Hopscotch: A Novel (Pantheon Modern Writers Series) by Julio Cortázar Read Free Book Online Page A

than a wonton in a soup.”
    Almost at the same time, they spied Gregorovius coming around the corner of the Rue de Babylone, loaded down as usual with a briefcase bulging with books. Wong and Gregorovius stopped under the lamppost (and looked as if they were taking a shower together) and greeted each other with a certain solemnity. In the doorway of Ronald’s building there was an interlude of umbrella-closing,
comment ça va,
who’s got a match, the
minuterie
is broken, what a lousy night,
ah oui c’est vache,
and a rather confused ascent, broken at the first landing by a couple sitting on the steps and deeply engaged in the act of kissing.
    “Allez, c’est pas une heure pour faire les cons,”
said Étienne.
    “Ta gueule,”
answered a muffled voice,
“montez, montez, ne vous gênez pas. Ta bouche, mon trésor.”
    “Salaud, va,”
Étienne said. “That’s Guy Monod, an old friend of mine.”
    Ronald and Babs were waiting on the fifth floor, each holding a candle and smelling of cheap vodka. Wong made a sign and everybody stopped on the stairs and broke into an
a capella
version of the profane anthem of the Serpent Club. Then they ran into the apartment before the neighbors came to their doors.
    Ronald was leaning against the door, redheadedly, wearing a checked shirt.
    “The place is surrounded by telescopes, damn it. At ten o’clock at night the great god Silence is enthroned and woe to anyone who is irreverent. Yesterday some official came up to bawl us out. What did the gentleman tell us, Babs?”
    “He mentioned ‘repeated complaints.’ ”
    “So what are we going to do?” asked Ronald as he opened the door to let Guy Monod slip in.
    “We’ll do this,” said Babs with a flawless gesture of the arm and a resonant oral fart.
    “What about your chick?” Ronald asked.
    “I don’t know, she got lost,” Guy said. “I think she’s gone. We were making out fine on the stairs, and all of a sudden. Farther up she just wasn’t there. What the hell anyway, she’s Swiss.”
    (– 104 )

10
    AT night the clouds were flat and red over the Latin Quarter, the air was still damp as a listless breeze blew a few last drops against the dimly lit window, the panes were dirty, one broken and patched up with a piece of pink adhesive. Up above, under the lead gutters, the pigeons must have been sleeping, also lead, wrapped up in themselves, perfect antigargoyles. Protected by the window was that mossy parallelepiped, smelling of vodka and candles, damp clothing and leftover food, which was a kind of studio for Babs the ceramicist and Ronald the musician, the seat of the Club, wicker chairs, stained pillows, bits of pencil and wire on the floor, a stuffed owl with half his head gone, a poorly played and corny tune on an old record with a deep needle-scratch, an incessant scratch rasp scrape, a terrible saxophone that one night in 1928 or 29 had played as if it were afraid of getting lost, backed up by schoolgirl drums, a mediocre piano. But then an incisive guitar came on which seemed to signal a transition to something else and suddenly (Ronald had alerted them by holding up his finger) a cornet broke loose from the rest of the group and blew the first notes of the melody, landing on them as on a diving board. Bix took off with everything he had, and the clear sketch was inscribed on the silence as if it had been scratched there. Two corpses sparred fraternally, clinching and breaking, Bix and Eddie Lang (whose real name was Salvatore Massaro) played catch with
I’m Coming Virginia,
and I wonder where Bix is buried, thought Oliveira, and Eddie Lang, how many miles apart are their two nothings that one future night in Paris were to fight, guitar against cornet, gin against bad luck, jazz.
    “I like it here. It’s warm, it’s dark.”
    “That Bix is a crazy son of a bitch. Put on
Jazz Me Blues.
”
    “The influence of technique on art,” said Ronald, digging hishands into a pile of records, looking casually