Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  His plan complete, Adam stealthily advanced towards Polyphemus. No use! The cyclops was already onto him.

  “It’s a man,” he reckoned. “Young fellow. But, what the . . . He’s walking on tip-toe! Huh? He wouldn’t be trying to give old Polyphemus the slip, would he? He’d have to be a magician!”

  Adam could already see the blind man’s still, composed silhouette, his little tin plate in one hand and the stringless guitar in the other. Twenty steps away, he could make out the grey beard, tobacco-stained around the mouth; he glimpsed the mouth itself, sealed like a cavern liable to throw out a thunderbolt at any moment. Ten steps away now, and he could hear the giant’s deep, placid breathing – could he be asleep? He redoubled his caution and, just as he was sliding by Polyphemus like a shadow, the tremendous voice boomed in his ears:

  – Aaaaaalms for the bliiiiiind!

  Adam stood petrified on the spot.

  – Give aaaaaalms to the poor man who sees not the liiiiight! insisted Polyphemus, savouring every vowel as though making sweet music.

  There was no way out; Adam admitted defeat and threw a coin onto the tin plate.

  – God will rewaaard you! thundered Polyphemus, raising the plate and the guitar over his head.

  – Monster! muttered Adam between his teeth.

  But Polyphemus was getting carried away, malignant as a triumphant demon:

  – God will repaaay you!

  Adam Buenosayres, standing beside the cyclops, raised his eyes toward the Christ with the Broken Hand and told himself Polyphemus was right. Above the portico, Christ with the Broken Hand surveyed the street from on high; a rainbow-throated pigeon was perched on his head, snoozing, as if this were its natural resting place. What had he been holding in that hand, broken off perhaps by a stone flung at him?

  “A heart, or a loaf of bread. Day in, day out, he offers it to the people on the street. But they don’t look up; they look straight ahead or down at the ground, like oxen. And I?”

  Crestfallen, Adam momentarily felt the old, recurring anxiety.

  “A squirming fish, caught on an invisible hook. The fishing rod must be in that severed hand.”

  He saluted the cement Christ and continued up-street, up-world, critically eyeing the hat in his hand.

  “Totally out of date, this hat – a literary curiosity! Kids used to shout ‘umbrella head’ when I was leaving school. Now they’re used to it. But here on the street . . . a public scandal. The nymphs in the zaguán, especially. Hang on!”

  He pulled the reviled hat back on and automatically felt his pockets for his pouch and pipe. “Feel like a smoke. But not the pipe, not now, in front of the nymphs. Hat and pipe? That would be taunting the evil spirit of the street. I’ll buy cigarettes in La Hormiga de Oro. Yes, but I might run into Ruth . . . So what? An oasis in the desert.”

  Adam Buenosayres crossed the threshold of La Hormiga de Oro and was immersed in a grotto. Faintly limned, the store’s thousand-and-one items appeared to cohabit on the most intimate terms: packs of cigarettes, twenty-cent dolls, shaving soap, detective novels, and boxes of caramels. All was steeped in the reek of fried fish. If the smell brought down the tone of the place, suggesting a low-life tavern, the ambience was somewhat redeemed by the uncertain strains of a shimmy being played further inside, on instruments forced into a grudging attempt at harmony. But where was Ruth? As soon as Adam wondered about her, Ruth appeared, a spider attracted by the buzz of the fly. She emerged through the green curtains separating the store from the backroom, listlessly, her face sad, eyes doleful: poor, misunderstood Ruth, all alone in the world. But when she saw Adam, she instantly brightened up.

  – You! she exclaimed, surprised, jubilant.

  – Good afternoon, Ruth! Adam greeted her festively. How’re things at La Hormiga de Oro?

  – Not good, pouted Ruth. Our friends never visit.

  A nervous hand flew to fix her tousled hair – oh my gosh, her head, an owl’s nest! With the other hand she gave her eyes a quick remedial rub – no traces of tears, please! Then she pulled up her stockings and gave her dress a quick shake – might’ve picked up a stray fish scale, anything’s possible in that infernal kitchen!

  – Stay away from La Hormiga de Oro? Adam rejoined, giving her an appreciative look. You do yourself an injustice, Ruth!

  – It’s been exactly eight days since you last dropped in, she sulked.

  “A prettier creature was never conceived by woman after lying with a man,” Adam classically opined to himself.

  – You’ve been counting? he laughed. It’s not possible, Ruth! Anyway, who am I that it should matter whether . . . ?

  He broke off suddenly and approached, looking at her eyes.

  – Ruth, you’ve been crying.

  – I have not!

  She resisted, turning aside splendid eyes the colour of the horizon, feverish fingers raking the coppery bush of her hair: poor, misunderstood Ruth denied her tears.

  – You have too been crying, Ruth! Adam insisted imprudently.

  – It’s not true, I have not! she whined, pouted, resisted.

  But why not? Why not confide her secret worries to this soulmate who was extending his brotherly voice to her like a bridge? Yes, yes! Poor, misunderstood Ruth entrusted her eyes into Adam’s safekeeping. Poor little Ruth gave in to the kindness of her brother in Art.

  – Having to live with one’s wings pinned down, she mused. You, Mr Buenosayres, are an artist, and you must have had to suffer the same thing. One longs to fly, but one isn’t allowed to.

  Adam made a vague, noncommittal gesture. Ruth jerked a pink thumb toward the backroom.

  – My folks, she sighed. They’re as good as gold, that’s for sure. But all they can think about is money. They just can’t see what a girl’s got inside her, they just can’t. And then, when one sees even her friends are ignoring her . . .

  Her voice broke, her head dropped forward, long bronze locks tumbled down over her eyes. Adam was thrown into turmoil. It wasn’t what she was saying, but the resonance of her voice, the warm depth of woodwind instruments. Where had he heard that sound before? The cry of a wild bird, perhaps, back in Maipú of a misty morn. “Beware the trap of sentimentality!” he thought. “Get her mind on another track!”

  – Listen, Ruth. You know I’m a “man of letters,” as they call us now. Ugly, eh? I hate the term. (Now she’s smiling; that’s better!)

  – A poet! she corrected heatedly.

  – Yes, but nothing out of the ordinary. Look at me, Ruth. No long, unwashed hair, just a rigorously normal haircut, regular baths, casual clothes. This hat? Means nothing, it’s an anachronism. (Her smile dawns splendorous – the lovely bow of Love the Archer!)

  – Joker! comes her reproach, even as she wraps him all up in her horizon-coloured gaze.

  – No professional tics, at least not the kind you see on the surface, Adam concluded. Of course, there are other things – always in a lyrical daydream, forgetting things I shouldn’t . . . Do you understand what I’m saying, Ruth?

  Yes, Ruth understood. And understanding him, she was beginning to glow with a subtle heat; and glowing, she shared in all the worries and concerns of her spiritual brother. She and he – weren’t they, after all, two birds of a feather? Yes, misunderstood Ruth could give him understanding. But Ruth alone silently reproached blind Destiny for its inability to bring together their twin solitudes. If only she and he could . . . Madness! And if . . . Oh, how wonderful it would be to wander together through the wide world, alone together like a pair of eagles, cutting life’s roses by the bushel!

  – Yes, burbled Ruth. Poets live on song, they’re oblivious to the world around them.

  – Like the cricket, observed Adam.

  – That’s it, like the cricket.

  – And like the cricket, they remember the ant when they’re in trouble.

  Ruth frowned in puzzlement. When she finally got it, a trickle of laughter escaped her – two or three notes of crystal or water.


  – They remember La Hormiga de Oro, The Golden Ant! I get it, I get it. The cricket is out of cigarettes.

  Still laughing, the golden ant opened a carton, took out a packet, and handed it to her visitor. Then, placing her elbows on the counter, she stared at him and giggled playfully, swaying to the rhythm of her mirth like a tender reed in the wind. Adam stared back at her as he lit a cigarette. “Her even white teeth, wet with sap. A she-wolf’s teeth, quick to bite. The curve of her throat covered in fine golden down like a peach. And the braided copper of her hair.” A dark exaltation began to rush within him, especially when he looked at her laughing mouth. “A fig split open by its very ripeness.” Luckily, the music came to an abrupt halt; a voice in the other room was heard, scolding. Then, with a ferocious stroke of the baton, the musicians picked up the tune again.

  – The boys in the band are practising some jazz, observed Ruth. Do you like that music?

  – Music? Adam said doubtfully.

  Ruth moulded her mouth into a grimace of disdain.

  – Barbarian music! she spat out indignantly, her sensibility deeply wounded.

  And then she added, fixing Adam with eyes ponderous with intelligence:

  – The Serenata by Schubert, the Invitation to the Waltz, the Prayer of a Virgin – now that’s music! A bolt of fanatical zeal flashed across her face:

  – And what about the music of words?

  Adam, uneasy, blew two streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Oh my god, talk aesthetics with Ruth? No, no. Get her off this subject.”

  – My art form is recitation, Ruth concluded. Interpreting genius! Right now I’m rehearsing Melpomene.

  – What? cried Adam, scandalized.

  – The poem Melpomene.

  – You can’t be serious!

  Adam’s eyes expressed disappointment and reproach.

  – Ruth, he said. I would never have expected that from a sensible girl like you!

  Ruth confused, Ruth chastised, blushed suddenly. On her face, a rush of crimson joined battle with the whiteness of her face until the two reached a truce in a pink as delicious as dawn’s rosy fingers. Ruth faced up to her client, twitched her little nose, and slapped his hand – oh, but not very hard!

  – It’s marvellous poetry! she protested. You can’t deny it: when the poet, terrified, is chasing Melpomene through the autumn forest, you can practically hear the dead leaves crunching under foot. And when he finally catches up to her . . .

  – That’s not what happens, Ruth! Adam interrupted. That’s a lie!

  – A lie?

  – It certainly is. The poet doesn’t reach Melpomene. He chased her, yes, there’s no denying that. But catch up to her? Never!

  Ruth stared at him, astounded.

  – How do you know? she asked ingenuously.

  – Melpomene told me so herself. And she was fit to be tied.

  – Liar!

  – It’s the absolute truth. Look at it this way, Ruth. They haven’t had even the slightest quarrel, and the poet takes off after his Muse. It’s totally outrageous! And if you pause to consider that we’re talking about a placid doctor from Córdoba,10 the affront is simply beyond comprehension.

  Coming out of her stupor, Ruth looked at him both amused and scandalized.

  – Naughty! she warbled. You’re so naughty!

  – Believe me, I’m not lying. The doctor started chasing her, but after half a block he was puffing so hard, he stopped to undo five bottons of his fancy waistcoat and loosen his tie, then sat down on the curb-stone of a well to wipe his brow with a big checkered handkerchief.

  The golden ant laughed once more.

  – Naughty! she repeated. I know, I know. This is how you poets tear a strip off each other at your literary get-togethers.

  – It’s Melpomene’s solemn declaration, Adam insisted. If she’s lying, it’s not my fault.

  Ruth threatened him with a friendly wag of her finger.

  – Listen to what I’m going to recite. We’ll see if you find this funny, too.

  She turned her back on him and walked toward the glass counter, her clogs tapping on the floor. She was in motion! Beneath the material of her dress, hitherto invisible forms were bursting into view, unsuspected roundnesses and hollows. Trembling lines formed and broke apart, according to the rhythm of her steps. When she reached the counter, Ruth stopped and raised her arms toward the upper shelf. Adam could see the grotto of her underarm, with its honey-coloured fleece, and the tips of her breasts cutting soft wakes as they rose beneath the cloth. “Devil of a girl! Temptress, like Circe!” But Ruth came back with a book from the shelf.

  – Anthology of Passages for Recitation, she announced with pride. Now, what page was it on? Ah, here it is.

  She began to read aloud:

  – “I have tarried, I have tarried, but the hour did strike! I wounded him, all is concluded. Indubitably, I acted when he was without defence. First I wrapped him in a web from which there was no escape, in a fine-meshed fish net, in a veil delightful but mortal. Twice did I wound his body, twice he cried out, and he has lost his strength! Upon seeing him laid low, I smote him a third time, and Hades, guardian of the dead, rejoiced . . .”

  “Hell’s bells! Adam recognized the voice of Aeschylus in that hair-raising fragment. He had to admit that Ruth was a very convincing Clytemnestra. She stood erect and rigid as a column. But in relating her crime, she parcelled herself out in gestures, dispersing them in all directions – one eye to the north, the other to the south, an ear to the east, another to the west. Her astonishing dissipation made Adam fear for an instant that she might evaporate completely. But Ruth put herself back together by looking into the mirror above the store counter; a single glance was enough for the reflection to gather her up whole. Then she proceeded:

  – “He has sprinkled me with bubbling jets of gore from his wound. Dark dew, his blood, no less sweet to me than the rain of Zeus upon the wheatfields when the spike breaks through its sheath . . .”

  Ruth was again suddenly transfigured. Her cruel eyes were like knives still penetrating Agamemnon, who lay in a heap at her feet. Her nostrils flared with relish at the bitter smell of blood. Acrid brass jazz from the other room underscored Clytemnestra’s harsh declamations, and Adam, standing near her in that cave-like ambience, began to feel an uncanny fear, an inchoate ancient terror.

  Ruth must have seen his face change.

  – What’s the matter? she asked, closing the book. Didn’t you like it?

  Instinctively, as if in self-defence, Adam felt in his pocket for his Blue-Bound Notebook.

  – Amazing, Ruth! I don’t give much for Agamemnon’s chances when he falls into your clutches. Brrr! You’ve given me goose bumps.

  But Ruth hadn’t missed Adam’s movement.

  – Hmm! she intoned, raising her eyebrows.

  Her index finger, childlike, suddenly pointed at her visitor’s pocket:

  – And that notebook?

  “I’m done for!” thought Adam. “Nobody takes liberties like she does!”

  – They’re notes, he answered vaguely.

  – Written by hand?

  – That’s right.

  Ruth stretched out an imperious hand.

  – Give them here, she said. I want to see your writing. I know a bit about graphology.

  – Not on your life! exploded Adam, alarmed.

  – And why not?

  – Because you might guess right.

  The golden ant started to laugh. “Her wolf teeth, her gums of wet coral!”

  – The notebook! she wheedled. Right now!

  – Impossible! Adam was laughing with her now. To read this notebook is to read my heart.

  Ruth’s open eyes went huge.

  – Really? she exclaimed, clapping her hands like a child. Let’s have that notebook! I want to read your heart.

  – What if you read it out loud? Adam observed prudently.

  She stamped her foot, then threatened, half joking, half in ea
rnest:

  – Either you give it to me or I’ll have to take it from you.

  – Take it from me? Over my dead body!

  It was the wrong thing to say. Without further ado, Ruth threw herself like a cyclone at Adam Buenosayres. Shrieking with glee, she tried to wrest the notebook from him by brute force. Adam took it out of his pocket and hid it behind his back. So Ruth grabbed him around the waist, pinned his arms, and tried to reach his hidden hands. In the process, her head came to rest against the shoulder of her enemy; Adam breathed the aroma of that coppery hair (astringent and clean like wild bushes) and his agitation reached new extremes. Finally he broke free of her chain-link arms and lifted the notebook above his head. But Ruth stood on tip-toe and tried to reach it, her whole body leaning into Adam’s chest. What did he do then? He passed the notebook behind Ruth’s back: now she was a prisoner in his embrace. Truth be told, the golden ant did not give in without a fight. But Adam held her tighter and tighter. Their eyes met, their breath commingled. A great seriousness suddenly descended upon them. Just at the moment when in shared rapture they were about to lurch over the edge, they heard shuffling steps coming from the back room. Through the green curtains poked Doña Sara’s gruesome head. The Bogeyman! Adam and Ruth separated as quickly as if a sword of ice had fallen between them. Adam forced an awkward “Good afternoon” in the direction of the Bogeyman; Ruth busied herself picking up some coins her client had tossed on the counter. A gruff bark was Doña Sara’s response to Adam’s greeting, a bark that sounded like an invitation to beat a full-scale retreat. That’s how Adam understood it, at least. Without a word, he turned on his heels and fought his way through the oppressive silence to the door. But before he was gone, he heard Doña Sara’s loathsome voice yelling: