JULIO CORTÁZAR THE WINNERS
‘A novel of ideas that challenges and disturbs’ William Goyen
EX LIBRIS
VINTAGE CLASSICS
JULIO CORTÁZAR
Julio Cortázar lived in Buenos Aires for the first thirty years of his life, and, after that, in Paris. His stories, written under the dual influence of the English masters of the uncanny and of French surrealism, are extraordinary inventions, just this side of nightmare. In later life, Cortázar became a passionate advocate for human rights and a persistent critic of the military dictatorships in Latin America. He died in 1984.
ALSO BY JULIO CORTÁZAR
A Certain Lucas
A Change of Light and Other Stories
All Fires the Fire
A Manual for Manuel
Bestiary
Around the Day in Eighty Worlds
Autonauts of the Cosmoroute
Blow-Up and Other Stories
Cronopios and Famas
Diary of Andrés Fava
Divertimento
Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires
Final Exam
From the Observatory
Hopscotch
Literature Class, Berkeley 1980
Nicaraguan Sketches
Save Twilight
62: A Model Kit
Someone Walking Around Unreasonable Hours
We Love Glenda So Much and Other Tales
JULIO CORTÁZAR
THE WINNERS
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY
Elaine Kerrigan
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Vintage, Penguin Random House UK , One Embassy Gardens, 8 Viaduct Gardens, London SW11 7BW
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Copyright © Julio Cortázar, 1960, and Heirs of Julio Cortázar
The moral right of the author has been asserted
First published as Los premios by Editorial Sudamericana in 1960
First published in the United States of America as The Winners by Random House, Inc., in 1965
Reprinted in the United States of America by New York Review Books in 1999
This paperback first published in Vintage Classics in 2025
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ISBN 9781529956771
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What is an author to do with ordinary people, absolutely ‘ordinary,’ and how can he put them before his readers so as to make them at all interesting? It is impossible to leave them out of fiction altogether, for commonplace people are at every moment the chief and essential links in the chain of human affairs; if we leave them out, we lose all semblance of truth.
DOSTOEVSKY , The Idiot IV, 1
PROLOGUE
‘The marquise left at five,’ Carlos Lopez thought. ‘Where the devil did I read that?’
He was at the London Café on Peru and Avenida; it was fiveten. Did the marquise leave at five? Lopez shook his head to push away the incomplete recollection, and tried his Quilmes Cristal beer. It wasn’t cold enough.
‘Take a person away from his routine, he’s like a fish out of water,’ Dr Restelli said, staring at his glass. ‘I’m used to my sweet maté tea at four, you know. Look at that woman coming out of the subway; I don’t know if you can see her, there are so many people. There she goes, the blonde. Do you think we’ll run into such free and easy blondes on our cruise?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Lopez. ‘The most beautiful women always travel on another ship. That’s how it is.’
‘Ah, skeptical youth,’ said Dr Restelli. ‘I’m well past the dangerous age, though naturally I go on an occasional fling. I’m optimistic, however; I’ve packed three bottles of brandy in my suitcase, and I’m almost sure we’ll have the company of lovely young ladies.’
‘We’ll see, if we ever leave at all,’ said Lopez. ‘Speaking of women, here comes one worth turning your head about seventy degrees toward Florida. There . . . stop. The one talking to the long-haired guy. They look like the types who’d be going on this trip with us, although I’ll be damned if I know how anyone has to look to go on this trip. Let’s have another beer.’
Dr Restelli agreed. Lopez thought that Restelli, with his stiff collar, and blue silk, purple-dotted tie, looked most amazingly like a turtle. He used a pince-nez, which jeopardized discipline at the public school where he taught Argentine history (Lopez taught
Spanish), and between his looks and his teaching he earned himself several nicknames, ranging from ‘Black Cat’ to ‘Derby.’ ‘And what nicknames have they given me?’ Lopez thought hypocritically; he was sure that the boys had settled for Lopez*-the-one-from-thephone-book or something like that.
‘A gorgeous creature,’ Dr Restelli decided. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit if she joined the cruise. It must be the prospect of sea air and nights in the tropics, for I must confess, I feel remarkably exhilarated. Your health, my friend and colleague!’
‘Yours, Doctor and fellow prizewinner,’ Lopez said, lowering the level in his stein appreciably.
Dr Restelli had a good opinion (with certain reservations) of his friend and colleague. At faculty meetings he usually differed with the lenient grades proposed by Lopez, who insisted on defending stolid drifters and other less derelict types, who were nevertheless given to copying during tests or reading the newspaper in the middle of a discussion of Vilcapugio (and it was difficult enough to find an honorable explanation of the beatings General Belgrano took from the Spaniards). But apart from being somewhat bohemian, Lopez was an excellent colleague, always ready to recognize that it was Dr Restelli who should deliver the Ninth of July speeches. And Dr Restelli, in the end, always yielded modestly to Dr Guglielmetti’s solicitations and the extremely cordial, even though unmerited, pressure at the faculty meetings. After all, it was lucky that Lopez had won the Tourist Lottery and not Gomez, the Negro, or that female who taught third-year English. It was possible to get along with Lopez, even if he sometimes indulged in an excessive liberalism, an almost reprehensible leftism, and that Restelli could tolerate in no one. But, on the other hand, he did like girls and the horses.
‘When you were fourteen, just fourteen Aprils ago, you gave yourself up to revelries and the delights of the tango,’ Lopez hummed. ‘Why did you buy a ticket, Doctor?’
* Spanish equivalent of Smith, or other common surname.
‘I simply surrendered in the face of Señora Rébora’s insistence. You know how that woman gets when she makes up her mind about something. Did she pester you too? Of course now we’re grateful, and it’s only fair to say so.’
‘She chewed my ear for about eight recesses,’ Lopez said. ‘Impossible to get very far in the racing section with a horsefly like that buzzing around. But the curious thing is that her connection with it wasn’t too clear. Basically, it’s just another lottery.’
‘Ah, not so. Pardon me, but this was something very special and completely different.’
‘But why was Madame Rébora selling tickets?’
‘We may assume,’ Dr Restelli said mysteriously, ‘that the sale of this particular lottery was destined for a certain public, a select public, as they say. And probably for this undertaking, the State appealed to our women for aid, as they have on historic occasions. It might have been embarrassing if the winner had to mix with people of, let’s say, low quality.’
‘All right,’ Lopez agreed. ‘But you forget that the winners have the right to drag as many as three members of their family to the dance.’
‘My dear colleague, if my deceased wife and my daughter, the wife of young Robirosa, could have come along with me –’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Lopez. ‘You’re a particular case. But look, why beat around the bush: if I suddenly went mad and invited my sister, for example, you’d see how the quality would lower, to use your own words.’
‘I don’t think your sister –’
‘Neither would she,’ said Lopez. ‘But I assure you she’s one of those women who say “Huh?” and think “vomit” is a bad word.’
‘Actually, the term is a little strong. I prefer “regurgitate.” ’
‘She, on the other hand, rather favors “throw up” or “give back.” And what do you say about our lucky student?’
Dr Restelli passed from his beer to the most obvious annoyance. He’d never understand how Señora Rébora, a bore but not at all a fool, and who, after all, boasted a family name of some ancestry,
could have allowed herself to be carried away by a mania to sell all her tickets, lowering herself to the extent of offering chances to pupils in the upper grades. A sad result of a stroke of luck of the kind recorded only in certain chronicles, perhaps apocryphal, of the Casino at Monte Carlo, was that the student Felipe Trejo, as well as Lopez and Restelli, held a winning number. And Trejo was the worst in his class, and the most likely source of certain muffled noises too often heard in Argentine history period.
‘Believe me, Lopez, they shouldn’t let vermin like that on the boat. Among other things, he’s a minor.’
‘Not only is he going on the trip, but he’s bringing the family,’ Lopez said. ‘I found that out from a reporter I know who was going around doing stories on the few winners he could manage to get in touch with.’
Poor Restelli, poor revered Black Cat. School would cast its shadow over his entire trip, that is, if there was a trip, and Felipe Trejo’s metallic laugh would spoil his attempted flirtations, the Line-Crossing ceremony when he would be changed from a Pollywog to a Shellback, and even his chocolate ice cream, not to mention the lifeboat drills, which were always amusing. ‘If he only knew I’ve drunk beer with Trejo and his gang in Plaza Eleven, and thanks to them, I know about Black Cat and Derby . . . Poor guy, he makes such a big deal out of being a teacher.’
‘That might be all to the good,’ Dr Restelli said hopefully. ‘The family might tone him down. Don’t you think so? Of course, you can’t help but think so.’
‘Take a look,’ said Lopez, ‘at those twins or almost-twins coming down Peru. They’re crossing the Avenida. See them?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Dr Restelli. ‘One in white and the other in green?’
‘That’s it. Especially the one in white.’
‘She’s very nice. Yes, the one in white. Hm, good calves. Perhaps a little hurried in the walk. Do you think they’ll be joining the group?’
‘No, Doctor, it’s obvious they’re going on without stopping.’
‘A pity. I must say, I once had a young lady like that. Striking resemblance.’
‘To the one in white?’
‘No, the one in green. I’ll never forget . . . but that can’t possibly interest you. It does? Then another little beer; we still have half an hour before the group convenes. You see, this girl came from a good family and knew I was married. However, to make a long story short, she literally threw herself into my arms. The nights, my friend . . .’
‘I never doubted you knew your Kama Sutra,’ Lopez said. ‘More beer, Roberto.’
‘The gentlemen are thirsty today,’ Roberto remarked. ‘You can tell it’s humid. It says so in the paper.’
‘If it’s in the paper, it must be true,’ said Lopez. ‘I’m beginning to figure out who our traveling companions are going to be. They have the same expression on their faces as we do, somewhere between amused and distrustful. Just look around, Doctor, you’ll see for yourself.’
‘Why distrustful?’ asked Dr Restelli. ‘Those rumors are absolutely unfounded. You’ll see, we’ll sail exactly as stated on the back of the ticket. The lottery depends upon the endorsement of the State; it’s not just a fly-by-night raffle. It has been sold in the best circles, and it would be odd to suspect any sort of irregularity.’
‘I admire your confidence in the bureaucratic order,’ said Lopez. ‘Clearly it corresponds to your inner order, as they say. I, on the other hand, am like a Turk’s trunk, and I’m never sure of anything. It’s not exactly that I distrust the lottery, though I’ve asked myself more than once if it might not end up like the Gelria swindle.’
‘The Gelria was an agency-run thing, probably Jews involved,’ said Dr Restelli. ‘Even the name, come to think of it . . . It’s not that I’m anti-Semitic, far from it, but for years I’ve observed the infiltration of that race, quite meritorious, if you like, for other reasons. To your health.’
‘To yours,’ said Lopez, holding back his laughter. The marquise . . . would she really leave at five? The same people as
always came in and went out through the door leading to the Avenida de Mayo. Lopez took advantage of his interlocutor’s meditation, probably ethnic in nature, to look around the café carefully. Nearly all of the tables were occupied, but only at a few was an atmosphere of likely travelers prevalent. A group of girls left, with the usual confusion: laughter, scuffling, and glances at possible admirers or critics. A woman came in armed with several children and entered the little salon set with reassuring tablecloths, where other women and peaceful couples sat over cold drinks, pastries, or at most a glass of beer. A young fellow (but yes, that one yes) came in with a very good-looking girl (I hope she’s coming) and sat down close to Lopez’ table. They were nervous and looked at one another with a false naturalness, which their hands, fumbling with purses and cigarettes, contradicted. Outside, the Avenida de Mayo was insisting on its usual disorder: the five-o’clock edition of the newspaper was being hawked, and a loudspeaker was extolling some product or other. There was the furious summer light of five-thirty (a false hour, like so many other things which come too early or too late), and the smell of a mixture of gasoline, hot asphalt, eau de cologne, and damp sawdust filled the air. Lopez suddenly found it strange that the Tourist Lottery should ever have seemed unreasonable to him. Only because of his long observance of Buenos Aires – not to say more than that, to get metaphysical – was he able to accept as reasonable the spectacle that surrounded and included him. The most chaotic hypothesis of chaos paled before this confusion: ninety-two degrees in the shade, arrivals and departures, marches and countermarches, hats and briefcases, policemen and five-o’clock editions, buses and beers, all crammed into every fraction of every second and vertiginously transforming the following fraction of a second. Now the woman in the red skirt and the man in the checked jacket were about to pass one another, they were two pavement squares apart, at that same moment Dr Restelli was bringing his beer to his mouth, and the lovely (she really was) girl was taking out her lipstick. Now the two
pedestrians were back to back, the glass was slowly lowered, and the lipstick was writing the eternal curved word. Who would have the nerve to think the lottery was strange?
‘Two coffees,’ Lucio ordered.
‘And a glass of water, please,’ Nora added.
‘They always bring water with the coffee,’ said Lucio.
‘That’s true.’
‘Besides, you never drink it.’
‘But I’m thirsty today,’ said Nora.
‘Yes, it’s hot in here,’ said Lucio, changing his tone. He leaned across the table. ‘You look tired.’
‘Well, between the luggage and the taxis . . .’
‘The taxis and the luggage, it all sounds so odd,’ Lucio said. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re tired, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’
‘You’ll sleep well tonight.’
‘I hope so,’ said Nora. As usual, Lucio said the most innocent things in a tone of voice she had learned to understand. She probably wouldn’t sleep well tonight, since this would be her first night with Lucio. Her second first night.
‘Sweetie,’ said Lucio, stroking her hand. ‘Sweetie pie.’
Nora thought of the Hotel Belgrano, of the first night with Lucio, but it wasn’t so much recalling as forgetting about it a little less.
‘Dope,’ said Nora. Her lipstick refill . . . would it be in her overnight bag?
‘Good coffee,’ said Lucio. ‘Do you think they’ve figured anything out yet at your house? Not that it matters, but just to avoid problems.’
‘Mama thinks I’m going to the movies with Mocha.’
‘They’ll raise the roof tomorrow.’
‘They can’t do anything now,’ said Nora. ‘No kidding, they celebrated my birthday . . . I’m mostly worried about Dad. Dad isn’t bad, but Mama does what she wants with him and with everyone else.’
‘It’s getting hotter in here by the minute.’
‘You’re nervous,’ said Nora.
‘No, but I’d like to be on board once and for all. Doesn’t it seem funny they’d make us come here first? I guess they’ll take us to the docks in a car.’
‘Who do you think the others are?’ said Nora. ‘That woman in black . . . do you think?’
‘No. That woman wouldn’t be traveling. Maybe those two talking at that table.’
‘There’ll have to be a lot more, at least twenty.’
‘You’re a little pale,’ said Lucio.
‘It’s the heat.’
‘Just as well we’ll be able to rest until we’re tired of it,’ Lucio said. ‘I hope we get a good cabin.’
‘With hot water,’ said Nora.
‘Yes, and fan and porthole. An outside cabin.’
‘Why do you say cabin instead of stateroom?’
‘I don’t know. Stateroom . . . actually cabin sounds better. Stateroom is like traveling in state or something like that. Did I tell you the boys in the office wanted to come and see us off?’
‘See us off?’ said Nora. ‘But how? Then they know about us?’
‘Well, to see me off,’ said Lucio. ‘They don’t know anything. The only one I spoke to was Medrano, at the Club. And he’s okay. Remember, he’s going too, so it’s better I told him beforehand.’
‘Just think, he won, too,’ said Nora. ‘Isn’t that incredible?’
‘Señora Apelbaum offered us the whole block of tickets. I guess the rest was divided up around La Boca, I don’t know. Why are you so pretty?’
‘Because,’ said Nora, letting Lucio hold her hand and squeeze it. As usual, when he talked to her intimately, inquiringly, Nora
would withdraw politely, yielding just enough not to hurt his feelings. Lucio looked at her smiling mouth, which opened perfectly around a set of very white, small teeth (further back there was one gold-filled tooth). If only we do get a good cabin tonight, and if Nora does get a good rest . . . There was so much to blot out (but really there was nothing; what had to be blotted out was that foolish nothing in which she persisted). He saw Medrano come through the door on the Florida side in the middle of a bunch of rough-looking characters, and a lady in a lace blouse. He raised his arm, almost in relief. Medrano recognized him and came over to their table.
III
The subway isn’t so bad during dog days. It takes about ten minutes between Loria and Peru, and it’s time enough to cool off and look through the newspaper. The problem had been to pack and change without Bettina asking too many questions, but Medrano had invented a reunion of the class of ’35, a dinner at Loprete’s, preceded by a drink some place or other. He had done so much lying since the lottery drawing that the final and almost businesslike lie was hardly worth mentioning.
Bettina had stayed in bed, naked, the fan turned on, reading Proust in Menasché’s translation. They had been making love all morning, stopping only to sleep or to have a whisky or a coke. After eating a cold chicken they had discussed the value of Marcel Aymé’s work, Emilio Ballagas’ poems, and the current fluctuation of Mexican currency. At four Medrano took a shower and Bettina opened the Proust book (they had made love once more). In the subway, as he compassionately watched a schoolboy trying to look like a tough hood, Medrano traced a mental line from the beginning of the day’s activities and found them satisfactory. Now Saturday could begin.
He was looking at the paper but thinking of Bettina, a little
surprised to find he was still thinking of her. The farewell letter (he liked to think of it as the posthumous letter) had been written the night before, while Bettina was sleeping with one foot outside the sheet and her hair in her eyes. Everything was explained (except, of course, she’d see everything from an opposite point of view), the personal matters favorably liquidated. He had broken with Susana Daneri the same way, without even leaving the country as he was now; every time since when he’d run into Susana (usually at openings at galleries, inevitable in Buenos Aires) she’d smile like an old friend, without a hint of resentment or nostalgia. He imagined himself going into Pizarro’s and running into Bettina, a smiling, friendly Bettina. Well, even if she were only smiling. But undoubtedly Bettina would go back to Rauch, where her impeccable family awaited her in total innocence, and two courses in Spanish to teach.
‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume,’ said Medrano.
‘I’d like you to meet Gabriel Medrano,’ Lucio said. ‘Well, sit down and have something.’
He shook Nora’s slightly timid hand and ordered a dry Martini. Nora found him older than what she would have expected of one of Lucio’s friends. He must have been at least forty, but he wore his Italian silk suit and white shirt with a lot of style. Lucio would never learn to dress like that even if he had the money.
‘What do you think of all these people?’ Lucio asked. ‘We were trying to figure out who we’ll be going with. I think a list was published in the papers, but I didn’t see it.’
‘Luckily, the list wasn’t very reliable,’ Medrano said. ‘Aside from me, they left out the names of a few others who wanted to avoid publicity or family catastrophes.’
‘Besides, there’re the guests of the winners.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Medrano, and he thought of Bettina asleep. ‘Well, at the moment I see Carlos Lopez over there with a very respectable-looking gentleman. You know them?’
‘No.’
‘Lopez quit the Club three years ago; I know him from those
days. It must have been a little before you joined. I’m going to find out if he’s going.’
Lopez was one of the winners, and they were happy to see one another again, especially under the present circumstances. Lopez introduced Dr Restelli, who said that Medrano’s face was familiar. Medrano took advantage of the fact that the adjoining table had been vacated to call over Nora and Lucio. All this took time, because it wasn’t easy at the London to get up and change places without provoking the staff’s notorious moods. Lopez called Roberto, who grumbled, but helped with the table change and pocketed a peso tip without a word of thanks. The noisy, roughlooking group began to rumble ominously and demanded a second beer. It wasn’t easy to talk at this time of day, when everyone was thirsty and squeezed into the London like sardines, sacrificing the last breath of air for the dubious compensation of a beer or tonic. There was hardly much difference any more between the bar and the street; a compact crowd of people carrying packages, papers, and briefcases, especially briefcases of various colors and sizes, were going up and down the Avenida now.
‘In short,’ said Dr Restelli, ‘if I’ve understood correctly, all of us present will have the pleasure of being together on this agreeable cruise.’
‘We shall,’ said Medrano. ‘I fear, however, that part of that noisy symposium over there to the left will also be joining our happy group.’
‘You think so, old man?’ said Lopez, pretending horror.
‘They look shady,’ said Lucio. ‘It’s one thing going to a football game with them, but on a ship . . .’
‘Who knows,’ said Nora, who felt called upon to add a touch of modernity. ‘They may be very nice.’
‘Right now,’ said Lopez, ‘a modest young girl seems to want to join their group. Yes, there she goes. Accompanied by a woman dressed in black, reeking of virtue.’
‘Mother and daughter,’ said Nora, infallible when it came to such things. ‘Lord, look at their clothes.’
‘That finishes the speculation,’ said Lopez. ‘They’re sailing with us and also landing with us, that is, if we actually get off and actually get there.’
‘Democracy . . .’ said Dr Restelli, but his voice trailed off into a noisy outburst from the mouth of the subway. The loud types seemed to recognize certain tribal signs, since two of them responded immediately: one with a whooping yell pitched an octave higher than the signal and another by putting two fingers in his mouth and letting out a terrifying whistle.
‘. . . unfortunately having to mingle with one’s social inferiors,’ Dr Restelli concluded.
‘Exactly,’ Medrano replied politely. ‘Furthermore, I wonder why we’re going at all.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why should we go at all?’
‘Well,’ said Lopez, ‘I suppose it’s always more amusing than staying home. Personally, I like the idea of having won a trip for ten pesos. Don’t forget, a paid vacation is already a considerable prize. Can’t pass up something like that.’
‘I realize it’s not to be put down,’ said Medrano. ‘For instance, the prize has given me an excuse to close my office and not look at decayed teeth for a while. But you’ll have to admit that this whole business . . . I’ve had the feeling more than once that this is going to end up in a way . . . Well, you opt the adjective, that’s always the most optional part of speech.’
Nora looked at Lucio.
‘I think you’re exaggerating,’ said Lucio. ‘If everyone turned down prizes for fear of being swindled . . .’
‘I don’t think Medrano was thinking of a swindle,’ said Lopez. ‘It’s more like something in the air, a kind of grand-scale practical joke. Look at that woman who just came in wearing . . . probably she’s going too . . . And there, Doctor, is our Trejo who has just sat down, surrounded by his loving family. This café is beginning to look more and more transatlantic every minute.’
‘I’ll never understand how Señora Rébora could sell tickets to students, and especially to that one,’ said Dr Restelli.
‘It’s hotter than ever,’ said Nora. ‘Please order me a cold drink.’
‘We’ll be all right once we’re on board, you’ll see,’ said Lucio, waving his arm to attract the attention of Roberto, who was busy with the growing table of enthusiastic young men, as they ordered such extravangancies as cappucino, bock beer, chorizo sandwiches – items generally ignored at the café or at least considered a bit unusual at that time of day.
‘Yes, I imagine it will be cooler,’ said Nora, looking hesitantly at Medrano. She was still nervous about what he had said, or perhaps it was a way of concentrating her nervousness on something conversational and communicable. Her stomach was hurting a bit; maybe she’d have to go to the ladies’ room. How unpleasant to have to get up in front of all these men. But maybe she’d be able to hold it. Yes, she could. It was more of a muscular pain. What would the cabin be like? Two tiny beds, one on top of the other . . . She’d like the upper one, but Lucio would get into his pajamas and climb into the upper berth, too.
‘Have you ever been to sea, Nora?’ Medrano asked. It was just like him to call her by her first name right away. You could see he wasn’t shy with women. No, she hadn’t, except for an excursion along the Delta, but that, of course . . . And had he? Yes, a little, as a young man (as if he were old). To Europe and the United States, dentists’ conventions and tourism . . . When the franc was worth ten centavos, just imagine.
‘Fortunately, everything here will be paid for,’ said Nora, and she immediately felt like swallowing her tongue. Medrano was watching her compassionately, protecting her at once. Lopez was also looking at her sympathetically, but there was an admixture of Buenos Aires admiration in his look too, which consisted in not missing a good thing. If everyone were as nice as these two, the trip would be worth the trouble. Nora sipped a little grenadine and sneezed. Medrano and Lopez were still smiling, shielding her, and
Lucio was looking almost as if he wanted to protect her from so much sympathy. A white dove perched for a moment on the railing at the subway entrance. It remained indifferent and detached, surrounded by the crowd that went surging up and down the Avenida, then flew off with the same apparent lack of motive that had inspired it to alight. At the corner door a woman, holding a child by the hand, came in. ‘More children,’ thought Lopez. ‘And this one is surely going on the trip, that is, if we ever get moving. It’s almost six, time for last-minute instructions. Something always happens at six.’
‘I bet they have delicious ice cream here,’ said Jorge.
‘Do you think so?’ said Claudia, looking at her son conspiratorially.
‘Of course I do. Lemon and chocolate.’
‘That’s an awful combination, but if you like it . . .’
The chairs at the London were particularly uncomfortable; they tried to hold the body in an implacably upright position. Claudia was tired from packing, and at the last minute she had discovered she was missing a number of things, and Persio had had to run and buy them. Luckily, the poor fellow hadn’t much work with his own luggage; he packed as if he were going on a picnic. Meanwhile, she finished closing the apartment and wrote one of those last-minute letters, for which she was suddenly completely empty of ideas and even emotions . . . But now she’d rest until she was tired of resting. She’d needed a rest for a long time. ‘For a long time I’ve needed to get tired in order to rest,’ she corrected herself, toying indifferently with the words. Persio would be along any minute; at the very end he had remembered some item he had forgotten to lock up in his mysterious room in Chacarita, where he accumulated books on occultism and manuscripts of his own which would probably never be published. Poor Persio, he was the
one who really needed a rest; it was lucky that the authorities had permitted Claudia (with the help of a telephone call from Dr Leon Lewbaum to the engineer So-and-So) to present Persio as a distant relative and to take him along, practically as contraband. But if anyone deserved taking advantage of the lottery it was Persio, the untiring corrector of proofs at Kraft Publishing, a roomer at vague establishments on the west side of the city, and a nocturnal stroller along the waterfront and streets around the Flores section. ‘He’ll get more out of this nonsensical trip than I will,’ Claudia thought, looking at her nails. ‘Poor Persio.’
She felt better after having some coffee. And so she was going on a trip with her son, and while she was at it, smuggling in her old friend transformed into a false relative. She was going because she had won a prize, because the salt air would do Jorge good, because it would be even better for Persio. She again thought out the same sentences, repeating: ‘And so . . .’ She sipped her coffee, distractedly, and began again. It wasn’t easy to fall in step with what was happening, what was going to happen. There wasn’t that much difference if it were for three months or for the rest of her life. What was the difference? She wasn’t happy, or miserable either; neither of those extremes which withstand violent changes. Her husband would go on paying Jorge’s keep anywhere in the world. That’s what his income was for, and so was the black market, handy in a pinch, and the traveler’s checks.
‘Are all of these people going?’ asked Jorge, gradually returning to reality from his ice cream.
‘No. We could guess, if you want to. I think that lady in pink is going.’
‘You think so? She’s very ugly.’
‘Well, we won’t take her. Now you guess.’
‘Those men at that table with the girl.’
‘Could be. They seem nice. Did you bring a handkerchief?’
‘Yes, Mama. Mama, is the boat big?’
‘I suppose so. It seems it’s a special ship.’
‘Hasn’t anyone seen it?’
‘Perhaps, but it isn’t a famous ship.’
‘It’ll be ugly then,’ Jorge said sadly. ‘Everyone knows the beautiful ones. Persio, Persio! Mama, there’s Persio.’
‘Persio on time,’ said Claudia. ‘It makes me think the lottery has corrupted his old ways.’
‘Persio, here we are! What did you bring me, Persio?’
‘News from the star,’ said Persio, and Jorge looked up at him happily, and waited.
The student Felipe Trejo was very much absorbed in what was happening at the next table.
‘You’ll see,’ he said to his father, who was mopping his sweaty brow with the greatest possible elegance. ‘I’m sure some of those bums are boarding with us.’
‘Can’t you speak properly, Felipe?’ Señora Trejo complained. ‘This boy, when will he learn some manners?’
Beba Trejo was discussing make-up problems with her small hand mirror, which she also employed, at the moment, as a periscope.
‘Well, those characters,’ Felipe condescended. ‘You’ll see. They’re probably from the Market district.’
‘I don’t think they’re all going,’ said Señora Trejo. ‘Probably the couple at the head of the table and that lady, the one who must be the girl’s mother.’
‘They’re terribly common,’ said Beba.
‘Terribly common,’ Felipe mocked.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Look at her, the Duchess of Windsor. The same face even.’
‘Children,’ said Señora Trejo.
Felipe was elated with the awareness of his sudden importance, and he was using it carefully so as not to burn it all up at once. He had to put his sister, especially her, in her place and get
back at her for all the tricks she had pulled on him before he’d won the prize.
‘There are people at the other tables who seem quite nice,’ said Señora Trejo.
‘Well-dressed people,’ said Señor Trejo.
‘They’re here at my invitation,’ Felipe thought, and he could have shouted with happiness. ‘The old man, the old lady, and that turd. I’ll do what I want now.’ He turned toward the people at the other table and waited until one of them looked at him.
‘By any chance, are you going on the trip?’ he asked a stronglooking fellow in a striped shirt.
‘Not me, kid,’ said the strong-looking type. ‘Only the young guy here with his old lady, and the young lady with her old lady, too.’
‘Oh! You came to see them off.’
‘That’s right. You going?’
‘Yes, with my family.’
‘Well, ain’t you got it made, buddy boy.’
‘That’s the way it crumbles,’ said Felipe. ‘Say, maybe you’ll tie the next one up.’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Right, why not?’ VI
‘Besides, I have news of the octopat,’ said Persio. Jorge leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
‘Did you find it under the bed or in the tub?’ he asked.
‘Climbing around in the typewriter,’ said Persio. ‘What do you think it was doing?’
‘Typing.’
‘What a smart boy,’ said Persio to Claudia. ‘Of course it was typing. I have the note, I’ll read you part of it. It says: “You’re going on a trip and leaving me behind like an old shoe. The poor
octopat will be anxiously waiting for you.” Signed: “The octopat, with a hug and a reproach.” ’
‘Poor octopat,’ said Jorge. ‘What’s it going to eat while you’re away?’
‘Matches, lead from pencils, telegrams, and a can of sardines.’
‘He won’t be able to open it,’ said Claudia.
‘Oh, yes, the octopat knows how,’ said Jorge. ‘And the star, Persio?’
‘It seems to have rained on the star,’ said Persio.
‘If it did rain,’ Jorge calculated, ‘the antmen are going to have to climb onto rafts. Will it be like the Flood or a little less?’
Persio wasn’t too sure, but he figured the antmen would know how to get out of the affair.
‘You didn’t bring the telescope,’ said Jorge. ‘What are we going to do if we want to look at the star?’
‘Star telepathy,’ said Persio, winking. ‘Claudia, you’re tired.’
‘That woman in white,’ said Claudia, ‘would say it’s the humidity. Well, Persio, here we are. What’s going to happen?’
‘Ah, that . . . I haven’t had much time to study the question, but I’m already preparing the offensive.’
‘The offensive?’
‘Yes. A thing or a fact has to be attacked in many ways. People usually select one tactic and only get halfway results. I always prepare my offensive and afterwards synchronize the results.’
‘I understand,’ said Claudia in a tone of voice which revealed her lack of understanding.
‘A kind of push-pull has to be in operation,’ said Persio. ‘I don’t know if I’m making myself clear. Occasionally, it’s as if there were things blocking the way, then they have to be pushed aside for one to make out what’s happening further on. Women, for instance, and pardon my mentioning them in front of a child. But there are other things you have to grab by the handle and pull. That chap Dali knows what he’s doing (maybe he doesn’t, but it’s all the same) when he paints a body full of drawers. It seems to me
many things have handles. For example, poetic images. If one sees them from the outside, only the outer and obvious meaning can be grasped, even if it’s sometimes well concealed. Are you satisfied with the exterior, the obvious meaning? No, you’re not. You have to pull the handle and fall into the drawer. To pull is to appropriate, to approach, and even to go too far.’
‘Ah,’ said Claudia, making a discreet sign for Jorge to blow his nose.
‘This place, for instance, is thick with significant elements: every table, every necktie. I see an underlying order within this awful disorder. I wonder what the outcome will be.’
‘So do I. But it’s amusing.’
‘Amusement is always a spectacle: but let’s not delve too deeply, for some foul trap is bound to come open at our feet. It’s not that I’m against amusement, but every time I want to enjoy myself I must first lock up the laboratory and throw out all the acids and alkalines. I mean that I must surrender and give in to the appearance of things. You know very well how dramatic the humorous can be . . .’
‘Recite the verse about Garrick for Persio,’ said Claudia to Jorge. ‘A good illustration of your theory.’
‘When the public saw Mr Garrick, an actor from England . . .’ Jorge declaimed at a shout. Persio listened attentively and then applauded. There was applause from other tables, and Jorge blushed.
‘Quod erat demonstrandum,’ Persio said. ‘Of course, I was alluding to a more ontological plane, to the fact that all amusement is like the consciousness of a mask, which animates and finally supplants the real face. Why does man laugh? There’s nothing to laugh about, if it’s not for the sake of laughter alone. You’ve noticed that children who laugh a great deal usually end up crying.’
‘They’re dopes,’ said Jorge. ‘Should I say the one about the fisherman and the pearl?’
‘You’ll be able to recite what you like under an audience of stars,’
Persio said. ‘Now I’d like to find out something about this semigastronomical setup surrounding us. And those accordions . . . what are they supposed to signify?’
‘Wow,’ said Jorge, his mouth wide open. VII
A black Lincoln, a black suit, a black tie. All the rest was blurred. What was most in evidence around Don Galo Porriño was his chauffeur, with his imposing shoulders, and Don Galo’s wheelchair, a battle of rubber and chrome. A crowd stopped to see the chauffeur and nurse lift Don Galo out of the car and lower him to the chair on the sidewalk. A certain pity could be detected on the faces in the crowd, a pity tempered by the obvious signs of wealth surrounding the old gentleman. And besides, Don Galo looked like a chicken with a plucked neck, and he had such a nasty, sly glance that it gave you the urge to sing the Internationale right in his face, something that never had happened – according to Medrano – in spite of the fact that Argentina was a free country and music an art encouraged in the best circles.
‘I forgot that Don Galo was one of the prizewinners. How could he help winning a prize? That goes without saying, but I never imagined that he would make the trip. It’s unbelievable.’
‘Do you know that gentleman?’ asked Nora.
‘The person who doesn’t know Don Galo Porriño in the town of Junín deserves to be stoned to death in that handsome plaza with the wide walks,’ said Medrano. ‘The vicissitudes of being a dentist took me to that progressive city until about five years ago, a happy point when I could again return to Buenos Aires. And Don Galo was one of the first outstanding personages I met there.’
‘He looks like a respectable gentleman,’ said Dr Restelli. ‘The truth is that with a car like that it seems somewhat strange . . .’
‘With a car like that,’ said Lopez, ‘he could throw the captain in the water and use the ship as an ashtray.’
‘With a car like that,’ said Medrano, ‘one can go very far. As far as Junín and as far as the London, as all of you can see. One of my weaknesses is gossipology, although I’d add in my defense that only certain superior forms of gossip, such as history, hold any interest for me. What shall I tell you about Don Galo? (This is just how certain writers begin when they know very well what they’re going to say.) I’d say that he would be better named Gaius, and you’ll soon see why. One of the most famous of Junín’s department stores is the “Blue and Gold,” a predestined name. But if you’ve ever been a tourist in the provincial area, which I doubt, you’ll know that in the city of Veinticinco de Mayo there is another “Blue and Gold” department store, and that in practically every outlying town and village of our vast province there are “Blue and Gold” stores situated on the most strategic corners. In short, all this means millions of pesos in the pockets of Don Galo, industrious Spanish Galician that he is, who, I suppose, reached this country penniless like all his compatriots and worked with the characteristic Galician efficiency in our siesta-disposed pampas. Don Galo, paralyzed and almost without family, lives in a palace in Palermo. A well-organized bureaucracy watches over the chain of “Blue and Gold” stores: attendants who are all eyes and ears for the king, who stand guard, reform, inform, and sanction. But I have here . . . Am I boring you?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Nora, drinking in his words.
‘Well, then,’ Medrano went on ironically, careful of his style, which he was sure only Lopez really appreciated, ‘five years ago Don Galo wanted to celebrate the diamond wedding anniversary of his business in materials, tailoring, and all its subdivisions. The local sales managers were officially informed that the boss was looking forward to a homage from his employees, and that he intended to hold an inspection of all his stores. At that time I was very friendly with Peña, the manager of the Junín branch, who was worrying himself sick over Don Galo’s visit. Peña found out that the visit would be highly technical and that Don Galo was prepared to look over the last dozen buttons in the button box.
Undoubtedly the result of secret information. As all the managers were equally worried, a kind of armament race began among the affiliates. It was absolutely hilarious at the Club because of the stories about Peña and how he had bribed two traveling salesmen to bring him news about the store which was preparing the celebration in the neighboring town or what the employees were going to do at the Pehuajó store. He himself was preparing as much as possible, and everyone at the store was working unbelievably late hours. The employees were both furious and frightened.
‘Don Galo began his self-homage tour through Lobos, I believe, visited three or four of his stores, and on one sunny Saturday he showed up in Junín. In those days he had a blue Buick, but Peña had ordered an open car, the kind Alexander might have used to enter Persepolis. Don Galo was quite impressed when Peña and a committee met him at the entrance of the town and invited him to come into the open car. The entourage made a majestic appearance on the main street. I, so as not to miss a thing, had situated myself at the edge of the sidewalk, not far from the store. When the automobile approached, the employees, strategically distributed, began to applaud. The girls threw white flowers, and the men, a good many just plain mercenaries, waved little flags with the blue and gold insignia. A kind of triumphal arch which read: WELCOME DON GALO , had been suspended from one side of the street to the other. This bit of familiarity in using only the first name had cost Peña a night’s sleep, but the old man liked the courage of his subjects. The automobile stopped in front of the store, the applause quickened (forgive the hateful phrase), and Don Galo, like a marmoset on the edge of his chair, waved his right hand occasionally in order to return the salutes. I assure you that he could have very well saluted with both hands, but I had already realized what kind of fellow Don Galo was, and I could see that Peña had not exaggerated. The feudal lord was visiting his serfs, soliciting and weighing the homage with an air somewhere between amiability and distrust. I was beating my brains trying to remember when I
had seen a sight like this before. Not the same scene, because in itself it was like any other official reception – flags, posters, and bouquets of flowers. But it was what was concealed (and for me what was revealing) in the scene: something that encompassed the terrified clerks, poor Peña, and even the expression, somewhere between greed and boredom, on Don Galo’s face. When Peña mounted a little bench to read the welcome speech (and I confess that I had a finger in it because things like that are practically the only amusement one is offered in small towns), Don Galo bristled in his chair, nodding his head from time to time and accepting, courteously cold, the thundering salvos of applause which the employees launched exactly at the moments Peña had indicated in rehearsal the night before. At the most moving and emotional moment (we had already described Don Galo’s activities in detail: self-made man, self-educated, etcetera), I saw the object of adoration make a signal to his gorilla of a chauffeur. The gorilla came out of the automobile and spoke to someone at the edge of the sidewalk, who blushed and then spoke to his neighbor, who hesitated and looked in every direction, as if expecting an apparition of salvation . . . I realized that I was getting nearer the solution, that I was about to realize why all this seemed so familiar to me. “He’s requested the silver urinal,” I thought. “Gaius Trimaltion. Good Lord, events repeat themselves as best they can . . .” But it was not a urinal, of course, scarcely a glass of water, just a well-calculated glass to smash against Peña, to break up the pathos of the speech and to recoup the advantage which he had lost by accepting the open car . . .’
Nora had not understood the end of the story, but she let herself be carried away by Lopez’ contagious laugh. Roberto had just finished installing Don Galo near a window, and was bringing him an orange juice. The chauffeur had retired now and was waiting at the doorway, chatting with the nurse. Don Galo’s wheelchair was in everyone’s way and a great nuisance, but this seemed to cause Don Galo enormous satisfaction. Lopez was fascinated. ‘It doesn’t seem possible,’ he repeated. ‘With that kind of health
and all that money he’s going to make this trip only because it’s free?’
‘Not quite, not exactly free,’ said Medrano. ‘The ticket cost him ten pesos.’
‘Men of action are often, in their old age, given to these adolescent caprices,’ said Dr Restelli. ‘I, too, luck aside, ask myself if I really should –’
‘Here come some fellows with accordions,’ said Lucio. ‘Is it in honor of us?’
VIII
It was clear the café was strictly for squares, with its ministerial chairs and its waiters whose teeth began to bother them as soon as you asked them for a pint of draft, no foam. No atmosphere – that was the worst part.
Atilio Presutti, better known as Pelusa, pushed his right hand through his tightly curled, carrot-colored hair and then pulled it out at the nape of his neck after the laborious trajectory. He stroked his chestnut-colored mustache and looked with satisfaction at his freckled face in the wall mirror. Apparently not entirely satisfied, he drew out a blue comb from the upper pocket of his jacket and began to comb his hair with helpful little jabs delivered with his free hand to mark the rounded line for his bangs. Taken by his elegance, two of his friends also began to slick up their hairdos.
‘This place is for squares,’ Pelusa repeated. ‘Who’d think of coming here for a send-off?’
‘The ice cream’s good,’ said Nelly, shaking Pelusa’s lapel so the dandruff would blow off. ‘Why did you wear your blue suit, Atilio? I swear, just looking at you makes me sweat.’
‘If I’d have left it in the suitcase, it would get wrinkled,’ said Pelusa. ‘I’d take off my jacket but this place makes me feel funny.’ ‘Oh keep quiet, Atilio,’ said Nelly’s mother. ‘Don’t talk to me
about send-offs after the one on Sunday. My God, every time I think of it . . .’
‘That wasn’t much of anything, Doña Pepa,’ said Pelusa.
Señora Presutti looked sternly at her son.
‘What do you mean, it wasn’t much? Ah, Doña Pepa, these children . . . He says it wasn’t much of anything. And your father in bed with his shoulder blade dislocated and his ankle in a cast!’
‘And so what?’ said Pelusa. ‘The old boy’s stronger than a locomotive.’
‘But what happened?’ asked one of his friends.
‘Weren’t you there on Sunday?’
‘You don’t remember I wasn’t there? I had to get ready for the fight. And no parties for me when I’m in training. I told you, remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Pelusa. ‘You missed something, Rusito!’
‘No kidding, was there an accident?’
‘Great. The old man fell off the terrace into the courtyard and almost killed himself. God, what a mess!’
‘A serious accident, you know,’ said Señora Presutti. ‘Tell him about it, Atilio. I shudder just thinking about it.’
‘Poor Doña Rosita,’ said Nelly.
‘Poor dear,’ said Nelly’s mother.
‘It wasn’t nothing,’ said Pelusa. ‘Well, you know the whole gang got together to give Nelly and me a send-off. The old lady here made a tremendous ravioli dish, and the guys brought beer and cake. We were all just fine on the terrace; we put up the awning and brought out the record player. Everything was just right. How many of us were there? Thirty, at least.’
‘More,’ said Nelly. ‘I counted almost forty. There was just enough stew, I remember.’
‘Okay, we were all just fine and dandy, not like here in this furniture store. The old man was at the head of the table and Don Rapa sitting next to him – you know, the one from the shipyards? You know how the old man likes his booze. Look! Look at the face
on the old lady! It’s not true, maybe? What’s so wrong with it? All I know is we were smashed by the time the bananas were served, but my old man was way out. Wow, was he singing, mamma mia ! Just then it struck him he should toast the voyage. Up he gets, the pint in his hand, and when he starts to talk he takes a coughing fit and falls over backwards, right into the courtyard. The noise scared the hell out of me. Poor guy, he sounded like he was a sack of potatoes landing, I swear.’
‘Poor Don Pipo,’ said Rusito, while Señora Presutti took a handkerchief out of her purse.
‘Do you see, Atilio? Now you made your mother cry,’ said Nelly’s mother. ‘Don’t cry, Doña Rosita. After all, nothing happened.’
‘Of course not,’ said Pelusa. ‘But what a mess. We all went downstairs. I was sure the old man’d broke his head in two. The women were crying and screaming, what a riot! You couldn’t hear a thing. I told Nelly to turn off the record player, and Doña Pepa here had to take care of the old lady, who was having a fit, doubled over and twisting around.’
‘And Don Pipo?’ asked Rusito, anxious for gore.
‘The old man is a phenomenon,’ said Pelusa. ‘Now when I saw him stretched out like a stiff on the tiles I thought: “You’re an orphan.” We sent the kid out to call an ambulance and while he was gone we lifted up the old man’s shirt to see if he was still breathing. The first thing he did when he opened his eyes was to put his hand in his pocket to see if anybody had lifted his wallet. The old man’s like that. Then he said his back was hurting, but not bad. He said we should go on with the party. Do you remember, Ma? When we brought you around to let you know it wasn’t anything? What a riot! Instead of calming down, you went into an even worse fit.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Nelly’s mother. ‘Once, in my house . . .’
‘All in all, when the ambulance got there the old man was sitting up on the floor already, and we were all laughing like crazy. It’s a shame the interns wouldn’t let him stay home. Finally they carried him away, poor guy. Meanwhile, when one of them asked me to
sign some sort of paper, while I was at it, I asked him to look at my ear – you know, it gets stopped up with wax.’
‘Fantastic,’ said Rusito, who was really impressed. ‘Look what I missed. And that day I had to be in training.’
Another friend, who seemed stuffed into an enormous hard collar, suddenly stood up.
‘Look who’s coming! Boy, this is really something.’
The accordion players of Asdrúbal Crésida’s typical Argentine orchestra made their way between the ever-growing masses of tables. They were impeccably dressed in checked suits, their hair slicked down, and to the manner born. Coming in behind them was a young man wearing a pearl-gray suit, a black shirt, and a cream-colored tie fastened with a tie pin in the shape of a football shield.
‘My brother,’ said Pelusa, even though no one had overlooked that important detail. ‘He came to surprise us!’
The well-known crooner Humberto Roland reached the table and shook everyone’s hand except his mother’s, effusively.
‘Crazy, baby,’ said Pelusa. ‘Did you get someone to sub for you at the radio station?’
‘I told them I had a toothache,’ said Humberto Roland. ‘That way they can’t dock me. These are some buddies of mine from the orchestra who wanted to come and see you off, too.’
Threateningly, Roberto brought over another table and four chairs. The star ordered an iced coffee and the musicians joined him, ordering beer.
Paula and Raul came in through the door leading from the Calle Florida and sat down at a table next to the window. Paula hardly glanced at the inside of the café, but Raul amused himself by trying to guess who, among all these sweating citizens of Buenos Aires, might be their fellow voyagers.
‘If I didn’t have the announcement in my pocket, I’d think someone was playing a joke,’ said Raul. ‘Isn’t it unbelievable?’
‘Right now it’s rather stuffy and hot. But I admit that the letter alone is worth the trip.’
Raul unfolded a piece of cream-colored paper and summed up its contents:
‘ “At six o’clock in this café. The baggage will be picked up in the morning at your home. It is requested that you come unaccompanied. The Office of Municipal Affairs will cover all expenses.” As lotteries go, you have to admit this one’s extraordinary! Can you imagine why we’re meeting here?’
‘I gave up trying to understand this whole thing some time ago,’ said Paula. ‘I only know that you won a prize and invited me, thereby disqualifying me forever from Who’s Who in Argentina.’
‘Quite the contrary, this enigmatic trip will give you enormous prestige. You’ll be able to talk of a spiritual retreat, to say you’re working on a monograph about Dylan Thomas. As far as I’m concerned, the greatest attraction of all this madness is that it always ends badly.’
‘Yes, that can be an attraction sometimes,’ said Paula. ‘Le besoin de la fatalité they talk about.’
‘At the very worst it will be a cruise like any other cruise, except that we won’t exactly know where we’re going. A cruise that will last three or four months. I admit that this final piece of information is what convinced me. Where in the world can they take us in so much time? To China, maybe?’
‘To which China?’
‘To both of them, to honor Argentina’s traditional neutrality.’
‘Wishful thinking. But you’ll see, they’ll take us as far as Genoa and from there, in a bus through Europe, and then they’ll leave us, and we’ll be complete wrecks.’
‘That I doubt,’ said Raul. ‘If that were it, they would have proclaimed it loud and long. I suspect they met unexpected difficulties at the last minute.’
‘All the same,’ said Paula, ‘something has been said about the itinerary.’
‘Nothing definite. Vague terms in the contract that I don’t remember any more, insinuations designed to arouse the spirit of adventure. In short, a free trip limited only by the international situation. In other words, they’re not going to take us to Algeria, or Vladivostok, or Las Vegas. The smartest thing was giving us paid vacations. What bureaucrat could resist that? And the checkbook full of traveler’s checks, that counts too. Dollars, just think of it, dollars.’
‘And you were able to invite me.’
‘Of course. Just so you could see if salt air and exotic ports can cure lovesickness.’
‘It will certainly be better than Nembutal,’ said Paula, looking at him. Raul returned her look. They remained awhile that way, motionless, almost defiant.
‘All right,’ said Raul, ‘stop the nonsense. You promised me.’
‘Okay,’ said Paula.
‘You always say “okay” when everything is at its vaguest.’
‘Will you kindly note that I only said: “It will certainly be better than Nembutal”?’
‘All right then, let it drop.’
‘Okay,’ Paula repeated. ‘Don’t get mad, handsome. I’m very grateful, believe me. You’re getting me out of a difficult situation by inviting me, even if I do lose what remains of my reputation. Raul, I think the trip will be good for me. Especially if we get into something completely absurd. At least we can laugh!’
‘At least it will be a change,’ said Raul. ‘I’ve had enough of making up plans of chalets for people like your family or mine. I realize that this cruise is idiotic, and that it’s really no solution at all, but only a postponement. We’ll come back, after all, and everything will be like it always was. Maybe it’ll be a little different.’
‘I’ll never understand why you didn’t take advantage of this trip and invite another fellow, someone closer to you than I am.’
‘Maybe exactly for that reason, milady. Just so I could break all my ties with this great capital city of the south. Besides, to be really close to someone, you know . . .’
‘I think,’ said Paula, looking into his eyes, ‘that you’re a marvelous person.’
‘Thank you. It’s really not true, but when you say so it does take on a certain air of authenticity.’
‘I also think the trip is going to be very amusing.’
‘Very.’
Paula took a deep breath. She suddenly felt something like a wave of happiness come over her.
‘Did you bring the seasick pills?’ she asked.
But Raul was looking over at a crowd of noisy young men.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘One of them looks like he’s going to sing.’
ATaking advantage of the mother-son dialogue, Persio looks around him thoughtfully, and to each presence he applies the logos or he extracts the thread from the logos, and then he probes into the depths for the delicate, subtle path which will reveal the spectacle to him, or which ought – at least he’d like it that way – to open up a passage toward a synthesis. Without any effort at all, Persio gives up the secondary images of the central action, and instead calculates and concentrates on the essential detail, examining and stripping the circumstantial atmosphere around him, separating and analyzing, sorting and weighing. His view of things around him takes on a relief which a cold fever might produce, a cold fever or a hallucination without tigers or coleoptera, and an ardor with which a hunter might pursue his prey without monkey leaps or swan’s verbiage. The retinue of people accompanying the voyagers, those people attending the sailing (or game), are already outside the café, unaware of the bet he has placed. Persio is fully enjoying the game of isolating, under a microscope, the brief constellation of those who remain, of those who are really making the trip. He does not know any more about the rules of the game than they do, but he feels that they are in the process of