Continuity of Parks

SPANISH Continuidad de los parques

By Julio Cortázar

Have you ever been so enchanted by a text that its world became your world and your world its world? So bewitched that reality and fictional reality and the

Había empezado a leer la novela unos días antes. La abandonó por negocios urgentes, volvió a abrirla cuando regresaba en tren a la finca; se dejaba interesar lentamente por la trama, por el dibujo de los personajes. Esa tarde, después de escribir una carta a su apoderado y discutir con el mayordomo una cuestión de aparcerías, volvió al libro en la tranquilidad del estudio que miraba hacia el parque de los robles. Arrellanado en su sillón favorito, de espaldas a la puerta que lo hubiera molestado como una irritante posibilidad de intrusiones, dejó que su mano izquierda acariciara una y otra vez el terciopelo verde y se puso a leer los últimos capítulos. Su memoria retenía sin esfuerzo los nombres y las imágenes de los protagonistas; la ilusión novelesca lo ganó casi en seguida. Gozaba del placer casi perverso de irse desgajando línea a línea de la que lo rodeaba, y sentir a la vez que su cabeza descansaba cómodamente en el terciopelo del alto respaldo, que los cigarrillos seguían al alcance de la mano, que más allá de los ventanales danzaba el aire del atardecer bajo los robles. Palabra a palabra, absorbido por la sórdida disyuntiva de los héroes, dejándose ir hacia las imágenes que se concertaban y adquirían color y movimiento, fue testigo del último encuentro en la cabaña del monte. Primero entraba la mujer, recelosa; ahora llegaba el amante, lastimada la cara por el chicotazo de una rama. Admirablemente restañaba ella la sangre con sus besos, pero él rechazaba las caricias, no había venido para repetir las ceremonias de una pasión secreta, protegida por un mundo de hojas secas y senderos furtivos. El puñal se entibiaba contra su pecho, y debajo latía la libertad agazapada. Un diálogo anhelante corría por las páginas como un arroyo de serpientes, y se sentía que todo estaba decidido desde siempre. Hasta esas caricias que enredaban el cuerpo del amante como queriendo retenerlo y disuadirlo, dibujaban abominablemente la figura de otro cuerpo que era necesario destruir. Nada había sido olvidado: coartadas, azares, posibles errores. A partir de esa hora cada instante tenía su empleo minuciosamente atribuido. El doble repaso despiadado se interrumpía apenas para que una mano

fictional reality of that fictional reality suddenly became permeable and started leaking into one another? You should try it some time. It’s terrifying.

ENGLISH Continuity of Parks

translated by Conor Brendan Dunne

He had started reading the novel a few days earlier. He set it aside to tend to some urgent business, then returned to it on the train journey back to the estate, slowly allowing the plot and its characters to draw him in. That evening, after he had written a letter to his attorney and discussed the sharecropping issue with the steward, he resumed reading in the comfort of his study, which looked out onto the oak park. He settled into his favourite armchair with his back to the door, which would otherwise have annoyed him because it implied potential intrusions. He allowed his left hand to stroke the green velvet armrest as he turned his attention to the final chapters. The names and faces of the protagonists came back to him at once, and he was soon under their literary spell. He savoured the almost perverse pleasure of drifting away, line by line, from his surroundings, while at the same time remaining aware of his head resting comfortably against the tall velvet backrest, his cigarillos lying within reach and, on the other side of the picture window, the evening breeze dancing beneath the oak trees. Engrossed by the sordid predicament of the main characters, he allowed himself to be carried off, one word at a time, by the flow of rich and vivid images. He was there for their final meeting in the cabin. The woman arrived first, looking anxious, followed by her lover, whose cheek had been cut by a wayward branch. She tried to staunch the blood with her kisses, but he pushed her away. He had not come for the ritual of yet another tryst in this haven of dry leaves and secret paths. The dagger felt warm against his chest, and underneath an eager freedom was beating. A breathless dialogue streamed down the pages like a river of snakes, and it was as though everything had been decided since the beginning. Her caresses, which spun a web around his body as if wanting to detain and deter him, merely traced the abominable outline of another body that needed to be destroyed. Nothing had been overlooked – not alibis, not mishaps, not any potential errors. From this moment on, every instant had its meticulously assigned purpose. A ruthless double-check was only