the side. The couple seem uncomfortable, embarrassed. Whatever the reason for their summons, they hadn’t thought it would go this far. The man, meanwhile, puffs out his cheeks, holding back a smile.
My name is called.
‘Bernardo Yasky, court clerk,’ is how he introduces himself.
He’s young, with very thick eyebrows, neither fat nor thin, neither ugly nor handsome, with smooth skin and stubby hands. He doesn’t make eye contact for a single second during the half hour I’m there. He’s wearing a white shirt with thin blue and grey stripes, and a regulation black tie. His chest is very hairy, lots of little black curls showing through his shirt.
I tell him everything, almost exactly, while he types from memory, not watching the screen, his hands agile, as if they’d broken away from the rest of his body. He types and smokes. Afterwards, without looking at me, he reads out my statement.
Finally, he asks if I want to add anything. No, it’s fine like that. Then, at top speed, he finishes combining my words with the legal forms. Done, he says and wheels his chair over to the printer. He hurries the pages, pulling them out before they’re quite ready, and lays them in front of me as if this were a hand of poker and these were my cards. The guy stretches out his legs beneath the desk and unintentionally kicks my ankle with the toe of his shoe. I jump, I wasn’t expecting it and he over-apologises.
But he doesn’t draw back his legs, and once or twice I feel them brush mine again, inadvertently. As he marks the places where I have to sign with a faint pencil cross, he says, without lifting his eyes from the papers, almost smiling:
‘I’m rather clumsy.’
I read the last paragraph before signing: (…) I SWEAR under penalty of perjury that I have told the truth to the best of my knowledge and belief in response to the questions I have been asked . I sign, doubtfully.
Afterwards, next to the door, imprisoned between two high shelves filled to the brim with boxes that could land on top of us at any moment, we say goodbye with a handshake. He has the last word: We’ll probably summons you again, he says, and releases my hand.
Since I finished somewhat earlier than expected, I decide to walk to the surgery to kill time. I think about Aída, I go over my statement in my mind. At no point did I lie.
I arrive at the surgery and, behind the counter, a girl I’ve never seen before mistakes me for a client. I tell her who I am and her smile tightens slightly. From the till, she removes an envelope with my name on it. It’s the owner’s handwriting, I know it well. She says she’s sorry, but she has to sack me, she says I left her no alternative. In fact, she’s not sacking me, she’s asking me not to complicate things and to send her my resignation. She’s also left me a bit of money, compensation I suppose.
My gaze moves swiftly across this animal world that was mine for almost six months. I thank the girl by raising a hand, leaving the letter on the counter. She purses her lips and raises her shoulders, apologising for something that wasn’t her doing. She seems happy with her new job. I wonder whether I ought to give her some practical advice.
I spend the next few days and nights in the Hotel Kalton. The night watchman gets me a television in return for a tip. I eat in bed, I watch all the programmes and when I get bored I turn to the Brazilian bible, which I read in parts, at random, wherever it falls open. I understand Portuguese much better than I thought I did. It’s a pleasing language, full of the sounds of the wind. I’ve been paid up to and including Friday, so I just let myself be.
NINE
On Saturday, I take the train again and I’m in Open Door before midday. I was in two minds about whether to bring the Brazilian bible with me, but no, why would I need it.
I arrive at the house on foot, I don’t have a single peso left, not even enough for the bus. It feels like a long way. Jaime was
My name is called.
‘Bernardo Yasky, court clerk,’ is how he introduces himself.
He’s young, with very thick eyebrows, neither fat nor thin, neither ugly nor handsome, with smooth skin and stubby hands. He doesn’t make eye contact for a single second during the half hour I’m there. He’s wearing a white shirt with thin blue and grey stripes, and a regulation black tie. His chest is very hairy, lots of little black curls showing through his shirt.
I tell him everything, almost exactly, while he types from memory, not watching the screen, his hands agile, as if they’d broken away from the rest of his body. He types and smokes. Afterwards, without looking at me, he reads out my statement.
Finally, he asks if I want to add anything. No, it’s fine like that. Then, at top speed, he finishes combining my words with the legal forms. Done, he says and wheels his chair over to the printer. He hurries the pages, pulling them out before they’re quite ready, and lays them in front of me as if this were a hand of poker and these were my cards. The guy stretches out his legs beneath the desk and unintentionally kicks my ankle with the toe of his shoe. I jump, I wasn’t expecting it and he over-apologises.
But he doesn’t draw back his legs, and once or twice I feel them brush mine again, inadvertently. As he marks the places where I have to sign with a faint pencil cross, he says, without lifting his eyes from the papers, almost smiling:
‘I’m rather clumsy.’
I read the last paragraph before signing: (…) I SWEAR under penalty of perjury that I have told the truth to the best of my knowledge and belief in response to the questions I have been asked . I sign, doubtfully.
Afterwards, next to the door, imprisoned between two high shelves filled to the brim with boxes that could land on top of us at any moment, we say goodbye with a handshake. He has the last word: We’ll probably summons you again, he says, and releases my hand.
Since I finished somewhat earlier than expected, I decide to walk to the surgery to kill time. I think about Aída, I go over my statement in my mind. At no point did I lie.
I arrive at the surgery and, behind the counter, a girl I’ve never seen before mistakes me for a client. I tell her who I am and her smile tightens slightly. From the till, she removes an envelope with my name on it. It’s the owner’s handwriting, I know it well. She says she’s sorry, but she has to sack me, she says I left her no alternative. In fact, she’s not sacking me, she’s asking me not to complicate things and to send her my resignation. She’s also left me a bit of money, compensation I suppose.
My gaze moves swiftly across this animal world that was mine for almost six months. I thank the girl by raising a hand, leaving the letter on the counter. She purses her lips and raises her shoulders, apologising for something that wasn’t her doing. She seems happy with her new job. I wonder whether I ought to give her some practical advice.
I spend the next few days and nights in the Hotel Kalton. The night watchman gets me a television in return for a tip. I eat in bed, I watch all the programmes and when I get bored I turn to the Brazilian bible, which I read in parts, at random, wherever it falls open. I understand Portuguese much better than I thought I did. It’s a pleasing language, full of the sounds of the wind. I’ve been paid up to and including Friday, so I just let myself be.
NINE
On Saturday, I take the train again and I’m in Open Door before midday. I was in two minds about whether to bring the Brazilian bible with me, but no, why would I need it.
I arrive at the house on foot, I don’t have a single peso left, not even enough for the bus. It feels like a long way. Jaime was
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