PRAISE FOR JUAN JOSÉ SAER
“A cerebral explorer of the problems of narrative in the wake of Joyce and Woolf, of Borges, of Rulfo and Arlt, Saer is also a stunning poet of place.”—The Nation
“To say that Juan José Saer is the best Argentinian writer of today is to undervalue his work. It would be better to say that Saer is one of the best writers of today in any language.”—Ricardo Piglia
“[La Grande] is a daring, idiosyncratic work that examines the idea of an individual person navigating the whirl of random events that helps shape everyone’s lives.”—Kirkus Review (starred)
“The most striking element of Saer’s writing is his prose, at once dynamic and poetic. . . . It is brilliant.”—Harvard Review
“Brilliant. . . . Saer’s The Sixty-Five Years of Washington captures the wildness of human experience in all its variety.”—New York Times
“What Saer presents marvelously is the experience of reality, and the characters’ attempts to write their own narratives within its excess.”—Bookforum
ALSO BY JUAN JOSÉ SAER
The Event
The Investigation
La Grande
Nobody Nothing Never
The One Before
Scars
The Sixty-Five Years of Washington
The Witness
Copyright © Heirs of Juan José Saer, 1997
c/o Guillermo Schavelzon & Assoc., Agencia Literaria
Translation copyright © Hilary Vaughn Dobel, 2016
Originally published in Spanish as Las nubes, 1997
First edition, 2016
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available.
ISBN-13: 978-1-940953-35-9
Design by N. J. Furl
Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press: Lattimore Hall 411, Box 270082, Rochester, NY 14627
Contents
Prologue
The Clouds
“Afford thy desire some time.”
—La Celestina, Act VI
He finds himself already at the corner by the ice cream stand, shielded from the sun by the broad red-and-white-striped awning. Before moving out of the shade to the sunny sidewalk across the street, he anticipates the feeling of heat-softened asphalt beneath the soles of his brown loafers. And now, on the gray sidewalk that shimmers and burns in the summer siesta hour, his shadow pools at his feet as if shriveled by the sun as it finally begins to sink, slowly, from its high point.
He is about to eat a double-scoop of chocolate and vanilla, his unusual lunch, and if he’s waited this long to leave his office to buy it—it’s nearly two-thirty—it is because he’s decided that the ice cream ought to get him by until dinnertime. Doubtless, the heat is the primary cause of such frugality, but a sort of athletic stoicism, as he imagines it (a result of the day’s caprice rather than habit), colors this stratagem of his ever so slightly with virtue. So he is pleased for the moment: content, spry, and healthy, and, not yet too far into his fifties, he believes he has great prospects, both immediate and long-term. He feels tall, bright, and vital, as if a red carpet stretched from the tips of his toes on to infinity. But almost immediately the harsh summer weather, the tumult of the street, and the black, noxious exhaust fumes carry him back to reality, to that midpoint in his soul between anxiety and euphoria that acquaintances—and he himself, grown convinced by what began as an idle joke—refer to with unjustified certainty as his temperament.
The heat wave has broiled the city for over a week. From a cloudless blue sky, the sun beats down with a merciless, all-pervading light that scorches the trees, muddies the senses, and dulls the mind. The heat relents only at night, and, then, only a little, but during Daylight Savings Time—strictly an administrative decision, he likes to joke, only until the hens change their minds—at the year’s height, nightfall never ends and dusk lingers until just after 3 A.M.; when everyone’s still sleepless on account of the heat, dawn breaks, livid, in the east, and the intolerable sun reappears. Crowds of people lie tanning on the riverbanks, waiting for night, rain, vacation, an unlikely breeze, but the sweaty workers who eye them from the docks or one of the bridges, from the bus or the elevated metro over the Seine, watch the crowds with skepticism rather than jealousy.
It is the sixth of July. Last year, intending to settle affairs with his few remaining friends, Pichón visited his native city for some weeks from mid-February through the beginning of April after a twenty-year absence. Despite the years, the let-downs, and the strangeness of it all, he returned to Paris with a handful of good memories and a promise from Tomatis to come visit, but a whole year has passed waiting for Tomatis to make travel plans. Certain Sundays, they would speak on the telephone though they never had anything particular to say. As they lived in different hemispheres, high summer for one meant the other had fists of frozen rain beating at his window. And because of the time difference—morning in the city is evening in Paris, and evening in the city is nighttime in Paris—the weather occupied much of their conversation. Until one Sunday in May, less than two months ago, they spoke about the weather a little longer than usual because, despite the difference in season, country, continent, and hemisphere, climatic conditions were identical (a cold, rainy day), and Tomatis announced the good news at last: in early July he would spend several days in Paris.
But that wasn’t all. Tomatis went on to say that Marcelo Soldi—that bearded lad, they’d spent a day taking his father’s dinghy out with the boys to visit Washington’s daughter, did he remember?—meant to send him something he’d been preparing over the last few months, and Tomatis, without further explanation, let drop an enigmatic phrase to pique Pichón’s interest: “He went to search for Troy and nearly tumbled into Hades.” But it must have been in earnest since, perhaps a month later, the parcel arrived: a very long letter and a floppy disk in a medium-sized, self-sticking bubble envelope, which Soldi had further sealed up with clear adhesive tape as a precautionary measure. Soldi had masculinized the word disquette and given it an accent grave, which, as written, appeared as el dìsket. In a passage from the letter, he said: “Beyond conversations with Tomatis, who can occasionally tax my patience, I’ve been amusing myself with impromptu jaunts out to the countryside and poking my nose into old papers that, often miraculously, preserve the memories of this place—or of some other place, if one happens to live elsewhere. What’s valid for one place is valid for all space, and we know that if the whole contains a part, the part, in its way, contains the whole.”
And elsewhere in the letter: “I have a certain advantage over the archive’s other aficionados: I get along with the elderly. The text I’ve sent you in the dìsket was entrusted to me by a woman in her nineties who, I believe, never actually read it. Lucky for her, she died, the poor thing, while