9781529956849 by Smakprov Media AB

62: A MODEL KIT

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY Gregory Rabassa

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First published with the title 62: Modelo para armar by Editorial Sudamericana Sociedad Anónima in 1968

First published in Great Britain by Marion Boyars in 1976

This paperback first published in Vintage Classics in 2025

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This novel and this translation are dedicated to Cronopio Paul Blackburn. y aunque la vida murio, nos dexo harto consuelo su memoria.

J.C., G.R.

Not a few readers will notice various transgressions of literary convention here. To give only a few examples: the Argentine characters switch from one familiar form to another whenever it suits the dialogue; a Londoner who is only starting his study of French begins to speak it with amazing fluency (and even worse, in a Spanish version) as soon as he crosses the Channel; geography, the order of subway stations, freedom, psychology, dolls, and time obviously cease being what they were in the realm of Cynara.

For those who might possibly be startled, I point out that in the territory where this tale takes place the transgressions cease to be such; the prefix is placed alongside the various others that spin about the root gressio: aggression, regression, and progression are also connatural to the intentions sketched out one day past in the final paragraphs of Chapter 62 of Hopscotch, which explains the title of this book, and perhaps those intentions will be fulfilled in the course of it.

The subtitle, A Model Kit, might lead one to believe that the different parts of the tale, separated by blank spaces, are put forth as interchangeable elements. If some of them are, the framework referred to is of a different nature – sensitive sometimes on the writing level, where recurrences and displacements try to be free of all causal fixedness, but especially on the level of meaning, where the opening for combinatory art is more insistent and imperative. The reader’s option, his personal montage of the elements in the tale, will in each case be the book he has chosen to read.

‘I’d like a bloody castle,’ the fat diner had said.

Why did I go into the Polidor restaurant? Why, since I’m asking that kind of question, did I buy a book I probably wouldn’t read? (The adverb was already a trick, because more than once it had occurred to me to buy books with the tacit certainty that they would be lost forever in the bookcase, and yet I bought them; the enigma was in buying them, in the motive that possibly demanded that useless possession.) And into the chain of questions now: Why, after going into the Polidor, did I go to sit at the rear table, across from the large mirror that precariously duplicated the faded desolation of the room? And another link to put in place: Why did I ask for a bottle of Sylvaner?

(But that last item is left for later; perhaps the bottle of Sylvaner was one of the false resonances in the possible chord, unless the chord was different and contained the bottle of Sylvaner just as it contained the countess, the book, and what the fat diner had just ordered.)

‘Je voudrais un château saignant,’ the fat diner had said.

According to the mirror, the diner was sitting at the second table with his back to the one where Juan was sitting, and therefore his image and his voice were forced to have recourse to opposite and convergent itineraries in order to come together in suddenly solicited attention. (The book, too, in the shop window on the

Boulevard Saint-Germain: the sudden leap forward of the white NRF cover, coming toward Juan as had the image of Hélène before and now the fat diner’s phrase as he ordered a bloody castle; like going to sit obediently at that absurd table in the Polidor with his back to everyone.)

Of course, Juan was probably the only customer for whom the diner’s request had a second meaning; automatically, ironically, as a good interpreter accustomed to the instant liquidation of all problems of translation in that struggle against time and silence which is an interpreter’s booth, he had fallen into a trap, if it’s proper to speak of a trap in that acceptance (ironic, automatic), in which saignant and sanglant were equivalents and the fat fellow had asked for a bloody castle, and, in any case, he had fallen into a trap without being aware in the least that the displacement of the meaning of the phrase would suddenly cause the coagulation of other things already past or present that night – the book or the countess, the image of Hélène, the acceptance of sitting down with his back turned at a rear table in the Polidor. (And having asked for a bottle of Sylvaner and drinking the first glass of chilled wine at the moment when the fat diner’s image in the mirror and his voice, which reached him from behind, had merged into something Juan couldn’t name, because chain or coagulation were nothing but an attempt to give the level of language to something that presented itself like an instantaneous contradiction, took shape and fled simultaneously, and no longer entered language spoken by anyone, not even that of an experienced interpreter like Juan.)

In any case, there was no reason to complicate matters. The fat diner had asked for a bloody castle, his voice had stirred up other things, especially the book and the countess, the image of Hélène a little less (perhaps because it was closer, not more familiar, but closer to everyday life, while the book was something new and the countess a memory, a curious memory, furthermore, because it wasn’t so much a question of the countess as of Frau Marta and what had happened in Vienna in the King of Hungary Hotel, but in the final analysis everything was

the countess, just as clearly as the book or the fat diner’s phrase or the aroma of the Sylvaner).

‘You have to admit that I’ve got a kind of genius for celebrating Christmas Eve,’ Juan thought as he poured himself the second glass, waiting for the hors d’oeuvres. In some way, the advent of what had just happened to him was in part the door of the Polidor, he having suddenly decided, knowing it was stupid, to push open that door and dine in that sad room. Why did I go into the Polidor, why did I buy the book and open it at random and read, also at random, any phrase at all scarcely a second before the fat diner ordered a steak that was almost raw? As soon as I try to analyze I’ll put everything into the famous reticular lunch basket and I’ll falsify it beyond all cure. The most I can try to do is repeat what took place in a different zone in mental terms, trying to distinguish between what made up a part of that sudden conglomeration in its own right and what other associations might have become incorporated into it parasitically.

But beneath it all I know that everything is false, that I’m already far away from what just happened to me and that, as on so many other occasions, it comes down to this useless desire to understand, missing, perhaps, the obscure call or signal of the thing itself, the uneasiness I’m left with, the instantaneous display of another order where memories, potentials, and signals break out to form a flash of unity which breaks up at the very instant it drags and pulls me out of myself. Now all of this has left me with just one kind of curiosity – the old human topic: deciphering. And the rest of it, a tightening at the mouth of the stomach, the dark certainty that around there somewhere, not with this dialectical simplification, a road begins and goes on.

It’s not enough, of course. In the end we have to think, and then analysis comes, the distinction between what really forms a part of that instant outside of time and what associations were put into it so as to attract it, make it more yours, put it more onto this side. And the worst will be when you try to tell other people, because a moment always comes when you have to try to tell a friend about

it – let’s say Polanco or Calac, or everyone at the same time at a table in the Cluny, vaguely waiting perhaps for the act of telling to unchain the coagulation again, give it a meaning at last. They’ll be there listening to you, and Hélène will be there, too; they’ll ask you questions, they’ll try to help you remember, as if memory were something purloined from that other force which in the Polidor had been capable of erasing it as past, showing it to be a living and menacing thing, memory escaped from its noose of time to be in the very instant that it disappeared again; a different form of life, a present, but in another dimension, a power acting from a different angle of fire. And there were no words because there was no thought possible for that force capable of converting stretches of memory, isolated and anodyne images, into a sudden dizzying mass, into a living constellation that is erased with the very act of showing itself, a contradiction that seemed to offer and deny at the same time what Juan, drinking his second glass of Sylvaner, would explain to Calac, Tell, Hélène later on when he met them at the table in the Cluny, and which now he had had to possess in some way, as if the attempt at fixing that memory hadn’t already shown that it was useless, that he was shoveling shadows into the darkness.

‘Yes,’ Juan thought, sighing, and sighing was the precise admission that all of it came from the other side, was exercised in the diaphragm, in lungs which needed a deep breath of air. Yes, but it was also necessary to think about it because, after all, he was that and his thought, he couldn’t stay in a sigh, in a contraction of the solar plexus, in the vague fear of what had been glimpsed. Thinking was useless, like desperately trying to remember a dream where the last threads were reached only when you opened your eyes maybe; thinking was destroying the cloth that still hung in something like the opposite side of the sensation, its latency repeatable perhaps. Closing his eyes, letting himself go, floating in a state of total disposition, in a propitious wait. Useless, it had

always been useless; from those Cimmerian regions he came back poorer, farther away from himself. But thinking like a huntsman was valuable at least as a re-entry into this side, and so the fat diner had ordered a bloody castle, and suddenly it had been the countess, the reason he was sitting facing a mirror in the Polidor, the book he had bought on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and opened to a random page, the flashing coagulation (and also Hélène, of course) in a concretion that was instantly concealed by its incomprehensible will to deny itself in its very affirmation, dissolving at the moment of coming together, removing importance from itself after inflicting a mortal wound, after insinuating that it was not important – a mere associative game, a mirror and a memory and another memory, the insignificant luxuries of an idle imagination. ‘Ah, I won’t let you get away like that,’ Juan thought. ‘It can’t be that once more I happen to be the center of something that comes from somewhere else and at the same time leaves me expelled from what is most mine. You won’t get away so easily, you’ve got to leave something in my hands, a little basilisk, any one of the images that now I can’t tell whether they’re part or not of that silent explosion . . .’ And he couldn’t help smiling while he was present, a sardonic witness of his thought, which now brought the perch of the little basilisk within reach – an understandable association, because it came from the Basilisken Haus in Vienna, and there, the countess . . . The rest invaded him without resistance. It was even easy to support himself on the central hollow, what had been an instantaneous fullness, a display which at the same time was denied and hidden, making him now incorporate a comfortable system of analagous images that joined themselves to the hollow because of historical or sentimental reasons. Thinking about the basilisk was thinking about Hélène and the countess simultaneously, but the countess also meant thinking about Frau Marta, about a scream, because the servant girls of the countess must have screamed in the garrets of the Blutgasse, and the countess must have liked them to scream. If they hadn’t screamed the blood wouldn’t have had the smell of heliotrope and marsh.

Pouring himself another glass of Sylvaner, Juan lifted his eyes to the mirror. The fat diner had unfolded France-Soir, and the fullpage headlines suggested the false Russian alphabet of mirrors. Applying himself, he deciphered a few words, vaguely hoping in that way, with that false concentration which was at the same time the will of distraction, for an attempt to repeat the initial hollow through which the star with evasive points had slipped away, concentrating on any kind of stupidity, such as deciphering the headlines of France-Soir in the mirror and distracting himself at the same time from what really mattered, that perhaps the constellation would burst forth intact out of the still present aura, would become a sediment in a zone beyond or this side of language and images, would trace its transparent radii, the thin sketch of a face which at the same time would be a pin with a small basilisk, which at the same time would be a broken doll in a chest, which would be a desperate moan and a square crossed by countless streetcars and Frau Marta on the deck of a barge. Perhaps now, half-closing his eyes, he would be able to replace the image of the mirror, territory that interceded between the semblance of the Polidor and the other semblance still vibrating in the echo of its dissolution; perhaps now he would be able to pass from the Russian alphabet in the mirror to the other language that had appeared at the limits of perception, a fallen bird, desperate to flee, flapping against the net and giving it its shape, a synthesis of net and bird in which there was only flight or the shape of a net or the shadow of a bird, flight itself a prisoner for an instant in the pure paradox of fleeing from the net that entrapped it with the delicate weave of its own dissolution: the countess, a book, someone who had ordered a bloody castle, a barge at dawn, the crash of a doll as it broke on the floor.

The Russian alphabet is still there, wavering in the hands of the fat diner, telling the news of the day just as, later on in the zone (the Cluny, some corner, the Saint-Martin canal,

which are always the zone), it will be necessary to begin telling, to say something, because they’re all waiting for him to begin telling, that ever restless and somewhat hostile circle at the start of a tale. In some way they’re all there waiting for you to tell it in the zone, in any part of the zone, you can’t tell where anymore because it’s in so many places and so many nights and so many friends – Tell and Austin, Hélène and Polanco and Celia and Calac and Nicole, as at other times it’s the turn of one of them to come to the zone with news from the City and then it’s your turn to be part of the circle that waits avidly for the other one to begin telling, because, in some way, in the zone there’s a kind of need, somewhere between friendly and aggressive, to maintain contact, to know what’s happening because something almost always happens that might be of use to all of them, as when they dream or bring news from the City, or come back from a trip and enter the zone again (the Cluny at night, almost always, the common ground of a café table, but also a bed or a sleeping car or an automobile that speeds from Venice to Mantua, the zone, somewhere between ubiquitous and limited, which resembles all of them – Marrast and Nicole, Celia and Monsieur Ochs and Frau Marta – is at the same time part of the City and the zone itself; it’s a trick with words where things happen with the same force as in the life of each one of them when outside the zone. And that’s why there’s a kind of anxious present, even though none of them is now near the one who remembers them in the Polidor; there is the saliva of distaste, openings, garden shows, there’s Hélène, always, Marrast and Polanco; the zone is an anxiety that viscously insinuates itself, projects itself; there are telephone numbers that someone will dial later on before going to sleep, vague rooms where they don’t talk about this; there’s Nicole struggling to close a valise, there’s a match that burns between two fingers, a portrait in an English museum, a cigarette that thumps against a pack,

a shipwreck on an island; there’s Calac and Austin, owls and blinds and streetcars, everything that emerges in the one who ironically thinks that at some moment he will have to start telling and that perhaps Hélène won’t be in the zone and won’t hear him, even though underneath it all everything he’s going to say is Hélène. It might well be that he’s not only alone in the zone the way he is now in the Polidor, where the others, including the fat diner, don’t count for anything, except for saying that all that could mean being even more alone in a room where there’s a cat and a typewriter; or perhaps being someone on a station platform looking at the instantaneous combinations of insects fluttering under a light. But it might also be that the others are in the zone as at so many other times, that life wraps them up and you can hear the cough from a museum guard as a hand slowly searches for the shape of a throat and someone dreams of a Yugoslavian beach, while Tell and Nicole fill a suitcase with disordered clothing and Hélène looks for a long time at Celia, who’s begun to weep with her face to the wall, the way good little girls weep.

Forced to think while waiting for them to bring him the hors d’oeuvres, it wasn’t too difficult for Juan to retrace the night’s itinerary. First, perhaps, came the book by Michel Butor bought on the Boulevard Saint-Germain; before that there was a listless strolling through the streets and drizzle of the Latin Quarter, feeling the emptiness of Christmas Eve in Paris against the grain, a night when everyone has gone home, and all there is left are people with an indecisive look – almost that of an accomplice – looking out of the corner of their eyes at the bars in cafés or on corners, almost always men, but also an occasional woman carrying a package, perhaps as an excuse for being out on the street on a twenty-fourth of December at ten-thirty at night, and Juan

had the urge to go up to one of the women, none of them young or pretty, but all of them alone and somewhat exceptional, and ask them if they really had something in the package or whether it was just a bundle of rags or old newspapers carefully tied up, a lie that protected her a little more from that lonely walking while everyone was at home.

The second thing to keep in mind was the countess, the feeling of the countess that had become defined on the corner of the Rue Monsieur le Prince and the Rue de Vaugirard, not because there could have been anything to remind him of the countess on that corner, unless perhaps it was a piece of reddish sky, a smell of dampness that came from an entrance-way, which suddenly were worth a whole territory of contact, in the same way that the house of the basilisk in Vienna in its day had been able to make him take a step toward the territory where the countess was waiting. Or perhaps the blasphematory, continuous transgression in which the countess must have moved (if one accepted the version of the legend, the mediocre chronicle that Juan had read years before, so long before Hélène and Frau Marta and the house of the basilisk in Vienna), and then the corner with the reddish sky and the musty entrance-way became joined to the inevitable realization that it was Christmas Eve in order to facilitate the entry of the countess, her otherwise inexplicable presence in Juan, because he couldn’t stop thinking that the countess must have particularly liked blood on a night like that, amidst church bells and Midnight Mass, the taste of the blood of a girl who twists with her feet and hands tied while so close by are the shepherds and the manger and a lamb who washes away the sins of the world. So that the book he had bought a moment before, the passage of the countess and then, without transition, the anodyne and gloomily lighted door of the Polidor, the glimpse of an almost deserted dining room enveloped in a light that only irony and ill-humor could characterize as purple, with some women armed with glasses and napkins, the slight cramp at the mouth of the stomach, his resisting going in because there

was no reason to go into such a place, the rapid and wrathful dialogue, as always, in those punishments of his own perversity: Yes / No / Why not / You’re right, why not / Go in, then, the gloomier the better you deserve it / For an imbecile, of course / Unto us a boy is born, glory hallelujah / It looks like the morgue / It is, go in / But the food must be horrible / You’re not hungry / That’s right, but I have to order something / Order anything and have a drink / That’s an idea / Chilled wine, very cold / That’s it, go in. But if I had to drink, why did I go into the Polidor? I knew so many pleasant little bars on the Right Bank, on the Rue Caumartin, where, besides, I could always have ended up celebrating Christmas Eve on the altarpiece of a blond who would sing me some noël from Saintonge or Camargue and we’d have a good time. That’s why, thinking about it, the least comprehensible was the reason I finally went into the Polidor restaurant after that dialogue, giving the door an almost Beethovenian shove, bringing myself into the restaurant where eyeglasses and a napkin at armpit level were already approaching me decisively to lead me to the worst table, a joke of a table facing the wall, but the wall disguised as a mirror, like so many other things perhaps that night and every night and especially Hélène, facing the wall, because on the other side, where under normal circumstances any customer would have been able to sit facing the dining room, the respectable management of the Polidor had erected an enormous wreath with colored lights to show the concern that the Christian feelings of the kind customers deserved. Impossible to get out from under all that forcibly: if, in any case, I had consented to sit at a table with my back to the room, with the mirror offering me its swindle above the horrible Christmas wreath (‘les autres tables sont réservées, Monsieur / Ça ira comme ça, Madame / Merci, Monsieur’), something that was getting away from me but which at the same time had to be very much mine had just forced me to go in and order that bottle of Sylvaner, which would have been so easy and so pleasant to ask for somewhere else, among other lights and other faces.

Supposing that the one who tells it told it in his own way, since a lot had already been told tacitly for those of the zone (Tell, who understands everything without words, Hélène, to whom nothing is important if it’s important to you), or that out of some sheets of paper, a phonograph record, a magnetic tape, a book, a doll’s womb, pieces of something that would no longer be what they’re expecting you to start telling came out, supposing that what’s told didn’t have the slightest interest for Calac or Austin and, on the other hand, desperately attracted Marrast or Nicole, especially Nicole, who loves you hopelessly, supposing that you began to murmur a long poem where it talks about the City, which they also know and fear and sometimes go through, if at the same time or as a substitute you took out your tie and leaned over to offer it, rolled up with great care in advance, to Polanco, who looks at it with stupefaction and finally passes it to Calac, who doesn’t want to take it and, scandalized, consults Tell, who takes advantage of it to cheat in the poker game and win the pot; supposing absurd things like that, because in the zone and at that moment such things could happen, you’d have to ask yourself whether there’s any sense in their being there waiting for you to start telling, in any case, for someone to start telling, and whether the piece of banana pastry that Feuille Morte is thinking about wouldn’t be a much better substitute for that vague expectation of those who surround you in the zone, indifferent and obstinate at the same time, demanding and mocking as you are with them when it’s your turn to listen to them or to watch them living, knowing that all of it comes from somewhere else or is leaving for who knows where, and, for that very reason, it’s what counts for almost all of them.

And you, Hélène, will you look at me that way, too? Will I see Marrast, Nicole, Austin leave, saying good-bye with a gesture that will look like a shrug of the shoulders, or talking

among themselves because they will have to tell, too, they’ll have brought news from the city or will be on the point of taking a plane or a train. I’ll see Tell, Juan (because it might happen that I, too, will see Juan at that moment, in the zone), I’ll see Feuille Morte, Harold Haroldson, and I’ll see the countess or Frau Marta if I’m in the zone or in the City, I’ll see them leaving and looking at me. But you, Hélène, will you be leaving with them, too, or will you come slowly toward me, your nails stained with disdain? Were you in the zone or did I dream you? My friends go away laughing, we’ll meet again and we’ll talk about London, Boniface Perteuil, the City. But you, Hélène, can you have been once more a name that I carry against nothingness, the simulacrum that I invent with words while Frau Marta and the countess approach and look at me?

‘I’d like a bloody castle,’ the fat diner had said. Everything was hypothetical, but you had to admit that if Juan hadn’t distractedly opened the book by Michel Butor a fraction of time before the customer had given his order, the components of the thing that tightened his stomach would have remained scattered. And so it wouldn’t have happened with the first drink of chilled wine, waiting for them to bring him a coquille Saint-Jacques that he didn’t feel like eating, for Juan to open the book and discover without great interest that in 1791 the author of Atala and René had deigned to contemplate Niagara Falls, of which he would leave an illustrious description. At that moment (he was closing the book because he didn’t feel like reading and the light was terrible) he distinctly heard the fat diner’s order and everything coagulated into the act of raising his eyes and finding the image of the diner whose voice had come to him from behind in the mirror. Impossible to separate the parts, the fragmented sentiment of the book, the countess, the Polidor, the bloody castle,

perhaps the bottle of Sylvaner: the coagulation remained outside of time, the privileged horror, exasperating and delightful, of the constellation, an opening for the leap that had to be taken and which he would not take because it wasn’t a leap toward anything definite and not even a leap. The contrary, rather, because in that dizzy emptiness metaphors leaped toward him like spiders, like eternal euphemisms or the stuffing of ungraspable display (another metaphor), and, besides, the old woman with glasses was putting a coquille Saint-Jacques in front of him, and things like that always had to have a word of thanks in a French restaurant or everything would go from bad to worse all the way to the cheese and coffee.

(And the City, which from here on will have no capital, because there’s no reason to make it strange – in the sense of giving it a privileged value in contrast to the cities we were used to . . . Now it is proper to talk about it from here on because we all agreed that any place or any thing could be attached to the city, and so it didn’t seem impossible to Juan that what had just happened to him had been matter from the city in some way, one of its eruptions or its entrance-ways opening up that night in Paris as it might have opened in any of the cities where his profession of interpreter took him. We’d all walked through the city, always unwillingly, and when we got back we’d talk about it, we compared streets and beaches during the hour at the Cluny. The city might appear in Paris; it might appear for Tell or Calac in a beer hall in Oslo; it had happened to one of us to go from the city to a bed in Barcelona, unless it were the opposite. The city was not explained; it was. It had emerged sometimes in conversations in the zone, and although the first one to bring news of the city had been my paredros, being or not being in the city became almost a routine for all of us except Feuille

Morte. And since we’re already talking about that, it could for the same reason be said that my paredros was a routine in the sense that among us there was always something we called my paredros, a term introduced by Calac and which we used without the slightest feeling of a joke because the quality of paredros alluded, as can be seen, to an associated entity, a kind of buddy or substitute or baby-sitter for the exceptional, and, by extension, a delegating of what was one’s own to that momentary alien dignity without losing anything of ours underneath it all, just as any image of the places we had walked could be a delegation of the city, or the city could delegate something of its own (the square with the streetcars, the archways with women selling fish, the north canal) to any of the places through which we walked and in which we were living at that time.

It wasn’t too hard to explain why he’d ordered a bottle of Sylvaner, although at the moment of deciding he hadn’t been thinking about the countess, because in the Polidor, interposed for him had been the discovery, halfway between gloomy and ironic, of the mirror, drawing his attention to other places. The fact didn’t escape Juan that in some way the countess had been present in the apparently spontaneous act of preferring chilled Sylvaner to any other wine in which the Polidor took pride, as on other occasions she had probably been present through doubt and terror, exercising among her accomplices and even her victims a force that was born perhaps out of her way of smiling, of tilting her head, or more probably the tone of her voice or the smell of her skin, in any case, an insidious influence that didn’t require an active presence, that always worked from beneath; and to order without previous reflection a bottle of Sylvaner, which contained in its first syllables, as in a charade, the middle syllables of the word in which there beat in turn the geographic center of an obscure ancestral terror, couldn’t

9781529956849

JULIO CORTÁZAR

62: A MODEL KIT

EX LIBRIS

VINTAGE CLASSICS

JULIO CORTÁZAR

GREGORY RABASSA

JULIO CORTÁZAR

62: A MODEL KIT