Part 1 (1/2)

The Secret in Their Eyes.

A NOVEL.

EDUARDO SACHERI.

To my grandmother Nelly for teaching me how valuable it is to preserve and share memories.

Retirement Party.

Benjamin Miguel Chaparro stops short and decides he's not going. He's not going, period. To h.e.l.l with all of them. Even though he's promised to be there, and even though they've been planning the party for three weeks, and even though they've reserved a table for twenty-two at El Candil, and even though Benitez and Machado have announced their willingness to come from the ends of the earth to celebrate the dinosaur's retirement.

He halts so suddenly that the man walking behind him on Talcahuano toward Corrientes barely manages to avoid a collision, dodging past with one foot on the sidewalk and one on the street. Chaparro hates these narrow, noisy, light-deprived sidewalks. He's walked on them for forty years, but he knows he's not going to miss them after Monday. Not the sidewalks and not a great many other things in this city, where he's never felt at home.

He can't disappoint his colleagues. He must go, if only because Machado is coming all the way from Lomas de Zamora just for the occasion, despite his bad health and advanced age. And Benitez likewise. It's not a terribly long way from the Palermo neighborhood to Tribunales, but the fact is that the poor old guy's pretty much a wreck. Nevertheless, Chaparro doesn't want to go. He's sure about very few things, but this is one of them.

He looks at himself in the window of a bookstore. Sixty years old. Tall. Gray-haired. Aquiline nose, thin face. ”s.h.i.+t,” he feels obliged to conclude. He scrutinizes the reflection of his eyes in the gla.s.s. A girlfriend he had when he was young used to make fun of his compulsive way of looking at himself in shop windows. Chaparro never confessed the truth, neither to her nor to any of the other women who pa.s.sed through his life: his habit of gazing at his own reflection has nothing to do with self-love or self-admiration; it's never been anything but another attempt to figure out who the h.e.l.l he is.

Thinking about that makes him even sadder. He sets out again, as if motion could save him from being p.r.i.c.ked by the barbs of this new, additional sadness. From time to time, walking without haste on that sidewalk forever untouched by the afternoon sun, he checks himself in the shop windows. Now he sees the sign for El Candil, up there on the left, across the street and thirty meters on. He looks at his watch: 1:58. Almost all of them must be there by now. He himself sent off the people in his department at 1:20 so they wouldn't have to run. The coming court session doesn't begin until next month, and they've already closed and archived the cases from the previous session. Chaparro is satisfied. They're good kids. They work hard and learn quickly. The next thought in the sequence is I'm going to miss them, and as Chaparro refuses to squelch around in nostalgia, he comes to a stop again. This time, there's no one behind to crash into him, and the people coming his way are able to navigate around the tall man in the blue blazer and gray trousers who's now looking at himself in the window of a lottery office.

He turns around. He's not going. He's definitely not going. Maybe, if he hurries, he can catch the judge before she leaves for the restaurant, because he knows she stayed behind to finish an order for someone's release from preventive detention. It's not the first time the idea has occurred to him, but it is the first time he's summoned the modic.u.m of courage needed to act on the idea. Or maybe it's just that the other prospect-the prospect of attending his own retirement luncheon-corresponds to his notion of h.e.l.l, and he wants to avoid infernal torments. Him, sitting at the head of the table? With Benitez and Machado beside him, forming a trio of venerable mummies? Listening to that pathetic de alvarez pose his traditional question-”Let's do it Roman style, all right?”-so that he can spread around the cost of some high-end wine and knock back most of it himself? Or Laura, asking everybody in sight to split a portion of cannelloni with her so she won't stray too far from the diet she just started last Monday? Or Varela, meticulously descending into his trademark alcoholic melancholy, which will move him to tears as he embraces friends, acquaintances, and waiters? These nightmarish images make Chaparro increase his pace. He goes up the courthouse steps from Talcahuano Street. They haven't closed the main door yet. He jumps into the first available elevator. There's no need for him to tell the operator he's going to the fifth floor; in the Palace of Justice, the very stones know him.

With resolute steps, the soles of his tan loafers resounding on the black and white floor tiles, he walks along the corridor parallel to Tuc.u.man Street until he stands before the tall, narrow door of his court. He hesitates mentally over the possessive ”his.” Yes, why not? It's his, it belongs to him much more than to Garcia, the clerk, or to any of the other clerks who preceded Garcia, or to any of those who'll succeed him.

While he's busy with the lock, his immense bundle of keys jingles in the empty corridor. He closes the door behind him rather forcefully, letting the judge know that someone has come in. Wait a minute: Why ”the judge”? Because she's a judge, sure, but why not ”Irene”? Well, just because. He's got enough with asking for what he's going to ask for without the extra burden of knowing that he must address his request to Irene and not simply to Judge Hornos.

He knocks softly twice and hears her say, ”Come in.” When he steps into her office, she's surprised, and she asks him, ”What are you doing here?” and ”Why aren't you at the restaurant already?” In posing these questions, she uses the familiar tu form-or, to be more precise, since they're in Buenos Aires, the familiar vos form-but Chaparro wants to avoid getting bogged down in forms of address, because those, too, can be a source of confusion, liable to sabotage his clear intention to make the request he decided to make outside on Talcahuano Street, not far from Corrientes Avenue. And it's disheartening that this woman's presence throws him into such turmoil, but in a spasm of self-discipline, Chaparro concludes that there's nothing for it, that he absolutely, definitely, totally, must cut short the process of psyching himself up, stop s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around, and make, once and for all, the request he's come to make. ”The typewriter,” he says, blurting it out with no preamble. Brute, wretch, oaf. No subtle lead-ups. Nothing like You know what, Irene, I was thinking that maybe, that in one of those, that it could be that, or what would you say if, or any other colloquial formula that might serve to avoid precisely the look Chaparro sees on Irene's face, or the judge's, or Her Honor's, that perplexity, that uncomprehending speechlessness caused by surprise at his abrupt manner.

Chaparro realizes he's put his foot in it, not for the first time. He backs up to the beginning and tries to respond to the question madam asked him in the first place, the one about the retirement luncheon, at which, considering what time it is, they must be paying tribute to him right now. He tells her he's afraid of getting maudlin and nostalgic, afraid he'll wind up talking about the same old things with the same old people and dissolving into pathetic melancholy, and since he looks into her eyes as he tells her all that, there comes a moment when he starts to feel his stomach sinking toward his intestines and a cold sweat breaking out on his skin and his heart turning into a snare drum. Because this emotion is very deep, very old, and very useless, Chaparro dashes back into the outer office to close the window, thus peeling himself away, as best he can, from those dark brown eyes. However, the window is already closed, so he decides to open it, but then a blast of cold air makes him decide to close it again. In the end, he has no alternative but to return to Irene's office, prudently remaining on his feet in order to avoid any obligation to look at her directly as she sits at her desk with the file open in front of her. She follows his movements, his looks, and the inflections of his voice with the same very attentive attention she's always given him. Chaparro shuts up for a while, knowing that if he keeps on going down that path he'll end up saying irreparable things, and then, just in time, he returns to the subject of the typewriter.

Although he has no idea what he's going to do from now on, he tells her, he'd love to take a stab at his old project of writing a book. As he speaks the words, he feels like a fool. An old man, twice divorced, now retired, and he thinks he'll be a writer. The post-retirement Hemingway. The Garcia Marquez of Buenos Aires's western suburbs. To make matters worse, Irene's-or, preferably, the judge's-eyes sparkle with sudden interest. But he's already gone too far to turn back, and therefore he expatiates a little on his desire to try writing, it's something he's wanted to do forever, and now he'll have more time, so maybe, why not. And this is where the typewriter comes in. Chaparro feels more comfortable, because here he's treading on firmer ground.

”As you can guess, Irene, at my age I'm not going to learn how to use a computer, you know? And I've got that Remington in my fingers like a fourth phalange.” (Fourth phalange? Where does such idiocy come from?) ”I know it looks like a tank, and it's got that minuscule ribbon, and it's olive green, and it makes a sound like artillery fire every time you hit a key, so I'm taking a chance and hoping no one will need it, and naturally it would only be a loan, absolutely, a couple of months, three at the most, because believe me, I'm not up to writing a very long book, as you may imagine” (and there he is again, doing his self-deprecation number).

”And besides, all the new kids use computers, and there are three other old typewriters stored on the top shelf, and if you need it, you can always let me know and I'll bring it back here,” Chaparro declares, and he's not through.

But he stops talking when she raises a hand and says, ”Don't worry about it, Benjamin. Just take it, it won't be a problem. It's the least I can do for you.”

Chaparro swallows hard, because that ”you” at the end, the vos reserved for family and friends, sounds very familiar and friendly indeed, and then there's the tone she's using, the one she uses on certain occasions, occasions that have been engraved, one by one, in his memory, bright feverish slashes in the monotonous horizon of his solitude, despite the fact that he's dedicated almost as many nights to forgetting them, or trying to forget them, as he has to remembering them, and therefore he finally gets to his feet, thanks her, gives her his hand, accepts the fragrant cheek she offers him, closes his eyes while he grazes her skin with his lips, as he always does when he has a chance to kiss her-with his eyes closed, he can concentrate better on the innocent, guilty contact-practically runs into the small adjacent office, picks up the typewriter with two rapid movements, and escapes through the tall, narrow door without looking back.

He retraces his steps along the corridor, which is even emptier now than it was twenty minutes ago, takes elevator number eight to the main floor, goes down the hall toward Talcahuano, exits by the side door with a nod to the guards, walks up to Tuc.u.man Street, crosses it, waits five minutes, and climbs, as best he can, onto the 115 bus.

When the bus turns the corner at Lavalle, Chaparro twists his head around to the left, but of course at this distance he can't see the sign for El Candil. By now, Irene-or rather, the judge-must be walking to the restaurant, where she'll explain to the others that the guest of honor has skipped out. It won't be so bad-they're all gathered together, and they're hungry.

He pats his rear trouser pocket, pulls out his wallet, and puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He's never had his pocket picked in his entire forty-year career, and he has no intention of being ripped off for the first time on his last day in Tribunales. Walking as fast as he can, he reaches the Once railroad station. The next train is leaving on Track 3, bound for Moreno and making all stops in between. In the train's last three cars, the ones closest to the platform entrance, all the seats are occupied, but from the fourth car on, Chaparro finds many available places. He wonders, as he always does, if the pa.s.sengers standing in the crowded rear cars choose those spots because they're getting off soon, because they've been sitting all day and want to stretch their legs, or because they're stupid. Whatever their reasons, he's grateful. He wants to sit in a window seat on the left-hand side, where the afternoon sun won't bother him, and think about what the h.e.l.l he's going to do with the rest of his life.

1.

I'm not sure about my reasons for recounting the story of Ricardo Morales after so many years. I can say that what happened to him has always aroused an obscure fascination in me; perhaps the man's fate, a life destroyed by tragedy and grief, provided me with a chance to reflect on my own worst fears. I've often caught myself feeling a certain guilty joy at the disasters of others, as if the fact that horrible things happened to other people meant that my own life would be exempt from such tragedies, as if I'd get a kind of safe-conduct based on some obtuse law of probability: If such and such a catastrophe befalls Joe Blow, then it's unlikely that it will also strike Joe's acquaintances, among whom I count myself. It's not as though I can boast of a life filled with success, but when I compare my misfortunes with what Morales suffered, I come out well ahead. In any case, it's not my story I want to tell, it's Morales's story, or Isidoro Gomez's, which is the same story but seen from the other side, or seen upside down, or something like that.

Although the morbid interest my subject arouses in me isn't the only reason why I'm writing these pages, it carries some weight and plays some part. But mostly, I suppose, I'm telling the story because I have time to tell it. A lot of time, too much time, so much time that the daily trifles whose sum is my life quickly dissolve into the monotonous nothingness that surrounds me. Being retired is worse than I'd imagined. I should have known it would be. Not because of anything I knew about retirement, but because things we fear generally turn out worse when they happen than when we imagined them. For years, I saw my older colleagues in the court bid farewell to their working days in the naive expectation of enjoying their newfound leisure. I saw them depart in triumph, each of them convinced that retirement would be the closest thing to paradise on earth. But disappointment would make quick work of them, and it wasn't long before I saw them return in defeat. In two weeks, in three at the most, they had exhausted all the supposed pleasures they thought they'd been postponing during their years of routine and work. And for what? To drop by the court of an afternoon, as if by accident, just to chat or drink some coffee or even lend a hand with some moderately complicated case.

Because of that, because of the many, many times I'd found myself face to face with one of those guys whose retirement years were empty and therefore wretched, because of the many, many occasions when I'd looked into eyes imploring an impossible rescue, I swore a vow never to fall so low when my turn came. There would be no useless time-wasting for me, no nostalgic visits to see how the kids in the office are doing, no pathetic spectacles put on to extract a few seconds' worth of compa.s.sion from fortunate people still able to function.

So now I've been retired for two weeks, and I've already got time on my hands. It's not that I can't think of anything to do. I can think of a lot of things, but they all seem useless. Maybe the least useless is this one. For a few months, I can pretend to be a writer, as Silvia used to say when she still loved me. Actually, I'm mixing up two different periods and two distinct modes of address. When she still loved me, she'd talk confidently of my future as a writer, most probably a famous one. Later, when her love had wilted and died in the tedium of our marriage, she would say I just pretended to be a writer, and she'd say it with scathing contempt, speaking from the tower of irony she'd chosen to occupy, a fortification from which she liked to fire missiles at me. I can't complain, because I'm sure I said equally evil things to her. How terrible that after ten years of marriage, what chiefly remains is the shameful inventory of the harm we did to each other. But at least it was possible to quarrel with Silvia. My first wife Marcela and I couldn't even talk about my writing ambitions, or-come to think of it-about anything else. It hardly seems possible that I shared such large chunks of my life with two women of whom I retain, not without difficulty, a handful of hazy memories. Then again, my blurry recollection is yet more proof (as if more were needed) that I'm getting old. I've survived two marriages just to find myself facing a good stretch of time alone, roaming the arid plateau of bachelorhood. Life is long, all things considered.

Anyway, I was never that serious about being a writer. Not when Silvia spoke the word admiringly, and not later, when she spat it at me sarcastically. I did have dreams (some dreams impose themselves on even the most skeptical hearts) that featured idyllic scenes of the writer at work in his study, preferably in front of a large window with a view of the sea, preferably in a dwelling built high on a rocky outcrop buffeted by wind and rain.

Evidently, the habit doesn't make the monk, because even though I've transformed my living room into a prototypical working writer's sanctuary-I'm sure there's a better way of saying that-it hasn't yet done the trick. I can affirm, however, that I've made things quite pleasant in here. Of course, I don't have the sea and the storms, but I've got a well-ordered desk: on one side, a ream of typing paper, blank, almost new; on the other side, a notebook that contains no notes; in the center, the typewriter, an imposing olive-green Remington barely smaller than a tank and made of equally thick steel, or so my colleagues in the court used to joke, years ago.

I step over to the window. It overlooks, as I've said, no stormy sea, but rather a tidy little yard, twelve by fifteen feet. I gaze out at the street. As usual, there's not a soul in sight. Thirty years ago, these empty streets were full of people, young and old, but now the young people have gone away, and the old ones have gone inside. Like me. It may sound funny, but maybe there are several of us; our desks are thoroughly prepared, and we're going to write a novel.

Deep down inside, I suspect that this page, which I'm resolutely filling with words, is going to wind up like its nineteen predecessors, crumpled into a ball and thrown into the opposite corner of the room, where there's a wicker umbrella stand I inherited from I no longer know whom. After every false start, I yield to a lingering athletic impulse and try to toss my wadded rejections into that stand, with an elegant flick of the wrist and indifferent success. I get so excited when I score, and the small frustrations of my missed attempts increase my determination to such a degree, that I'm almost more interested in my next shot than in the remote possibility that this will be the page on which the story I allegedly intend to tell will at last begin. Sixty years old, and I'm clearly as far from being a writer as I am from playing basketball again.

For the past several days, I've sought to resolve certain questions crucial to my project. My plan was to start the actual writing only after I found the answers, because I dreaded the exact situation I now find myself in: sitting in front of the typewriter and chasing my tail while the last vestiges of my resolve evaporate. Early on, I realized that I don't have enough imagination to write a novel. My solution was to write without inventing anything, that is, to narrate a true story, to give an account of events to which I had been, although indirectly, a witness. And so I decided to tell the story of Ricardo Morales. I made this decision because of the reasons I gave at the beginning, because it's a story that needs no additions from me, and because, since I know it's true, I may dare to recount it all the way to the end. I won't have to incur the shame of telling lies in order to fill in gaps or enhance the plot or persuade the reader not to chuck the book away after fifteen pages.

Having decided on a subject, I consider the first practical difficulty: What grammatical person am I going to write this thing in? When speaking of myself, should I say ”I,” or should I say ”Chaparro”? It makes me gloomy to think that this single obstacle suffices to dampen all my literary enthusiasm. What if I choose to tell my story in the third person? Maybe that would be the best choice, as I wouldn't be tempted to make use of excessively personal impressions and experiences. I'm quite clear about that. I'm not trying to reach or provoke any kind of catharsis with this book, or (to be more exact) with this embryo of a book; nevertheless, the first person feels more comfortable. That's because I'm inexperienced, I suppose, but in any case, it feels more comfortable. And what do I do about the parts of the story I didn't witness directly, those parts I can intuit, even though I have no certain knowledge of them? Do I include them in the story, just like the parts I know about for sure? Do I make them up from A to Z? Do I ignore them?

Let's simplify things and go step by step. I'll begin in the first person. That's hard enough; I don't need to go looking for more difficulties. And it will be better to tell what I know or presume to be true; otherwise, no one's going to understand a f.u.c.king thing, including me. Another problem is my vocabulary; the word ”f.u.c.king” jumps out of that last sentence like a neon light surrounded by darkness. Should I use everyday coa.r.s.eness and crudeness? Should I eliminate such expressions from my written language? Ah, f.u.c.k it, too many questions-and there I go again. The only logical conclusion I can reach is that I've got a foul mouth.

And here's something even worse: I'm going to write Morales's story, that's clear, but it means I have to begin at the beginning. And which beginning would that be? Although I think my narrative skills are pretty pedestrian, I've got enough discernment to see that the old ”Once upon a time” formula isn't going to work here. So what am I to do? Where's the beginning? It's not that this story doesn't have a beginning. The problem is that it has four or five possible beginnings, all of them distinct from one another. A young man kisses his wife good-bye at the door of their apartment, walks with her down the hall, kisses her again, and steps out into the street, on his way to work. Or two guys, dozing at a desk, jump at the sudden, strident ringing of a telephone. Or a young woman who's just been awarded her school teaching degree poses for a group photo with other graduates. Or a judicial employee, namely me, thirty years after all those possible beginnings, receives a handwritten letter from an unlikely correspondent.

Which of these scenes am I going to use? All of them, probably; I'll pick one to start with and insert the rest in the order that seems least risky, or maybe just as I go along. I've already dedicated several afternoons to this endeavor, but the prospect of failure no longer seems so devastating. After all, the more pages I reject, the more my long-range shot will improve.

2.

May 30, 1968, was the last time Ricardo Agustin Morales had breakfast with Liliana Colotto, and for the rest of his life he'd remember not only what their talk was about but also what they drank, what they ate, the color of her nightgown, and the lovely effect produced by a ray of sunlight that lit up her left cheek as she sat there in the kitchen. The first time Morales told me this, I a.s.sumed he was exaggerating, because I didn't think he could really remember so many details. But I was wrong; I didn't know him well enough yet, and I misjudged him. I didn't yet know that Morales, who had the face of a confirmed idiot, was a man endowed with intelligence, memory, and a power of observation the likes of which I'd never encountered in my life before and would not encounter again. Morales's faithful memory had a single focus: the guy remembered with an equal abundance of detail anything and everything that had to do with his wife.