The ceremony takes place in a vast, high-walled enclosure with tall windows ending in points, with motifs of the gorilla chiefs painted in spectacular colors on their glass surfaces. A long, broad table is set. It has three sides: a central section and two lateral extensions projecting at a right angles from the ends, enclosing a wide, open area. Two rows of bare-chested slaves, carrying torches, flank the procession as they enter. The chiefs in purple enter the cavernous enclosure, their heads held even higher and wearing even more dignified expressions, and they take their places at the central table. To their right, the attendants in black. To their left, the ones in green. The women gather together at the back of the vast open space in the center and wait nervously. The multitude has gathered before the large entrance, fighting for a view of the scene. The bodyguards have dismounted and strike at them from inside the enclosure, forcing them back. But they’ve been ordered to allow them to watch, and their attacks are softer than their menacing expressions suggest, so that the hordes will understand that they are attempting to gain a forbidden privilege while not denying the chiefs their audience.
Then the banquet begins. Bare-chested slaves carry in large dishes to the central table and start carving up the sacrificed animals under the gaze of the chiefs, who dictate the size of the portions and their recipients. They barely taste the food, and the top chief doesn’t even notice the slaves’ work. He sits at the exact center of the table, and over his purple tunic hangs a large obsidian medallion on a gold chain. His long bony fingers play with the medallion. The multitude of gorillas stare at him in ecstasy, with a mixture of astonishment, fury, admiration, and terror at the luminous halo that seems to surround his large graying head and the pale face that emerges from behind a carefully tended black beard. When the attendants finish eating, under the negligent gaze of the chiefs, the bare-chested slaves gather the leftovers, carry them to the entrance, and throw them over the multitude of gorillas. In the struggle the gorillas punch, shove, bite, and curse each other. There is scrambling, spitting, blood, shrieking. Back inside, as the gorillas recline under the fading sunlight to chew the last filaments of bloodless meat from the bones, the parade of women has started, to the rhythm of the music. One by one they leave the nervous and anxious cluster pressed into a corner of the room and enter the open space, twisting and moving their hips and jumping in ways that make their multicolored trinkets jingle. Some undress as they dance. Others are already nude when they reach the open space between the tables. The green and black attendants remain still, tense, silent, observing the twisting of the women without speaking. Only the chiefs in purple comment to each other about each woman. Some laugh and point at the dancers. Others make obscene gestures. But the top chief remains silent, ceaselessly fingering his obsidian medallion. Finally he raises his hand toward one, silently, and points to her. The slaves disappear into one of the deep side corridors and return carrying a narrow bed over their heads. They place the bed in the center of the open space. The chosen woman lays down on the bed, nude, her legs open. The top chief stands and approaches the center of the cavernous space. Two naked slaves follow close behind. The top chief stops next to the bed, makes a gesture, and the slaves undress him. One of them applies unguents to his member. The other kisses his medallion. The chief takes one last look around, to make sure everyone is watching him. He makes an imperceptible gesture to the bodyguards, allowing the multitude to approach the entrance. Then he leans over and enters the woman. A roar and cry rises from the multitude and the rows of attendants and the slaves and the group of women crowded into a corner at the moment the chief penetrates the woman. Then the music starts again.
It reverberates inside me, inaudible, and then the confused horde evaporates. Once again my eyes are open, in complete darkness. Not even the shapeless, phosphorescent, sparkling forms pass by. No sound enters from the street, the room is completely silent. I move, not shifting or turning, only shaking my legs slightly, and the bed creaks. I see the checkerboard courthouse lobby again, the black and white tiles. No one is in the lobby. I see the iron railing and the staircase.
The wiper blades rhythmically sweep away the drops that crash against the windshield, producing a monotonous, even sound. Through the side windows, the blurred city passes around me.
A dark, crackling blur emerges from the fog, where I imagine the riverbank to be.
A piece of gray meat, surrounded by boiled potatoes, in the dish, on the table, the murmur of Elvira’s skirt as she disappears into the kitchen.
I drive down San Martín, toward the city center. Myriad colors from the neon signs form brilliant, momentary images through the windshield, where the thick rain explodes and distorts my vision before the wiper blades sweep away the water and leave the glass clear again.
The gray sentry box appears and disappears quickly into the fog at the mouth of the suspension bridge.
I turn on the light.
The white marble staircase, descending from the third floor, is illuminated.
I sit up and look around the room. The white walls don’t glow because the light from the nightstand doesn’t reach them, except for the cone of pale light that softly illuminates the wall where the headboard rests. I remove the spoon from the glass and take a drink of water. I turn off the light again and close my eyes.