It’s a square room with a zinc roof supported by several joists above us. The counter is to the left of the entrance, and beyond the counter are the shelves. In the center of the room, to the right of the counter and almost in line with the entrance, is a pyramid of canned products. A small doorway covered with a cretonne curtain opens between the shelves and leads to the interior rooms. The blond gorilla is behind the counter, and he stands up suddenly when we come in. He greets us and asks if we’d like something to drink. “He was standing over there,” he says eventually, gesturing with his head toward the end of the counter that’s next to the front wall, where a meager light falls through the window. “The rest of them were more or less there, where you are. And I was standing where I am now.” I look at the secretary. “Have the reconstruction done by tomorrow afternoon,” I say, and then I look at the clerk. “Map out the place,” I say. “It’s two squares,” says the clerk, smiling and looking around, “One filled and the other empty. We just passed through the empty one. Now we’re in the filled one. When we leave, we’ll pass through the empty one again.” “Yes,” I say, “but make it just the same.” I turn back to the blond gorilla. “No one came in or out while they were here?” I say. “Not as far as I know,” says the blond gorilla. “How is it you reached the courtyard first if you were behind the counter?” “I ran,” says the blond gorilla, “And they were standing there and then followed after me.” I walk toward the door. The guard, who is watching us, steps aside. I look out. A group of onlookers gather on the sidewalk. The square courtyard is empty, covered with tracks that swirl around and tighten into crisscrosses, forming an intricate pattern in the area near the straight, muddy path of half-buried bricks. The courtyard is empty now. The blond gorilla has come around the counter and is standing next to me. The secretary is behind him, and the clerk is drawing out a map on the counter. “He drove the truck into the courtyard,” he says, “and parked it facing that way.” He makes a gesture indicating that the truck was parallel to the un-plastered brick wall, over the path. “When we came out she was over there,” says the blond gorilla, and he points to an empty space about three meters from the door, on the brick path. “Then he turned the truck around, over there, crossed the bridge, and turned the corner. The door was open.”
The courtyard is empty.
It’s raining. When we head back to the car and cross the bridge I watch the fine rainfall as it pocks the surface of the dirty water in the ditch. The bridge is covered in mud. The onlookers step aside to let us pass. Among them, in passing, I notice the gorilla in the black hat who gave a statement. We get in the car and head back to the courthouse. We pass the lateral wall of the wholesale market again, this time to our right, then alongside the front entrance to the market and the regimental gardens, to our right, and when we reach the Avenida del Sur, we turn left and head west. We cross at the light, turn on the next corner, and stop in front of the courthouse. We get out. The secretary walks next to me. We go up the wide marble steps and cross the lobby at an angle toward the stairs. The secretary veers off and says he’s going to take the elevator. The roar of voices echoing in the lobby quiets down as I move up the stairs. When I reach the third floor, they’re no longer audible. I lean over the railing and look down at the flattened shapes on the black and white floor, which is almost completely covered by the mass of them. When I reach the office the secretary is sitting behind his desk. I go straight into my office and to the window. In the Plaza de Mayo, a number of flattened gorillas wrapped in raincoats walk in different directions, blurred by the rain. I sit down at the desk. Ángel calls and asks if he can attend the inquest. He insists, and finally I say he can. We hang up. Almost at once a worker enters with the payroll and has me sign three copies. He hands me the envelope. Without opening it, I put it in the inside pocket of my jacket. I walk out and tell the secretary that I’ll be back at exactly half past three. I cross the corridor, go down the stairs, and across the checkerboard lobby, through the roar of the voices of the multitude, and out into the rear courtyard. The rain hits my face. I get in the car, steer slowly toward the street, and then turn west onto the Avenida del Sur. When I reach San Martín I turn right just as the green light changes to yellow. I drive toward the government buildings, cross the intersection, pass the San Francisco convent, and a block and a half later I stop the car next to the sidewalk, in front of my house. The rain falls over the trees in the park. Water pours from their black and fissured trunks. I go up the stairs and into the study. Elvira comes in as I’m taking off my raincoat. She says it’s barely eleven fifteen; would I like to eat now or wait? I tell her to bring something to the study.
I sit down with the novel, the dictionary, and the open notebook and the pile of pens and pencils of various colors scattered over the desk. I don’t even have time to start writing before I fall asleep. Elvira shakes me awake. She’s brought a dish with a piece of boiled meat, some bread, and a bowl of golden, steaming soup. “You have to sleep more at night,” she says. She puts down the tray and leaves. I eat the boiled meat and the bread and swallow two or three spoonfuls of soup. I leave everything on the desk, draw the curtains — in the park two young, male gorillas, one with glasses and crooked legs, the other older and fatter, with a bulging belly, are walking slowly under an umbrella, reading a book out loud, one of them holding the book and the other the umbrella, the one with glasses, who’s holding the book, gesturing as though he’s reciting — and the room gets dark. I lay down on the velvet-covered twin sofa and close my eyes.
The desolation comes just as I’m laying my head down on the velvet cushion, and then it passes.
Then the phosphorescent blurs appear, drift, and disappear. Then I don’t see anything, and I hear, but don’t see, the muted crackling of the flames growing and then fading away. Then the fire appears, and the immense wheat field burning to the horizon and going out silently.