Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  At ten o’clock on the night of Thursday, April 28, 192–, seven adventurers halted at the edge of the dread region we’ve just named. Their leader and guide, prudent but resolute, advanced a few steps, seemingly in search of a trail in the line of prickly-pear cactus that formed a border between street and badlands.

  – Here’s the entrance, he muttered at last, turning to his squad at rest.

  A mocking laugh rent the darkness.

  – What about the dead man’s house? asked the laugh’s companion voice. We were heading for the house of a dead man.

  The voice belonged to a strange-looking fellow, long of torso and short in the legs. His voice, laugh, and body language clearly announced that the atmosphere of mental asylums and the intensive use of straitjackets had played some part in his murky past. The guide, perhaps aware of this, let the question go by without reacting.

  – The trail starts here, he said. We just follow it straight ahead until we get to the ditch and the teetery plank. From there, I’m sure we’ll be able to see the lights of the house.

  – Hell’s bells! growled a voice, jesting and skeptical. I’ll eat my hat if this joker doesn’t get us up to our balls in mud.

  – So what if he does? the short-legged fellow argued facetiously. It’s the mire of the suburbs. Sacred mire!

  Ignoring the sarcasm, the man with the jesting, skeptical voice sketched a gesture of resignation in the air.

  – All right, he said. If we must, then let’s get a move on. We’re not going to stand around here all bloody night.

  He began to walk toward the prickly-pear hedge. But he immediately turned around and cast an inquisitive glance over his taciturn companions.

  – By the belly of the whale! he exclaimed. Where have they got to now, that scurvy astrologer and that swine of a bard?

  The two personages so grossly described were not far off, their shadowy profiles readily visible some twenty paces away. One of them stood out, for his form rose cyclopean in the night, his stature denoting not the insolent pride of the material world but his serene command of occult wisdom, key to the enigma of the Three Worlds. The other was skinny, unprepossessing, altogether nondescript, were it not for his slouched broad-brimmed hat, which looked like a funnel of the style that in days of yore had covered heads lousy with metaphors. What were they doing over there, standing face to face, far from their comrades-in-arms at the very moment when the code of solidarity most urgently beckoned them? The fact was that, shortly beforehand, the cyclopean man had scented in the dark the baleful odour of hemlock. He’d so informed the man in the funnel-shaped hat, whereupon both had set out in search of the plant, sniffing the air like bloodhounds. Once they’d found it, the began to chew on the deadly leaves, whereupon a swarm of classical reminiscences softened their hearts, the sudden upswelling of an ancient emotion bringing them close to tears, especially when the pathetic image of Socrates flashed up in memory. Generous souls! There they would have stayed all night long, savouring the bittersweet mystery of death, had not a chorus of strident voices called them back to the reality of this world.

  – Schultz! Buenosayres! We’ve found the opening!

  The astrologer Schultz and Adam Buenosayres – for these were the names of the hemlock-eaters – retraced the steps separating them from their friends. A kind of irrepressible nervousness came over the group as they were about to set off. Some scrutinized the blackness stonewalling them with its sphinx-like hermeticism. Others glanced back at the metropolis they were deserting and watched its lights winking at them from afar. To be sure, all those men, porteños by birth or by vocation, had bid a long and ceremonious farewell to the marvellous city. Every single dive on Colodrero Street between Triunvirato and Republiquetas, each and every one of the noisy pubs and welcoming cantinas that offer a zinc countertop to the thirst and fatigue of the traveller – all had received the adieu of those magnanimous heroes, whose religiosity forbade them to undertake any adventure without first beseeching the favour of the gods on high by means of an enthusiastic libation of aguardiente from Catamarca, guindado from Montevideo, caña from Paraguay, zingani from Bolivia, grappa from Cuyo, pisco from Chile, and other liquors suitable for so pious a liturgy. Now there was nothing for it but to leave. And leave they would, any minute now, albeit on legs not entirely steady, and with tongues a tad thick, but with a serene valour proof against any obstacle.

  The signal to advance was given. The seven men marched toward the prickly pears. One by one, the adventurers slipped sideways through a narrow opening in the thorny tangle. Their leader was the first to embark on the path of danger, followed by the short-legged man and the jester. Hard on their heels came two heroes who had so far remained silent: one of them, robust, swayed like a wild boar gone blind; the other was not quite pint-sized. These five made up the group’s vanguard; the astrologer Schultz and Adam Buenosayres brought up the rear.

  They’d all crossed the line now into the land of adventure. Before them, the land sloped away gently, coated in an armour of aggressive bushes, all barbs and quills. But the seven men hardly noticed them, so powerful was their exaltation before that Argentine night, the purity of its gloom, the firmness of its flesh: it seemed to fuse heaven and earth, man and beast, in a single block of darkness. Their eyes soon tired of trying to penetrate the obscurity below. But when they raised their gaze aloft, a sacred dread filled their hearts before the vision of stars clustered in the sky like the thousand eyes of a blinking Argos. It was an ancient terror that rained down from above, and a silence so deep, one seemed to hear the dew distilled in the flasks of the night trickling down to earth. From that point forth, the explorers were enflamed by a kind of telluric rapture: it was a mad cutting-loose from all worldly ties, the soul’s release into the realm of marvels. Ah, but little did they suspect in their exalted state that soon, only three hundred metres away, the supernatural was to give the Saavedran adventurers quite a fright when, crossing the abyss on the wobbly plank, they would hear the tremulous croak of the toad-swans.

  The first to show signs of poetic delirium was Adam Buenosayres. Stopping suddenly, he demanded silence:

  – Hark! he exlaimed. Listen!

  Six anxious faces surrounded him forthwith.

  – What’s up? they asked in alarm.

  – There! replied Adam, extending his arm toward the horizon. Listen to it! It’s the song of the River!

  – What river? growled the jester.

  – The Silver River! declaimed Adam, exhilarated. The eponymous river, as Ricardo Rojas would say. The river has raised his venerable torso over the waters. His brow is wreathed in water hyacinths. He sings a song of mud, his mouth full of mud, his beard dripping mud!1

  General laughter was heard in the night. But the jester proffered a brutal curse:

  – We’re done for now! he announced. The bard’s pissed as a newt!

  But Adam insisted:

  – He who has not heard the voice of the River will never understand the sadness of Buenos Aires. The sadness of clay in search of a soul.2 The idiom of the River!

  Choked up by a fit of weeping, he couldn’t go on. His head fell against Schultz’s chest, there to be succoured by the astrologer’s gentle hand. (Schultz later avowed having experienced the distinct impression of clasping a broad-brimmed hat wracked by sobs.) Later, everyone would realize that a recent disappointment in love had provoked that unexpected tearful outburst.

  – The problem isn’t with the river, the pint-sized hero began to say. If we resist the temptation to wax lyrical and just open our eyes . . .

  But a flaccid, mollusc-like hand touched his back. It was the robust man who swayed like a blind boar.

  – Hold it right there, he said, his breath an effluvium of caña quemada. I gather that Buenosayres was offering us a poetical-alcoholical-sentimental version of the River.

  – I repeat: the problem is not the river, insisted the pint-sized fellow with an insolence far exceeding what might be expected from his scan
t bulk.

  – And I maintain that you’re lying through your beard! shouted the robust man, blind to his opponent’s clean-shaven face.

  This anachronistic apostrophe (a reminiscence, no doubt, from long-ago classical readings) stung the little man like a whip.

  – Me, lying? he snarled. Now I’m gonna tell you the way I see Buenos Aires and its problems!

  But he didn’t, because the jester loudly interrupted him.

  – Cut him off! he implored in the darkness. In the name of divine Saturn, for the sake of the sacred night, shut that pipsqueak up before he gets started. Can’t you see he’s picked up the scent of the Spirit of the Earth? The sly fox is about to club us again with his bloody theory!

  It was a call to order, an exhortation to prudence heeded by all. Especially when their guide, chomping on his foot-long cigarette holder, declared in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t dragged them way-the-hell-and-gone just so they could horse around; no, they were there to accomplish a heroic exploit that would leave them either beaten to a pulp or covered with laurels.3 Fortunately, the counsel of these two men prevailed, and the group set out once more, intrepid, but in a sullen silence that boded no good.

  Among the heroes walked one who, miraculously, had not yet intervened in the dispute – the man with the short legs. True, he’d made his presence felt during the course of the argument with a few hostile grunts and two or three orchestral guffaws. But the fact that he hadn’t actually got his oar in was an unmistakable sign that some nocturnal genie had just possessed him. Unless, as was more likely, his apparent restraint was the handiwork of the Catamarca firewater for which the short-legged man had that night displayed a devotion bordering on the fanatical. But whatever the reason, our hero was now brightening up and showing clear signs of excitement. And then something remarkable occurred: he began passing cigarettes out to his comrades. This unheard-of act plunged the group into profound consternation.

  – Am I dreaming? asked the jester.

  – Miracle! It’s a miracle! answered the others.

  Filled with humility, the man with the short legs attributed the miracle to the generosity of Mercury, the god, he said, who’d stood by him through his perennial tribulations. After this confession, he pulled out his automatic lighter and lit his cigarette. The wavering flame revealed his facial contours: a hawkish nose, two enormous fan-shaped ears, thick sensual lips, all betraying the son of that race once favoured by Jehovah and later scattered like ashes for having stained their cruel hands with the blood of a god. In truth, the man of short legs was Samuel Tesler, the illustrious philosopher of Villa Crespo.

  Next, without breaking his stride Samuel Tesler used his lighter to illuminate in succession the faces of each of his friends, and so it was that the four figures not yet named emerged from anonymity. Strictly in the order of their enlightenment, they were the following: Luis Pereda, theoretician of criollismo, the robust man who sways like a wild boar gone blind; Arturo del Solar, activist of criollismo and acting leader of the seven; Franky Amundsen, radio host and animator, heretofore known as the man of the jesting voice; and the pipsqueak Bernini, sociologist, the one we’ve been calling pint-sized.

  His act of illumination complete, Samuel Tesler shut his lighter, and the night closed in darker than ever. Great God! At that moment of overwhelming darkness, the philosopher decided to let fly one his unnerving guffaws. Hearing it, the adventurers trembled for the first time.

  – What’s the Israelite laughing about? asked Franky Amundsen uncertainly.

  – Was that a laugh? Pereda doubted. It sounded more like the squawk of a vulture.

  Franky assured him it was a human laugh. Unless, he added, the Israelite had without warning turned into a vile bird of prey under cover of night – not such an unlikely metamorphosis, given the structure of his nose. But the philosopher retained his normal shape, with which he was well satisfied, thanks to his incredible powers of self-suggestion.

  – I was laughing to myself, he declared, as I thought how woefully inadequate is our earthly sense of hearing. Just ten minutes ago, a poor sentimental slob, drunk on mythology, if not on something worse, tried to make us believe he was hearing the voice of the river.

  – Are you talking about me? shrieked Adam in the darkness.

  – Quiet! said Franky. The Israelite’s got the floor.

  – What he’s got, shot back Adam in a booze-thickened voice, is three sheets to the wind.

  At this unjust accusation, the philosopher croaked something between a hiccup and a laugh.

  – And why not? he said. Just as Anaxagoras was a sober man among drunks, I am a drunk among the sober.

  – Well said, my son! exclaimed Franky, embracing Samuel. The confession honours you. That Catamarca firewater is the elixir of sincerity.

  – Who said anything about firewater? retorted Samuel, stung to the quick. I’m referring to a higher state, the inebriation of Dionysus.

  But Adam Buenosayres had got his dander up; he was struggling in the arms of Schultz and swearing to teach that Jew a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.

  – Lemme go! he bellowed like a street bully. We gotta settle this right now.

  – He’s soft in the head! said Samuel scornfully. Only a moron could cast the River Plate in a mythological mould. Bah! It’s a dead river, a cocktail of water and mud.4

  At these odious words, the adventurers bristled with indignation.

  – Hey, whoah there! thundered Pereda menacingly.

  – Damnation! whinnied Franky. He’s insulted our Father River!

  – What’d he say? shouted Adam. Just a minute here! I’ll teach that no-account bum!

  Discord reigned once more among the group, and Del Solar cursed the hour when Franky Amundsen had included that pair of madmen in the expedition to Saavedra. Franky, in response, solemnly avowed that only the desire for self-improvement had moved him to solicit the company of the neo-sensitive poet and the illustrious philosopher, and that their drunkenness was more apparent than real, since thanks to them his eyes had been opened to a vast horizon of hitherto unknown wisdom. As for Luis Pereda, who had been following the details of the Buenosayres-Tesler conflict from a strictly criollista perspective, he thought the two champions ought to settle their differences in a knife fight, though he admitted it wouldn’t be easy to find such weapons in that place, at that hour. But then he suggested the two taitas have it out with pen-knives (and he happened to be carrying one with a bone handle, which he generously offered to any taker); a fight to the death, he added, was not strictly necessary, for a traditional slash across the face, or from ear to ear, was more than enough to salve a Christian’s honour, though it were caked an inch thick in filth.5

  Fortunately, at the height of the altercation, harmony was restored when Samuel unexpectedly donned the mantle of equanimity, an act that would subsequently earn him much praise, declaring he hadn’t had the slightest intention of offending his friend Buenosayres, for whom he felt – and was not ashamed to admit it – an absolutely indestructible fraternal devotion, notwithstanding the gaping lacunae he couldn’t help noticing in his philosophical formation. For his part, Adam – who never failed to respond to those ardent calls of human cordiality – didn’t even wait for Tesler to finish his apology before rushing toward him with outstretched hand. The sight of them embracing in the very gut of the night was enough to melt a heart of stone. Their literally intoxicating breaths commingled. All of a sudden Samuel broke down weeping like a Magdalene, imprecating himself as an ignoble drunk who’d just insulted his best friend the poet and his best poet friend. Adam, sobbing his heart out, swore up and down that Samuel wasn’t drunk but fresh as a rose, and that it was he, Adam Buenosayres, who deserved the dishonour for having drunkenly offended a man of genius who busted his ass night and day studying the most abstruse sciences. Samuel persisted in his self-accusation, Adam rebutted him again, and since neither was about to give way in that generous challenge, it wasn’t long before they
were at loggerheads again and very nearly came to blows.

  The imperious invitation of their leader, Del Solar, to get moving again cut short the two men’s effusions. The expeditionaries obeyed, responding instinctively to the worry in the guide’s voice. Something had happened. Shortly beforehand, wanting to get away from the odious squabble, Del Solar had resolutely set off into the night. Once alone, he noticed a dog barking his head off nearby, and all the canines for twenty miles around were starting to yap in response. Judicious guide, he realized that the group’s hullabaloo was putting them in danger of arousing the wrath of the wilderness. He called Luis Pereda over and confided his fears. The two of them peered anxiously into the dark, and horrible shapes seemed to be sliding ominously toward them. Their hair stood on end. Del Solar cried out in alarm, and Pereda began to whistle the tango “La Chacarita.”6 This was a sure sign of distress, for he hardly ever whistled it, except at night in certain barrios, La Paternal or Villa Soldati,7 walking the streets deep in meditation on the future incarnations of the Buenos Aires taita.