The One Before by Juan José Saer

Author:Juan José Saer [Saer, Juan José; Kantor, Roanne L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940953137
Publisher: Open Letter

1.Tango Cambalache (Junkshop Tango), 1935

The One Before

Earlier, others could. They would wet, slowly, in the kitchen, in the afternoon, in the winter, the cookie, soaking it, and raise, afterward, their hands, in a single movement, to their mouths, they would bite it and leave, for a moment, the sugared dough on the tip of their tongues, so that from it, from its dissolution, like dew, memory would rise, they would chew it slowly, and now suddenly they would be outside themselves, in another place, clinging to, for as long as there remained, in the first place, the tongue, the cookie, the steaming tea, the years: they would wet, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie in the cup of tea, and they knew, immediately, when they tasted it, that they were full, inside of something and carrying, inside, something, that they had, in other years, because there were years, abandoned, outside, in the world, something that could be, in one way or another, so to speak, recovered, and that there was, therefore, somewhere, what they called or what they believed ought to be—isn’t it?—a world. And now, I bring to my mouth, for the second time, the cookie soaked in tea and from it I take, tasting it, nothing, what is called nothing. I soak the cookie in the cup of tea, in the kitchen, in the winter, and raise my hand, quickly, to my mouth, I leave the sugared dough, warm, on the tip of my tongue, for a moment, and I begin to chew, slowly, and now that I am swallowing, now that there is not even a trace of flavor, I know, definitively, that I take nothing, absolutely nothing, what is called nothing. Now there is nothing, not even a trace, not even a memory of flavor: nothing. The florescent light, flickering imperceptibly, plunges into and pulls out from darkness, alternately, in the afternoon, the kitchen. I stand, with the cup in my hand, and step out into the blue semidarkness. It is cold and scintillating. The stairs are there, bare, going up to the terrace. Now I am moving forward, in the blue air, on the terrace, and in the blue semidarkness, up above, in the sky, is the moon. The great yellow circle begins, so to speak, to sparkle. And in the blue semidarkness, from the center of the open terrace, the roofs, the terraces, the illuminated windows, the apartment buildings, the six o’clock murmur that rises, monotonous, from the streets, as I go, with the cup in my hand, toward my room. Now I am sitting before the table, the empty cup beside my hands resting on top of the green folder where it says, in red ink, in large, printed letters, PARANATELLON. I am immobile: one hand resting on the other, on top of the closed green folder, where it says, in red ink, in irregular, hurried, large printed letters, PARANATELLON. The empty cup to one side, next to the folder, against a background of piled-up books, of papers, and a glass full of pencils, fountain pens, ballpoints.

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