Can you help me find an English translation of "El rio," written by Julio Cortazar?

Question

http://www.literatura.us/cortazar/elrio.html

Answer 1

The collection called "End of the Game" appears to have the story "The River".
http://www.amazon.com/End-Game-Julio-Cortazar/dp/0060906375/ref=sr_1_22?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1195264206&sr=1-22
A reviewer also mentioned that the collection called "Blow-Up" is the same collection, but I'm not sure about this:
http://www.amazon.com/Blow-Up-Other-Stories-Julio-Cortazar/dp/0394728815/ref=pd_bbs_sr_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1195264148&sr=1-2

Answer 2

And yes, it seems that is thus, that you have gone saying do not I know what thing, that were going to throw Al Seine, something by the style, one of those phrases of full night, mixed of sheet and thick mouth, almost always in the darkness or with something of hand or standing grazing the body of the one that barely listens, because does so much that barely I listen you when say things thus, He comes from the other side of my eyes closed, of the dream that again he throws me downward. Then he is well, what imports me if you have gone, if have drowned or still walk for the springs looking at the water, and besides is not certain because are here asleep and breathing entrecortadamente, but then have not gone when were you in some moment at night before I me to lose in the dream, because had gone saying some thing, that were going to drown In the Seine, that is to say that you been afraid, have renounced and of blow there almost are touching me, and move undulating as if something worked gently in your dream, as if truly dreamed that have left and that after all arrived at the springs and threw you Al water. Thus once more, to sleep later with the face soaked of a stupid crying, to the eleven in the morning, the hour in which they bring the newspaper with the news of the ones that have drowned really. You give me laughter, poor. Your tragic decisions, that way to walk striking the doors as an actress of tournées of province, one is asked if really you believe in your threats, your revolting blackmail, your interminable pathetic scenes greased of tears and ajetivos and recounts. You would deserve someone more gifted than I so that gave you the replica, then would be seen to be raised to the perfect couple, with the exquisite stench of the man and the woman that are destroyed being looked at in the eyes to be assured the most precarious postponement, to survive still and to begin again and to pursue interminably their truth of uncultivated land and fund of pan. But already you see, I choose the silence, I light a cigarette and I listen you to speak, I listen you to complain you (with reason, but what can I do him), or what is still better I go remaining asleep, cooed almost by your foreseeable imprecations, with the eyes half-closed I mix still by a while the first gusts of the dreams with your gestures of nightshirt rídiculo under the light of the spider that gave us when we marry, And I believe that Al final I sleep and I carry me, I confess it you almost with love, the most of value part of your movements and your accusations, the sound restallante that deforms you the livid lips of rage. To enrich my own dreams where never to nobody occurs him himself to be drowned, you can believe me. But if it is thus I ask me what you are doing in this bed that had determined to abandon for the other vaster and receding one. Now it so happens that you sleep, that from time to time move a leg that goes changing the drawing of the sheet, seem got angry for some thing, not too angry, is like a bitter exhaustion, your lips outline a face of contempt, they leave to escape the air entrecortadamente, they collect him to brief puffs, and I believe that if he would not be so exasperated by your false threats he would admit that are again beautiful, as if the Dream you to return a little my side where the desire is possible and even reconciliation or new time limit, something less murky than this dawn where begin to roll the first cars and the roosters abominable strip their horrendous servants. I do not know, already not even sense makes to ask again if in some moment you had gone, if were you the one that struck the door Al to leave in the same instant in which I slipped Al oversight, and maybe that is why I prefer to touch you, not because doubt that be there, probably at no time were you of the room, perhaps a gust of wind closed the door, That you had gone while you, believing me awake, shouted me your threat since the feet of the bed. That it is not why I touch you, in the green half-light of the dawn is almost candy to pass a hand by that shoulder that trembles and rejects me. The sheet covers you averages, my hands begin to descend for the smooth drawing of your throat, inclining me I breathe your breath that smells of night and to syrup, I do not know how my arms have bound you, I hear a complaint while you arch the waist denying you, but the two we know too much that play to believe in it, is precise that abandon me the mouth that pants loose words, you're welcome serves that Your body amodorrado and conquered fight for being evaded, we are to such extent a same thing in that tangle of ball where the white wool and the black wool fight as spiders in a pitcher. Of the sheet that barely covered I reach you to make out the instantaneous gust that plows the air to be lost in the shadow and now we are naked, the dawn wraps us and reconciles in trembling a single matter, but you persist in fighting, shrinking you, launching the arms besides my head, opening as in a lightning the thighs to close again its monstrous pincers that wanted to separate me of myself. I have to dominate you slowly (and that, you know it, I have done it always with a ceremonial grace), without doing you damage I go doubling the reeds of your arms, me to adhere to your pleasure of hands contracted, of enormously open eyes, now your rhythm Al end deepens in slow movements of moiré, of deep bubbles elevating to my face, vaguely I caress your hair spilled in the pillow, in the green half-light I look at with Surprise my hand that spouts, and before slipping to your side I know that they have just removed you of the water, too late, naturally, and that jazz on the stones of the spring surrounded by shoes and of voices, naked face up with your hair soaked and your open eyes.