Scars. Juan José Saer
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or ever experienced any sort of happiness he might take pleasure in remembering. He had dodged military service through some defect in his sight (he told the story fifty times a day, in such detail and with such enthusiasm that you would have thought he was the general San Martín recalling the battle of San Lorenzo), but it wasn’t such a bad defect that he was prescribed glasses. He was thin but not too thin; quiet but not too quiet; he had good handwriting but sometimes his hands shook. He didn’t have a favorite dish, and if someone asked his opinion on anything at all, he invariably responded, Some people understand those things—not me. But there wasn’t an ounce of humility in his response, rather an absolute conviction that it was the truth. And so when my father died, the only change in the house was that there was now air in the space he had occupied in the bed (for the last six months he hadn’t gotten up). I think that was the most noteworthy change he ever produced: to make space. To open up 1.76 meters (because he was also average height) of vertical space and a certain width so that what he displaced with his body could be reconverted into a breathable substance for the benefit of humanity.
When I went to the paper the next day and found out that Tomatis had gone to Buenos Aires and wouldn’t be back until the twenty-ninth, I felt bad. I had planned to tell him everything. I don’t really know why, since Tomatis rarely seemed to be listening, but still he was the person I trusted the most, and he might understand me having hit my mother. She, meanwhile, stopped speaking to me, and when she had to she used the formal usted. We barely ever saw each other, and now that it was cooler out (it rained almost every day in April, which made it so I could copy the same weather information several times without anyone noticing) my mother didn’t walk around half-naked anymore, like she often did in the summer. Truth is she would put on these loud sweaters that would have been too tight on a fakir, but that was the way she liked to dress and I had to let her even though I didn’t like it. She kept going out at night, and when she came back would go to bed without coming to my room. I would get up late and go to the paper at ten in the morning and wouldn’t come back until ten at night, and sometimes not even then. I remember the fight over the gin happened on April twenty-third because the next day I turned eighteen. I asked for an advance from the management and went to eat a steak. I barely touched the food, but I drank a liter of wine. I wasn’t angry or anything, just wanted to drink some wine, for the fun of drinking it and for the comfort of knowing that I could always have my cup full, to empty in one swallow, and if the bottle kicked I could call the waiter and ask for another from the long rows stacked up on the walls—all that made me feel amazingly good. Then I hesitated between the movies and a hooker and chose the hooker. I didn’t have to wait or anything. They showed me through an entrance where there wasn’t anything but a wooden bench and a standing coat rack, then down a corridor, and finally they put me in a kitchen with two women in it. Both were blonde. They were drinking mate and didn’t even get up. One had a comic book in her hands. I picked the other one. They were so alike (both had on black pants and a white sweater) that now I’m not sure if in fact I went to bed with the one with the comic book or the other one because they might have passed the comic book from one to the other without me noticing, or the one with the comic could have left it on the table as I came in and the other one grabbed it before I noticed. In any case, my selection wasn’t so precise, since I only made a gesture with my head in the direction of the one I thought didn’t have the comic book, and I’m not even sure anymore which one of them got up first. The one who led me away—the one with the comic, or the other one, I’m not sure anymore—took me through a courtyard into a room filled with what I remember as the odor of Creolin, and which was so clean and organized that immediately I thought of my mother’s, by contrast. When she got naked I saw she had the mark of an operation on her belly, a half-moon scar, crisscrossed by the lines from the stitches. I went to bed with her and then went home to sleep.
Tomatis came back the morning of the thirtieth, euphoric, smoking North American cigarettes. He walked into the office with energetic steps and sat down in front of the typewriter. He looked freshly washed and shaved. I told him I had problems with my mother and wanted to talk to him.
—Come have dinner at my house tonight. Bring wine, he said, and started working.
Then I left for the courthouse. A light rain was falling, so that day I sent the same weather report to the print shop as the day before. The gray courthouse seemed more gray in the rain, but a shining gray. The wide, marble stairs in the lobby were dirty with wet mud. They had scattered sawdust on the floor of the entryway, which was full of people. I passed through the law school and then saw Chino Ramírez, from the press office. Ramírez poured me a coffee that looked like it was brewed from the mud in the lobby. Instead of teeth Ramírez had two tiny, brown sierras. I don’t know what disease could have rotted them so badly. He stopped himself laughing to hide them.
—Your judge friend wants to see you, he said. He asked for you.
—I haven’t killed anyone, I said.
—You never know, said Ramírez.
—I guess that’s true, I said. I gestured toward the coffee and, standing up, said:
—Keep an eye on your staff, Ramírez. They’re confused and are serving us the prisoners’ coffee.
He would have laughed more, had his teeth allowed. He gave me the papers he had prepared, and I left the office. Ernesto was working on his fucking Wilde translation. He took it everywhere. When he saw me come in, he closed the dictionary and marked a page in The Picture of Dorian Gray with his red pen.
—Lose my number? he asked.
Something in his face made him look like Stan Laurel, only slightly fatter.
—I haven’t been able to call you because I’ve had a mess of problems with my family, I said. Then I pointed to the Wilde book.
—How’s the translation coming?
—Good, he said, smiling. No one else would think to translate something that’s been translated a million times already.
A report lay on his desk. I managed to read the word homicide.
—Have you sent many people to prison? I asked.
He squinted his eyes before responding and collapsed in his chair.
—Lots, he said.
—Have you ever been to prison? I asked.
—Visiting, a few times, he said.
He guessed what I was thinking.
—It’s the same, he said, inside and outside. Everything is completely the same. Alive, dead, everything is exactly the same.
—I disagree, I said.
—Well it’s a free country, he said, laughing.
—Ramírez said you were looking for me, I said.
—I wanted to see how you were and if you’re free tomorrow night, he said.
—Tomorrow night? I asked. What’s tomorrow?
—I can forgive the youth anything, he said, except coyness. Tomorrow is the first of May.
I must have blushed.
—Yes, I said. I’m free.
—Do you want to have dinner at my house? he asked, standing up.
I said yes, and so the next night I went to his house. It started raining about nine, after a bracing, cold day. I was walking from Tomatis’s house, at the other end of the city, in the north, so I ended up walking through the whole city center to the southern end. The center was deserted, and it was exactly nine when I passed the Banco Provincial building, I could tell by the round clock mounted in the wall over the entrance. In the arcade I drank a cognac and then kept going. Now it was raining. Out on San Martín I walked, whistling, down a few dark blocks where the weak streetlights shone at the intersections. I passed the courthouse, crossed the Plaza de Mayo at a diagonal in front of the government buildings, then back onto San Martín, which at that point became a curved, dead-end street with a single sidewalk and the tree-lined edge of the Parque Sur bordering the