Del Solar found Bernini’s lament for the extinction of the Natives unjustifiable and anachronistic. After all, that race had more to do with the pre-history than with the history of Argentina. But before that aboriginal race died out – and this is the main thing – its withered vine produced a painful new shoot. In a heroic perpetuation of its blood, it bequeathed the nation a crucial type, a magnificent warrior. At these observations, a single image leapt to the minds of the adventurers, and a single word to their lips: The Gaucho!
– The gaucho, Del Solar assented mournfully. Whether he be the child of love or hate (who knows!), we see him labouring on the foundations of the nation, in the dark, yes, but with the worthy darkness of foundations supporting the exterior grace of the architectural whole.
– Good image, acknowledged Adam Buenosayres as an expert.32
– Too literary, Bernini objected.
– Obviously plagiarized, Franky Amundsen remarked slanderously.
For all that, the majority of the heroes adopted a respectful attitude and yielded unreservedly to the emotion of that memory. But the group harboured two men whose hearts, hardened perhaps by the glacial pole of metaphysics, showed no signs of melting: they were Samuel Tesler and the astrologer Schultz.
– Pestilential literature! grumbled Samuel. They’ve invented an incredible fable around a pathetic half-breed. The gaucho glorified by legend never existed.
– Never existed? shouted Pereda, righteously indignant. Why, from the travellers of colonial times up to the nineteenth-century chroniclers . . .
– There’s no need to go back that far, Adam interrupted. I’ve seen the gaucho, back in Maipú. The gaucho of legend, with his chiripá, his calfskin boots, and his great big soul: my friend Liberato Farías, the horsebreaker!33
But at this point Schultz intervened decisively:
– I’ll admit the gaucho existed, he declared. But if he was anything like the way he’s described in poetry, rebelling against all law and order, a thuggish drifter with no respect for hierarchy, then I think it’s a good thing he disappeared.34
Lord, what a fuss the criollista faction made upon hearing such outrageous blasphemy!
– If the gauchos have died out, Del Solar yelled at him, it’s because gringo immigrants like you killed them off!
– The defeat of Santos Vega, intoned Adam mysteriously.
A distant strumming of guitars came to the ears of the explorers; a tremor of tearful strings seemed to come wafting on the wind from some distant horizon, snaking through the air like a musical shiver. And suddenly a great hush fell, as though the entire plain were breathlessly listening through a thousand invisible ears. The strains of the mysterious vihuela quickly grew stronger, or nearer, like a song mounted on a galloping horse. Soon a human voice could be heard, interwoven with the thrumming strings. It was a ghostly voice singing dark, unintelligible words that nevertheless pierced the heroes’ souls like the daggers of melancholy; sweet words as of long-ago mornings; lachrymose words to be shed on the tomb of a long-lost love; battle cries like lances erect beneath the noonday sun, or like repressed sobs erupting from the sound chamber of a body or guitar; and a rustic idyll now lost in the South; and the sadness seeping like bitter juice from the plump fruit of southern skies. All this was expressed by the nocturnal canto; and in sympathy the domed ether hummed, the stars drew nearer, the wild grass trembled, and the orb grew silent. At one moment, the song exploded like a tempest overhead; the travellers looked up in dread and saw high in the Eastern sky the figure of a rider on his mount, shimmering as if forged from burnished metal. His arms cradled a vihuela, which though mute seemed the source or centre of the marvellous song. A unanimous cry of recognition flew forth from seven throats:
– Santos Vega, the payador!
Thus invoked, the phantasmal horseman stopped and turned to the men of Saavedra, who waited expectantly. But the ghost’s face, momentarily brightening, clouded over once more. His noble head turned in the night, tracing a long, slow movement of negation. Then, spurring his mount, the apparition galloped away to the west.35 When the adventurers were about to take off after him in pursuit, a spiteful laugh rang out behind their backs.
– ’Tain’t no use, gentlemen! came a voice. That good ol’ boy won’t be singin’ no more here on earth!
Turning around, the men saw a phosphorescent character, ridiculously decked out gaucho-style, standing there in an insolent sort of attitude, his craggy and malignant face inspiring an apprehension impossible to gainsay. He was sporting a wildly embroidered chiripá, a thick leather belt studded with more gold coins than a Basque milkman’s moneybox, a silk shirt, and a great knife that seemed to skewer him like a roasting spit.
– And why won’t Santos Vega sing? Del Solar asked him, moved to the marrow of his bones.
– Go on with ya! responded the figure. I licked him fair and square, guitar against guitar.
A lightbulb suddenly lit up in the heads of the expeditionaries.
– Juan Sin Ropa!
Looking back and forth between the group and the troubador fading into the distance, the figure laughed again:
– At yer service, pardners, he assented in his odious, sarcastic drawl.
But Adam Buenosayres, full of wrath, shouted right in his face.
– You lie, varmint!
And turning to the group, he thundered:
– This man is no good old boy! He’s the devil incarnate!36
Would that he had never said it! When he heard that name, the figure commenced contorting and sizzling like a denizen of hell, and a terrible stench of sulphur and gunpowder filled the air. As the startled heroes backed away, they noticed other sinister clues confirming the identity of the spectral gaucho: his eyes flashed like two electrical storms at night; his broad-brimmed hat sported an ominous cock’s feather; worse still, his blunt-toed calfskin boots formed two cloven hooves. It was enough to justify any amount of alarm.
– Cross, Devil! Cross, Devil! Franky began to exorcize, tracing rapid crosses in the air.
Juan Sin Ropa let out a vaudeville guffaw.
– Now don’t get sceer’t on me, fellers! he said. I didn’t come to buy yer souls. Y’already sold ’em!
But the astrologer Schultz was not about to have the wool pulled over his eyes. The demon there before them, he said with almost aggressive disdain, was no imperial Lucifer; nor was he Prince Beelzebub, nor the Grand Duke Astarot, nor Prime Minister Lucifuge, nor General Satanachia, nor Lieutenant Fleurety, nor Brigadier Sargantanás, nor Field Marshal Nebiros. No, he was but a lowly tipstaff called Anthrax, a kitchen boy, a poor devil without a pot to piss in – the wretch! So where did he get off with his talk of buying souls? When Juan Sin Ropa muttered something between his teeth, Schultz told him he was to answer any questions put to him, and threatened to stuff him into a bottle of Scotch whisky if he refused. Seeing him nice and tame now, Del Solar got up the courage to ask a question:
– What really happened in your payada with Vega? How did you beat him?
– He was an innocent, still wet behind the ears! replied Juan Sin Ropa. Easiest job the Boss ever giv’ me. Well, we duked it out, verse for verse, and Vega wasn’t half bad. But, hey, us devils’ve got the edge when it comes to pickin’ guitar – tougher fingernails, eh.
– So what did the Boss stand to gain by defeating a poor gaucho? Adam Buenosayres wanted to know.
– Don’t kid yerselves, that there gaucho was a bit of tricky business, Juan Sin Ropa assured them. What with his lack of ambition, his down-to-earth simplicity, and his guitar and lil’ ol’ horse, we were runnin’ the risk of a new age of innocence bein’ established in these here parts, just when the Boss was on the eve of universal victory and the nations of the world was gettin’ down on all fours to kiss his royal upite. (Here, Juan Sin Ropa gave himself a pat on the behind.)
From the shadows came a snicker of incredulity, and the pipsqueak Bernini spoke up.
– Baloney! he laughed. Everybo
dy knows the legend means something else. In reality, Santos Vega is barbarism and Juan Sin Ropa is progress; it’s about progress defeating barbarism.37
– Good old pipsqueak! celebrated Franky Amundsen in treacherous adulation.
– Am I right? Bernini asked him.
– As usual!
– Was that a pipspeak just spoke? inquired Juan Sin Ropa, incredulous. If he was a few inches taller, I’d teach him the word “Progress” is the name I use when I’m travellin’ incognito.
At this point Del Solar, the folklore expert, intervened to set the record straight on the gaucho myth under discussion. In his view, it should be understood quite literally.
– Juan Sin Ropa, he declared, is the naked gringo who defeated Santos Vega in a fight our countryman didn’t understand: the struggle for life.
No sooner had he said this than Juan Sin Ropa began the first of his mutations. The flamboyant gaucho dissolved, and there appeared in his stead a big, burly, red-headed fellow wearing a checked shirt and trousers, and yellow boots. Completing his get-up were a gaudy knife and a riding whip, its grip almost entirely adorned with silver. The adventurers felt a wave of sympathy as they immediately recognized the smiling image of the Cocoliche.38
– Sono venuto a l’Argentina per fare l’America, he declared. E sono in America per fare l’Argentina.39
– Aha! cried Del Solar. Just as I thought! Aren’t you the gringo tavern owner who robbed the local folks of their land with your sharp practice and mortgages?
Cocoliche stretched out his arms to display his big, calloused hands.
– Io laboro la terra, he said. Per me se mangia il pane.40
Hostile laughter mixed with words of encouragement celebrated the Cocoliche’s comeback.
– The gringo is right on that score, Pereda admitted.
– He’s a tavern owner! insisted Del Solar. All he cared about was getting rich!
And now the Cocoliche in turn metamorphosed into an old man whose patriarchal beard shone like polished brass. His gaze seemed to open up vast horizons; he was wearing a vicuña-wool poncho and a dark chiripá. Adam Buenosayres trembled like a leaf when he recognized the authentic effigy of his grandfather Sebastián.
– Not always, young feller, retorted the grandfather, looking at Del Solar with friendly eyes. A hundred times I crossed the pampa in my horse-drawn cart; a hundred times I smuggled loads across the river in my whale boat. I ploughed the virgin land and raised flocks. And now, even the land where my bones lie mouldering, I can’t call my own.
– It’s absolutely true! exclaimed Adam Buenosayres, succumbing to his third fit of tears.
But Del Solar wouldn’t give in.
– An exception. Honourable, but rare.
The discussion became general around this subject, which touched them all to the quick. And the legendary figure of Juan Sin Ropa, having already undergone two mutations, now took on the physiognomy of all peoples, the rampant aspect of all ambitions, the sadness of all exiles, the colour of all hopes. In the form of Mister Chisholm, he offered them a shiny locomotive in exchange for our fourteen provinces. Then, as Uncle Sam, he tempted them with the glory of becoming one more star in his illustrious top hat and letting them feature in a cowboy movie. Next, he appeared as the Wandering Jew and offered to buy up everything from their boots to the Southern Cross. Finally, in the guise of a derby-hatted Frenchman from Marseilles, he proposed they refine their culture, cuisine, and ars amandi. Through it all, each of the heroes defended his own cause and cast aspersions on the others. Just when their ardent spirits were threatening to spill into the terrain of Mars, the seven expeditionaries of Saavedra witnessed the arrival of a naked horseman, a radiant halo over his brow; as he drew nearer, he exuded an exquisite scent as of a glorified body.41
– Let there be peace! exclaimed the horseman. Peace be among you!
– Who are you? Adam Buenosayres asked him.
– Martin, the soldier, he responded. It was I who gave the poor man half my cape.
– Sir, what dost thou in the deep of night?
– I stand guard over the city assigned to my custody.
– And why so naked? insisted Adam.
– I willingly gave the poor man half my cape, and the poor man took away the other half. The poor man is a figure of Christ, and he who gives his possessions to the poor lays himself bare in Our Lord. But it is not meet that the poor man take away the other half of our cape.42
No sooner had he delivered this cryptic utterance than the naked horseman melted away into the night. But the astrologer Schultz was not accepting these childish versions of the legend. For him, the fable had an esoteric meaning. Juan Sin Ropa, winner of the lyric contest, was none other than the prefiguration of the Neocriollo who would inhabit the pampa in the distant future. At the word “Neocriollo,” Juan Sin Ropa underwent an incredible metamorphosis, the last of the series. His gaucho clothing fell away as he suddenly grew twenty feet tall, displaying the most disconcerting of manly forms that human ingenuity is capable of imagining. He was completely nude: his thoracic cavity and abdomen were X-ray transparent, his finely traced internal organs clearly visible. He stood on only one of his gigantic legs, while the other was folded up flamingo-style. But most astonishing was his great head encircled by a radiant nimbus: phosphorescent eyes swinging like headlights on the tips of two long antennae; a saxophone mouth; ears like two gyrating funnels, which were now trained upon the nonplussed heroes.
Franky Amundsen wanted to know what new demon this was, and Schultz replied that it was the Neocriollo himself. When Samuel Tesler opined that he was no thing of beauty, the Neocriollo’s saxophone snout rose and fell three times like an elephant’s trunk.
– Listen! said Schultz. The Neocriollo wants to speak.
Indeed, an inarticulate stream of sounds gushed from the saxophonish schnoz: a voice imitating the whistle of a partridge, the goldfinch’s aria, the cooing of turtledoves, the croaking of frogs, the owl’s hoot, the sparrow’s chirp, the shrill cry of the crested screamer, and the squawk of the lapwing.43 The Neocriollo alternately grew enormous or shrank to dwarf-like dimensions, in proportion to the greater or lesser sublimity of the sounds he produced.
– What did he say? asked Franky, as soon as the sound stream stopped.
Schultz qualified it as a sort of ineffable political harangue, then translated the Neocriollo’s words as follows: “If the laxative jacket and the reinforced concrete smile were not to sweet opprobrium as Neon, the harpsichord, is to the seagull in a daydream mouldering amid flowers, then much might be expected from the cosmic elephant, at the hour when pale fig trees resolve Baluk’s theorem. But beware, mortals! The non-submersible president has broken the pact, and already his thighs are clad in the black undershorts of doubt.”
That fragment of prose left the explorers absorbed in contemplation.
– Bah, scoffed Pereda. It’s too logical for his tender years.
– Logical! Samuel lamented. Regrettably logical.
Adam Buenosayes didn’t try to hide his melancholy.
– To escape logic, he exclaimed, one must be a madman or a saint!
But the Neocriollo’s saxophone snout suddenly emitted a very bright light.
– And that? asked Franky.
– Excellent! said Schultz. The Neocriollo is in a good mood: he just tossed out his tri-coloured laugh.
– Is that all he can do to show his good humour? grumbled Franky.
Upon hearing this, and with robotic grace, the Neocriollo began to dance the malambo, the cueca, the escondido, the zamba, the aires, the cuándo, the chacarera, the sombrerito, the pala pala, the marote, the resbalosa, the pericón, the huella, and the chamamé.44 Unfortunately, the explorers showed no signs of appreciation. What they wanted was a miracle. Lo and behold, the Neocriollo heard this request with his infundibuliform ears and wagged his trunk to call for attention. Then, turning around on the spot, he pointed his buttocks at the heroes and let fly a luminous fa
rt: up into the night it sailed, ensconcing itself in the Centaur constellation between the fixed stars Alpha and Beta. His performance complete, he faded into black.
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 24