Continuation of the Parks

Continuation of the Parks

By Julio Cortazar

He had begun reading the novel a few days before. He set it aside because of pressing business demands, and took it up again on the train ride back to his country estate; slowly he let himself become interested in the plot and characters. That afternoon, writing a letter to his attorney and discussing with his ranch foreman a matter related to legacies, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study, which faced on the oak park. Settled comfortably into his favorite chair, his back to the door that would have distracted him as the potential source of intrusion, he gave his left hand up to idle stroking of the green velvet as he started in on the final chapters. His mind effortlessly retained the names and the physical appearance of the protagonists : the novelistic illusion conquered hi almost immediately. He relished the almost perverse pleasure of releasing himself. Line by line, from his surroundings and sensing at the same time that his head was resting comfortably against the velvet of the chair’s high back, that the cigarettes were within easy reach, that beyond the broad windows the air of the gathering dusk danced beneath the oaks. Word by word, absorbed by the sordid dilemma of the characters, allowing himself to approach the images that began to harmonize and acquire color and movement, he became witness to the last encounter at the mountain lodge. First the woman entered, fearfully; now the lover arrived, his face scratched by the lash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rejected her caresses; he had not come to repeat the rituals of a secret passion that was sheltered by countless dried leaves and furtive paths. The dagger grew warm at his breast, and beneath it thrbbed his crouching freedom. A gasping dialogue coursed over the pages like a stream of serpents, and the reader sensed that everything had been decided from the outset. Even those caresses that entagled the body of the lover, as if to retain him and dissuade him, abominably traced the form of another body that had to be destroyed, Nothing had been overlooked: alibis, hazards, possible mischances. From that moment on, each instant had its meticulously designated use. Their merciless review was scarcely interrupted bu a hand stroking a cheek. It was growing dark.

A wall. Photo by Elena

Now, without looking at each other, rigidly bound to the task that awaited them, they separated at the door of the lodge. She was to follow the path that led to the north. From the opposite trail he turned back to see her runing off, heer hair loosened and flowing. Then he too ran, taking cover behind trees and hedges, until he distinguished through the gentle mist of dusk the tree-lined walk that led to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark ad they did not bark. The foreman would not be about at that hour and he was not. He went up the three steps to the porch and then entered the house. Over the sound of blood pounding in his ears there came the words of the woman: first a blue room, then a hallway, a carpeted stairway. Upstairs, two doors. No one beyond the first one, nor the second. The door of the drawing room, and then the dagger in his hand, the light of the two large windows, the tall back of a green velvet-covered chair, the head of the man seated in the chair reading a novel.

(Translated by Donald A. Yates).