Varamo by César Aira Page B

circumstances such as these would have
been a panic attack, and he did begin to have one, but it was just a beginning,
because the café wasn’t far away, and at the rate he was going, almost breaking
into a run, he would soon be there. As he drew near, he was seized by a more
definite dread: perhaps the Voices were informing others, the police for
example, of what was in his pocket. Ever since he had first heard the Voices, he
had harbored the fear that they would reveal his secrets to others who, unlike
him, would be able to understand. Luckily, he’d never had to worry about the
practical consequences of such a revelation, given his blameless conduct and the
upright life he led. Now, however, the forgery, although it was none of his
doing, was growing in the night and taking on threatening forms, as
unrecognizable things always do. He had inadvertently crossed the line between
the private and the public. A crime transformed the most private and retiring
citizen into a public figure. And from that point on, anything concealment
could, in turn, become a criminal act, in an endless proliferation.
    Th e night, however,
had something else in store. Not the police, but a motor car. From the end of
the street came one of the large official vehicles, traveling at a moderate
speed, and when it reached the corner right in front of Varamo, it collided with
another car coming along the cross street. Odd. Th ey must have been the only two cars on the road in the whole city,
or in the neighborhood anyway, and they had to go and crash into each other.
“You never know what’s going to happen.” Th e
accident, it seemed, was a truly universal concept. Th e second car, which had been the active instrument of the
collision, was much smaller than the first and flimsier (it looked like a
homemade model, put together by a handyman). In spite of which, perhaps because
of the relative velocities, or positions, the big car turned over and came to
rest upside down, while the little one continued on its way down the street with
just a few damaged panels, whose rattling was soon drowned out by the noise of
the accelerating motor. And then it was gone. Th e whole thing was over in a matter of seconds, and Varamo didn’t have
time to react. In any case, all he had to do was keep on walking (he hadn’t
stopped) to reach the overturned car in the middle of the intersection. As he
approached, he saw a man crawl out through the driver’s window, get to his feet,
feel his arms and legs to make sure that he hadn’t been injured and look up. Th e man recognized him, and his greeting was
almost cheerful. Varamo, whose reactions were slower, took a moment to recognize
the man: it was the driver from the Ministry who had given him the peso for his
mother earlier. He was black, and his teeth were shining in the dark, a sign
that he was smiling. Typically irresponsible, thought Varamo. But not
altogether. Because, just as the driver was about to open his mouth, he
remembered something; a worried look came over his face, and he turned back to
the car from which he had emerged. Th e wheels
were still spinning in the air. He leaned down to look through the side windows,
which were level with the ground, and what he saw jolted him into action. He
tried the rear door, which opened with magical ease, backwards. He started
crawling in, but first he turned to Varamo, who had reached the car by then, and
asked for his help. Inside the car was a fat man in a black suit who was
unconscious. He was in a curious position, resting on his shoulders and his
upper back, as if he had frozen in the middle of a somersault. Th e driver crawled in, righted him by pushing and
shoving, then, with Varamo’s help, pulled him out onto the pavement by the legs.
It was the Treasurer.
    It hadn’t been an accident but an attempt on the
Treasurer’s life. Although unconscious, he established a temporary office in the
house on the corner, whose occupants had been woken by his driver.