elimae

Lovers Hate
Silvina Ocampo and A. Bioy Casares
English Version, B. Renner

Complying strictly with my orders, the conductor woke me at 6 a.m. I executed a few brief ablutions with the remainder of the Villavicencio which I had requested before retiring, took ten globules of arsenic, dressed, and went to the dining car. My breakfast consisted of a fountain of fruits and two cups of cafe au lait (One must not forget that on the trains the tea is Ceylonese.) I lamented not being able to explain to the couple which had accompanied at supper the previous evening certain details concerning the law of intellectual property; they were traveling on past Salinas (now called Colonel Faustino Tambussi) and, undoubtedly intoxicated by the products of the alopatic pharmacopia, were dedicating to sleep those liminal hours of the morning which are, due to our negligence, the exclusive property of the countryman.
Nineteen minutes late -- at 7:02 -- the train pulled into Salinas. No one helped me with my luggage. The stationmaster -- as far as I could ascertain the only personage awake in the town -- was rather too interested in an exchange of amateurish wicker hoops with the machinist to lend a hand to a solitary passenger, oppressed by time and baggage. At last he completed his dealings with the machinist and came toward the spot where I was standing. I am not by nature rancorous and was already opening my mouth in a cordial smile and raising my hand to doff my hat when the stationmaster turned like one demented to the door of the freight car. He opened it, threw himself inside, and -- as I watched -- tossed out onto the platform five clattering bird cages. I choked back my indignation. In order to spare them from such violence, I would have myself offered to take charge of the hens. I consoled myself with the thought that more merciful hands had done battle with my suitcases.
I quickly directed myself to the rear of the station to see if the car had arrived from the hotel. It had not. Without delay I decided to question the stationmaster. After searching for a short while, I found him seated in the lobby.
"Are you looking for something?" he asked.
I did not disguise my impatience. "I am looking for you."
"Well, here I am."
"I'm waiting for the car from the Central Hotel, in Bosque del Mar."
"If you are not bothered by company, I recommend you take a seat. Here, at least, the air is moving." He checked his watch. "It's 7:14, and look how warm it is already. I tell you the truth -- there's going to be a storm."
He took a small, mother-of-pearl penknife from his pocket and began to clean his nails. I asked him if the hotel car would be much delayed. His reply? "My prognostications don't cover that point." He continued his absorption with his penknife.
"Where is the post office?" I asked.
"Go toward the water pump, past the wagons in the dead end. Go on past the tree to your right, make a sharp turn and cross in front of Zudeida's house, and don't stop till you reach the bakery. The tin hut is the post office." He traced the minutiae of the trek in the air with his hands. Then he added, "If you find the postmaster awake, I'll give you a prize."
I indicated to him where I was leaving my bags, asked him not to let the hotel car leave without me, and advanced into that open maze, under the full sun.

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