Dossier - short story - Latin America: Private Eyes & Time Travelers

Literary Review, Fall, 1994 by Antonio Benitez-Rojo, R. Kelly Washbourne

As THE GREY-TEMPLED MAN with the carnation in his lapel browsed through the papers, the man decided to slide over in his chair and stretch his right hand out to touch the newspaper. He could hardly manage to graze his hand over its jagged edge because the man with the carnation, with an obvious worried gesture, stared at him long enough to foil his plan, at least for the time being. In any event, he had managed to bring it somewhat closer to him; next time it would be easier to reach it, let it slip over the glass tabletop and fall on his lap. Naturally, everyone wore winter clothes, but it could just as easily be December as April, and something told him that it was important to know exactly the day's date: somehow that would help him remember.

"Seems like kind of a risky business," the man with the carnation said, and swept his uneasy gaze over the table.

The man to his left cleared his throat and tapped the glass gently. As he moved his wrist up and down, two comedy and tragedy masks, wrought in silver, twinkled on the perfect cuff of his shirt. Again he cleared his throat.

"This certainly is an extraordinary case," he explained, clearing his throat again. "It's a little removed from our normal way of doing things, but Silvera and I thought it seemed promising, so we decided to do a little investigating into the matter, do a couple different takes on it, then run it by you and the members, see what you think."

"I'd like to know what angle exactly it was that stirred up you gentlement's interest," said the man with the carnation, lowering his gaze to the brown cardboard dossier open in front of him. "It would be the best route for tackling the matter from the beginning."

"In that case, why don't I let Silvera do the talking? Actually he was the one who sniffed out its potential," said the man to his left, pointing with a hard smile at the young man in the blue tie.

"Fine by me. I'm glad to see that in our group the enthusiasm nearly always comes from the raw recruits. Isn't that a fact, Gomez Cuevas?"

"Could be the law of nature," muttered the old man in black to his right, wrapping himself up in the chair, only to then shrivel up like a sick cat.

Everyone, except the blonde girl, laughed discreetly. Then the man with the carnation made a kindly gesture, and Silvera began to speak. He noticed that the latter moved his hands with conviction; he thought that if he had to choose an ally among the present company, Silvera would be a strong candidate. Slyly he glanced at the newspaper on his right. Surely it was the old man's, the one called Gomez Cuevas. At least it was next to him. Seizing the opportunity, now that all eyes were on Silvera, he reached out by degrees, but noticed that among the short pauses that interrupted the report, the girl looked at him from over her shorthand. He opted to wait a moment, and drew back his arm. Oddly, the newspaper was the first thing that he had laid eyes on. Silhouetted by the glass tabletop, he thought he saw it floating next to the old man's elbow. Though strictly speaking it seemed to him that everything floated, that everything reeled in the stuporous air of violins and rose-colored reflections. Then the man with the carnation had arrived with the girl, and it was at that moment, when everyone was standing up and returning the greeting, that it dawned on him that he didn't know a soul among those present.

Still somewhat dizzy, he had tried to identify that leather-bound furniture, the engravings of maps and galleons, the old pink velvet curtains, the console with the telephones and the old antique clock in its glass case, the vases of gladioluses, asparagus and dahlias, the domed ashtrays. He was unmistakably in a meeting room. But neither did he remember having seen it before. Then, when the man to his left, before sitting, was pushing the brown dossier toward the head of the table, and the girl was proffering him something like a smile, he realized that behind those circumspect faces there was nothing, and that the only thing he could remember was the newspaper folded in quarters, floating next to the old man's elbow.

"I'll go along with Arozmendi," Silvera finished. "I think it's straying a bit from our game plan, but at the same time fairly promising."

"What do you think, Benedetto, sir?" asked the man with the carnation, half-closing his eyes and resting his fingers on his grey temples, as if it were an effort to see the enormous mass of fat and flannel seated before him.

"From a professional point of view or merely as a board member?"

"Can one really have two opinions on this matter, my good sir? If I didn't know you and then some, I'd think you're attempting to dodge my question. Although it occurs to me that perhaps you've been taking lessons from the shrewd Mr. Curiel. Hm?"

Again everyone laughed discreetly, some carrying their hands to their mouths. He had the impression that the girl had taken advantage of those moments to try to tell him something, barely moving her lips as she spoke. He simply looked at her until two or three moans made him turn his gaze toward the sickly jaundiced man seated to Silvera's left. Previously he had seen him wring his hands with the sound of bones cracking, then withdraw them from the glass, leaving a trace of sweat, to convulse them in a crumpled handkerchief. The man--Curiel, in all probability--wept, disconsolate, without hiding his face. Some tears had fallen on his tie, an article of quality but loud in appearance.