Final Exam

by Julio Cortázar

Your minuscule country, inhospitable and violent!

  There, dwarf trees hoist their annoyance

  while the moles dig and dig their conveyance,

  and bold shrews rise up to the firmament.

  If I reached the border of your evasive land,

  how many green customs offices, how many liquid seals!

  My bags hold medals and shields

  for your mint-eating customs man.

  Your language—that of men who stare at clouds—

  arose in the barge at the breath of night,

  and the dagger of danger and the golden ocelot,

  and waiting for you beyond the heights without repose.

  Doors of obsidian warp with age

  and you were in the time behind obsidian!

  With my name—that greenish gong of ancient elegance—

  I tossed the open parchment over the doors.

  Thirteen nights of red ablutions—insects

  with crystal feet, blinded music—

  Oh, the heat under the sky, pools with moon,

  and you more beautiful than ever, so delayed and distant!

  Your servants decipher the route of my name,

  I saw the doors half close for my solo step.

  My footsteps were lost for months along roads:

  the caravan returned with bronze rings.

  I remember and remember the moonlit terrace,

  the silk you gave me and the drum of your nights.

  The caravan returned with bronze rings—

  I had a galley with emerald sails!

  “Notable,” said the chronicler. “A poem in radiant techni-color.”

  “Shut up,” said Clara. “It’s mine, I like it; and besides it’s from other days. It’s like an earring for me, a little remembrance ring.”

  “It really sounds like another world,” said Juan. “After all, Clara, so few years…”

  Kaleidoscope heart

  just a little distance, and you’ve already changed!

  “You were right,” said Andrés having returned, leaning toward the chronicler, who was staring fixedly at his glass. “The guy repeated the offer to me.”

  “But these folks don’t want to leave.”

  “Of course we don’t want to,” said Juan, thinking strangely enough about the apartment, the vase in the house with the cauliflower alone, the cauliflower in the lonely apartment.

  “You’re so mistaken,” said the chronicler. “For one, the guy who’s been following you is outside there.”

  “What?” said Juan, and he stood up a grab by Andrés the chair fallen over, Clara. One hand grabbing his jacket. Abel.

  “Sit still,” said Andrés. “I don’t see that you’d accomplish much by running out into the street.”

  “It’s odd, but I just realized it a moment ago,” the chronicler was saying to Stella. “It’s the hot beer

  —this disgusting stuff urinated by an orangutan in a linen suit, by a woman full of false hopes—

  this beer circulating inside my face.”

  “We can see that you’re quite drunk,” said Andrés. “But you did see him, right?”

  “Cigarette,” said the chronicler. “Bouchard.”

  “Let me go out for a minute,” said Juan, very calmly. “You have no idea how much I’d like to talk to Abelito.”

  “The guy to talk to is Calimano,” said Andrés. “Please Clara, at least you can understand…” Stella shrieked. The moth (or another moth) was clinging to her hair. A sailor in the back of the bar mimicked her shriek, and another imitated him. A woman who’d come in a moment before quickly turned around, looked at their table, had a hand up as if to protect herself.

  “Poor example of lepidopteron,” the chronicler was saying. “Here it is—look what a silky tummy he’s got.”

  “Horrible,” said Stella. “It’s as if it has letters on its wings.”

  “Ads,” said the chronicler. “Disgusting slogans. Look Juanacito, look at the trouble starting. Let’s get out of here. This is getting a bit thick.”

  Outside, someone threw a stone that landed on the zinc roof with a hollow crash. In back, someone shouted; then a high-pitched giggle when a half-drunk sailor,

  So I dream in vain

  but in my heart it always will remain,

  with his arms loaded with bottles removed confusedly from the shelves behind the counter—

  My stardust melody Whoopee!

  and one bottle (grappa) smashed, opening into a white flower, filling the air with a sweet smell overpowering the tobacco smoke and fog.

  The memory of love refrained…

  Why go on with this, thought Andrés, releasing him. “Go ahead, man. It’s time every fox headed for his own hole.”

  “Since you’ve decided to leave my jacket in peace,” said Juan, “you probably won’t object to my going out to see if Abelito’s there.”

  “There are choices and there are choices,” said Andrés in a tone of fatigue. “Some are better than others. Your best choice has a name, and it’s Calimano.”

  “But we don’t want to go,” said Clara, looking at him sweedy.

  “To stay means Abel,” said Andrés. “Look, guys, what sense does it make to stay? That rock on the roof wasn’t for the chronicler, or for Stella, or for me. It was for you two.” There was such an uproar in the bar that he had to raise his voice. “Man, this heat. Look at your hands, Clara, Touch your face. You’ll need different air than this to dry your skin.”

  “It isn’t that I want to stay around,” said Clara. “It’s just I don’t see why we have to go.”

  “Let’s all three of us go outside,” murmured Andrés. “Maybe you’ll see him.”

  “Abelito?” said Juan getting up

  “Maybe,” said Andrés. “Stella, stay with the chronicler, he fell asleep.”

  “Sure,” said the chronicler, who was dozing off. My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. I translated it… Well, a single column. In what size type…?”

  “Many columns, for Ozymandias,” said Juan. “Go to sleep, chronicler, the genteel Stella will watch over your hangover.”

  “I,” said the chronicler, “am not sleeping.”

  Andrés stepped back, letting Clara and Juan go first. He put his wallet in Stella’s hands, but then took it back to get out some money.

  “It’s better if…”

  Stella looked at him, squeezed the wallet and put it in her handbag.

  “Go on, it’s okay,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “This may take a while,” said Andrés. “But it’s better I do it alone. If you’re not comfortable here or if those guys bother you, let the chronicler sleep and…”

  “Go on, it’s okay,” said Stella.

  “But if not, wait for me a while.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, went to the door, turned around and whistled with two fingers in his mouth for Calimano. In the back there was a clatter of chairs—square dancing with broken bottles and no music. Calimano extricated himself and came slowly, taking decisive steps.

  “Stay here,” said Andrés, putting a bank note in his hand. “When I whistle again, come over and join us.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Calimano. “In the meantime, I’ll have a pineral, which is good when you don’t want to sweat.”

  Juan looked at the corner of Bouchard, but between the fog and the growing glow, it was difficult to recognize silhouettes or buildings. Suddenly they realized that it was cooler inside than it was on the street—there wasn’t this reverberation, this vibration in the air; that smell of scorched rubber and moist grass even on that street because for moments at a time you felt…

  A few groups were passing without speaking, taking deep breaths. There were almost no individuals, but couples or groups of five or six coming down Viamonte toward the port. Without warning, one of them would detour to go into the First and Last. No sign of Abel.

  “As Paul Gilson says,” whispered Juan,

  “
Abel et Cain tout

  le monde a bel et bien

  disparu.”

  “Look,” murmured Clara, clinging to him. “Look over there.”

  Despite the fog Flames? (Or only a reflection in the atmosphere, of but explanations were needed); and the boards at the construction site as if moving in the mist, were entirely blue, phosphorescent—

  “Pretty,” said Juan. “Look, now they’re coming on the run.”

  “Soon, there will be no one else,” said Andrés. “The people over here are talking about the street collapsing on Leandro Alem, look at them.”

  A boy, holding up a woman dressed in red, said something about:

  “almost… swallowed her up” (the red back of the woman, like a flag being carried on someone’s back) and burst water pipes, and gas.

  “And the city seems thus, asleep,” recited Juan, “a nocturnal meadow carpeted

  by a million white daisies.

  Written at the age of fourteen in a notebook with green covers. What do you think of that, Clarita?”

  She was looking at the lower levels of the sky near the ground, where she could see everything taking place. If at least there were a bird, a sea gull, she thought. And there is no moon tonight. She saw that Andrés was meandering off, as if leaving them alone. On the corner of Bouchard, he lit a cigarette, the match showed his profile bent avidly over his joined hands.

  “Tout le monde a bel,” said Juan. “A bel et bien disparu. How far the Marcopolo is from this, honey.”

  “And the exam,” said Clara in a tiny voice. “Look over there, that thing is growing.”

  “It is, and on the Córdoba side, just look.”

  “Like a music in search of its tone. Take note.”

  “Like a glove that, finger by finger, finds its hand. How about that?”

  They hugged each other tight, confused, almost like the night.

  “I sweat,” said Juan. “Therefore I am. I used to write poems.”

  “I used to study and study,” said Clara, “and I killed a man who smokes and smokes.”

  “Andrés?” said Juan. “Or Abel?”

  “Abel’s alive. Abel’s out there somewhere.”

  “I don’t know,” said Juan. “I think Abel’s like the city, something that a bel et bien disparu. So, Andrés?”

  “Yes,” said Clara. “I killed him, but neither of us knew it.”

  “Killing isn’t a matter of knowing. Look over there, by the plaza.”

  “Yes. The tree that grows over the little hill—an ombú.”

  “You can’t see it.”

  “But the light rises from there. It was a small, jolly ombú. What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” said the man who was about to crash into them. He turned, vaguely took a few steps toward the street, cut in the direction of the First and Last, ended up going past it. The collar of his jacket was turned up as if it were…

  “Now it’s closer,” said Juan, pointing toward Leandro Alem.

  “You’re right,” said Clara. “I don’t think it will be long before…”

  “And there, where they’re digging the foundation.”

  “Right, there too.”

  “Poor chronicler,” said Juan. “How fast asleep he was.”

  “The chronicler is a very good man.”

  “Poor guy. And Andrés…”

  “Poor Andrés,” said Clara. “Poor little Andrés.”

  Calimano heard the whistle, put his glass on the counter, and quickly walked out. Since Andrés was looking toward downtown, Calimano saw his face illuminated by a reddish glow. Behind him, near the corner, the shapes of Clara and Juan embracing looked a little like the trunk of a tree that’s been pruned, something mutilated and downcast.

  “Okay,” said Andrés. “Get ready, ’cause we’re going.” He walked toward the corner without hurrying, savoring a taste that had just been born in his mouth, some soot swallowed with the air. A cinerary taste, he thought. ‘The dove on the ark.’ Most beautiful words. The last sound on earth will be a word—probably a personal pronoun.

  “Let’s be on our way,” he said, making his body into a soft wedge, taking them by the arms without their resistance.

  “Let’s go,” said Juan. “What difference does it make?”

  “Careful with that cable,” said Andrés. “My teacher taught me that electricity is a pernicious fluid.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Clara, and her arm began to hold back. “First explain to me why…”

  “We’re simply going,” said Andrés. “That’s enough.”

  “It’s not enough for me. We were just doing fine in the bar and…”

  “Walk honey,” said Juan. “Don’t play the part of the immovable object, because we don’t have these options.”

  Knowing how to be appropriately cruel, thought Andrés. I’ll die without having learned the technique. He whistled to Calimano, who came over and began to walk ahead. Juan separated from Andrés and going around took Clara’s other arm. With their backs toward downtown, the fog confronted them like a movie screen when the camera’s started and there runs before the first words a pulverulent substance with rapid sparks, a crackling of space. The wide street was empty, as was the police kiosk in the customs area.

  The empty lots were on the right, with train tracks stuck in the grass (but Calimano went on, without looking right or left).

  “I remember the scorpion,” said Clara. “As you see, I don’t intend to make a scene. I understand you’re both dragging me along, and it all seems idiotic,

  and finally

  I remember the scorpion.”

  “Keep talking,” said Juan, leaning over to kiss her on the hair. “Sometimes it does a lot of good. Remember the scorpion.”

  “About that scorpion,” said Clara. “Someone said things about the scorpion, about its destiny. About its destiny to be a scorpion, and how it was necessary for it to carry out its destiny of being a scorpion.”

  “You’re paraphrasing the destiny of Judas, and Satan’s too.” said Juan. “Stepping back, you can see that even God… But it’s too hot to…”

  “I’ll stick to the scorpion,” said Clara. “And I say: is it necessary, is it really necessary for the scorpion to know it’s a scorpion?”

  “Yes,” said Andres. “So that being a scorpion has some meaning.”

  “But only for the scorpion,” said Juan.

  “Well, that’s what matters. The rest is pure contingency, or accident.”

  “I ask,” said Clara, “because I’m thinking about Abelito. I’m wondering if it’s necessary for him to do what he’s doing.”

  “Don’t bother yourself with Abelito,” said Juan. “What Abelito likes is for people to think about him. That’s how we all look for a way in.”

  Which I haven’t found, he thought with a sudden rebelliousness, a desire to stop, turn around, go back where he came from. Maneuvering, they crossed the first beach, slipping over the cobblestones on the walkway. Despite the fog, things could be seen with enough…

  (the brick buildings on the right,

  the first docks, the canal)

  Blue hat

  but you could say that about the sky: blue hat of Buenos Aires.

  Calimano had stopped and was waiting for them.

  “The river,” Calimano said, “has gone all to shit.”

  “Oh,” said Juan. “So…”

  “What we’ve got to do is look for it. Of course…”

  “Let’s get going,” Andrés cut him off. “Move ahead.”

  “Look, there’s the little plaza where they sold chocolate,” said Juan. “Remember?”

  “Yes,” said Clara. “The ugly little chocolate plaza.”

  “The money you made me spend on sweets!”

  “To make the little plaza beautiful, you horrid miser. Everyone knows it’s so… so ugly.”

  “It looks like an island emerging from the fog,” said Andrés. “You know, I never ate chocolate in that plaza.”


  “Well, you’ve missed something beautiful,” said Clara.

  “Of course I missed it,” said Andrés, simultaneously cursing himself for being so sensitive. Right on the edge of all this, and I’m still incapable of hardening myself. Everything that is Juan, every word Juan,

  as if it shouldn’t be that way, as if the scorpion… They passed by along the edge of the little plaza.

  “Grass so they walk, dice for their hand that plays…”

  “We would count ships,” murmured Clara. “I knew all the names.”

  “Don’t start crying on me,” said Juan, sullen.

  “No, no. There’s one of the benches…

  “One of the two,” said Juan. “And the old decrepit trees.”

  “From the bench, we could see the ships at that dock. I remember the Duquesa, the Toba… You knew more of them, but I remembered the names.”

  “Watching ships is nice,” said Juan. “We sailed on all of them.”

  “Cheap but nice,” said Clara. “It was easy to hate Buenos Aires afterwards, when it was there, as always…”

  “Watch your step!” shouted Calimano. “The cobblestones!”

  “Come on, we’ll make a detour,” said Andrés. “Why don’t they put a red light here?”

  “No one’s going to put one here,” said Juan, “because no one would see it. We’re talking about the plaza as if we were seeing it, and that isn’t the case.”

  “I see it,” murmured Clara.

  “No dear. You remember it.”

  (And a light on the swing bridge

  or was it on the guard box? Bluish.)

  Later, without speaking, they slowly crossed the second walkway that led to a promenade. Calimano went along testing the cobbles, alarmed by the first hole, suspicious even of his own eyes. Let it come to an end, thought Andrés. He looked back from time to time, to where the fog had seemed less thick because of the sounds, the light in the sky, and the heat—like a front that pushed them. I think that if I were on the University stairway right now, I’d be able to see the river… Clara and Juan were stumbling along, saying nothing. Once or twice, Clara said, “It sounds like Honegger,” but she didn’t explain. And Juan was mumbling disconnected verses, inventing things, amusing himself in his small, portable hell. A low and rubbery smell, no longer humidity, came from the river—like rotten hay, an ammoniac breath mixed with mud. Stick out your tongue, thought Juan. Come on Mister River, stick out your tongue.