Continuity of the Parks By Julio Cortázar
He had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door--even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it--he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, licked up the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover's body, as
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though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the fame of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over reexamination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.
Not looking at each other now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running, her hair loosened and flying. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog of dusk, he could distinguish the avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, and they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman's words reached him over a thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then a hall, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then, the knife in his hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.
-----------------------The End-----------------------
花园余影
[阿根廷]胡利奥·科塔萨尔
几天前，他开始读那本小说。因为有些紧急的事务性会谈，他把书搁下了，在坐火车回自己庄园的途中，他又打开了书；他不由得慢慢对那些情节、人物性格发生了兴趣。那天下午，他给庄园代理
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人写了一封授权信并和他讨论了庄园的共同所有权问题之后，便坐在静悄悄的、面对着有橡树的花园的书房里，重新回到了书本上。他懒洋洋地倚在舒适的扶手椅里，椅子背朝着房门——只要他一想到这门，想到有可能会受人骚扰就使他恼怒——用左手来回地抚摸着椅子扶手上绿色天鹅绒装饰布，开始读最后的几章。他毫不费力就记起了人名，脑中浮现出人物，小说几乎一下子就迷住了他。他感受到一种简直是不同寻常的欢愉，因为他正在从缠绕心头的各种事务中一一解脱；同时，他又感到自己的头正舒适地靠在绿色天鹅绒的高椅背上，意识到烟卷呆呆地被夹在自己伸出的手里，而越过窗门，那下午的微风正在花园的橡树底下跳舞。一字一行地，他被那男女主人公的困境窘态吸引了，情不自禁地陷入了幻景之中，他变成了那山间小屋里的最后一幕的目击者。那女的先来，神情忧虑不安；接着，她的情人进来了，他脸上被树枝划了一道口子。她万分敬慕，想用亲吻去止住那血，但他却断然拒绝她的爱抚，在周围一片枯枝残叶和条条林中诡秘小路的庇护之中，他没有重演那套隐蔽的、情欲冲动。那把短剑靠在他胸口变得温暖了，在胸膛里，自由的意志愤然涌起而又隐而不露。一段激动的、充满情欲的对话象一条条蛇似地从纸面上一溜而过，使人觉得这一切都象来自永恒的天意。就是那缠住情人身体的爱抚，表面上似乎想挽留他、制止他，它们却令人生厌地勾勒出那另一个人的必须去经受毁灭的身躯。什么也没有忘记：托词借口、意外的机遇、可能的错误。从此时起，每一瞬间都有其精心设计好的妙用。那不通人情的、对细节的再次检查突然中断，致使一只手可以抚摸一张脸颊。这时天色开始暗下来。
现在，两人没有相对而视，由于一心执意于那等待着他们的艰巨任务，他们在小屋门前分手了。她沿着伸向北面的小径走去。他呢，站在相反方向的小路上，侧身望了好一会儿，望着她远去，她的头发松蓬蓬的，在风里吹拂。随后，他也走了，屈着身体穿过树林和篱笆，在昏黄的尘雾里，他一直走，直到能辨认出那条通向大屋子的林荫道。料想狗是不会叫的，它们果真没有叫。庄园管家在这时分是不会在庄园里的，他果真不在。他走上门廊前的三级台阶，进了屋子。那女人的话音在血的滴答声里还在他耳里响着：先经过一间蓝色的前厅，接着是大厅，再接着便是一条铺着地毯的长长的楼梯。楼梯顶端，两扇门。第一个房间空无一人，第二个房间也空无一人。接着，就是会客室的门，他手握刀子，看到那从大窗户里射出的灯光，那饰着绿色天鹅绒的扶手椅高背上露出的人头，那人正在阅读
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一本小说。
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