JULY CORTÁZAR
Continuity of Parks
had begun reading the novel a few days before. The urgent business left, opened it again when returning by train to the farm, is slowly leaving interest in the plot, by drawing the characters. That evening, after writing a letter to his attorney and discuss with the butler a matter of sharecropping, returned to the book in the quiet of his study which looked into the park of oak trees. Sprawled in his favorite chair, his back to the door that had bothered him as an irritating intrusion possible, let your left hand again and again caress the velvet green and began to read the last chapters. His memory retained effortlessly the names and pictures of the characters, the fictional illusion him almost immediately. Enjoyed the almost perverse pleasure of going line by line ripping his surroundings, and feel the time your head resting comfortably in the high-backed velvet, that cigarettes were at hand, that beyond the windows danced the evening air under the oaks. Word by word, absorbed by the sordid dilemma of the hero, letting go the images were arranged and took on color and movement, he witnessed the last meeting in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably licked her blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. The dagger warmed to his chest, and underneath liberty pounded squat. Panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and felt that everything was decided from eternity. To those caresses entangling lover's body as if to keep him and dissuade him, sketched abominably the figure of another body that was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. Since that time each instant had its use carefully allocated. Merciless review twice interrupted only for a hand caressing his cheek. Anochecer.Sin beginning to look now, rigidly fixed to the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the path that led north. From the opposite way he became a moment to watch her run with her hair down. He ran in turn, crouching in the trees and hedges, to distinguish in the fog of dusk the mall leading to the house. Dogs should not bark and no bark. The steward would not be at that hour, and was not. He went up the three porch steps and entered. From the blood in his ears galloping came the woman's words, first a blue room, then a gallery, a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the room, and then the sword in hand, the light from the windows, the high back of a green velvet chair, the man's head on the couch reading a novel.
Night mouth up
and go out at certain times to hunt enemies called him the flower war.
Halfway along the hotel hallway thought it must be late and hurried out into the street and remove the motorcycle from the corner where the doorman next door allowed to keep. In jewelry the corner saw it was ten to nine; arrive in plenty of time I visited. The sun filtered through the tall buildings of downtown, and he, as for himself, to be thinking, no name-mounted machine savoring the ride. The bike purred between her legs, and a fresh wind will whip the pants. He let the ministries (pink, white) and the number of stores with bright windows of Central Street. Now entered the most enjoyable part of the journey, the real ride: a long street lined with trees, with little traffic and spacious villas whose gardens rambled up the sidewalk, barely demarcated by low hedges. Maybe a little distracted, but the right running the street, he swept away by the smoothness, the slight tension that day just begun. This involuntary relaxation prevented him from preventing the accident. When he saw the woman standing on the corner had rushed to the road despite the green light, it was too late for easy solutions. He braked with his foot and hand, veering to the left, he heard the cry of women, and with the collision his vision. It was like going to sleep at once. He
abruptly. Four or five young men were digging out from under the bike. He felt the taste of salt and blood, hurt his knee and when he shouted, he could not bear the pressure in the right arm. Voices that seemed to belong to the faces hanging over him, encouraged him with jokes and assurances. His only solace was to hear confirmation that it had been in his right to cross the corner. Asked the woman, trying to control the nausea that earned him the throat. As he took her back to a nearby pharmacy, he learned that the cause of the accident had scrapes on the legs. "Nah, you just grabbed, but the blow broke the machine on its side ..."; Opinions, memories, slowly, éntrenlo back, and someone is going well and overall giving the drink a drink that will relieve the gloom a small neighborhood pharmacy.
The police ambulance arrived five minutes and put him in a soft couch where he could lie out flat. Completely lucid, but knowing he was under the influence of a terrible shock, he gave his information to police who accompanied him. The arm barely hurt, from a cut over his eyebrow blood dripping all over my face. Once or twice he licked his lips to drink. It felt good, it was an accident, bad luck, a few weeks still and nothing else. The guard said the motorcycle did not appear badly damaged. "Natural" he said. "As I landed on top ..." They both laughed and shook his hand guard to get to the hospital and wished him good luck. Now the nausea was coming back little by little, while took him on a gurney to a fund flag, passing under trees full of birds, closed his eyes and wished he were asleep or chloroformed. But they kept while in a room smelling hospital, filling out a form, by undressing and dressing him in a gray shirt and hard. They moved his arm carefully, without getting hurt. The nurses joked all the time, and had it not been for the contractions of the stomach would have felt fine, almost happy.
He was taken to the radio room, and twenty minutes later, with the still wet lying on his chest like a black tombstone, went to the operating room. Someone white, tall and thin approached him and began to look at the x-ray. Woman's hands were arranging his head, he felt he moved from one stretcher to another. The white man approached him again, smiling, with something that shone in his right hand. He patted his cheek and motioned to someone standing behind.
Like a dream I was curious because it was full of smells and odors he never dreamed. First a marshy smell, because the left side of the road began the marshes, the gurgling of which no one ever returned. But the smell ceased, and instead there came a fragrance compound and dark as the night moved to escape the Aztecs. And everything was so natural, I had to flee from the Aztecs who had a manhunt, and his only chance was to hide in the thick of the jungle, taking care not to lose the narrow road that only they, the Motecas, knew.
thing that tortured him was the smell, as if even the absolute acceptance sleep resisted that something was not normal, which until then had not participated in the game. "It smells of war, he thought, going instinctively crossed the stone knife in his belt of woven wool. An unexpected sound made him crouch and stand still, trembling. It was not uncommon to be afraid, dreams plenty of fear. He waited, hidden by the branches of a bush and the starless night. Far away, probably across of the lake should be burning fires of the bivouac, a reddish glare that part of heaven. The sound was not repeated. It had been like a broken limb. Maybe an animal like him escaping the smell of war. He straightened slowly, sniffing. There was no sound, but the fear was still there as the smell, that cloying incense of the Florida war. Had to follow, to the heart of the forest bogs. Groping every moment stooping to touch the earth of the road, took a few steps. Wanted to run, but the gurgling throbbed at his side. On the path in darkness, he took the course. Then he caught a whiff of smell that most feared, and leaped forward desperately.
"She's going to fall off the bed," said the patient's bed side. Do not jump much, great friend. He opened his eyes and it was afternoon, the sun already low in the windows of the long room. While trying to smile at his neighbor, almost physically pulled away from the ultimate vision of the nightmare. The arm, plastering, hanging from a device with weights and pulleys. He felt thirsty, as if he had been running for miles, but would not give him much water, just enough to moisten lips and make a crop. The fever was gaining slowly and were able to sleep again, but enjoying the pleasure of keeping awake, eyes, listening to the dialogue of the other patients, occasionally responding to a question. Saw the arrival of a little white pushcart beside his bed, a blond nurse alcohol rubbed the front of the thigh, and thrust a thick needle connected to a tube which ran up a bottle full of liquid opal. A young doctor came with a metal and leather apparatus that followed the good arm to check something. Night fell, and the fever was dragging softly to a state where things were a relief as opera glasses, were real and sweet, yet slightly disgusting, like watching a boring movie and thinking that, but on the street worse, and stay.
A cup of wonderful smelling golden broth of leeks, celery and parsley. A slice of bread, more precious than a banquet, it was slowly crumbling. The arm did not hurt anything and only in the eyebrow, where he had been sutured, sometimes a twinge sizzling hot and fast. When the windows across the way turned to smudges of dark blue, did not think it would be hard to sleep. A bit awkward, backward, but passed his tongue over dry lips and felt the taste of hot broth, and sighed with happiness, abandoned.
First was a confusion, a draw to itself all the sensations for a moment dull or confused. He realized that he was running in darkness, but cross the sky above treetops was less black than the rest. "The trail," he thought. "I left the carriageway." His feet sank into a bed of leaves and mud, and could not take a step without which the branches of shrubs did not flogged the torso and legs. Breath, knowing despite the darkness and silence, bent down to listen. Maybe the trail was near, with the first light of day I would see her again. Nothing now could help you find it. The hand that without knowing him, clutching the handle of the dagger, went up like a scorpion of the marshes to his neck, which hung a protective amulet. Barely moving his lips muttered the prayer of the corn that brings the moons, and the appeal to Very High, to the distributor of the goods Motecas. But I felt the ankles while you were sinking into the mud, and waiting in the darkness of the unknown chaparral is unbearable. Florida war had begun with the moon and had been three days and three nights. If he could hide in the depths of the jungle off the trail beyond the marsh country, perhaps the warriors would not follow his trail. He thought the number of prisoners who have done so. But the number did not count, but the sacred time. The hunt would continue until the priests gave the sign back. Everything had its number and its purpose, and he was within the sacred time, on the other side of the hunters.
heard the cries and leaped up, sword in hand. As if the sky were aflame on the horizon, he saw torches moving among the branches, very close. The smell of war was unbearable, and when the first enemy flew at neck almost felt pleasure in sinking the stone blade in the chest. Lights around him and the happy cries. He managed to cut the air once or twice, then a rope caught him from behind. "It's the fever," said the next bed. The same thing happened to me when I operated on the duodenum. Drink water and you will see that he sleeps well. Next
night where the darkness again warm the room seemed delicious. A violet lamp was watching at the top of the back wall as an eye protector. You could hear coughing, breathing hard, sometimes softly dialogue. Everything was pleasant and safe without harassment, without ... But he would not keep thinking about the nightmare. There were so many things to amuse. He began to look at the cast on his arm, pulleys so comfortably held it in the air. He had left a bottle of mineral water in the night table. He drank from the bottle, with relish. Now distinguish the forms of the room, the thirty beds, cabinets with glass doors. He guessed that his fever, his face felt cool. The eyebrow barely hurt, like a memory. He was leaving the hotel again, taking the bike. Who would have thought that it would end like this? He tried to fix the time of the accident, and he was angry to notice that there was a void, an emptiness that not manage to fill. Between the shock and the moment he had lifted from the ground, fainting or whatever would not let him see anything. At the same time he felt that this void, this nothingness, had lasted an eternity. No, not even time, rather as if in that void, he had gone through something or travel vast distances. The shock, the brutal against the pavement. Anyway, leaving the black hole had been almost a relief when the men rose from the ground. With the pain of a broken arm, the blood of the eyebrow departure, the bruised knee, with all that, a relief to come back tomorrow and feel supported and attended. That was weird. He'd ask the doctor at the office. Now back to win the dream, slowly pull it down. The pillow was so soft, her throat and feverish the fresh mineral water. Maybe I could truly relax without the damn nightmares. Violet light the lamp at the top was fading slowly.
As he was sleeping on his back, not surprised by the position in which he came to, but instead the smell of damp, oozing rock, blocked his throat and forced him to understand. Needless to open our eyes and look in all directions; complete darkness enveloped him. Tried to get up and felt the ropes on her wrists and ankles. He was staked to the ground, floor slabs in a cold and wet. The cold made his bare back, legs. His chin looked awkward contact with his amulet, and knew that it had started. Now he was lost, no prayer could save the final. Distantly, as filtering through the rock of the dungeon, he heard the drums of the party. He had been brought to teocalli, was in the dungeons of the temple waiting for their turn.
heard scream, a hoarse cry was bouncing off the walls. Another yell, ending in a whimper. He was crying in the darkness, screaming because he was alive, his whole body was defended by the cry of what was coming, the inevitable end. He thought of his friends filling the other dungeons, and which stood as the steps of sacrifice. Shouted another choked, I could hardly open his mouth, his jaws while stiff like rubber would open slowly, with an endless effort. The creaking of the bolt hit him like a whip. , Writhing, fought to rid himself of the ropes that were sinking into his flesh. His right arm, the strongest, pulling until the pain became intolerable and had to give. He saw the double door open and the smell of the torches reached him before the light. Just girded with the loincloth of the ceremony, the acolytes of the Catholic priests looking at him with contempt. The lights were reflected in the sweaty torsos and black hair with feathers. Gave the ropes, and instead the grappling hands warm, hard as bronze, he felt himself lifted, still face up, pulled by four acolytes who carried him down the hallway. The torchbearers went ahead and lit corridor vaguely wet walls and a ceiling so low that the acolytes had to duck his head. Now they were taking, it had, was the end. Face up, one meter of living rock which at times lit up with a glimmer of torchlight. When instead of the roof the stars came out and the stairs rose before him on fire with cries and dances, would be the end. The passage never ends, but it would end suddenly smell the open sky full of stars but not yet, they along endlessly in the dark red, hauling him roughly, and he would not, but how to stop it if they had started the amulet, his true heart, the center of his life.
sprang up at night from the hospital, the high ceiling sweet, soft shadow around him. Thought he should have shouted, but his neighbors were sleeping quietly. On the night table, the water bottle had some bubble, translucent image against Blue-shaded windows. Gasped looking for relief from the lungs, the neglect of those images still glued to her eyelids. Every time he closed his eyes he saw shape instantly, and he sat up terrified but at the same time enjoy the knowledge that now he was awake, that the night, that soon going to rise, with good deep sleep that you have at this time no pictures, nothing ... She could keep her eyes open, the drowsiness was stronger than him. He made one last effort, with his good hand sketched a gesture toward the bottle of water did not take it, his fingers closed in a vacuum black again, and the passage went on endlessly, rock after rock, with sudden flares of red, and he groaned backs off because the roof was about to end, it rose, his mouth opening like a shadow, and the acolytes straightened up and a waning moon fell on the face where the eyes wanted her, desperately searching for closing and opening to the other side, to rediscover the protective ceiling of the room. And every time they opened, it was night and the moon as they climbed the stairs, now head hanging down, and at the top were the bonfires, red columns of perfumed smoke, and suddenly he saw the red stone bright blood dripping and the swing of the feet of the victim, they dragged to throw him rolling down the stairs of the north. With one last hope squeezed his eyes shut, moaning to wake up. For a second he thought he would make it, because I was again motionless on the bed, except rolling upside down. But he smelled death and when he opened his eyes he saw the bloodied figure of the priest coming toward him with the stone knife in his hand. Reached the eyelids close again, but now he knew he would not wake up, he was awake, that was wonderful dream the other, absurd as all dreams, a dream that was going through the strange streets of an amazing city with green and red lights burning without fire or smoke, with enormous metal insect that whirred his legs. In the infinite he of that dream had also been raised off the ground, also someone had approached him with a knife, he lay on his back, him on his back with his eyes closed from the fires.
(Julio Cortázar, Endgame, Ed Sudamericana, Buenos Aires 1993)
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