When he looked up again, he was surrounded by friends and colleagues, but Pereda was gone.
This habit of playing games (not to speak of Monopoly) seemed ill-bred and dishonorable to Pereda.
The publisher replied in the affirmative, and only then did Pereda realize that he was crying.
You look after yourself, Pereda said, and set off in the direction of his ranch.
The judge, less given to speculation, simply thought that Pereda had gone off on a tangent.
Feeling exhausted, Pereda trudged to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed without taking off his boots.
As she spoke, Pereda watched the rabbits that had appeared on the other side of the tracks.
Around the table sat the host, the woman who had appeared earlier, the children, the gaucho, and Pereda.
Pereda was inwardly satisfied by the thought that the scene was like something from a story by di Benedetto.
The only problem with her, Pereda thought, was that she talked a lot.
This is where we part company, Pereda said, and pulled out his knife.
Pereda thought it was a joke and responded with a quick, dry laugh.
Pereda scrutinized the man: he needed a new uniform and a haircut, urgently.
Other gauchos and storekeepers soon joined in these conversations, and sometimes even children came to hear the stories Pereda told.
His old friends hardly recognized this new Pereda as the lawyer they had known, who had been irreproachable in every respect.
Your health, he said, handing Pereda the glass, which he half filled with a clear liquid that seemed to be pure alcohol.
When Bebe came back from the United States, where he had spent a year teaching at a university, Pereda had aged prematurely.
The amazing thing is that I can remember their phone numbers, Pereda thought, sitting in the dark living room of his house.
None of them, in fact, Pereda included, wanted to think about time.
Pereda realized that he had grasped his knife, then let himself go.
Before Pereda knew what was going on, the writer was upon him.
The bread was hard and unleavened, the way the Jews make it, Pereda thought, remembering his Jewish wife with a touch of nostalgia.
Pereda never saw a single rabbit in the jeep, only the skins, because the gaucho skinned them on the spot, beside the traps.
It seemed that Pereda and the cows were bound for the end of the world, but they had just gone out for a walk.
Some nights, especially when gauchos from out of town or some disoriented travelling salesman turned up, Pereda felt a powerful desire to start a fight.
Pereda asked him how he could get there, and the gardener walked a couple of blocks with him, to a vacant lot full of rubble.
At another, closer to the window through which Pereda was spying, he saw a group of writers who looked as if they worked in advertising.
Day was about to break when Pereda and the psychiatrist left.
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