unlikely that there was a dining room. Th e supposition became much more plausible when he saw, as he came up to it, several trucks parked in front of the hotel. Any traveler in Argentina knows that where truck drivers stop, one eats well; therefore, one stops.
As soon as he stepped on the ground, a woman came walking toward him, although at the same time she appeared to flee from him. He wasn’t sure, because what captured his attention was the little blue car she’d alighted from.
Silvia Balero noticed that he didn’t recognize her, even though he opened the door for her on her daily visits to the seamstress. All women must have looked the same to him. He was that kind of man.
“I’m sorry to bother you, heaven knows what you’ll think of me, but may I ask you a favor?”
Siffoni looked at her with an expression that seemed impolite but was actually intrigue, because she looked familiar and he didn’t know from where.
“Could you walk me in? I mean, as if we were colleagues, traveling salesmen. Since you’re going to stay here . . . I’m nervous about going in alone.”
Finally he reacted and took off toward the door.
“No. I’m just going to have dinner.”
“Me too! Th en I’m getting back on the road!”
She wondered: Where could he have left the truck? It looked like he’d climbed out of empty air.
But the door was locked; through the curtains the lobby could be seen, dark and deserted. Ramón took a few steps in front of the building, with the woman following behind. Th e windows of a room that might have been the dining room also showed a black space on the other side, but from somewhere a few rays of smoky light reached him. Ramón Siffoni retreated a few feet. From the road he’d seen lights on, but now he didn’t know from where. He tried to make sense of the structure of the building. He couldn’t concentrate because of the perplexity his company was causing him; by the light of the moon, the woman did not look very lucid. Might she be drunk, or crazy? Th at kind of man is always thinking the worst of women, precisely because they all look the same to him.
Th e difficulties he encountered were due to the fact that the hotel’s floor plan was really unintelligible. It was a hot springs establishment whose ground floor had been adapted to the stone wellsprings in the earth; which, being bedrock, could not be removed.
But finally, coming around a sharp corner, he found himself before a lit window, and could see inside. His surprise was superlative (but his surprise was enormous every time he looked at anything that night). He stood before a scene he knew all too well: the poker table. Now, in a flash, he remembered having heard talk of this hotel, a requisite stop for all gamblers headed south, smugglers, truckers, aviators . . . An old hot springs hotel, its clientele extinct, a legendary den. He’d never thought that one day — one night — he’d see it for himself.
Before this spectacle he forgot everything, even the woman who stood on tiptoe behind him to see. Th e men, the cards, the chips, the glasses of whiskey . . . But he didn’t forget absolutely everything: there was one thing he noticed. One of the gamblers was from Pringles, and he knew him very well, not only because they were neighbors. He was the one everyone called Chiquito, the truck driver. It meant everything to see him, and understand that the trip had not been in vain, or at least that he hadn’t gone the wrong way. If he got what he wanted from him, he wouldn’t have to keep going.
He knew perfectly well how to get to a gambling table, even if all the doors were closed. His movements became confident, and Silvia Balero noticed. She followed him. Ramón knocked a few times on the window, and then on the closest door. Before anyone came to open it, he searched in his shirt pocket and pulled out a black mask. He’d had it there for some time, and he hadn’t expected to use it so soon. He put it on (it had
As soon as he stepped on the ground, a woman came walking toward him, although at the same time she appeared to flee from him. He wasn’t sure, because what captured his attention was the little blue car she’d alighted from.
Silvia Balero noticed that he didn’t recognize her, even though he opened the door for her on her daily visits to the seamstress. All women must have looked the same to him. He was that kind of man.
“I’m sorry to bother you, heaven knows what you’ll think of me, but may I ask you a favor?”
Siffoni looked at her with an expression that seemed impolite but was actually intrigue, because she looked familiar and he didn’t know from where.
“Could you walk me in? I mean, as if we were colleagues, traveling salesmen. Since you’re going to stay here . . . I’m nervous about going in alone.”
Finally he reacted and took off toward the door.
“No. I’m just going to have dinner.”
“Me too! Th en I’m getting back on the road!”
She wondered: Where could he have left the truck? It looked like he’d climbed out of empty air.
But the door was locked; through the curtains the lobby could be seen, dark and deserted. Ramón took a few steps in front of the building, with the woman following behind. Th e windows of a room that might have been the dining room also showed a black space on the other side, but from somewhere a few rays of smoky light reached him. Ramón Siffoni retreated a few feet. From the road he’d seen lights on, but now he didn’t know from where. He tried to make sense of the structure of the building. He couldn’t concentrate because of the perplexity his company was causing him; by the light of the moon, the woman did not look very lucid. Might she be drunk, or crazy? Th at kind of man is always thinking the worst of women, precisely because they all look the same to him.
Th e difficulties he encountered were due to the fact that the hotel’s floor plan was really unintelligible. It was a hot springs establishment whose ground floor had been adapted to the stone wellsprings in the earth; which, being bedrock, could not be removed.
But finally, coming around a sharp corner, he found himself before a lit window, and could see inside. His surprise was superlative (but his surprise was enormous every time he looked at anything that night). He stood before a scene he knew all too well: the poker table. Now, in a flash, he remembered having heard talk of this hotel, a requisite stop for all gamblers headed south, smugglers, truckers, aviators . . . An old hot springs hotel, its clientele extinct, a legendary den. He’d never thought that one day — one night — he’d see it for himself.
Before this spectacle he forgot everything, even the woman who stood on tiptoe behind him to see. Th e men, the cards, the chips, the glasses of whiskey . . . But he didn’t forget absolutely everything: there was one thing he noticed. One of the gamblers was from Pringles, and he knew him very well, not only because they were neighbors. He was the one everyone called Chiquito, the truck driver. It meant everything to see him, and understand that the trip had not been in vain, or at least that he hadn’t gone the wrong way. If he got what he wanted from him, he wouldn’t have to keep going.
He knew perfectly well how to get to a gambling table, even if all the doors were closed. His movements became confident, and Silvia Balero noticed. She followed him. Ramón knocked a few times on the window, and then on the closest door. Before anyone came to open it, he searched in his shirt pocket and pulled out a black mask. He’d had it there for some time, and he hadn’t expected to use it so soon. He put it on (it had
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