classes ::: Fiction, chapter, Jorge_Luis_Borges, Labyrinths,
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branches ::: Emma Zunz
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object:Emma Zunz
class:Fiction
class:chapter
author class:Jorge Luis Borges
book class:Labyrinths


Emma Zunz
R
eturning home from the Tarbuch and Loewenthal textile mills on the
14th of January, 1922, Emma Zunz discovered in the rear of the
entrance hall a letter, posted in Brazil, which informed her that her father
had died. The stamp and the envelope deceived her at first; then the
unfamiliar handwriting made her uneasy. Nine or ten lines tried to fill up the
page; Emma read that Mr. Maier had taken by mistake a large dose of
veronal and had died on the third of the month in the hospital of Bagé. A
boarding-house friend of her father had signed the letter, some Fein or Fain
from Río Grande, with no way of knowing that he was addressing the
deceased's daughter.
Emma dropped the paper. Her first impression was of a weak feeling
in her stomach and in her knees; then of blind guilt, of unreality, of coldness,
of fear; then she wished that it were already the next day. Immediately
afterward she realized that that wish was futile because the death of her
father was the only thing that had happened in the world, and it would go on
happening endlessly. She picked up the piece of paper and went to her room.
Furtively, she hid it in a drawer, as if somehow she already knew the ulterior
facts. She had already begun to suspect them, perhaps; she had already
become the person she would be.
In the growing darkness, Emma wept until the end of that day for the
suicide of Manuel Maier, who in the old happy days was Emmanuel Zunz.
She remembered summer vacations at a little farm near Gualeguay, she
remembered (tried to remember) her mother, she remembered the little
house at Lanús which had been auctioned off, she remembered the yellow
lozenges of a window, she remembered the warrant for arrest, the ignominy,
she remembered the poison-pen letters with the newspaper's account of "the
cashier's embezzlement," she remembered (but this she never forgot) that
her father, on the last night, had sworn to her that the thief was Loewenthal.
Loewenthal, Aaron Loewenthal, formerly the manager of the factory and
now one of the owners. Since 1916 Emma had guarded the secret. She had
revealed it to no one, not even to her best friend, Elsa Urstein. Perhaps she
was shunning profane incredulity; perhaps she believed that the secret was a
link between herself and the absent parent. Loewenthal did not know that
she knew; Emma Zunz derived from this slight fact a feeling of power.
133She did not sleep that night and when the first light of dawn defined
the rectangle of the window, her plan was already perfected. She tried to
make the day, which seemed interminable to her, like any other. At the
factory there were rumors of a strike. Emma declared herself, as usual,
against all violence. At six o'clock, with work over, she went with Elsa to a
women's club that had a gymnasium and a swimming pool. They signed
their names; she had to repeat and spell out her first and her last name, she
had to respond to the vulgar jokes that accompanied the medical
examination. With Elsa and with the youngest of the Kronfuss girls she
discussed what movie they would go to Sunday afternoon. Then they talked
about boyfriends and no one expected Emma to speak. In April she would be
nineteen years old, but men inspired in her, still, an almost pathological fear.
. . Having returned home, she prepared a tapioca soup and a few vegetables,
ate early, went to bed and forced herself to sleep. In this way, laborious and
trivial, Friday the fifteenth, the day before, elapsed.
Impatience awoke her on Saturday. Impatience it was, not uneasiness,
and the special relief of it being that day at last. No longer did she have to
plan and imagine; within a few hours the simplicity of the facts would
suffice. She read in La Prensa that the Nordstjärnan, out of Malmö, would
sail that evening from Pier 3. She phoned Loewenthal, insinuated that she
wanted to confide in him, without the other girls knowing, something
pertaining to the strike; and she promised to stop by at his office at nightfall.
Her voice trembled; the tremor was suitable to an informer. Nothing else of
note happened that morning. Emma worked until twelve o'clock and then
settled with Elsa and Perla Kronfuss the details of their Sunday stroll. She
lay down after lunch and reviewed, with her eyes closed, the plan she had
devised. She thought that the final step would be less horrible than the first
and that it would doubtlessly afford her the taste of victory and justice.
Suddenly, alarmed, she got up and ran to the dresser drawer. She opened it;
beneath the picture of Milton Sills, where she had left it the night before,
was Fain's letter. No one could have seen it; she began to read it and tore it
up.
To relate with some reality the events of that afternoon would be
difficult and perhaps unrighteous. One attribute of a hellish experience is
unreality, an attribute that seems to allay its terrors and which aggravates
them perhaps. How could one make credible an action which was scarcely
believed in by the person who executed it, how to recover that brief chaos
134which today the memory of Emma Zunz repudiates and confuses? Emma
lived in Almagro, on Liniers Street: we are certain that in the afternoon she
went down to the waterfront. Perhaps on the infamous Paseo de Julio she
saw herself multiplied in mirrors, revealed by lights and denuded by hungry
eyes, but it is more reasonable to suppose that at first she wandered,
unnoticed, through the indifferent portico. . . She entered two or three bars,
noted the routine or technique of the other women. Finally she came across
men from the Nordstjärnan. One of them, very young, she feared might
inspire some tenderness in her and she chose instead another, perhaps
shorter than she and coarse, in order that the purity of the horror might not
be mitigated. The man led her to a door, then to a murky entrance hall and
afterwards to a narrow stairway and then a vestibule (in which there was a
window with lozenges identical to those in the house at Lanús) and then to a
passageway and then to a door which was closed behind her. The arduous
events are outside of time, either because the immediate past is as if
disconnected from the future, or because the parts which form these events
do not seem to be consecutive.
During that time outside of time, in that perplexing disorder of
disconnected and atrocious sensations, did Emma Zunz think once about the
dead man who motivated the sacrifice? It is my belief that she did think
once, and in that moment she endangered her desperate undertaking. She
thought (she was unable not to think) that her father had done to her mother
the hideous thing that was being done to her now. She thought of it with
weak amazement and took refuge, quickly, in vertigo. The man, a Swede or
Finn, did not speak Spanish. He was a tool for Emma, as she was for him,
but she served him for pleasure whereas he served her for justice.
When she was alone, Emma did not open her eyes immediately. On
the little night table was the money that the man had left: Emma sat up and
tore it to pieces as before she had torn the letter. Tearing money is an
impiety, like throwing away bread; Emma repented the moment after she did
it. An act of pride and on that day. . . Her fear was lost in the grief of her
body, in her disgust. The grief and the nausea were chaining her, but Emma
got up slowly and proceeded to dress herself. In the room there were no
longer any bright colors; the last light of dusk was weakening. Emma was
able to leave without anyone seeing her; at the corner she got on a Lacroze
streetcar heading west. She selected, in keeping with her plan, the seat
farthest toward the front, so that her face would not be seen. Perhaps it
135comforted her to verify in the insipid movement along the streets that what
had happened had not contaminated things. She rode through the
diminishing opaque suburbs, seeing them and forgetting them at the same
instant, and got off on one of the side streets of Warnes. Paradoxically her
fatigue was turning out to be a strength, since it obligated her to concentrate
on the details of the adventure and concealed from her the background and
the objective.
Aaron Loewenthal was to all persons a serious man, to his intimate
friends a miser. He lived above the factory, alone. Situated in the barren
outskirts of the town, he feared thieves; in the patio of the factory there was
a large dog and in the drawer of his desk, everyone knew, a revolver. He had
mourned with gravity, the year before, the unexpected death of his wife—a
Gauss who had brought him a fine dowry—but money was his real passion.
With intimate embarrassment, he knew himself to be less apt at earning it
than at saving it. He was very religious; he believed he had a secret pact with
God which exempted him from doing good in exchange for prayers and
piety. Bald, fat, wearing the band of mourning, with smoked glasses and
blond beard, he was standing next to the window awaiting the confidential
report of worker Zunz.
He saw her push the iron gate (which he had left open for her) and
cross the gloomy patio. He saw her make a little detour when the chained
dog barked. Emma's lips were moving rapidly, like those of someone
praying in a low voice; weary, they were repeating the sentence which Mr.
Loewenthal would hear before dying.
Things did not happen as Emma Zunz had anticipated. Ever since the
morning before she had imagined herself wielding the firm revolver, forcing
the wretched creature to confess his wretched guilt and exposing the daring
stratagem which would permit the Justice of God to triumph over human
justice. (Not out of fear but because of being an instrument of Justice she did
not want to be punished.) Then, one single shot in the center of his chest
would seal Loewenthal's fate. But things did not happen that way.
In Aaron Loewenthal's presence, more than the urgency of avenging
her father, Emma felt the need of inflicting punishment for the outrage she
had suffered. She was unable not to kill him after that thorough dishonor.
Nor did she have time for theatrics. Seated, timid, she made excuses to
Loewenthal, she invoked (as a privilege of the informer) the obligation of
loyalty, uttered a few names, inferred others and broke off as if fear had
136conquered her. She managed to have Loewenthal leave to get a glass of
water for her. When the former, unconvinced by such a fuss but indulgent,
returned from the dining room, Emma had already taken the heavy revolver
out of the drawer. She squeezed the trigger twice. The large body collapsed
as if the reports and the smoke had shattered it, the glass of water smashed,
the face looked at her with amazement and anger, the mouth of the face
swore at her in Spanish and Yiddish. The evil words did not slacken; Emma
had to fire again. In the patio the chained dog broke out barking, and a gush
of rude blood flowed from the obscene lips and soiled the beard and the
clothing. Emma began the accusation she had prepared ("I have avenged my
father and they will not be able to punish me. . ."), but she did not finish it,
because Mr. Loewenthal had already died. She never knew if he managed to
understand.
The straining barks reminded her that she could not, yet, rest. She
disarranged the divan, unbuttoned the dead man's jacket, took off the
bespattered glasses and left them on the filing cabinet. Then she picked up
the telephone and repeated what she would repeat so many times again, with
these and with other words: Something incredible has happened. . . Mr.
Loewenthal had me come over on the pretext of the strike. . . He abused me,
1 killed him . . .
Actually, the story was incredible, but it impressed everyone because
substantially it was true. True was Emma Zunz' tone, true was her shame,
true was her hate. True also was the outrage she had suffered: only the
circumstances were false, the time, and one or two proper names.
Translated by D.A.Y.





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--- OBJECT INSTANCES [0]


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chapter
Fiction

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--- SIMILAR TITLES [0]


Emma Zunz
select ::: Being, God, injunctions, media, place, powers, subjects,
favorite ::: cwsa, everyday, grade, mcw, memcards (table), project, project 0001, Savitri, the Temple of Sages, three js, whiteboard,
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1:La historia era increíble, en efecto, pero se impuso a todos, porque sustancialmente era cierta. Verdadero era el tono de Emma Zunz, verdadero el pudor, verdadero el odio. Verdadero también era el ultraje que había padecido; sólo eran falsas las circunstancias, la hora y uno o dos nombres propios. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

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