Scars. Juan José Saer

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СКАЧАТЬ atmospheric pressure 756.80, temperature 24.2 degrees Celsius, relative humidity 64 percent. With Tomatis’s help I came up with a genius headline for the section: No Change in Sight. On the twenty-seventh of February, a piece of shit rain destroyed the project. Unfortunately I had already handed in the report, because I left early, so when I got to the publisher’s office it had already rained fifteen centimeters since noon the day before, and it was only eleven in the morning. The publisher had a stack of the February editions on his desk, and the weather report section on each copy was marked with a furious red circle.

      —We’re not going to fire you, said the publisher. We’re going to suspend you for five days. Not out of charity. We don’t want problems with the union. But the day I happen to feel like it’s cooler than usual and a breeze is in the air, even if it’s only because I woke up in a good mood and the sun is slightly farther from the earth, and that sensation isn’t registered in detail in the weather report, you won’t be walking out of here on your own legs.

      So I switched to fabrication. At first I was guided by the opinions of the copywriters, and I guessed numbers based on their predictions. For the first week I took it to the publisher for him to look over, then I stopped after I had regained his trust, or maybe after I realized that he just glanced at them quickly and checked them off with the red pencil, completely satisfied. Eventually the copywriters’ opinions on the weather weren’t enough. It seemed like fabrication from scratch was better, and in accordance with the numbers printed in the columns of the paper, the city was oppressed, melted, felt more youthful with spring warmth, and suffered waves of blood in their eye sockets and furious, deafening popping in their eardrums from the atmospheric effects I had created. It was a real fever. I stopped and went back to fabricating prudently after realizing that Tomatis, who knew every detail of my work, was starting to offer increasingly exaggerated alternatives. It was March sixth, the night of the dinner party they threw for Campo because he had just retired. (After the dinner, old Campo went home and poisoned himself.) During the publisher’s toast, Tomatis started suggesting I invent rainstorms that hadn’t happened, for example storms that had supposedly happened at dawn, and which few people would be in the position to confirm or deny. I realized he wanted to get me fired. At the same time I understood that he hadn’t gotten me the job at the paper out of sympathy or for any other humanitarian reason, but to have someone to talk to in the office, and to borrow money from once in a while. I told him that. And he started to laugh and recited:

       I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,

       and told him so, but friendship never ends

      And he was right. But I held out and muttered:

      —The weather report is mine. I decide if it rains or not.

      —Still, said Tomatis, I am the author of the idea and I suppose I have a say in the matter.

      He was smoking a cigarette, chewing it, and squinting his eyes while blowing smoke in my face.

      —I’m getting to know you, I said. First I’m supposed to report a storm that never happened, and eventually I’ll end up writing about a rain of fire.

      —And why not? said Tomatis, chewing his words behind his cigarette. It wouldn’t be bad. They’ll feel burnt whether it happens or not. And in any case, Sodom was Disneyland compared to this shithole city.

      Then he stood up, in the middle of the publisher’s toast, and left the restaurant. He was always doing that—absentminded, I supposed. But people said Tomatis didn’t do those kinds of things out of distraction, but because he was an asshole pure and simple. So the next day, at Campo’s wake, I asked him.

      —Tomatis, I said. Didn’t you realize that the publisher was talking when you got up and left the restaurant?

      —Yes, he said.

      —Then why did you leave? I asked.

      —He pays me a salary to write for the paper, not to hear him give toasts, he said.

      So he wasn’t doing it out of distraction. We left Campo’s wake and went to a café.

      —Are you writing? I asked.

      —No, he says.

      —Translating? I asked.

      —No, he says.

      He was looking at something behind me, above my head. I turned. There was only a blank wall, painted gray.

      —What are you thinking about? I asked.

      —Campo, he said. Didn’t the old man seem to be laughing at us? I don’t mean that figuratively. I’m not referring to the corpse. I mean last night, at the dinner. He shouldn’t have gone to the party. He should have killed himself before. He made us all look ridiculous. He was always a piece of shit.

      I told him he always seemed like more or less a good person to me.

      But he wasn’t listening anymore. He was looking over my head at the gray wall.

      —I think he killed himself to spite us all, he said eventually.

      During the five days of the suspension, I didn’t leave the house once. Only on the fifth of March did I shave and walk out. I spent the five days lying in bed, reading, sitting in a wicker chair on the porch, in the afternoons, or in the mornings walking a hundred laps around the bitterwood in the courtyard. At night I would sit in the middle of the courtyard looking at the stars, in the dark, with a coil lit to keep off the mosquitos. At two or three in the morning sometimes, my mother came home. I would see her open the front door, her outline appearing for a moment against the doorway, and then disappear into the darkness and move quietly toward her bedroom. I would hear the slow, cautious creak of the door opening and closing and then nothing else. She thought I was sleeping. I wouldn’t breathe normally again until I was sure that she was completely asleep. Then I would light a cigarette, fill a glass with ice and gin in the kitchen, take it to the courtyard, get naked, and sit down to smoke and drink the gin in slow sips. I would stay that way until I saw the first glow of the morning light. Sometimes I masturbated. The night of March fourth, when my mother hadn’t gone out, I was out there with my gin in one hand and the cigarette in the other and suddenly the porch light came on, and I saw my mother looking at me from the door to the bedroom. She looked surprised. I had drank more than half a bottle. I jumped up.

      —Salud! I said, lifting the glass in her direction and bringing it back for a drink.

      She stood there blinking for a few seconds, stock still, looking me up and down. Then, without turning out the light, she went back in her bedroom and slammed the door. Only after she was gone did I realize that I was completely naked, and I had a hard-on.

      At that point things started getting bad between us. It was nothing at first, but when we were together we soured. My mother was about thirty-six at that time, and kept herself up very nicely. She was tall and trim and dressed fashionably. Maybe she didn’t have great taste, because she preferred tight clothes. A general idea of her look at that time: once I was with a guy I went to high school with and my mother passed us on the opposite sidewalk, called my name, and blew me a kiss, and when I turned back the guy said he knew that woman, that he had seen her do a strip tease in a cabaret in Córdoba the year before. I told him it was my mother and that he must have been confused because my mother hadn’t been to Córdoba in at least seven years, I was sure of it. Before I could finish the sentence, the guy had disappeared. I think my mother would have been much more attractive if she had left her hair dark instead of dyeing it the month after my father died. Blonde didn’t СКАЧАТЬ