The story: An author is arrested and sentenced to be executed on March 29th at 9:00 a.m. He is scared and dreadful of the mechanics of death, and starts to think of what he has left behind in his writings. Wanting to be remembered for a well-written piece, he begs God to grant him a year to finish what he considers will be his best. In a dream, his appeal is positively confirmed. Nevertheless, the next morning, on the appointed day, he is brought before the firing squad. And time stands still.
Except that is, for his mind. Standing in place, nothing moving:
He had asked God for an entire year in which to finish his work; His omnipotence granted him the time. For his sake, God projected a secret miracle: German lead would kill him, at the determined hour, but in his mind a year would elapse between the command to fire and its execution. From perplexity he passed to stupor, from stupor to resignation, from resignation to sudden gratitude. (p. 149)
The fiction upon which this author is working involves a switch in characters from one who believes himself to be a victor in claiming the prize of love, into that victor himself. The players are plotters, the plot kills then reincarnates the players. It is as the author calls it, a labyrinth in time.
There is usually a focus to Borges’ stories, a single point illuminated. Yet while he himself claims the stories represent a labyrinth, it is one that is set up with paths leading through the known and unknown elements of time. Stopping time, moving about in time, time in life and beyond it–this last of which necessity must include the spiritual–all figure in to Borges’ obsession.
There is also the theme of dreaming woven into this story. In the opening paragraphs, the author dreams of a chess game that is played over centuries by two opposing families. Here again, I feel that Borges enjoys naming the plot of the story in the beginning of same. Life has often been referred to as a game of chess and Borges uses it here to foreshadow the author’s same maneuvering for his life. Even within his ongoing work of fiction, the protagonist wonders if he is dreaming.
Meanwhile, I wonder if Borges has added another path to his labyrinth, that of real versus unreal by way of dreams. In a previous story I noted his comparison of memory to unreality. Borges, I believe, gives us much more than story or something to think about in this anthology; he give us a peek into his own stream of consciousness.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology