Final Exam by Julio Cortázar

Author:Julio Cortázar [Cortázar, Julio]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: e978-0-8112-2498-7
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2013-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

Clara was finishing her dessert, and Bebe was cutting another pin-up out of Life. On Juan’s plate, the cheese was oozing like yellow rubber.

“Extra creamy,” he said to Bebe. “Very good for those taking exams.”

“Just think, it comes from the refrigerator,” said Mr. Funes.

“Are you happy with your refrigerator?” asked Clara, eating distractedly.

“It’s perfect. Nine cubic feet, marvelous.”

“It’s huge,” said Bebe. “It makes you want to get inside.”

“Like a mummy in a case,” said Clara.

Juan listened, as if at a distance. More dessert appeared, and he ate a little; but the memory of something the chronicler said about mushrooms worried him. Poor chronicler.

“The six cubic-feet refrigerators are worthless,” the father was saying to his son.

“Very small,” said Bebe. “You put a head of lettuce and a carrot in, and there’s no room for anything else.”

“And besides, this one has a dry cold.”

Clara went on finishing her dessert, then rolled her eyes back, resting her forehead on her free hand.

“The people in Apartment 4 have one that runs on kerosene. Disgusting, huh?”

“That’s garbage, Bebe. You can’t tell me that kerosene makes cold.”

Sighing, Juan got up so he could sit farther away on the sofa, the one that had been his mother-in-law’s favorite. He began to write, sadly, having forgotten about Abelito and the exam. He passed the paper to Clara who had come over to keep him company. She could see that the verses were written on Abel’s envelope, which was now coming apart, spread-eagle like a cross. On one end, Juan had made an awkward drawing of a refrigerator.

“Enthronement,” Clara read aloud.

Here it is, they’ve brought it in, contemplate it—o sugared snow, o tabernacle!

The day was propitious and mama went to buy flowers; and the sisters sighed, deceased.

Air of expectancy, access to jubilation, here it is!

Hallelujah!

Heart without teeth, cube of the most crystal of crystals, ivory inlay!

(But the father disposes pure pause, and perfumes.

The silence with joined hands: let there be contemplation. We were there. We dared,

barely—)

Here it is; they’ve already brought it, snow tabernacle.

As long as it accompanies us we shall live

as long as it wishes we shall live.

Hosanna, Westinghouse, hosanna hosanna!

“You’re nuts,” said Bebe.

“And after all that, you can’t understand a thing, as usual,” said Mr. Funes. “Aren’t you having your dessert?” He called Irma to bring in dry plates, please, and Irma apologized, saying it was the humidity of the day—she took his observations to heart. Bebe defended her with wit and she thanked him, vigorously drying a flat plate so Mr. Funes could have cheese.

“It’s cruel,” Clara murmured, leaning on Juan. “Everything you write these days seems so cruel to me.”

“It’s to the point: Reasons for anger.”

“Poor us,” said Clara, as if she were asleep. “The distance we’ve yet to travel today, and how tired we are.”

“Traveling doesn’t make you tired. If we could only learn to disassociate those two things.”

In a very low voice (and Mr. Funes was fuming now), he added: “I need a poetry of denunciation, see? Not social-consciousness idiocy, not a correspondence course.

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