La Grande by Juan José Saer Page A

phone, who calls from some unspecified place, but at the same time to Gutiérrez, who walks beside him silently in the darkness, Nula shouts:
    â€”Where am I, you say? I’m on the river road, north of Rincón, soaked to the bone under a toy umbrella. It’s raining buckets and for the last three hours I’ve been with a client who decided to tour the landmarks of his far-off youth. Because everyone knows that when it comes to the Amigos del Vino, as the sales manager taught us during the practicum seminar, the customer is always right. Iseverything set for tomorrow, both at the same time as today? You’re a genius, Américo. Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.
    Nula hangs up the phone and puts it back in his pocket. That was my boss again, he says. He’s perfectly obedient, as you can see.
    â€”This drenching has earned you a roasted catfish, Gutiérrez says.
    â€”Are you inviting me over for dinner? Nula says. I accept, if I can bring the wine.
    â€”Why not? An astonishing country, where everything is free, Gutiérrez says.
    But it is written that tonight they won’t eat together. A light is on in the house when they arrive, and a compact black car is parked next to Nula’s green station wagon. Nula turns on the flashlight and casts the beam over the cars, the front of the house, the trees in the side courtyard, and finally shuts it off.
    â€”A visitor, Gutiérrez says, and pushes open the gate, the same white gate that, Nula recalls, Gutiérrez locked before they started their hike along the river.
    â€”Come in, I’ll introduce you, Gutiérrez says.
    â€”Is it family? Nula says, following obediently, feeling his heartbeat accelerate and trying, simultaneously, to keep his voice steady when he speaks, in such a high-pitched tone that he’s forced to cough in the middle of the sentence in order to recover his usual gravity. But Gutiérrez, who moves toward the door, closing the umbrella, doesn’t seem to hear him.
    â€”Come in, he says again, even friendlier than before. He’s about to put the key in the lock when the door opens from the inside, so suddenly that Nula jumps, an involuntary, barely audible exclamation escaping from his mouth. But Lucía, smiling, is already standing in the illuminated, rectangular doorway, and, receiving Gutiérrez, gives him a quick, noisy kiss on the cheek. Gutiérrez steps aside, and, with a slightly mysterious half-smile that Nula,stupefied by his emotions, tries unsuccessfully to interpret, assumes the need to offer them an utterly conventional introduction.
    â€”Do you know each other? Mr. Anoch, enologist and philosopher—but which comes first? Lucía Calcagno.
    Nula is about to stammer something, but Lucía preempts him.
    â€”No, she says, still smiling, and offers her hand.
    No , Nula thinks, as he holds out his own. She said no .
    â€”Good to meet you, he says, his voice breaking. They shake hands two or three times and then let go.
    â€”I had some stuff to do in the city and when I was on my way back to Paraná it occurred to me to come say hi.
    â€”Great idea, Gutiérrez says, shaking the plastic bag. There’s two catfish here begging for the oven. Come in, come in, he says to Nula again.
    Nula stands frozen in the doorway.
    â€”No, thank you, I’ll leave you to your family, he says, thinking, constantly, and evermore intensely, as they say, She said no . Another time. Sunday.
    After the door closes behind him and he starts to walk toward his car through the rainy darkness, Nula shakes his head in disbelief. She said no , he thinks, and a dry, sarcastic, inward laugh escapes his lips. The headlights, when he turns them on, illuminate the entire facade of the house, the white wooden gate, the white walls, the space that separates the gate from the front door, the trees growing alongside the house, but the image through the windshield, pearled across its surface by