged two shotgun rounds into his wife, María Antonia Pazzi de Fiore (aka “la Gringa”), thirty-four years of age, causing her death in the act; that the accused, after committing the homicide, traveled to a bar nearby, had a couple of drinks, and then went home. That he stayed there until the police arrived and surrendered without resistance. That according to the witnesses — Pedro Gorosito, fifty-four; Amado Jozami, thirty-six; Zulema Giménez, thirty; and Luisa Luengas, thirty-two — though the protagonists demonstrated some irregular behavior, there was no apparent cause that precipitated the homicide. I put down the file and turn toward the window. In the plaza, the reddish paths are deserted and the rain falls on the palms and the orange trees. I take off the raincoat and hang it up. Then I call the secretary. “I want to finish everything today,” I tell him. “Tomorrow we’ll visit the scene.” “Should I send the first one in, Judge?” says the secretary. “Yes, bring him in,” I say. He disappears and I sit down behind the desk. Then he comes back with one of the male gorillas. He has a gold tooth, and his head and the backs of his red hands are covered with blond hair. I tell him to sit down. The secretary sits down at the typewriter and looks at him. I feel the blond gorilla’s fearful gaze fixed on me. “Your name is Amado Jozami and you are thirty-six years old, is that correct?” the secretary says pleasantly. “Yes, sir,” says the blond gorilla. “You are Argentine and you own a store with a bar, located on the corner of Islas and Los Laureles, is that correct?” says the secretary in his pleasant voice. “Yes, sir,” says the blond gorilla. “That’s fine,” I say. “Tell us what you know then, just the truth.” The blond gorilla perches on the edge of his chair and looks at the secretary and then at me. “We were in the store when they show up in the truck,” he says, and at that moment the secretary starts typing. “We heard the sound of the truck from the store and wondered who it was. Then they come in with the shotgun and the two dead ducks. They leave the ducks and the shotgun on the counter and order two rums. He doesn’t say a word, and he stands apart, watching us, but she starts shouting. He tells her to be quiet. She opens her bag and takes out a flashlight and starts shining it on him. He says to turn it off. She drops the flashlight on the counter and starts complaining about her life. Then he says they need to leave. She complains, but they leave. Like a minute later, we hear the shots. We go out and she’s on the ground and he’s starting the truck. He takes off like a bolt and disappears and she’s lying there dead.” The blond gorilla falls silent. A moment later the striking sound of the typewriter ceases and the secretary pauses, his hands suspended, his fingers pointing at the keys. “Did you know Fiore and his wife?” I say. “Yes,” says the blond gorilla. “They were from the neighborhood. But they didn’t shop in my store. He would come in sometimes, for drinks.” “How did he behave?” I say. “Fine. Sometimes he would just stand at the counter for an hour or two, not saying a word.” “Would he get drunk, or look it?” I say. “Well, the same as anyone else,” the blond gorilla says. “Sometimes, but you could hardly tell.” “Did he cause any problems in the store, apart from last night?” I say. “None, as far as I know,” he says. The typewriter follows his words, loudly, and always stops a moment after his voice goes silent. “Do you think the murderer and the victim were intoxicated last night?” I say. The blond gorilla screws up his broad face and presses his lips together. The gold tooth disappears. “I couldn’t say,” he says eventually, “She was talking a lot and saying things that are, well, indecent for a woman, as I see it, but he didn’t say a word. When she put the flashlight on his face, he didn’t even move. He closed his eyes and said to turn it off, but he didn’t move. I don’t know. They might have been drunk.” “What did you and the other witnesses do when you heard the shots?” I say. “We took off out the door,” says the blond gorilla, “And when we got there he was starting the truck and she was on the ground — she wasn’t moving. After he drove off full speed with the passenger door open, we saw the ducks on the ground, and her bag and the flashlight, which was still on. I was the first one to touch her and see that she was dead. Then I telephoned the station. And then the police came. I told them everything in my statement.” Then he says his business is respectable and tries to show me his inspection certificate. I tell him it’s not necessary, and to go wait in the corridor. He hesitates and then gets up, looking back and forth between the secretary and me. When he leaves, I notice the secretary staring at me. I look at him, but I don’t say a word. The guard appears at the door to the waiting room. “Bring the next one,” I say. The guard disappears. For a moment, the office is silent. I turn my head to look through the black cross of the window frame at the gray sheen of the sky. It’s somewhat clearer out, and brighter, but the rain continues. The secretary shifts in his chair; it creaks. I move my feet and my shoes tap against the wood floor. Then the guard reappears in the doorway. He has the child with him. Her hair is dark and she’s so thin that it seems like the guard’s hand on her shoulder could break her to pieces with the slightest pressure. She approaches, a serious expression on her face. I tell her to sit down. The guard stands behind her chair. The secretary leans toward the child and sweetly asks her name. “Lucía Fiore,” says the child. The secretary asks how old she is, and the child responds that she’s ten. Then I lean toward her and ask what she did yesterday. “I went duck hunting with Mamá and Papá,” says the girl. I ask her where. “In Colastiné, and we shot two ducks,” she says. “And how did you get there?” I say. “We went in the truck from the mill that Papá borrowed because it was May first and there wasn’t a bus,” she says. “Did you hear your parents talk about anything yesterday?” I say. “No,” she says, “nothing.” “What time did you come back from Colastiné?” I say. “At night,” she says. “And my papá and mamá left me at home because they said they were going to take the truck back. But then they went to Jozami the Turk’s store and Papá killed her.” The typewriter resonates a moment after the girl’s voice has gone silent, and then finally it stops. Its echo reverberates briefly inside my head. I’m looking at the girl, at the way she gazes back with large, calm eyes. “Would they argue sometimes, your papá and mamá?” I say. “Sometimes,” says the girl. “Would they hit you?” I say. “Sometimes,” she says. “What did you think when your papá and your mamá said they were going to return the truck?” I say. “That my papá would kill her,” she says. The typewriter stops suddenly. The guard turns abruptly and stares at me in shock. I pretend not to notice anything. I let a moment pass in silence before speaking. “How did you know?” I say. “Because I dreamt it that night,” she says. “I dreamt that I was coming back from Colastiné with Papá and Mamá and then they said they were going to return the truck but they were going to Jozami the Turk’s store and Papá was going to shoot Mamá twice in the face. I dreamt it all just like it happened. So when they said they were going to return the truck, I knew he was going to kill her.” “And why didn’t you say anything, when you knew he was going to kill her?” I say. “Because that’s how it had to happen,” says the girl. “Did you love your mamá?” I say. “Yes,” she says. “And your papá?” I say. “Him too,” she says. The sound of the typewriter continues briefly and then it stops. “You dreamt everything that was going to happen?” I say. “Everything,” says the girl. “Did they tell you that here you have to tell the whole truth?” says the secretary. The girl doesn’t even look at him. The three of us, the guard, the secretary, and I, lean in toward her. She sits stiffly on the edge of her chair, thin as a rail. Now her calm eyes aren’t looking at anything. Again the office is completely silent. “Take her out,” I say. The girl stands, obediently, and leaves with the guard. When they disappear the secretary looks at me. “What do you think, Judge?” he says. “Nothing,” I say.

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.

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.

It’s the same voice as always, forcibly high-pitched, shrill, like a puppet, to keep from being recognized. It calls me the same names as always: son of a bitch, thief, faggot. It tells me to say something, to not keep quiet, that it knows full well that I’m there, listening. I don’t open my mouth. It says the day is fast approaching when I’ll pay for it all with blood and tears. It says that this afternoon while I was at the courthouse everyone got a scandalous view of my wife taking one of her studs to a motel room. It asks if I wouldn’t have wanted that stud for myself, isn’t that true? It laughs, sharp and jagged. Then it hangs up, and I do too.

At two in the morning I go to the window and watch the rain falling over the park, and then I go to bed. I lay down face up, in complete darkness, and fall immediately into a quick, vertiginous, and fragmented dream in which a horde of gorillas attends a ritual sacrifice. I’m the victim. I see a bloody knife shining in the sunlight but I don’t feel myself die. I know I’ve died because the knife is bloody, but I can’t see myself, alive or dead. Then I see an open space enclosed by a horizon of rocks and trees. The sun glimmers in the hollows and reflects off the leaves, flashing briefly. In the distance, an indistinct body is lying against a tree. I see the body and the horizon but I can’t see myself. I wake up and turn on the light. It’s not even three. I don’t go back to sleep.

I get up when it seems like five thirty and walk slowly to the bathroom. I listen to the monotone hum of the razor as I shave. Then I shower. I stay under the hot water for a long time. I get dressed, drink a cup of hot milk in the kitchen, and then I walk out.

It’s raining. Through the trees in the park I can see a sliver of light. I have to try the ignition a few times before the engine starts. The windshield wiper starts as the engine does. Each time the engine is about to turn over and fails, the wiper blades flutter tensely, trembling, and then are static again. Finally the engine turns over and the wiper blades move. I cross San Martín to the boulevard, turn right, reach the suspension bridge, cross the old and the new waterfronts, circle the Guadalupe roundabout, and drive back in the opposite direction, toward the city center. At the mouth of the suspension bridge, I turn right onto the boulevard, heading west. When I reach its end I turn left onto the Avenida del Oeste and then left again at the end onto the Avenida del Sur, heading east, and when I reach the courthouse I turn onto the sidewalk and into the rear courtyard. I stop the car and get out and feel the cold rain on my face. I cross the empty corridors, the empty checkerboard lobby, and start up the white marble staircase with my right hand on the banister. On the third floor I look down at the lobby. It’s empty, and the black and white tiles appear tiny, regular, and polished. I enter my office, passing first by the secretary’s unoccupied desk, and turn on the light. I approach the window and see the palms and the orange trees in the park and the white masses of rain that condense around them. The white raindrops seem to rotate slowly. An anemic, gray light enters the office. The Plaza de Mayo is deserted. Its red paths crisscross under the foliage.

When the secretary arrives he stops in front of my desk, his graying head tilted toward me. “I need to say something,” he says. I look up. He hesitates. “I’ve noticed. . I’ve noticed a certain unwarranted severity with the witnesses. And also certain irregularities in procedure,” he says. “And?” I say. “I think, Judge, that you’re very tired and should take a vacation. You don’t look well. Pardon the impertinence, but I’m sure something bad is happening to you.” “Don’t worry, Vigo,” I say, “I’m perfectly fine.” “Another thing, Judge,” says the secretary. “This morning we get paid for April.” “That’s great,” I say. “Have a car readied and look for a clerk. We’re going to the scene in a minute.” “It’s all set,” says the secretary. “You’re very efficient, Vigo,” I say. “You should be here instead of me.”

We leave for the crime scene. The driver and the clerk are in the front seats, and the secretary and I are in the back. The car is waiting outside the front entrance to the courthouse. We find it — the secretary and I — after crossing the square lobby where the first groups are gathering in the center of the checkerboard space, talking in loud voices. The clerk and the driver are already inside the car, waiting for us. We turn at the first corner, onto the Avenida del Sur, heading west. At the next corner the red traffic light stops us. When the light changes, and the green shimmer colors the swirl of droplets around it, we cross the intersection and continue on. We turn west at the Avenida del Oeste and soon the regimental gardens and the gray armory building pass to our left. We turn at the market onto a cobblestone street and pass alongside its lateral wall. Through the side window I see the wall of the wholesale market interrupted suddenly by the large entranceway. In the stone courtyard, which is bordered by two long rows of stands crammed with fruit and vegetables, in bags or crates or simply piled up on the ground, a mass of trucks circles slowly with gorillas behind the wheels or standing with their legs apart on the wooden beds. Several gorillas sit atop immense piles of vegetables, bags of potatoes, or crates of fruit loaded onto the backs of the trucks. Then the wholesale market is left behind. We drive six blocks and turn left again. At the next corner we stop. There aren’t even cobblestones, only rubble from construction jobs packed down on the street. Weeds are growing from a ditch full of water next to the road. We get out and walk to the dirt sidewalk — mud, really — after crossing over a tiny bridge, that’s barely wide enough for a single truck, and then we come to a rectangular building of un-plastered brick with an open wooden door in the center and a tiny open window above it and to the right. A guard is standing in front of the door. Between the sidewalk and the front of the building there’s a wide plot of bare land, without a single blade of grass, covered in footprints. A narrow path of half-buried bricks leads from the sidewalk to the door of the building. We cross the path, balancing, under the rain. The secretary goes first, and I follow, and behind me come the clerk and the driver. When we reach the door the guard stiffens up and stands aside to let us pass. We enter the store.

It’s a square room with a zinc roof supported by several joists above us. The counter is to the left of the entrance, and beyond the counter are the shelves. In the center of the room, to the right of the counter and almost in line with the entrance, is a pyramid of canned products. A small doorway covered with a cretonne curtain opens between the shelves and leads to the interior rooms. The blond gorilla is behind the counter, and he stands up suddenly when we come in. He greets us and asks if we’d like something to drink. “He was standing over there,” he says eventually, gesturing with his head toward the end of the counter that’s next to the front wall, where a meager light falls through the window. “The rest of them were more or less there, where you are. And I was standing where I am now.” I look at the secretary. “Have the reconstruction done by tomorrow afternoon,” I say, and then I look at the clerk. “Map out the place,” I say. “It’s two squares,” says the clerk, smiling and looking around, “One filled and the other empty. We just passed through the empty one. Now we’re in the filled one. When we leave, we’ll pass through the empty one again.” “Yes,” I say, “but make it just the same.” I turn back to the blond gorilla. “No one came in or out while they were here?” I say. “Not as far as I know,” says the blond gorilla. “How is it you reached the courtyard first if you were behind the counter?” “I ran,” says the blond gorilla, “And they were standing there and then followed after me.” I walk toward the door. The guard, who is watching us, steps aside. I look out. A group of onlookers gather on the sidewalk. The square courtyard is empty, covered with tracks that swirl around and tighten into crisscrosses, forming an intricate pattern in the area near the straight, muddy path of half-buried bricks. The courtyard is empty now. The blond gorilla has come around the counter and is standing next to me. The secretary is behind him, and the clerk is drawing out a map on the counter. “He drove the truck into the courtyard,” he says, “and parked it facing that way.” He makes a gesture indicating that the truck was parallel to the un-plastered brick wall, over the path. “When we came out she was over there,” says the blond gorilla, and he points to an empty space about three meters from the door, on the brick path. “Then he turned the truck around, over there, crossed the bridge, and turned the corner. The door was open.”

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.

I lie down in utter darkness, face up.

At first nothing happens.

Then, almost inaudibly, the crackling begins. But it’s more than a wheat field burning, wide as it is. It’s a much deeper crackling, a much larger fire. I see hills, cities, plains, jungles burning, slowly incinerating, the even flames extending like a yellow blanket over the surface of the planet, devouring it. And nothing is heard because there’s no one to observe it, to know this giant fireball that’s burning silently and spinning slowly in the blackness, which it mars with a weak glow. Sometimes the faraway sound of an explosion echoes, at some vague point on the surface, arriving completely silently, or brief sparks from a short burst are perceived. But perceive is wrong, because there’s no one to perceive anything. The horde of gorillas that rose laboriously from the nothing, clinging to the dried crust with its teeth and claws, has returned to the nothing, without a sound. It was like some awful mirage, a sickening nightmare crashing against the motionless rocks in the middle of a bright and maddening space. I see the ball of fire spin, and then the fire dies down and goes out completely; the first clear breezes form thin whirlwinds with the cold ashes of the finally pacified horde. The white dust sparkles in the air, in the weak light of a dead sun.

It’s almost dawn when I get up. I go out. It’s raining. I haven’t slept. I approach the first corner slowly, then turn right. The headlights illuminate the shifting masses of fog that condense as they move away from the car. Iridescent circles of water take shape around the lights. The fragmented trees in the Plaza de Mayo extend their foliage through the white clouds. Streetlights reflect off the dense, shifting masses. The wiper blades rhythmically skim the windshield surface. I turn north on San Martín, then on the boulevard, to the suspension bridge. Water pours from the gray sentry box at the mouth of the bridge, its painted wood walls barely visible. On the old waterfront I see, through the blurry right side window, the concrete railing with its concrete balustrades repeating infinitely and sliding backward. They’re wet, surrounded by fog. For a moment I have the feeling of not moving, of being completely motionless. All I feel is the monotone hum of the engine and the rhythmic sweep of the wiper blades on the glass, where drops collide and explode into strange, fleeting shapes. Suddenly the monotony of the engine is torn; I hear two or three brief explosions that shake the car. Then the explosions continue, and the hum is replaced by a series of explosions and the car starts to slow down. I steer it to the right, coasting on its momentum. Then there’s nothing. The wiper blades stop and the car rolls a few meters farther and stops as well. I look at the gauge. The red needle indicates an empty tank. I stop the engine. The sun is coming up, but the wet fog surrounds the car so closely that all I can see is the inert body of the car and the slowly drifting whitish masses that have erased the waterfront, if there really is a waterfront, and which completely obscure my vision, if — beyond the fog — there really is anything for my eyes to see.