Meanwhile, night was falling and darkness was enveloping the parlour. Adam Buenosayres looked at a bit of sky through the window opening onto the garden. Perhaps the terrestrial melancholy of the autumn evening seeped momentarily into his soul, for he felt forthwith a crazy urge to make a clean escape into the enormous, silent spaces of the wide-open sky, hard and cold as a gem. But the lights of the chandelier suddenly switched on, and Adam turned his gaze back to the tertulia where the actors, under the new lighting, were becoming more boisterous. A gust of hilarity was just hitting the ladies’ group. Señora Johansen was laughing noisily, her spongy flesh shaking beneath her clothes like a water-filled balloon. Señora Amundsen laughed a sonorous counterpoint, and even Señora Ruiz discreetly joined in, her hatchet face managing a half-smile. Lucio Negri was now among the denizens of the divan, sitting beside Solveig with the most distracted air imaginable. Adam thought he’d seen Lucio’s hand furtively draw away from Solveig’s just as the lights came on. But he wasn’t sure, maybe it was an optical illusion. Did it matter any more? No. Really? Weaver of smoke! At the far end of the sky-blue divan, not much was new; the astrologer Schultz was speaking to the engineer, Ethel, and Ruty, all of them apparently spellbound.
Adam’s observations were interrupted by a chorus of laughter in his own sector. Franky Amundsen, haughty as a self-important nurse, was approaching solemnly, rolling the cart of drinks before him.
– Let us drink, now that we have peace, Franky invited, stopping the drink cart with a truly maternal solicitude.
Not waiting to have their arms twisted, Del Solar, Pereda, Buenosayres, and the pipsqueak Bernini all accepted a glass and a benediction from Franky. But Samuel Tesler had retreated into sullen silence after the battle and now refused Franky’s generosity.
– Come on, now! cried Franky. Let’s go ashore and hit the bottle! Blood of the whale, have a little humanity! Even Plato, if memory serves, used to drink like a sailor after he’d demonstrated the squaring of the circle.
As he served Señor Johansen and Mister Chisholm, still whispering together in private, Franky exhorted them:
– Pax, gentlemen! Pax vobiscum.
There followed a general flexing of elbows. Even Samuel Tesler, having given in to Franky’s eloquence, raised a glass more out of courtesy than any other motive.
Then Franky suddenly turned to Del Solar.
– I’ve got an idea! he cried, pointing at Buenosayres and Samuel Tesler. These comrades have to come with us tonight.
– Where? asked Adam.
– Shhh! Franky silenced him. A creoley-toughguyee-whorey-suburbyfuneral adventure, as comrade Schultz would say.26
But Del Solar was frowning.
– It’s dangerous, he declared. We’re gonna be hangin’ out with the kind of heavies you don’t mess with.
– Will the taita Flores be there? Pereda wanted to know.
– For sure, Del Solar answered, giving him a significant look.
– Hmm, growled Pereda. If Flores is going to be there, we’ll have to think this over carefully.
This brief exchange between the two criollista leaders charged the atmosphere with a sense of mystery, of lurking danger. Unfortunately, Franky Amundsen couldn’t leave well enough alone.
– One hell of night it’s gonna be, he anounced. By the beard of the Prophet! We’ll get down and dirty on the outskirts of town and up to our balls in criollismo. Are we or are we not talking about a journey to hell? Yes? So that’s why the poet and the philosopher’ve gotta come along, or I know bugger all about the classics.
– Okay, it’s fine by me if they want to come, muttered Del Solar, looking dubiously at Tesler and Buenosayres. But they’ll have to keep their heads up and their mouths shut. Otherwise, I can’t answer for the consequences.
A look of irritation mixed with pity suffused the face of the philosopher from Villa Crespo. He was not unaware of the harm suffered by the current generation due to a doctrine of heretical principles and dubious ends. Concocted in the impure crucible of some irresponsible coterie, it had taken off in a manner unprecedented in the history of our national metaphyics, fully justifying the cries of alarm being heard on all sides. Criollismo was the name of this obscure heterodoxy, and whether it was inspired by Old Nick himself, we’ll only know on Judgment Day toward nightfall. Upon dissecting that body of doctrine with the zealous scalpel of inflexible orthodoxy, one quickly came to realize that it was all about taking certain shady characters from suburban Buenos Aires, whose deeds were memorialized in police files, and raising them to the level of Olympian gods. Now, our philosopher belonged to a race which, although in the course of its frequent migrations it had burned incense at the altar of quite a few foreign divinities, could still boast of having maintained intact the gold of its own tradition. So it was no surprise that that attempt at barbarous idolatry caused Samuel Tesler to cloud over from head to foot.27
– The lengths bad literature can go to! he said. To the point of turning a couple of harmless thugs into national heroes!
– Harmless, the taita Flores? protested Del Solar, scandalized.
– Sure, just a kid! Pereda laughed loudly. Only twenty-two charges on his police record!
The philosopher looked at him sarcastically.
– Probably a pathetic chicken-thief, he said. I’ve got a mind to come with you tonight just to have it out with this joker Flores, slap him around a bit.
Uncontrollable laughter erupted. Franky Amundsen, perplexed, went up to the philosopher and felt his biceps.
– This is what I call a man! he declared solemnly.
But Samuel Tesler pushed him away, drunk with aggression.
– I’ve had it up to here with criollista nonsense, he said. It started with singing the praises of that gaucho28 who bummed around out there on the pampa – or so you people say, though it cuts no ice with me – out there where nowadays Italian farmers are sweating in their fields. And now you’re picking on those poor sods in the suburbs, mixing them up in a sorry literature of tough guys and dance-hall Romeos!
As the philosopher talked on, Del Solar was turning every colour imaginable. Images of his forebears went filing by in his memory, heroes wearing the tunic of liberation armies or the chiripá of feudal ranchers. Men with tough beards and tender hearts, out there on the native pampas among proud horses. At the same time, Señor Johansen and Mister Chisholm joined the group, attracted by Samuel Tesler’s violent words.
– Devout remembrance of things native, stammered Del Solar, deathly pale, is all we criollos have left, ever since the wave of foreigners invaded the country. And now the same foreigners are making a mockery of our sorrow! It’s enough to make you weep with rage!
– Bravo! applauded Franky. This calls for a guitar!
– I’m serious! Del Solar warned him acridly. It’s true the influx of foreigners put us on the road to progress. On the other hand, it has destroyed our traditions. We’ve been tempted and corrupted!
– Absolutely right! the pipsqueak Bernini corroborated, pawing the ground like a steed anxious to enter the fray.
But Adam Buenosayres intervened unexpectedly:
– I’d say it happened the other way around.
– What do you mean? asked Del Solar.
– That our country is the one that tempts and corrupts, and the foreigner is the one who has been tempted and corrupted.
The utterance of this unheard-of doctrine produced a shock wave throughout the sector.
– That’s preposterous! protested Bernini.
– Let’s hear his reasoning! Pereda demanded. Quiet!
– I speak as a second-generation Argentine and as a close descendant of Europeans, Adam began, already regretting that he’d got himself into this futile controversy. To get some insight into my country and myself, I needed to visit the old country, the land of my parents, and see how those people lived before emigrating. I saw them in their villages, where they scratched out a tough living from their fields. They
had a heroic sense of existence; whether happy or resigned, they had discipline, faith in God, the stability of their customs. I’ve seen them: that’s how they were and still are. What did our country do when it dazzled them with the perspective of getting rich? It tempted them.
Franky Amundsen was showing signs of consternation.
– Schultz’s tempting angels! he said mysteriously. Steamboat angels with twin propellers and hides of steel!29
– When they got here, Adam continued, what system of order was on offer in this country that would replace the one they were losing? A system based on a sort of gleeful materialism that mocked their customs and laughed at their beliefs.
The philosopher of Villa Crespo snickered malignantly.
– And why? he said venemously. All because a couple of revolutionary mulattos who’d read Voltaire impressed the hell out of two or three other mulattos and scandalized their nunnish aunts!
This undesirable trait in the philosopher got him into endless trouble: a ferocious racism that rendered literally the entire universe mulatto,30 with the single exception of the philosopher himself. Leaving aside his infinite vanity on this score, and recognizing in him a man obviously favoured by the Muses, his interlocutors wondered: what gave him the right to insult the patriotic feelings of his like-minded colleagues? He, the last offspring of a people that as a result of a theological curse was still wandering the world and had entirely lost its sense of nationhood? Such thoughts perturbed the minds of those who’d heard Samuel’s damnable words. Once the low rumble of protest had quieted down, Franky Amundsen reacted:
– He’s insulted our gigantic forefathers! he roared, threatening the philosopher with his fist.
– A foreigner! shrieked Del Solar. An undesirable!
– He bites the hand that feeds him! insisted Franky, remembering a serendipitous scrap from his sketchy readings.
Here Luis Pereda raised a threatening arm:
– Stop squabbling! We’re listening to a new point of view on our national reality. Would you please shut up!
Silence was immediately restored, and Adam Buenosayres was able to proceed:
– I was saying that what immigrants found in this country was not a system of order but a temptation to disorder. Most of them had no education: they were defenceless. They forgot their scale of values for the easy lifestyle our country showed them. The process of corruption began in the fathers and was completed in the sons. Children learned to laugh at their immigrant parents, to ignore or hide their genealogy. They are the Argentines of today, uprooted and adrift.
Adam Buenosayres had finished; there was a short silence in the metaphysical sector.
– I’d say he’s laying it on a bit thick, Del Solar said at last, turning to the pipsqueak Bernini.
– Real thick, agreed the pipsqueak. He’s talking bull, no doubt about it.
Serious and scholarly, Luis Pereda asked Buenosayres:
– If that’s your point of view, what is your position as an Argentine?
– Very confused, Adam answered. Unable to endorse the reality our country’s currently living, I’m alone and motionless: I’m waiting, I’m an Argentine in hope.31 That’s how I relate to the country. Personally, though, I feel that, since my forebears cut the thread of their tradition and destroyed their scale of values upon arrival here, it’s up to me to retie that thread and rebuild my identity according to the values of my race. That’s where I am now. And I think that when everyone does likewise, the country will have a spiritual form.
For some time now, the pipsqueak Bernini had been chomping at the bit. A man of intellect and passion, his dual nature was threatening to explode.
– Our country doesn’t need to search for her soul abroad, he announced. There’s someone else who will give it to her, and without being asked.
– Who? Adam asked.
– The Spirit of the Earth!
Samuel Tesler’s dangerous laugh was heard once more.
– Naturally! he said. One fine day the pampa will spread her legs and give birth to a metaphysics.
– The Spirit of the Earth will speak, insisted the Pipsqueak, overcome by the mystery of it. The Spirit will speak, you can be sure of it!32
– And cut a sorry figure, said Franky. It’ll moo like a cow.33
But Del Solar was in no mood for compromises.
– With or without the Spirit of the Earth, the foreigners should leave us in peace. This is no longer a country: it’s a colonial trading post!
The line was drawn, positions had hardened, and civil war seemed imminent. And belligerent ardour was already glinting in all eyes, when Mister Chisholm saw fit to put aside his reserve, which hadn’t fooled anyone anyway, and let all the chill of his native English fog fall down hard upon Del Solar.
– That’s sheer ingratitude, he said. Ingratitude and savagery. What on earth would have become of this nation, for example, without the aid of England? That’s what I’d like to know. Upon my word!
The keenest astonishment flashed across everyone’s face. Del Solar, Buenosayres, Pereda, Bernini, Franky – all of them looked at each other in petrified silence. Then, instintively, those men of such diverse origin, humour, and mindset moved closer together, as if closing ranks before a common threat. A wave of heroic zeal blazed in their faces; the hair on the back of their necks rose in anticipation of the impending clash. The first to sally forth was Bernini, a famously intrepid warrior in this sort of international battle.34
– I don’t think Mister Chisholm has quite understood, he began. For us, England isn’t foreign.
– Aha! smiled a pleased Mister Chishom. So what it is it, then?
– England is the Enemy! trumpeted Bernini.
It was the signal to launch the attack. Samuel Tesler suddenly advanced toward Mister Chisholm, performed a deep bow, and solemnly announced:
– Delenda est Britannia!35
– Twice England has invaded us and twice we have repulsed her, thundered Del Solar. But a third invasion has defeated us: the invasion of the pound sterling!36
Flushed red as a fighting cock, Mister Chisholm shook his fist at the insurgents.
– No one can deny England’s civilizing mission, he rasped. Who dares to deny it?
– I do! said the philosopher. Historically speaking, England hasn’t changed since Roman times. It has never been completely civilized, refractory as it is to eternal tradition and order. And these barbarians wrapped in elegant tweeds claim to be civilizing a people with forty centuries of metaphysics in their veins!
– There he goes again with his forty centuries! muttered Señor Johansen bitterly.
– Indians! scolded Mister Chishom. Worse than Indians!
At this point, Bernini sounded the famous charge that was to win him so many future laurels. Turning to his peers, he exclaimed:
– Enough pussyfooting around! Give us back the Malvinas, or else!37
From that moment on, confusion reigned supreme. The pipsqueak’s charge was met by shouts, laughs, and threats. Wielding his garbled Spanish like a broken sword, Mister Chisholm tried to respond to his numerous enemies, but his voice was buried beneath the weight of the many voices beleaguering him. Franky went to the sky-blue divan and plunked himself down between his sister Ethel and Ruty Johansen, his carrot top shaking with laughter. Meanwhile, Samuel Tesler was now standing on the piano stool, shaking an aggressive fist at Mister Chisholm and bellowing:
– Give us back the Malvinas!
The whole room, startled, turned its eyes to the combatants in the metaphysical sector.
– What’s going on? asked Señora Johansen in alarm.
– Nothing, answered Señora Amundsen. I think they’re beating up on my Englishman.
Not masking her displeasure, Señora Ruiz looked at the upstarts.
– Frivolous fellows, she said at last, turning to Señora Amundsen. Frankly, I don’t know why you let such people into your house.
– They’re Ethel’s intellectu
al friends, explained Señora Amundsen with a benevolent smile.
At the same time, Lucio Negri, installed between Marta and Solveig, was painting the blackest possible portrait of the philosopher of Villa Crespo, who meanwhile continued fanning the flames among the belligerents.
– His case is very simple, he was saying. Simulation of genius, megalomania raised to the third power, and a truly remarkable dose of schizophrenia.
– You call that a simple case? said Marta Ruiz on the theshold of laughter.
– And that’s not all, Lucio went on. The man suffers from mystical delusions. A while back he tried to make me believe that, when he enters a state of heightened awareness, his head emits sparks and his skin exudes exquisite odours. They say he’s spent some time in the loony bin. He went around calling himself the Black Christ and slapping the faces of the wardkeepers.38
But Haydée Amundsen wasn’t going to accept this.
– Slander! she protested, gracefully covering her ears. He’s a misunderstood genius.
– Come on, Haydée, implored Marta. The Black Christ! A man letting off sparks and aromas!
– I haven’t seen the sparks, Haydée declared very seriously, but I’m quite certain about his scent. It’s a cheap aftershave he puts on every Thursday and it’s called Nuit d’amour.
– What? cried Marta. It’s aftershave lotion?
Marta’s and Haydée’s laughter intertwined like twin braids. Even Solveig condescended to smile, distracted perhaps from her own mystery.
Meanwhile, Ethel Amundsen’s group, which had not yet intervened in the incidents of the tertulia, had just launched a discussion about an apparently harmless subject, but one that was to produce extraordinary events in the very near future. Valdez the engineer was developing an implacable thesis which scrapped, just like that, the eternal doctrine of free will; his thesis encountered quite contradictory reactions. Ethel Amundsen repeatedly interrupted the orator, alternately voicing firm objections and shaking her beautiful head in disagreement. Schultz, for his part, half-closed his eyes and smiled benignly, like an initiate listening to a novice expound the most rudimentary truths of occult science. As for Ruty Johansen, her astonishment turned to disbelief, and disbelief weakened to vacillation.
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 19