The Secret in Their Eyes Read Free Page A

remote possibility that this will be the page on which the story I allegedly intend to tell will at last begin. Sixty years old, and I’m clearly as far from being a writer as I am from playing basketball again.
    For the past several days, I’ve sought to resolve certain questions crucial to my project. My plan was to start theactual writing only after I found the answers, because I dreaded the exact situation I now find myself in: sitting in front of the typewriter and chasing my tail while the last vestiges of my resolve evaporate. Early on, I realized that I don’t have enough imagination to write a novel. My solution was to write without inventing anything, that is, to narrate a true story, to give an account of events to which I had been, although indirectly, a witness. And so I decided to tell the story of Ricardo Morales. I made this decision because of the reasons I gave at the beginning, because it’s a story that needs no additions from me, and because, since I know it’s true, I may dare to recount it all the way to the end. I won’t have to incur the shame of telling lies in order to fill in gaps or enhance the plot or persuade the reader not to chuck the book away after fifteen pages.
    Having decided on a subject, I consider the first practical difficulty: What grammatical person am I going to write this thing in? When speaking of myself, should I say “I,” or should I say “Chaparro”? It makes me gloomy to think that this single obstacle suffices to dampen all my literary enthusiasm. What if I choose to tell my story in the third person? Maybe that would be the best choice, as I wouldn’t be tempted to make use of excessively personal impressions and experiences. I’m quite clear about that. I’m not trying to reach or provoke any kind of catharsis with this book, or (to be more exact) with thisembryo of a book; nevertheless, the first person feels more comfortable. That’s because I’m inexperienced, I suppose, but in any case, it feels more comfortable. And what do I do about the parts of the story I didn’t witness directly, those parts I can intuit, even though I have no certain knowledge of them? Do I include them in the story, just like the parts I know about for sure? Do I make them up from A to Z? Do I ignore them?
    Let’s simplify things and go step by step. I’ll begin in the first person. That’s hard enough; I don’t need to go looking for more difficulties. And it will be better to tell what I know or presume to be true; otherwise, no one’s going to understand a fucking thing, including me. Another problem is my vocabulary; the word “fucking” jumps out of that last sentence like a neon light surrounded by darkness. Should I use everyday coarseness and crudeness? Should I eliminate such expressions from my written language? Ah, fuck it, too many questions—and there I go again. The only logical conclusion I can reach is that I’ve got a foul mouth.
    And here’s something even worse: I’m going to write Morales’s story, that’s clear, but it means I have to begin at the beginning. And which beginning would that be? Although I think my narrative skills are pretty pedestrian, I’ve got enough discernment to see that the old “Once upon a time” formula isn’t going to work here. So what am I to do? Where’s the beginning? It’s notthat this story doesn’t have a beginning. The problem is that it has four or five possible beginnings, all of them distinct from one another. A young man kisses his wife good-bye at the door of their apartment, walks with her down the hall, kisses her again, and steps out into the street, on his way to work. Or two guys, dozing at a desk, jump at the sudden, strident ringing of a telephone. Or a young woman who’s just been awarded her school teaching degree poses for a group photo with other graduates. Or a judicial employee, namely me, thirty years after all those possible beginnings, receives a handwritten letter from an unlikely