Final Exam
Page 26
But if I am tongue
if this
my tongue. Oh how filthy how I don’t like
you river right now.
But if I live in bed if I…
(And tomorrow?)
“Watch your step,” said Calimano. “I think the fishing club has to be right around here.”
“Imagine,” said Clara, feeling for Andrés’ hand, “now we’re going to a club.”
“Life is a club,” said Juan. “But a second-rate one. Tell me that wasn’t good, Andrés…”
But Andrés, who’d pulled back his hand when he felt the nearness of Clara’s, swerved to talk to Calimano. I won’t talk with either one of them, he thought. Not too far to go. If they take off for… And he didn’t know where.
“Now you can see the guard box,” shouted Calimano. “Now, if they haven’t stolen the boat. Jesus, the river’s gone to shit.”
“Hmm,” said Juan, “actually it’s the other way around. Or will be.”
“Hurry up,” whispered Clara. “Please, let’s hurry.
There…”
But there was nothing. Andrés, who’d stepped back with his hand on his pistol, saw nothing but the distant lights, like torches amid the ships. Then he remembered that they hadn’t seen any ships at the docks. Maybe in the fog… But it wasn’t that. He was sure there wasn’t a single ship in the port. Poor little thing, fear’s on its way, he thought. That’s the first time she’s said hurry up… ‘And her pleasure at seeing the men so decided grew greater and greater’… Now I’m making up words.
“Move along,” Calimano was saying. “The fishing club: look.”
Juan deciphered the words at the entrance: Argentine Fishing Association. Tuna, catfish, Sundays, yachts. The doors and windows were wide open, stripped. The building was in darkness, covered with mud from the river bed, a soft caricature of the river… He turned around, now he was the last. Buenos Aires… If still…
“Come on,” said Clara’s voice. “Come on, Juan, hurry up.”
He joined her, and Andrés looked down so he wouldn’t offend Juan by staring. They almost ran along the dock, Calimano moving like a cat, urging them to run. The fog was clearing over the river, and they saw a buoy twinkling in the channel. Alone, thought Andrés. It can’t be that we’re the only ones… He wasn’t thinking the mere possibility was incredible; it was just that he couldn’t quite believe it.
“The water starts over there,” said Calimano pointing to a chocolate-colored strip. “Good thing I predicted this would happen and put the boat at the end of the dock. More than a few are going to find themselves hung up tonight.” Bent over the handrail, he was grumbling in a low voice. Andrés was looking as well, with a sudden fear that… But Juan and Clara seemed distracted, standing in the middle of the dock, looking at each other.
“Bitchy fly,” said Juan sweetly.
Andrés walked over to them.
“You have to go down that ladder,” he said, holding out both hands to them: “Ciao, you two. Calimano awaits.”
“What about you?” said Clara, almost in the tone of someone who says, “But you can’t think of leaving, it’s so early!” Sincere, but unnecessary—not always what people liked to hear. (But it was Andrés who thought it, if he did.)
“Well, I’ve got to go back for Stella,” said Andrés. “Juan, the trip’s all paid for. Don’t give him any more money.”
“Thanks,” said Juan, squeezing his hand until it hurt him. “There’s nothing I can say…”
“Nothing. Just get going.”
“It’s incredible that you’re staying,” murmured Juan. “Why us?”
“Actually, I’m going, too,” said Andrés, smiling. “Just a little later. Don’t worry, and take Clara. Let’s go, there’s the ladder.”
Juan gestured. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a wrinkled notebook.
“Things I’ve been writing these past few days,” he said. “It would be better if you held on to them.”
“Sure,” said Andrés. “Now get a move on.”
“Andrés,” said Clara.
“Yes, Clara?”
“Thank-you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Andrés deliberately. “Thank-you”—so easy and absolving. Say thank-you and you’re in peace. Watching her step down and feeling for the first rung, he wondered, with deliberate cruelty, if Abel wasn’t looking for her because of some other “thank-you.” So unjust, so stupid. I just ruined my last glimpse of her, he thought, alone now on the dock. He heard talk, the splash of oars. Juan’s voice shouted something to him, but instead of bending over the ladder, he turned around and began to retrace his steps, staring directly at the red curtain of fog that seemed to boil in the distance.
When he was near the swing bridge, he saw a thin, black dog. He went over to pet it, but the animal retreated, showing its teeth. The little chocolate plaza was there—a black circle in the bluish gray of the cobblestones. Andrés went toward the plaza, but before he went in, he lit a cigarette and looked to see if the dog was still there. The great silence of the little plaza was curious, and the distant clamor of the city made it even deeper. Juan was right, he thought as he took out his pistol, this doesn’t exist any more, only Clara’s memory of it remains. He was in the center of the plaza, walking slowly, when he saw the silhouette up against a tree. He thought that the silhouette was also part of Clara’s memory.
“Hello,” said Abel. “About time I found you.”
“What can I say? You never know when someone’s looking for you.”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” said Abel. “You know that very well.”
“It’s all the same.”
“But you’re the one who helped them get away.”
“If you think so,” said Andrés, smoking.
“Yes, you, you son of a thousand bitches!”
“One’s enough,” said Andrés. “Don’t amplify.”
He saw Abel’s movement, felt he was coming at him. He lowered the safety on the pistol and raised it. From here she would look at the ships, he managed to think, and the rest was silence, such an enormous silence that it struck him like an explosion.
Stella made sure the chronicler was fast asleep, and after settling his head so he’d be comfortable, she left the bar, delighted to be moving around after a long stiffness. On Leandro Alem, she bought El Mundo, which the newsboys had begun to sell, and waited for the 99 streetcar, which was coming down Viamonte. Comfortable next to the window, she made the complete circuit of downtown without looking at the street because she was interested in reading the paper. Soon after the 99 began to rattle beyond Puyrredón, she fell asleep and rested a while, her face against the glass. The trolley was almost full, and the murmuring helped her sleep.
When she arrived, she energetically walked the block and a half that was left, thinking about the coffee she was going to make immediately. She drank it in bed, wondering if Andrés would make it home in time to sleep for a few hours. She had just enough time to put the cup on the night table, because her fatigue carried her off like a breeze.
It was after 10:00 when she awoke, the bed full of sunlight. The room was so beautiful with all that light. It was really like a little painting, a picture. Delightful.
Stella got up, rested and content. Andrés would be home soon to have lunch and then get lost in his papers and books.
Well then, a stew wouldn’t be a bad idea. Outside, the neighborhood women were chatting. On the table, there was a sheet of paper with writing on it—the things Andrés would write—which it was necessary to put away in the desk drawer.
Stella changed the canary’s water and gave him seeds. She’d turned on the radio and was listening to a very pretty bolero with passionate lyrics, the kind Andrés didn’t like. But there would be plenty of time to turn off the radio before Andrés came home.
September 21, 1950
Other Books by Julio Cortázar
BLOW-UP & OTHER STORIES
CR
ONOPIOS AND FAMAS
A CERTAIN LUCAS
HOPSCOTCH
NICARAGUAN SKETCHES
TWILIGHT; SELECTED POEMS
THE WINNERS
62: A MODEL KIT
FINAL EXAM
Copyright © 1985 Julio Cortázar and Heirs of Julio Cortázar
Translation copyright © 2000 by Alfred Mac Adam
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
The Publisher wishes to thank Stephen Kessler and Eliot Weinberger for their assistance with this project.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First published in Spanish 1986 by Sudamericana. First published by New Directions clothbound in 2000.
eISBN 978-0-8112-2498-7
New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin by New Directions Publishing Corporation 80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011