– That’s what you guys say, Jabil refuted. But our sacred books . . .
– The Koran is a sacred book, too, replied Abdullah benevolently.
Abraham Abrameto, proprietor of La Flor de Esmirna, sat silent and morose, listening to them in apparent indifference. The three men were sitting round a table in the Café Izmir, and their conversation in the language of Syria blended with others of similar timbre in an atmosphere thick with anis and strong tobacco. By the window, a musician in a seeming trance plucked the strings of a black zither inlaid with mother-of-pearl. At the back, the half-drawn curtains allowed glimpses into a smoky room, in the centre of which, on a yellow carpet, stood a tall narghile, its four tubes leading to four smokers who remained invisible.
– According to our prophets, Abraham said, rousing himself, the Messiah will be a king like David or Solomon, not the son of a carpenter. Our Law . . .
But Jabil, the Christian, cut him off.
– Israelites! he groaned. You’ve betrayed your Law: the only law you guys know is profit!
– I close Saturdays, protested Abraham mildly.
– You guys crucified your Messiah! Jabil went on. You were waiting for an earthly king, and you’re still waiting. You want the realm of this world.
– I close Saturdays, repeated Abraham. I honour the Sabbath.
Finishing off his anis, Abdulla was about to defend again the splendour of the Crescent Moon, when sounds of war and the din of agitated multitudes could be heard coming from the street outside. The zither player went stone still, the Asian whispers stopped short, and an expectant silence prevailed in the room. The tumult outside grew louder. The café patrons stood up.
Don Jaime, the Andalusian barber, wanting to show off the object of his lengthy oral dissertation, left his well-lathered client and disappeared into the back of the shop. Out of the corner of his eye, another client watched him go. The Carter from the Hayloft, his shock of hair at the mercy of a taciturn assistant’s scissors, was sprawled in the other chair, where he fidgeted like a caged lion, bouncing his slipshod clog on the tip of his foot.
– What the hell’s all that racket! he growled between his teeth.
The sideburns trimmed, the taciturn assistant sighed:
– And the back?
– Cut’er square, grunted the Carter. Rounded, like.
While the Andalusian was gone, and with the shaving soap congealing on his neck, Adam Buenosayres picked out the details of the scene in the mirror. The barber shop was an ordinary space, its walls grimy and the ceiling speckled with fly droppings. It was meagrely furnished with two barber chairs in front of a long tarnished mirror, four Vienna chairs, plus a little table heaped with old issues of El Hogar, El Gráfico, and Mundo Argentino.14 That’s not counting the two colourful posters pinned up on the left wall, one exalting the tragic death of Carmen, the other celebrating the hearty toast of Cavalleria Rusticana.15
But before long Don Jaime was back, carrying a large white pigeon in both hands.
– Look at dis, he said, presenting it proudly.
– Why don’t you shove it up your arse, muttered the Carter to himself.
– Fine-looking bird! Adam commented.
– Now watch dis, said the Andalusian, sticking the bird’s beak between his lips.
Before the astonished Adam Buenosayres, the taciturn and indifferent assistant, and the sourpuss Carter choking with ill humour, the pigeon’s crop swelled voluptuously to a magnificent girth. But Don Jaime, perhaps noting excessive admiration in his client’s eyes, slipped out to the backroom and returned without the pigeon. Then, with vigorous strokes of the shaving brush, he worked the soap back up to a foamy lather on his client’s face, honed the razor on the strop, and shaved him in long swipes. As he worked, he kept up a running patter, garbling his words left and right, all the while dousing his client with a fine spray of saliva. He went on about pouter pigeons this, and thief pigeons that; his pigeon-house out back, the pigeon-house of Arizmendi the Basque; and the Basque ripping him off for some pigeons, so Jaime stealing just as many back from the Basque.
The Carter from the Hayloft, whose head was assuming incredible forms between the taciturn assistant’s hands, shifted and shuffled and squirmed as though he had ants in his pants. First he imagined hauling off and socking the Andalusian with a force that he reckoned should land him halfway across the street. Then he smiled, proud and bitter, on recalling that morning’s set-to. He’d got his horse and cart into a bit of bind, caught between the bitchin’ Lacroze streetcar and some rich bastard’s fancy French sports car. The rich boy, he had to brake real sudden, and so he starts mouthin’ off, actin’ real tough. But the Carter hopped down into the street and invited him to get out of the car and have it out. That’d be the day! Little Mr Fancypants puts the pedal to the metal and takes off cursing.
“Good horse, that old nag,” reflected the lad from the Hayloft. Then he noticed the taciturn assistant was shaving the hairs on the back of his neck.
– Watch the mole, eh! he threatened.
Meanwhile, Don Jaime was shaking the hair out of a none-too-clean apron and Adam was slicking back his hair with a generous dollop of hair cream. Just then, the first rumblings of war were heard in the barber shop. Don Jaime, Adam, and the Carter from the Hayloft all looked at each other. The din of the mob was growing louder. They rushed out into the sunny street.
Adam Buenosayres immediately took refuge in a false doorway beside the barbershop to avoid the riotous first wave of combatants. From this strategic post, he could survey the area that would soon be a raging battlefield. The sector of Gurruchaga Street running from Camargo to Triunvirato was already a-boil, and the clamorous multitude poured out through doors, windows, and skylights. The men were running with long strides, shoving and shouting and egging each other on. The women trotted along heavily in their clogs, children in tow. The kids were laughing and looking for trees to climb so as to get the best view. The old folks stood around exchanging eloquent gestures of excitement.
Adam assessed the human wave and quickly realized they were heading for the vicinity of a grocery store called La Buena Fortuna. Trying to guess what could have started it all, he joined the throng and let the flow carry him along toward the battle. But only at the grocery store did he realize how serious things were. For there, Mars had just thrown his torch and set ablaze the hearts of Trojans and Tyrians alike; and now, his cheeks puffed out, he was blowing on the flames for all he was worth.
When he arrived at La Buena Fortuna, the fight was just getting underway. Doña Filomena, drawn up to her full majestic height, her cheeks red as a rooster’s crest, stood at the centre of a vast circle of men and women. Holding her son Yuyito by the suspenders as he thrashed in vain against her iron grip, she ferociously faced an implacable enemy. Opposite her, pale as the angel of death, Doña Gertrudis took the heat of that gaze, with her son Juancho’s head locked tight against her gut. Between the two champions stood the tano Luigi, owner of La Buena Fortuna. Staring at the shattered glass of his display window, the Italian broke into grand lamentations. The arena was fenced in by rows of menacing faces, and still the multitudes came pouring in from the four quarters of the globe. But before singing of that grievous battle, let the Muse tell the origin of the war that sent so many illustrious heroes down to the underworld of Tartarus.
It so happened that Juancho and Yuyito, after a long morning of banditry, had finally called a halt. Renouncing action, they got to chatting as friends about various subjects, both sacred and profane. Pretty soon Juancho started talking up the Racing soccer team and their famous line of strikers. Yuyito’s brow clouded over. In return, he exalted the eleven players of San Lorenzo de Almagro, burning the finest incense in their homage. Well, one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, they’re no longer singing praises but sliding down the slippery slope of invective. Juancho goes as far as to assert that San Lorenzo are a fumble-footed bunch and recalls how Racing ran circles around t
hem just a while back. Upon hearing such blasphemy, Yuyo feels a knot rising in his throat, but contains himself, then brings up the happy memory of the three goals San Lorenzo shoved down Racing’s throat at the Boca Juniors’ stadium. Ye gods! Who can describe the indignation that overtakes Juancho at the mention of that hateful hat-trick? His right fist flies to Yuyo’s jaw, then he beats a retreat as shameful as it is nimble. Unfortunately, Yuyo has a good throwing arm. His keen eye has calculated his aggressor’s head start. Seeing that chase is out of the question, he picks up a rock and hurls it with such violence that, had it hit the mark, it would surely have knocked Juancho headlong down into dark Hades. But Juno, of the bovine eyes, has for some time now been nursing a divine grievance against Racing, and she steers the rock toward the window of La Buena Fortuna. Result: the glass is smashed to smithereens and the tano Luigi runs out into the street screaming blue murder.
We left Doña Filomena and Doña Gertrudis facing off, still silent, but with razor tongues at the ready. The first to speak was Doña Gertrudis:
– This is the kind of thing that’s been going on, she declared, ever since you and your ragamuffin son moved into the neighbourhood. Just ask the neighbours, they’ll tell you! That little snot-nose is Judas reincarnate!
Doña Filomena turned even redder. Yet she didn’t answer, rage having surely tied her tongue. Taking advantage of her opponent’s silence, Doña Gertrudis pointed at Yuyo with an aggressive index finger:
– Ever since that little bastard took over the street, he’s got us all with our hearts in our mouths. Boys will be boys, they say. No! He goes way over the line. He even steals, so help me God! Just ask the neighbours if it isn’t so!
An approving chorus murmured behind her. Muted voices, stirrings of a hurricane. But behind Doña Filomena, too, silent faces were glowering. She moistened her lips and spoke:
– “So help me God,” you said. I don’t know if God will forgive your serpent’s tongue. In the first place, my son is no bastard. He has a father and a mother.
– Father? questioned Doña Gertrudis, sarcastic.
– Yes, a father – may he rest in peace! I can show you my marriage certificate, I really doubt you could do the same. You talk to me about thievery? It’s the pot calling the kettle black! Because stealing coal from honest households, that’s what your son’s up to. And you look the other way. And spend your whole day spreading gossip from door to door.
Ah, what cries of enthusiasm from Doña Filomena’s tribe greeted so cogent, so folkloric a rejoinder! And how grim the faces of their enemies! Meanwhile, Discord hovered over both Tyrians and Trojans, offering them a bright red apple from Río Negro.16 But no one in either faction saw Her. All were waiting on tenterhooks for Doña Gertrudis’s next sally.
Trembling like a leaf – certainly not out of fear!– Doña Gertrudis pondered in her soul whether or not to pounce and rip from her rival’s forehead the four errant, crazy wisps of hair dangling there. But Minerva, the goddess of owlish eyes, at that moment spoke in her ear and, touching the mortal woman with invisible fingers, imbued her with a radiance not at all human. And Doña Gertrudis stepped right up and let fly at her enemy with the full force of her lungs.
– Me, gossiping? she cried. Everybody knows I’m at my Singer sewing machine seven days a week. But look who’s talking! As if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth! If she had even a shred of decency, maybe she’d look after her son, instead of running around and carrying on with . . .
Doña Gertrudis hesitated, given pause by the gravity of what she was about to say. For her part, Doña Filomena started trembling so hard that she’d have fainted away, had not Juno, of bovine eyes, intervened and upheld her by the armpits. But Doña Filomena recovered, and in the midst of a terrible hush:
– Carrying on with who? she asked, torn between anguish and rage. Go ahead, I dare you to say it!
– With the Carter from the Hayloft! trumpeted Doña Gertrudis. The whole neighbourhood knows!
Heavens, what a rumpus was raised throughout the street at the utterance of such savage words! Laughs on one side were met by insults from the other. Everywhere jaws tightened, eyes glinted. Owl-eyed Minerva exhorted Doña Gertrudis’s partisans, while Doña Filomena’s band was led by Juno, her hair wild and dishevelled, her mouth grim.
Standing in the first row of the ring, Adam Buenosayres studied the combatants. There were the Iberians of thick eyebrows who’d left northern Spain and their dedication to Ceres to come here and drive orchestral streetcars; there were those who drank from the torrential Miño River, men practised in the art of argumentation; those from the Basque countries, the natural hardness of their heads concealed by blue berets. Then there were the Andalusian matadors, abundant in guitars and brawls. And industrious Ligurians, given to wine and song. Neopolitans erudite in the fruits of Pomona, who now wield municipal brooms. Turks of pitch-black mustachios, who sell soap, perfumed water, and combs destined for cruel uses. Jews wrapped in multi-coloured blankets, who love not Bellona. Greeks astute in the stratagems of Mercury. Dalmatians of well-rivetted kidneys. The Syrio-Lebanese, who flee not the skirmishes of Theology. And Japanese dry-cleaners. In short, all those who had come from the ends of the earth to fulfil the lofty destiny of the Land-which-from-a-noble-metal-takes-its-name.17 Adam studied those unlikely faces and wondered about that destiny, and great was his doubt.
Just then, Minerva turned to spiteful Juno:
– You old coot, you just get crazier with age! she cried. How long will you go on amusing yourself by stirring up hatred among mortals, pushing them into disastrous wars? Let’s leave them to squabble on their own without our help, and find ourselves a quiet nook.
Juno accepted the invitation from her fearsome sister, and the two sat down together on the doorstep of La Buena Fortuna to watch events unfold.
The first to jump headlong into the fray was the Carter from the Hayloft. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and rage fermenting in his liver, for he has just heard his name ridiculed, the high secret of his love life besmirched in public. He looks daggers at Doña Gertrudis and briefly contemplates bringing his vengeful hand to bear upon a woman. But then he recalls his repute throughout all Villa Crespo. He remembers the three bullies he took down on the banks of the mighty Maldonado Creek,18 the two compadritos he wasted in La Paternal,19 the four slaughtermen he faced down that time on Liniers Street, and the eight students he sent packing in Rancagua Park. Drunk with glory, the Carter lets his gaze sweep in an arc over the crowd, seaching out a worthy opponent. His eyes fall on the gigantic Abdulla, who’s still laughing in the front row.
– Oh yeah? he shouts, applying his trusty left to Abdulla’s jaw. Laugh at this!
Beneath Abdulla’s wiry mustachios, laughter abruptly crumples into a horrible grimace. For a moment he stays on his feet, then falls to his knees with a crunch of bone. Before tumbling over like an ox, he clutches at a crate of oranges from Brazil. Golden oranges scatter over the ground. Face down in the dirt, Abdulla still struggles to get up, panting up tiny dust-storms. The patrons of Café Izmir weep piteously over their champion, now wrestling with the angel of death. Finally it’s all over, or it’s all about to begin: Abdulla’s heroic soul floats up over the multitude to the Prophet’s paradise, enters the great hall of the glorified, inhales the exquisite aromas of divine tobacco and celestial anis; free now of all human weight, he sits down between two buxom houris.
The Carter from the Hayloft looks around in triumph, a bit stunned by the trumpet-blast of glory. But just then, a tremendous voice rises above the clamour of the mob:
– Not hitting a man like that!
Before he knows it, the Carter is in the grip of Arizmendi the Basque who, filled with holy wrath, is crushing him in his cyclopean arms. The multitude emits a murmur of astonishment, then all is quiet for half an hour.20 The two heroes fight; the earth shudders beneath their feet. The Carter does his best to land punches on the head of the Basque, but Don Martín holds him tight
against his gigantic thorax, squeezing harder and harder. Now the Carter’s blows are getting weaker, he’s pawing at thin air, his face is turning purple, and a cold sweat beads his brow. Finally his arms fall perpendicular to the ground, the light in his eyes goes out, and the Basque lets him fall like dead weight. But wait! The Carter isn’t out of it yet! He pulls himself together and, bones creaking, struggles painfully to his feet to take an aggressive step toward his enemy! Ah, but it’s his last gasp: down he goes for good. To the hoarse music of a bandoneón, the Carter’s soul goes plummeting down to hell. Rubbing his eyes rheumy with ire, he lurches among flickering shadows, still trying to duke it out with trolls and demons.
But Arizmendi the Basque will not come out of the battle unscathed. Looking to avenge the Carter, three burly lads rush in and grab Don Martín by the shoulders, neck, and waist. He thrashes like a bull attacked by a pack of dogs. Breaking free, he gives his aggressors a taste of the sidewalk. But they’re back on their feet, fists flying, landing terrible blows. Three times the Basque goes down on his knees, and three times he gets back up. But the fourth time he can’t do it. He senses the end is near; mortal sorrow floods his soul. Seeing him beaten, the burly lads leave him to his fate. Arizmendi drags himself over to the foot of a tree and there lays himself down, facing skyward, head pointed toward the east. Beating his breast, the Basque weeps for his sins, two in particular: cutting the milk with water before he sold it and stealing pigeons from Don Jaime. He plucks three blades of grass in homage to the Trinity and offers up his blue beret as a pledge to heaven. The Archangel Gabriel graciously receives it. Then the Basque brings his sinewed hands together forever in a simple and beautiful affirmation of Oneness.
Don Martín’s soul ascends, accompanied by a furious fanfare of angels’ trumpets. No sooner has his soul got to heaven than the battle below becomes general and tremendous. Myriad warriors raise clouds of dust, and the sun himself stops his chariot to take a look. But suddenly the sound of distant hooves is heard. It’s Sargeant Pérez of Police Precinct 21, galloping toward the brawl on his dapple-grey horse! The fighting stops instantly; Trojans and Tyrians flee. The arena is left empty of living and dead alike.
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 14