Adam Buenosayres interrupted his train of thought. Again he was feeling the two dangerous symptoms – deep inhalation and a flow of tears to his eyes. “Don’t do anything inappropriate,” he said to himself. He listened.
– How will the Iron Age end? Señor Johansen was asking. He had listened fearfully to the story of floods.
The philosopher gave him a paternal look.
– Don’t be afraid, he said. Elohim himself has promised there will be no more floods.
Then he smiled beatifically and added:
– Next time around, the world will be destroyed by fire.
– Holy smokes! croaked Señor Johansen, scratching his Adam’s apple.
But Lucio Negri let out a guffaw, and Señor Johansen regained his composure.
– When? he inquired, just in case.
– At the end of this century, answered Samuel with absolute sang-froid.
Señor Johansen sighed. There was still time!
The wallpapering job was finished, and Mister Chisholm, perched on his stepladder, was entirely surrounded by a blood-red sky where a thousand blue birds fluttered in a whirlwind.
– Good, rasped Mister Chisholm in English, obviously satisfied with his work.
He looked toward the parlour. Through the cigarette smoke he could make out the silhouettes of seven or eight figures vaguely gesturing. But he heard with clarity the hubbub of voices: the tertulia had grown livelier, and the tinkle of girlish laughter was joined by the sudden clangour of disputatious voices and the clucking of matrons. Mister Chisholm felt isolated in his sky of blood. He took a swig from his glass and found it dry; he sucked on his pipe, but it was cold. Alone. Mister Chisholm was alone among his blue birds. Desolate? Perhaps. But the fact was, legions of island-men like him were opportunely distributed across the globe, sustaining the most formidable empire this world had ever seen. At this thought, Mister Chisholm stood up straight on his ladder, his eyes instinctively seeking the sea.
Just then, the horde irrupted into the vestibule – Luis Pereda, Franky Amundsen, Del Solar, and the pipsqueak Bernini.19 Four individuals already illustrious in the annals of partying and folklore, they hit the vestibule like a windstorm. The first to enter was Luis Pereda; short-sighted, rowdy, he hazarded a few steps and bumped into the stepladder. Mister Chisholm swayed perilously in the heights.
– Hello, Mister Chisholm! Franky Amundsen shouted in English.
– Excuse me, sir! Pereda boomed, also in English, and passed on like a blind boar.
– Savages! muttered Mister Chisholm, teeth clenched around his pipe.
The four inimitable heroes entered the parlour and were received with cries of joy. Suddenly, Bernini stopped his comrades mid-room.
– Look! he told them, pointing at the diverse groupings. Just as I told you. Men on one side and women on the other. The disjunction of the sexes. Buenos Aires’s great problem!
But Franky, Del Solar, and Pereda continued toward the liquor table; once there, at the udder of the milch-cow, they abundantly replenished the vigour they’d expended on who knows what generous adventures. The pipsqueak Bernini, making no secret of his demographic concerns, headed for the metaphysical sector where he was received with open arms. Not that the three drinkers despised the sort of profound matters Bernini had just raised; on the contrary, once the libations required by their fervent devotion to Mercury had been duly executed, they again took up the inquiry they were racking their brains over. Namely, what was the exact nature of the Compadrito mil novecientos, the Turn-of-the-Century Dude? And what changes had this amazing human type undergone as a result of the influx, since 1900, of new racial contingents to the Great Capital of the South? Leading the discussion was none other than Luis Pereda, undisputed authority on this difficult subject. Brandishing a vinyl disk recorded in 1903 for the department store Gath y Chaves,20 he was about to demonstrate a thesis that at the moment was encountering serious resistance.
– So let’s hear that record, proposed Del Solar. He was sucking at an ivory cigarette holder about half a mile long that looked like it belonged in the boudoir of some cocotte.
But Franky Amundsen was one of those sterile fellows who always have to spit their skepticism on the virgin rose of any enthusiasm. His intellectual baggage, acquired exclusively from detective stories and pirate novels, not only disqualified him for any legitimate intercourse in the field of literature and the arts but was also responsible for his proclivity to erupt in totally anachronistic oaths and curses, thanks to which, in his understanding, he cut the figure of a buccaneer from the Tortuga Islands.21
– By the beard of the Prophet! growled Franky. If that isn’t a stupid disk, may I be eaten alive by ants!
Franky’s curse notwithstanding, the three champions made for the phonograph in a corner of the parlour. Franky, with ironic elegance, wound up the antiquated machine, while Luis Pereda rooted around anxiously in a welter of records, very much as a wild boar uses his snout to snuffle in the earth for some succulent tuber.
– Here it is! he cried at last. The taita of 1900, the genuine article!
With trembling hand, he removed the record from its sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and lowered the armature. The phonograph emitted a twangy voice:
Comin’ down the line
was an Anglo-Argentine tram
when it came upon a wagon
with its wheels jammed in the track.
“Hey Bud, get outta the road!”
said the tram-driver to the wagoner.22
Impossible to convey in words Luis Pereda’s ecstasy when the second-last line was wailed.
– Listen to that voice! he said triumphantly. It’s the original malevo, the gaucho who’s just come into the city. Not a trace of Italian influence yet!
“If they don’t bring a rope,
my wagon’s gonna be stuck
in the tracks all day long!”
The tram-driver, gettin’ mad
shouts back: “How ’bout a knuckle sandwich
big mouth!”
At this point Pereda’s ecstasy gave way to a wave of pugnacity that shook him right down to his toes.
– Atta boy! he shouted and laughed, swaggering like a taita ready to take on an army.23
Franky watched him with a kind of glacial melancholy.
– Terrific! he said, pointing at Pereda. They send him to study Greek at Oxford, literature at the Sorbonne, and philosophy in Zurich. And when he comes home to Buenos Aires, he goes soft in the head over record-industry criollismo, poor sod!
The nasal twang from the phonograph was getting more excited:
The wagoner
parries the knife-thrust
and after a couple more
goes hard for the tram-driver
who, had he not been nimble
and stopped the blow in mid-air
woulda had his guts sliced open
like a field watermelon.
Pereda was laughing so hard, it hurt the eardrums.
– He’s out of his mind! scolded Franky. If this ain’t a case of mental masturbation, the ants can eat me alive!
But at that moment, from the metaphysical sector of the tertulia, an irate voice was heard.
– What does he want? asked Pereda, turning a nobly aggressive mug toward the metaphysicals.
– Shut that goddam phonograph up! Samuel Tesler answered.
Franky Amundsen turned off the machine and went over to the philosopher of Villa Crespo, his two buddies naturally following hard on his heels.
– What’s up, what’s the matter? he said melliflously, patting the back of Samuel’s neck as though soothing a furious cat.
The philosopher pointed at Lucio Negri with an index digit that ended in a long, doleful fingernail.
– I need absolute silence! he demanded. I’m trying to flush a vestige of metaphysical intelligence out of this man.
– Any luck? asked Franky.
– Negative.
– I feare
d as much.
Taking his eyes off the sky-blue divan, Lucio showed signs of wanting to speak. But Franky stopped him with an authoritarian gesture.
– Silence! he ordered. I’ll bet our philosopher dared demonstrate in public the immortality of the soul.
– You’ve got it, laughed Lucio.
– That’s right, said Señor Johansen, sensing in Franky a new and powerful ally.
Franky Amundsen looked from one to the other pessimistically, then turned to the philosopher:
– I’ll bet, he said, pointing at Lucio, that the young medico has just publicly denied the immortality of the soul.
– Immortality? groaned Samuel. He denies the very existence of the soul.
– Soulless wretch! exclaimed Franky, leveling an accusing index finger at Lucio.
Passing a nostalgic gaze around the room, he added:
– Belly of the whale! To think that my ancestral home has degenerated into a philosophical bordello!
He turned around abruptly and faced the group, a fanatical gleam in his eye.
– Well then, he said mysteriously. As an anonymous citizen, the humblest louse in the world, I can tell you about a fool-proof method for demonstrating the existence of the soul.
Astonished voices, incredulous laugher from the metaphysical sector.
– Yes, Franky Amundsen assured them. When some benighted pagan dares deny the existence of the soul, there is only one sure-fire way of showing him he has one.
– How? asked Señor Johansen.
– By breaking it for him!24
Applause engulfed Franky, who saluted the crowd like boxer, joining his hands above his head of red hair. Suddenly, his brow clouded over and he addressed Luis Pereda.
– Blood of a walrus! he said bitterly. For such idiotic trifles, these pagans made us turn off the compadrito mil novecientos!
Now Bernini’s hour had arrived. Cutting-edge sociologist, the pipsqueak had been born (if we are to believe the horoscope Schultz drew up) under a peculiar set of astrological conjunctions and oppositions, such that for every human problem his mind found a solution that some qualified as whorish and others as rigorously scientific, but which in any case invariably had something to do with the union, as difficult as it is pleasurable, of the two sexes.
– Intellectual squabbles, he pontificated, brawls at the soccer stadium, back-biting in the political meeting hall. What are they, when all’s said and done? Escape valves for a sexually repressed people.
– The sexual problem! Franky announced ominously.
Samuel’s ironic guffaw joined Pereda’s laugh in a thunderous chord.
– Go ahead and laugh! Bernini reprehended. Statistics show an alarming imbalance in the ratio of men to women.25
Franky grabbed him roughly by the lapels:
– Let’s have the hard numbers! he shouted. According to your pimpish statistics, how many women does each of us men get?
– Half a woman! lamented Bernini.
Franky could not conceal his relief.
– I’m in the clear! he exclaimed. Give me the half I’ve got coming to me. Blood of a walrus! Half a woman is better than none.
Then he added, eyes glinting mischievously:
– But with one condition.
– What condition? asked Bernini.
– That I get the half from the waist down.
Annoyed and worried, Señor Johansen put his index finger to his lips and pointed with his other hand at the girls on the sky-blue divan.
– Shhh! he begged. Not so loud!
But Samuel Tesler was glowering.
– How can they make the human enigma turn on the question of sex! he grumbled. The beast crowned with flowers.
– And why not? said Lucio Negri. According to Freud . . .
– Freud is a German pig! Samuel interrupted, as if he were talking about the devil himself.
Lucio Negri subjected him to a bilious smile.
– My understanding is that Freud belongs to the “chosen people,” he retorted blandly.
With a gesture of intimate pain, the philosopher acknowledged the blow.
– That’s the worst of it, he said. He belongs to a theological race, a race he’s dishonoured.
And getting to his feet, he waxed mightily wroth in conclusion:
– Any prestige that outcast has come to enjoy is thanks to the international bourgeoisie. In Freud’s psychology they find scientific justification for their worst vices. That’s it in a nutshell!
– Bravo! shouted Franky, fervently pressing the philosopher’s hand, which Samuel had raised as if to condemn urbi et orbi.
– An anarchist! squealed Señor Johansen. Just as I feared!
Trembling with indignation, Lucio Negri got to his feet.
– I’m leaving, he said. This is a loony-bin.
And without further ado, he abandoned the field of battle where he’d given and received so many honourable wounds. Neither vanquished nor victorious, Lucio Negri headed for the sky-blue divan along the path of a soft look that had been beckoning him, inviting him to abandon the wrath of war.
To convey the commotion now felt by Señor Johansen when he saw his young ally leave is a task verging on the impossible. Faithful to his hyperborean nature, Señor Johansen put coldness aside and entered a state of belligerent ardour he could scarce contain for another second.
– Barbarity! he stammered, indicating the philosopher who was once more sitting in his armchair. This gentleman is a raving lunatic!
– Good, good! said Pereda. So the Bear from Lapland is getting into it too?
Samuel Tesler considered Señor Johansen with retrospective malevolence:
– This gentleman, he said, was weeping tears of joy when that charlatan was singing the praises of progress.
– I haven’t cried at all, retorted Señor Johansen with absolute innocence, but also very angry.
Franky Amundsen intervened once again.
– Watch out! he warned without hiding his alarm. The Bear from Lapland is timid, but when he gets mad, stay out of his way.
Thrilled at having this new adversary, Samuel wagged his finger at Señor Johansen.
– This man, he said, labours under the unfortunate misconception that he has the right to talk about things he does not understand, never has, and never will.
Pereda turned to Franky.
– Hmm, he said. The Lion of Judah is showing his claws.
– But the Bear is no slouch, Franky replied. Quiet! The Bear’s speaking.
Adopting a dignified air, Señor Johansen looked at Samuel Tesler with great humanity.
– I may not be a man of learning, he declared, but I do have something that you don’t: experience in life.
– Good for the Bear! exclaimed Franky. The Bear speaks like an open book.
A deceptively indulgent smile stole across Samuel’s face.
– Let’s see, he said, facing his rival. How old are you, anyway?
– Fifty-seven, answered Señor Johansen cautiously.
– Well, declared the philosopher. I’m forty centuries old.
His declaration was greeted with astonishment. No one, even in his most optimistic reckoning, had imagined such incredible longevity.
– You’re crazy! protested Señor Johansen, stupefied.
– Either the Lion is lying, observed Franky, or he’s as old as pissing against the wall.
Samuel Tesler raised his arm in a gesture entreating calm.
– I mean, he said as though pregnant with secrets, that my experience has been accumulated over the course of forty centuries, through numerous reincarnations.
– A madman! Señor Johansen insisted.
– Moreover, added Samuel, you will recall that intelligence is a metaphysical gift. One is born intelligent just as one is born blond.
His eyes turned to examine the chubby figure of Señor Johansen.
– Now then, he expounded magisterially, do me the favour of palpating the gentleman�
��s cranium. Hard as a rock!
– That’s enough insults! shouted Señor Johansen.
– Forty centuries of humanity, concluded Tesler, and a hundred philosophical doctrines could pass over that cranium without leaving the slightest trace.
Señor Johansen teetered on the edge of defeat.
– It’s outrageous, he choked, almost voiceless.
Pereda turned to Franky Amundsen.
– The Bear’s on the ropes! he cried. The Bear is completely groggy!
Franky lowered his red head.
– The Lion’s too nimble, he murmured. Nobody would take him for forty centuries old!
It was true: Señor Johansen was defeated. With more disdain than bitterness, he turned his back on the group to leave, just as the phegmatic Mister Chisholm approached from across the room. Their respective right hands met and clicked with mechanical urbanity. From their hushed conversation, only the odd word was audible: “obstreperous colonials” from Mister Chisholm; “beyond belief” from Señor Johansen, still stammering and looking askance at the metaphysical sector.
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 18