Man of the Pink Corner: A Borgesian Tango of Fate
Man of the Pink Corner
By Jorge Luis Borges
To me, as then, they talked of the late Francisco Real. I met him in these very neighborhoods. They weren’t remote because he frequented the North, around Lake Guadalupe and Power. Above, I tried three times to forget that night, but the night won’t let me. It was the night the Lujanera came to sleep on my ranch and Rosendo Juárez left the Arroyo, never to return.
You, of course, lack the experience to recognize that name, but the Slasher, Rosendo Juárez, was among the toughest in Villa Santa Rita. A renowned knife fighter, he was one of Nicolás Paredes’ men, who in turn served Morel. I often saw him arrive at the brothel, dressed in dark, silver-trimmed clothes. Men, dogs, and even the Chinese respected him. No one dared cross him. He was a walking death sentence, wearing a tall, narrow-brimmed hat on his greasy hair, his luck seemingly endless.
The young men of the town copied his way of spitting. However, one night revealed Rosendo’s true nature. It seems like a fable, but the story of that night began with a brazen gardener’s red cart, full of men jolting down the dirt alleys between the brick kilns. Two black men played stunning guitar riffs, and the crack of a whip scattered stray dogs. A silent, suspicious man sat in the middle—a seasoned corralero, a dangerous man, a killer.
The night was refreshingly cool. Two men were slumped on the cart’s hood, as if loneliness had turned into a parade. That was the first of many such nights, but we only understood later. The boys gathered early at Julia’s place, a zinc-roofed shed between the road and Maldonado. It was a place visible from afar, its light and noise commanding attention. Julia, though of humble origins, was refined and formal, so there was no shortage of musicians, strong drinks, or dance partners. But the Lujanera, Rosendo’s wife, kept everyone at bay.
She’s dead now, sir, and there are years I don’t think about it, but I saw her with my own eyes that night. Seeing her kept me awake. The cane, the milonga, the women—all whispered Rosendo’s name. He swaggered through the crowd, and I, trying to be friendly, felt a strange happiness. I found a dance partner, a woman who seemed to anticipate my every move. The tango consumed us; we lost ourselves in the music, swept away by its rhythm.
Suddenly, the music swelled, mingling with the approaching guitarists from the cart. Then the breeze shifted, carrying the music away, and I returned to my partner and the dance. A loud knock echoed on the door, followed by a voice. Silence fell. A powerful figure filled the doorway. It was Francisco Real, a tall, stocky man dressed in black, a tan scarf slung over his shoulder. His face, as I recall, had indigenous features.
He knocked again. The door opened. Stunned, I froze, my left foot on the threshold, my right hand reaching for the knife in my vest. My escape was short-lived. The man stretched out his arm, brushing me aside like an insect. I crouched behind the door, my hand still on my useless weapon. He continued as if nothing had happened.
The first onlookers scattered. The confrontation was swift. In the next room, the Englishman waited. Before he could react, the stranger’s hand landed on his shoulder, and he crumpled to the floor. The place was deep, and he fell like a felled tree, wheezing and spitting. He threw punches, then open-handed slaps at the stranger’s scarf, laughing. He seemed to be saving himself for Rosendo, who stood silently in the back. He whistled, fixing his cigarette, as if understanding what was to come.
The corralero lunged, strong and bloody, fueled by some inner fire. Whistling, spitting, he finally spoke to Rosendo: “I am Francisco Real, a man from the North. I am Francisco Real, the one they call the Corralero. I won’t raise my hand against these weaklings. I’m looking for a man. They say there’s a knife fighter around here, a bad one, they call him the Slasher. I want to find him, to teach him what a real man is.”
He kept his eyes fixed on Rosendo. A large knife gleamed in his right hand. Some of the crowd pushed forward, while others watched in silence. I saw six or seven men blocking the corralero’s exit. The oldest, a tanned man with a graying mustache, stepped forward respectfully. The others watched, ready to intervene. Rosendo remained silent, avoiding eye contact. His cigar dropped from his face. He finally spoke, but so softly that we couldn’t hear. Francisco Real challenged him, and he refused.
The Lujanera, disgusted, pushed through the crowd, unsheathed her knife, and addressed Rosendo: “Rosendo, I think he’s talking about you.” A high window overlooked the creek. Rosendo took the knife, then suddenly flung it back. It flew through the window and landed in Maldonado. A chill ran down my spine. “Disgusting,” Francisco Real muttered, raising his hand to strike. The Lujanera grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said fiercely, “Leave him be. We thought he was a man.”
Francisco Real hesitated, then embraced her and called for the musicians to play. The milonga spread like wildfire. Real danced seriously, with unexpected grace. He reached the door and shouted, “Open up, gentlemen, I’ve had enough!” He left, his head held high, as if carried by the tango’s swell. I must have blushed with shame. I excused myself and stepped outside. It was a beautiful night. For whom?
At the corner stood the gardener with his guitars. I felt a surge of anger at the absurdity of it all. I slapped him, sending him sprawling, and stared into space. I wanted the night to end. Suddenly, an elbow jabbed me—it was Rosendo, running through the neighborhood. “Always a nuisance,” he muttered, disappearing into the darkness. I stared at the sky, the creek, the sleeping horse, the dead earth, the ovens, and felt like just another weed, brought up among the toads and bones.
Was I going to leave like that, screaming for justice, but quietly, so as not to cause a scene? I felt a sense of obligation to stay. The milonga, the commotion, the scent of honeysuckle in the wind—it was a beautiful night. The stars seemed to spin. I struggled against the cowardice Rosendo’s actions represented. Even the tall man’s illness had been caused by this woman. For that, and for many other reasons, I thought, because the Lujanera was a serious matter.
God knows where they went. They couldn’t be far. Maybe they were together in some ditch. I returned to the dance hall, blending into the crowd. Some of the locals were dancing with the northerners. There was suspicion, but also a strange camaraderie. The music seemed drowsy. Then we heard a woman’s cry, and Francisco Real’s voice, calm, almost too calm: “Open up, my daughter!” Another cry. Then his voice, desperate: “I said open up! Open up, gaucho! Open the damn door, bitch!”
The door opened, and the Lujanera entered, alone. Her face was like that of a drunkard. She walked to the center of the room and collapsed. “One dead,” someone said. Her face was stained with blood. A deep wound gaped in her chest. The women brought a cane and burnt rags. The Lujanera looked lost. She said that after leaving with the corralero, a stranger attacked them, stabbing her. She swore she didn’t know who it was, and it wasn’t Rosendo. Who would believe her?
The man was dying at our feet. I hadn’t felt a flicker of fear as I watched. He was tough. When Julia brought him mate, he took a sip and returned it before dying. “Cover my face,” he whispered. Someone placed his tall hat over his face. He died beneath it, without complaint. When they turned him over, we saw the wound. He had the exhausted look of the dead, but he was the bravest man there. “Dead but still demanding respect,” someone said. “Such a proud man, and now only fit for the flies,” said another.
The northerners left, repeating, “He killed the woman.” “Look at her hands!” I shouted. “Does she have the strength to wield a knife? Who would have thought that the tough guy, the so-called bad man of the neighborhood, would end up dead in a ditch, while the other walks away?” No one answered.
The sound of horsemen approached. It was the police. It was decided to move the body to the creek. They lifted him through the window, his hands adorned with rings. A splash, and the water carried him away. To prevent him from floating, they weighed him down. I didn’t look. The gray-mustached man watched me. The Lujanera left. When the police entered, the dance was half-heartedly resuming. The blind man played his violin. I left for my ranch, three blocks away. A light flickered in the window, then went out. I hurried home, then I remembered. I reached for the knife in my jacket, near my left armpit. It was clean, innocent, without a trace of blood.