In “A Visit from the Chief” (original title: El Superior hace una visita), a short story by Samanta Schweblin published in the book El buen mal (2005), a woman runs a residence for people with mild psychiatric disorders. The place is modest, somewhat secluded, with sober buildings and a small staff. The routine passes without major upsets, sustained by an apparent stability. Everything is disrupted when an announcement of an unusual visit arrives: “the Superior,” a hierarchical figure in the institution, will come the next day. Although few know him personally, his name generates immediate concern. It is not clear what he is looking for, but everyone senses that his presence will have consequences.
The director prepares to receive him. She tidies her office, reviews procedures, and tries to anticipate questions. There are no objective reasons to worry, but the general expectation becomes palpable. The Superior arrives on time in an official vehicle. He dresses discreetly, speaks politely, and does not adopt authoritarian gestures. However, his mere presence alters the dynamics of the place: the staff moves stiffly, the residents are more attentive, and everything takes on a tone of silent vigilance.
The Superior requests a tour of the facilities. The director accompanies him through the halls, the rooms, and the dining room. He observes, asks few questions, and notes minor details: eating habits, medication, schedules. He speaks little, but his silences become more meaningful than his words. In one of the courtyards, an inmate approaches him spontaneously. He greets him confidently, calling him by name, as if they already knew each other. The Superior responds with a cordial gesture. The director, puzzled, wonders if the bond between them is real or a figment of the patient’s imagination.
In his office, the Superior congratulates the director on the overall condition of the center. He speaks calmly, without making critical comments or giving precise explanations. Then he hands her a folder to review at her leisure later. He says a polite goodbye and leaves. His visit has been brief, and although he has not expressed any objections, he leaves behind an atmosphere of tension that does not dissipate.
Once he leaves, the atmosphere does not relax. The director, alone in her office, opens the folder. She finds a report, some notes, and an order: one of the inmates must be transferred to a stricter unit. The decision has already been made. All that is missing is her signature. The patient in question is the same one who had greeted the Superior familiarly. She reviews the file. She finds no urgent medical reasons or serious history. The man is calm, sociable. He poses no danger. And yet something in the Superior’s gesture, in his silence, suggests that this is not a mistake. The woman rereads the report. Nothing in the papers offers her a clear explanation. She looks at the blank page where she must sign. She has the pen in her hand. The scene is minimal, restrained, but charged with tension: that pending gesture condenses a decision that does not entirely belong to her, but which she must assume. The story ends there, in that suspended moment, when she realizes that something irreversible is about to happen, and that there is no way to avoid it.
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