Continuity of Parks
He had
begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it down because of some
urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by
train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the
characterizations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of
attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his
estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked
out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back
toward the door -- even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated
him, had he thought of it -- he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green
velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered
effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread
its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of
disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same
time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with
its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand,
that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees
in the park. Word by word, licked up by the sordid dilemma of the hero and
heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down
and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the
mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in,
his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood
with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again
the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and
furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest,
and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced
down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided
from eternity. Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover's body, as
though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched
abominably the frame of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing
had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this
hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded,
twice-gone-over reexamination of the details was barely broken off so that a
hand could caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.
Not
looking at one another now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them,
they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north.
On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch
her running, her hair loosened and flying. He ran in turn, crouching among the
trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog of dusk, he could distinguish the
avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark,
they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he
was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman's words
reached him over the thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then
a hail, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first
room, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then, the knife in hand,
the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green
velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.
<Cortázar,
Julio. End of the game and other stories. Trans. Paul