It’s empty. Beyond the cross-shaped window frame in the waiting room the gray daylight shines darkly. I turn on the light, leave the briefcase on the desk, take off my raincoat, and hang it on the coat rack. I cross the polished wood floor to the window. In the plaza the rain soaks the palms and the orange trees. Their yellow fruit mar the hard, green leaves. The reddish paths are deserted. I turn back to the desk and sit down. From the briefcase I take out the notebook, the novel, the dictionary, and the variously colored pens. Most of page 110, marked with the folded sheet of white paper, is covered with tick marks and lines. I open the notebook, in which the black handwriting is also covered with every kind of markup: crosses, circles, vertical and horizontal lines. There are no markings on page 111 of the novel, only the evenly printed type. I read the first unmarked paragraph of page 110, softly underlining it with dashes as I go. “Your wife! Dorian!. . Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man.” “Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut life to pieces with your epigrams.” The page ends on the word epigrams. I also underline, with soft dashes, in blue ink, the first sentence of page 111: You know nothing then? In the notebook, I write in black ink with my cramped handwriting: “¡Tu esposa! ¡Dorian! ¿No has recibido mi carta?”
By the time the secretary comes in, I’ve reached the bottom of page 111. I’m translating the third to last line. All of page 111 is now covered with symbols and markups made in variously colored pens and pencils. The secretary approaches the desk, leaning his graying head toward me. “Judge,” he says, “I’ve been given a report from the precinct about a homicide that took place last night in section six.” “Yes,” I say, “They called me at home last night.” “They say there’s no space at the precinct, and if you might take his statement,” says the secretary. “We have a hearing this morning,” I say. “That can be postponed,” says the secretary. “And the witnesses?” I say. “There are some,” says the secretary. “I can’t interrogate the suspect without speaking to the witnesses first,” I say. “That’s absolutely true,” says the secretary. “Tell them to send me the witnesses early in the afternoon,” I say. “And if you can postpone the hearing, postpone it. If anyone calls or asks for me, tell them I’m at the hearing.” “When do you want the witnesses?” says the secretary. “At four,” I say. The secretary leaves. I lean over the third to last line of page 111 and softly underline, in green dashes,
They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. When the secretary returns I’m underlining the thin, green dashes on the third, second, and last lines of page 113, “Harry,” cried Dorian, coming over and sitting down beside him, “why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t think I am heartless. Do you?” He comes in just as I’m underlining the last two words. “The reporter from La Región is here, Judge,” he says. “He wants to speak to you.” “Tell him I’m busy with the deposition,” I say. “He asked me when the inquest you mentioned is going to take place,” says the secretary. “Do you think that by noon tomorrow we’ll be done with the witnesses?” I say. “I think so,” says the secretary. “Then tell him tomorrow at four,” I say. The secretary leaves. I get up and look out the window. The air has cleared up, but the rain continues. In the plaza, the palms glow. Several gorillas, hunched over in the rain, walk across the reddish paths, toward the government buildings. My watch tells me it’s ten fifty-five. I sit back down and continue translating until twelve. I put everything away in the briefcase, put on my raincoat, pass the secretary’s office, tell him that at four exactly I’m going to begin questioning the witnesses, and walk out into the corridor. I walk to the edge of the stairs, lean over the railing, and look down: the square of black and white checkerboard tiles is filled with compressed figures that swarm in close groups that break apart and reform in different parts of the checkerboard. I start to descend and the voices grow clearer until eventually they become an incomprehensible clamor when I reach the ground floor and cross the lobby toward the rear courtyard. I pass the emptier back corridors and reach the courtyard. The rain covers my face. I close my eyes for a moment and pause, but immediately I continue to the car. I get in, turn on the engine, and back out, slowly, toward the street.