by Hebe Uhart
“What about Cupid? How does Cupid treat you, che?”
Just what I needed, I thought. That’s all I needed, for the old man to ask me about Cupid. With a sad smile, I surprised myself by responding without a hint of irony:
“So-so.”
Then he said to me hesitantly:
“One of these days you can come see my paintings. My studio’s at such-and-such street.”
I realized this was his way of competently trying to gloss over a defeat. He wanted me to stop by and hoped I would, but he also knew deep down that I wouldn’t. Still, his nature led him to think, you never know. Whether I did or didn’t go, his plans would be the same.
But one afternoon, when he was thinking about what a good idea it had been not to let his father take the sacraments, he would remember someone named Catalina—ever so vaguely—and then he would paint a picture, which would surely be expressionist and abstract.
I knew for sure that I wouldn’t go, which is why I told him:
“Yes, one of these afternoons I’ll stop by.”
We gave each other a very hard squeeze of the hands. I didn’t want him to be upset when I left because it was so late and cold outside. I didn’t want him to go to sleep with a hot water bottle.
I wanted him to keep walking around the streets of Buenos Aires, and when people saw him they would say:
“He must be a famous painter.”
And for him to feel their gaze upon him and then walk into some party where there was good jazz music playing, for example, where he would call his friends or his enemies by name.
I also think I didn’t want him to be sad because, selfishly, I wanted to keep all the sadness for myself. I left him without looking back and set out on a desperate search for everyone I knew at all the cafés in Buenos Aires.
I didn’t find anyone.
Angelina & Pipotto
ONCE upon a time there was a woman named Angelina, but the people from the village called her an old lady and the children called her a crazy old lady because once, at the market, she hit a merchant with a stick. And the children said that’s why she used a cane, but she didn’t use a cane. She walked nice and tall. Her husband’s name was Pipotto. He was fat and red and spent the whole day drinking wine, which he kept in a barrel in the basement. Every day, while Angelina slept, he went to the basement and drank from the same barrel. Then she woke up and said:
“It smells like wine.”
Angelina went to the basement to chase him down. Pipotto left the barrel uncovered, and since no one put the cover back on, the goat came and lapped it all up. Then Pipotto ran around yelling:
“My wine! My dear sweet wine!”
When the goat got drunk Angelina would beat it, to teach it a lesson. And if her husband Pipotto was drunk she would hit him too—but if he wasn’t drunk he would lose his temper and the two of them would beat the goat together and then put it in the stable.
* * *
—
When it came time for the harvest, Angelina cleaned the pitchfork and got it ready with plenty of time, and sometimes she harvested from sunrise to sunset. Once she had to burn all the grass because she’d found a red lizard. Red lizards bring on fevers and toothaches. Pipotto was crying and said:
“It’s too much grass. It’s the best grass I’ve ever had in my life.”
And he sobbed.
Meanwhile, Angelina lit torches and laid them in the grass. She looked at him with a torch in her hand and Pipotto said:
“Fevers are really bad.”
And he started to burn the field too, but he didn’t want to burn the lizard. He didn’t want to let it live either, so he watched as his wife threw it into the river and said:
“In the water it looks different.”
He lay down on the bank to get a good look and then got up and ran back to the house.
* * *
—
On Sundays, the church bells rang loud and clear and Angelina put on a purple dress. She was very thin and the dress was too big on her. Pipotto wore his new watch and they went to church in the buggy, to hear the preacher. Pipotto had been drinking wine since the cock’s crow, but that was alright because it was Sunday. He drove the buggy and sometimes he sang softly and Angelina looked at a prayer book that said:
con flores a porfía
que madre nuestra es
And she told her husband:
“You should sing ‘Porfía’—not those sinful tunes. We’re just two blocks from church.”
And she gestured with two fingers, but Pipotto didn’t remember the tune to Porfía so he stopped singing all together.
When they got to church the preacher said:
“No one should burn the fields or drink too much wine, because he who drinks too much wine later burns the fields. This is just a general reminder—I’m not talking about anyone in particular. And now, let us sing together.”
And everyone sang:
con flores a porfía
que madre nuestra es
Once a stranger came to town saying he knew some of their relatives who lived in Aquitaine. And this stranger wanted to buy a plot of land. Pipotto remembered Aquitaine so he said:
“There were so many cows there!”
And the other man said:
“So many cows!”
“There was a deep blue river—it wasn’t dirty at all.”
“That’s true.”
“And it wasn’t just a river, it was a river with a bridge. And it wasn’t a wooden bridge, it was an iron bridge.”
“Yes,” said the other man modestly, “it was an iron bridge.”
Meanwhile, Angelina watched them and put on her glasses. She arched her eyebrows and noticed that the stranger had red hair and, just in case, she made the sign of the cross.
Then Pipotto said:
“That’s where Mule’s Tail lived.”
“Mule’s Tail died.”
And Pipotto stared at him and said:
“Then it’s not the same.”
But the other man laughed and quickly said:
“Ah, but there are so many other things. There are lanterns for Carnival and the Feast of Saint John. There’s a store that sells walnuts and lottery tickets.”
Then Pipotto stamped the ground with his foot and said:
“Without Mule’s Tail it’s not the same.”
And he started to get drunk.
The other man said:
“True, it’s not the same.”
But the stranger didn’t get drunk and he said:
“You have a lot of land. It’s too much land for just one house.”
Angelina again noticed his red hair and then she said:
“It’s 887 pesos.”
But the stranger didn’t want to discuss it with her. He wanted to talk with Pipotto because Pipotto said:
“What use is the land? The land isn’t worth anything.”
Then Angelina tossed a bucket of water on her husband and the redhead grabbed his umbrella and gloves and said:
“Goodnight. Enjoy your evening. It’s gotten so late, I must be going.”
And he disappeared.
* * *
—
Once Pipotto was very sick but he didn’t want to get prepared for the good death. Angelina looked for the prayer book that had belonged to her grandmother. She found it in a trunk in the corner under some dried olive branches.
Angelina sat on the edge of the bed and said:
“Repeat after me: ‘I take back what I’ve said, I disregard what I’ve heard, and I undo what I’ve done.’ ”
Pipotto kept his head under the pillow, checking every so often to see if dawn was coming. If it was still nighttime, he would repeat the lines from the prayer book, but when he heard the r
ooster crow he sat right up in bed and said:
“It’s light outside. Daytime has come.”
It was the same every night. Then Angelina would say:
“He’s been possessed by the devil and I have to cast him away.”
And she walked around with a bucket of water, sprinkling water everywhere—even on Pipotto, who didn’t notice and said:
“I take back what I’ve said.” All of a sudden he looked out the window and saw light and said, “Daylight has come. The rooster crowed.”
* * *
—
One morning the collector came. He was wearing a white straw hat and although they didn’t recognize him, they let him in. They didn’t vote because they were very old, and didn’t know which government was in power anyway. They thought the collector worked for King Victor Emmanuel. Then the collector said:
“After Victor Emmanuel there were eight first kings and three second kings and one third king who only lasted two days before the revolution took him out. Now King Evaristo is in power.”
The two old folks looked at each other and shrugged and then Angelina asked:
“So what does the King want? Pigs, goats, or cheese? I haven’t got any cheese, but I do have a goat and three pigs.”
The collector went to the stable to look at the animals. He kept touching his white hat and furrowing his eyebrows. Then he made note of the pigs and Angelina caught a glimpse of what he was writing. She looked again at his white hat and then walked him to the door. When he left, the collector cupped his hands and called out graciously:
“Remember, it’s King Evaristo.”
And they went to fry up a piece of bacon.
* * *
—
One day Pipotto took the money out of the mattress, because they had to cut it open to change the wool. Afterwards, he couldn’t remember where he’d hidden it. Pipotto didn’t tell his wife that he couldn’t remember because he was scared, but one day he started to look in all sorts of boxes and Angelina, who was doing the laundry, asked him:
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” said Pipotto.
“It’s the money,” said Angelina. “It’s been missing for a while. If you spent it I want it all back, every single cent.”
And so the two of them started looking together. It was nighttime, and they didn’t have a lantern or anything. But just then Angelina saw a patch of loose dirt and she started to dig there with a shovel and said:
“Here it is. You hid it right here.”
And they took out the coins and started to clean them very slowly, until they were shiny, and then put them back into the mattress that had recently been discarded.
* * *
—
Angelina had fried up some bacon and she called Pipotto to eat. She called him several times and she also banged on a can. She looked for him inside the house but he wasn’t there. She went outside but he wasn’t in the stables either. She went where they kept the unthreshed grain and there he was, sitting behind a pile of it. He looked like he was asleep but she knew he was dead. So she went to tell the undertakers and asked:
“What’s the best burial? I want three carriages, all filled with flowers.”
She had taken with her all the coins they had cleaned. The coachman looked at her. He looked at her shoes and said:
“One carriage will do.”
And she said:
“No, I don’t want ‘whatever will do.’ I want three carriages filled with flowers—and not just any flowers. I want white carnations.”
The man wrote it down. Angelina told the preacher and all the neighbors found out and they went to her house. Pipotto was laid out in bed and they said:
“He was a good man.”
“He was a good neighbor.”
“Yep, one of the best neighbors there was.”
Angelina was talking softly to herself saying:
“I told him: Don’t drink that wine. Your belly’s already too full of wine and it makes your veins swell up.”
She looked up at them and said out loud:
“He drank too much wine.”
Then they were all quiet and one lady with a handkerchief on her head said:
“Yes, but he was so happy. He was always singing. Poor thing!”
“He was a founder. He was a founding neighbor.”
Suddenly they heard the goat bleating, and another two neighbors went to look. The goat was drunk because the barrel had been left uncovered. Angelina threw the goat outside and covered the barrel, and everyone went over to Pipotto. Then they recited some prayers and the preacher blessed them all with holy water and spoke of eternal life. At five o’clock in the afternoon they all walked to the cemetery. The men carrying the casket were sweating because it was a very heavy casket. They buried him in a remote spot and one lady said:
“That’s not a spot for a founder.”
Then they all went back to town, and they kissed Angelina on both cheeks and said goodbye.
She went home and saw that the bacon was all cold—nobody could eat that. Now the sun was going down and she searched for the goat to feed it the bacon. The goat was very drunk. She watched him for a while and grabbed the pitchfork to beat him, but then she slowly let it drop. And since the sun was setting, she sat down in the last rays of light. She just sat there staring as the goat bit into the bacon and tugged on it. Once the sun had set, she said:
“The goat isn’t feeling well and it’s cold outside.”
So she made him a bed of grass in the kitchen. She slept in the bedroom and during the night she got up twice to give the goat some water.
Human Beings Are Radically Al one
EVERYONE at Franco’s house was focused on some task, except him. He walked around offering to help, but was rejected. If a plank needed to be held up in one spot, he would get bored and lean it up against the wall. So, they told him to go outside and play.
And off he went, somewhat bewildered, wondering who he could play with. The kids playing seemed to be busy with something, too: putting a toy boat in the water, pushing a little train along. He didn’t know how to break their concentration. So he went back home, and if his parents had finished what they were working on, if they were relaxed, they would say to him, “What a fine boy we have!”
He really was quite handsome. His mother and father were ugly, a bit hunchbacked. Franco was tall. He had a nice body, nice hair, and nice legs.
At school he gained a short-lived reputation because he learned the word dash before anyone else. They would ask him, “What’s a ‘dash’?”
And Franco, his voice a bit deeper than his schoolmates, would say, “A dash is a short line used in an interjection or to separate a clause.”
Their eyes shone with a mixture of suspicion and fascination. They were all happy with their discovery of the dash. Then he asked the teacher:
“Shall I make a line or a dash?”
The teacher was busy with some papers. She looked up annoyed, saying:
“Whichever one you want!”
He walked back to his bench, mortified, thinking how unfair it was. Better put, now he knew what injustice felt like: it was a mix between humiliation, wounded pride, and embarrassment. He experienced injustice as something physical, although he wouldn’t go so far as to try and change or rectify it. But he did have to speak up. When something wasn’t right, Franco would say: “This is an injustice.”
Nobody listened. They didn’t care about defining dashes or injustices.
By the time he turned eighteen he had become extremely handsome. He was so attractive that people looked at him on the street. He started to pick out clothes that flattered him and he usually chose to wear black, a color that made him appear to be a very interesting young man.
He spent practically that whole year wal
king up and down the streets, and honestly, he got looks from everyone. Knowing that he was being watched gave him an air of haughtiness and triumph that suited him well. He had once read a poem that started like this:
“Human anthills that pass on by…”
And as he made his afternoon rounds he remembered the part about those human anthills, while carefully studying each and every ant that passed him by. By sunset he was tired and a little bored. Sometimes he bumped into people, like once when an old lady ran right into him.
Franco, in his most cordial voice, said to her, “Excuse me, ma’am.”
But she made a fuss. “Don’t you look where you’re going? People these days are so inconsiderate, so rude—they don’t even pay attention!”
And off she went yelling and mumbling. Now, this type of encounter made Franco feel so disillusioned and perplexed that it could end up ruining his walk. That was unfair. His face changed; for the next hour or so nobody even looked at him. His eyes became troubled, his expression humbled, and even if he tried to put on a face that was beyond good and evil—which was the one that suited him best—the expression didn’t come out right because he was preoccupied by tedious yet pressing thoughts. How had they ended up running into each other? Let’s see, he was walking on the right-hand side, as always, and suddenly the lady—who was fidgeting with her her purse…But it was worthless, that’s as far as he could get, so he walked into a café, splashed some water on his face, and looked in the mirror.
The mirror told him, “Yes, you are handsome.” And then he went out to walk awhile longer. After he’d gone inside to cool off he walked by a different café. Some people were studying, others were engaged in a heated debate, an old man was sipping a drink in peace. Everyone at that café was doing their own thing, and yet it seemed like they were all connected by something. What was it? He didn’t know so he sat down to figure it out and because he liked the place. He felt comfortable there. Across from him there was a blond man, more or less the same age as Franco, dressed all in brown. He was studying something that seemed mesmerizing. He asked Franco what time it was and Franco responded, “I don’t know what time it is. I can’t be bothered by the time.”