Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  The next series of events took place in the natural realm. Until then, the terrain had been flat enough to accommodate an infantry advance, and the expeditionaries had encountered no obstacles. But now they sensed a downhill slope, and soon their feet were splashing through water, as though in a swamp.

  – Hey! Hey! cried Bernini. What are we getting into now?

  – Don’t worry, Del Solar cautioned them. We’re getting close to the ditch.45

  Franky Amundsen started to moan softly.

  – Just as I imagined! he groused. Up to my balls in mud – me, the best-shod dude in Buenos Aires!

  But Del Solar admonished him severely, asking him whether by some excess of Nature his balls hung down to his heels. Then, reassuring, he told his men they weren’t really walking in mud; it was grass covered by standing water.

  – Onward! he finally ordered. The land rises again not far up ahead.

  In fact, after a few more steps the heroes perceived a slight uphill slope and gradually their feet ceased splashing. At the same time, the batrachian chorus met their ears.

  – Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax! Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax!

  – The ditch! announced the guide, not hiding his relief. Watch you don’t fall in!

  Heeding the leader’s warning, the men advanced cautiously. Suddenly they were in a dense thicket with scratchy leaves up to their chests. They struggled for a bit through the tangle, but after several yards their guide stopped.

  – Halt! cried Del Solar.

  After glancing at the ground, he added:

  – Okay, come closer.

  They were on the very edge of the ditch. A revolting stench rose from its stagnant waters. The astrologer Schultz flopped down on his belly, crept up to the edge, and saw only blackness. But he could hear the music of the batrachians, their watery tambourines, their double basses of moss, their cellos of clay.

  – Good evening, creatures of the water! he cried.

  – Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax! Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax! came the batrachians’ reply.

  At that point, Adam Buenosayres recited these mysterious words: “Pan and the Muses love us / Our song draws down Apollo, golden-lyred / Ours are the march-reeds, god-inspired / That sing to his heavenly fingering / Their music with our own mingling.”46

  – What’s the poetaster on about now? asked Franky.

  – The chorus of the frog-swans, in Aristophanes, explained Adam. It came back to me when I heard these creatures in the ditch.

  – They aren’t frogs, protested Bernini. They’re toads.

  – The toad-swans! exclaimed Schultz rapturously.

  From the depths up-swelled the chorus of the toad-swans.

  CHORUS:

  Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax! Patience, greenish brothers of the aqueous realm. Witches use us, hobble us with the cursèd hair of the women they’ve bewitched, and pierce our hearts with needles, nails, and thorns. They herd us into their terrible lairs; they offer our services as guides for children who have died unbaptised. And yet, the toad is the most innocent creature on earth. Brothers, beware the folklorists! They’re a hairy and flea-bitten lot!

  – Superstitions! Bernini laughed scornfully.

  – What about their healing powers? Schultz reminded him.

  CHORUS:

  Brekekekex, co-ax, co-ax! O, brothers, patience! They open up our mouths and spit inside to cure their pitiful tooth-aches. With knives they cut open our backs and apply us to snake bites. They tie us to the necks of their mangy old nags. They throw us alive into ponds to purify the water. Men humiliate us with jackboots, women insult us with their silly fears, children play by tormenting us. But nevertheless, the toad is the most beautiful creature in the universe: in the beginning was the Toad. Beware the folklorists, brothers of the water! They’re a hairy and flea-bitten lot!47

  Just when it looked as if the colloquium with the batrachian swans was never going to end, the irate guide called them to order.

  – Enough horsing around! We have to cross the ditch.

  – Okay, fine, conceded Franky. Where do we find that famous board?

  Del Solar laughed bitterly in the dark.

  – That is the question, he said. We must find the plank.

  Distinctly unappealing was Del Solar’s injunction, cherchez the plank,48 and the adventurers made their displeasure clear in language most injurious to the guide who’d embarked them on such a hazardous voyage. To be out searching for a bloody plank across some goddam ditch, all on a night that no one, out of decorum, had dared compare to the raven’s wing – well, it was all a bit much for those men accustomed to gentler activity. Their discomfort was aggravated by another doubt: just how well did Del Solar really know the terrain? And it became frankly insufferable when the suspicion dawned that Schultz knew as much about navigation as they did about neutering monkeys. Fortunately, the voice of reason prevailed amid the general uncertainty, and the glory of talking good sense fell to the pipsqueak Bernini. With a logic worthy of another century and an eloquence reminiscent of the greatest classical authors, Bernini demonstrated that they had only two options: either they crossed the ditch (board or no board), or they retraced their steps. But the pipsqueak’s science didn’t stop at spelling out that cruel choice. Declaring himself in favour of the first option, he advanced the original idea of dividing the group into two parties to explore the shore of the ditch until the hidden plank was found. Shouts of unanimous approval resounded. Franky saluted the genius of that young strategist, albeit with a touch of melancholy, for such talent was wasted in times of peace. In any case, two exploratory parties were promptly struck. Adam, Samuel, Schultz, and Bernini were to head westward. The pipsqueak demanded to be leader of this group, fearing that, given their predilection for abstraction, the other three wouldn’t see the board even if they tripped over it. Franky Amundsen and Luis Pereda, under the dubious leadership of Del Solar, would explore to the east. Duly formed, both parties received their marching orders. Whoever found the board was to whistle, though Franky Amundsen suggested the signal be the more traditional cry of the hoot owl. Their instructions received, the two groups separated without a word.

  The pipsqueak Bernini led his silent men in single file toward the west. The bank of the ditch was not cooperative; it zigged and it zagged, lurched up and down, and bristled with thorny bushes that attacked them under cover of dark. And through it all the toads sang, monotonous and tightly scored, as though reciting from memory an interminable chronicle of the flood.

  – Places like this, Samuel Tesler said at last in a pensive voice, evoke the shore of damnation: a pitch-black river; the eternal death of the spirit hovering over its waters; the silence of the spirit, bereft of hope in the Word; and voiceless shadows, like us, crowding round the fatal riverbank.

  Adam Buenosayres, in spite of himself, felt a shiver run up his spine. But Schultz broke the spell.

  – The infernal waters, he pontificated, are no mere accidental feature of Dante’s mise-en-scène. In the language of symbolism, the rivers of Tartar represent . . .

  – Yeah, yeah, Samuel interrupted irritably. That’s Metaphysics 101.

  – Nut-House Metaphysics 101, growled Bernini. Keep an eye out for the board!

  Silence descended again on the steadily advancing group, and once more Samuel disturbed it by launching into an exegesis of the Original Hermaphrodite, as famously expounded by Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium. But just when he was getting to the good part, a sharp whistle pierced the nocturnal calm, and the secret of the Hermaphrodite was left only half revealed.

  – The signal! shouted the pipsqueak Bernini. Did you hear it?

  – We aren’t deaf, snorted Samuel.

  They turned immediately and struggled back over the same rugged terrain. They hadn’t covered fifty yards when urgent voices beckoned from the shadows.

  – Over here, over here! cried the voices triumphantly.

  – No doubt about it! Bernini exclaimed. They’ve found the board. />
  Indeed they had. The two parties having reunited, Del Solar pointed at the end of a narrow plank: this was the bridge across the abyss. At the prospect of doing a tightrope act on a rickety board crossing a fissure of unknown depth, the heroes’ morale took a plunge. The astrologer Schultz announced he wouldn’t take a single step on that plank until he had categorical proof it could bear the weight of a man. Adam and Tesler roundly declared there was no way they would, either. Then Franky Amundsen indignantly cursed the cowardice of those intellectuals who took chances only when writing verse. But Del Solar, true to his vocation as leader, set the example; without hesitation, he stepped forward. They watched as he advanced along the oscillating board, arms outspread for balance, until his swaying figure disappeared in the shadows. Presently, they heard him happily announce his safe arrival on the other side. In emulation, Schultz and Luis Pereda too went forth onto the board with great good fortune. Adam Buenosayres followed in turn. Halfway across, a gust of wind nearly made him lose his balance; teetering dangerously, he listened to the lullaby of the batrachians tempting him to join them in the depths. Then Bernini went across, with Samuel Tesler hard on his heels. Only Franky Amundsen remained on the hither shore, now deserted.

  – Watch this! he said as he began his crossing. I’m going to show you how it’s done in the circus. Check out the elegance of my form.

  He set off along the board, one hand on his hip and the other holding an invisible parasol. As he advanced, he sang a famous tango in a hoarse faux-soprano voice:

  I’m the circus girl,

  for a penny I give . . .49

  Suddenly, when he was almost there, Franky Amundsen lost his balance, swatted desperately at the air, and plopped into the pit, making such a commotion that the batrachian singers went silent.

  Immense laughter resounded on the bank.

  – Pride goeth before a fall! exclaimed Tesler. The best-shod dude in Buenos Aires!

  Del Solar wasn’t laughing. He peered over the bank and asked anxiously:

  – Franky, are you there?

  From the deep a whiny voice cursed in response:

  – Nice question! Where the Sam Hill do you think I am?

  – Is it very deep? asked Del Solar.

  – Don’t think so, said Franky. I’m getting out now.

  A moment later Franky Amundsen’s head poked up over the dark bank, and his comrades reached to take him by the armpits and hoist him ashore like some monstrous fish.

  – Are you hurt? asked Luis Pereda, palming his back and chest.

  – Not even a scratch, said Franky dolefully. But covered in mud from head to toe.

  For the third time on that memorable night, Samuel Tesler got out his lighter. By its light, it was obvious that Franky was exaggerating: his feet and trousers were muddied not quite up to the knees. On the other hand, the whole of him reeked of putrefaction. The astrologer took a swipe of mud from Franky’s clothes onto his fingers and commented on its interesting origin.

  – Mm-hmm, said Schultz, smelling the mire with relish. It’s putrimuck.

  – Putri-bullshit! roared Franky, losing his temper. I’m in no mood for cute little terms from your neo-idiom. Why don’t you give me something to wipe this crud off with, instead!

  His plea did not fall on deaf ears. His comrades, in a fit of generosity, offered him handkerchiefs, pages from notepads, personal letters, brilliant jottings, strange manuscripts. Adam Buenosayres, no less generous, was tempted to do his part by donating a certain ineffable Blue-Bound Notebook which he’d liberated that evening from an ingrate; but his infinite modesty stayed the gesture, reminding him that those pages belonged not to him but to posterity. In any case, Franky Amundsen managed to repair his misfortune at least partially. And the explorers, having regrouped, set off into the new territory before them.

  Now, the dubious guide named Del Solar had promised that once across the ditch they’d be able to see the lights of the Dead Man’s House. But as it turned out, all they could see in every direction was universal darkness. Worse, the ground was getting rough and unpredictable. Sometimes they would climb a hill only to find that on the other side it fell away in a nearly sheer cliff. Having no idea of their elevation, they had to feel their way dangerously down, gingerly seeking toe-holds on the mysteriously steep slope. Other times, going downhill, they would come up against a wall of earth impossible to scale; then they would have to circle round until they found a way past the obstacle. All this increased the expeditionaries’ ill humour, and they advanced in a silence disturbed only by sounds of their laboured breathing.

  Just as they were getting round one those inaccessible hills, the heroes stopped short in surprise at the scene before them. Twenty paces ahead, they beheld a man seated by a campfire, its flames darting in the wind. With a stick he was stirring a makeshift pot, its contents bubbling over onto the fire. Around him, seven incredibly emaciated dogs lay stretched out on the ground, snouts resting between paws, staring in rapt contemplation at the dance of the fire.

  – A linyera, whispered Adam as he stared at the stranger.

  But Schultz was sure the man was an authentic magus, and he based his observation on proofs he would provide forthwith, if the group was so willing. Since no one made any objection, the astrologer pointed to an ombú not far from the bonfire; its deformed trunk grew from roots twisting and turning like knotted serpents in the nervous glare of the flames.

  – From here we’ll be able to observe him without being seen, he sensibly pointed out.

  The explorers approached the ombú by way of vast circular detour around the luminous zone. But suddenly the dogs pricked up their ears, got up, and started barking furiously.

  – Not to worry, Schultz told his companions. I’ve got my canido-blade on me.

  Sure enough, he pulled out a regular-sized jackknife, opened the longer of its blades, and confidently continued forward, followed by the others. The man by the bonfire, perhaps still unaware of the intruders nearby, whistled softly. The dogs instantly quieted down, their bony frames slinking back to the fire to lie down. Gaining the foot of the ombú, the adventurers climbed onto its tortuous spurs and attentively observed the details of the scene. The fire illuminated the man entirely; they could see his tattered clothes, feet wrapped in rags, and bearded face. Ruddy with firelight, his face nevertheless gave the impression that an inner spark had gone out or died. The man kept on stirring the pot, all the while reciting an unintelligible monologue between his teeth.

  Franky asked in a whisper what the strange man was muttering about. Schultz said it was probably a magic spell. And that in the pot he was probably brewing a philtre which, when applied to his head, would turn him into a cat or a lion or any other creature. Not hiding his apprehension, the astrologer said he wouldn’t be surprised if the dogs surrounding the magus were the human victims of some metamorphosis. As he talked, Schultz got himself so worked up that not even the incredulous snickers of his companions could dampen his exultation.

  – I’m going to ask the man a few questions, he said at last, throwing caution to the winds.

  – What if he throws the pot at us? objected Franky.

  – Look here, Adam announced solemnly. You don’t play around with stuff like that.

  Heedless of any warning, the excursionists left the safety of the ombú and headed for the fire. The sorcerer’s dogs came at them, ominously baring their teeth or snapping at the heels of the intruders. But the man by the fire didn’t even look up from his boiling pot.

  – Good evening! Schultz said to him.

  – Good evening! echoed the group in chorus.

  A most worrisome silence was the only response. And so the astrologer, hoping to break it, pelted the wizard with questions about the dark art he surely professed, including its ritual formulas and magical ingredients. But the bonfire man, as if in another world, didn’t answer.

  – Could he be a foreigner? Adam Buenosayres hazarded.

  The hypothesis was acce
pted by most of them, so Schultz uselessly repeated his questions in a few modern languages. Then he tried in disastrous Latin, then again in even worse Greek. At Schultz’s last words, the magus raised his head.

  – He’s understood! exclaimed Schultz. He’s going to talk to us!

  The adventurers of Saavedra were all ears. And then the bonfire man, his gaze fixed upon them, said in tranquil voice:

  – You sons of whores.

  Great was the surprise of all upon hearing such familiar language.

  – That’s gotta be pure Sanskrit! exclaimed Franky, delighted.

  Surprise was quickly succeeded by the most violent fit of hilarity yet recorded on that memorable night. Abashed and piqued, the astrologer threatened to take the pot and put it like a hat on the detestable imposter. His truly pathetic indignation kindled the others’ laughter until they were howling. But the bonfire man, riled by the astrologer’s aggressive demeanour and the hoots of the rest, lurched to his feet, grabbed the pot by the handle, and menacingly made for the explorers. They all took off running, the demonic mastiffs hard on their heels.

  After resting to catch their breath, the adventurers set forth once again, giving vent to their glee at the expense of Schultz and his black magic. The astrologer suffered the slings and arrows of mockery in silence. His magnanimous heart pitied the ignorance of those men who knew not the horror of certain occult forces and who, swinging between the poles of Good and Evil, were as helpless as children when it came to manifestations of the demonic. But as the jeering got more outrageous, Schultz’s charity degenerated into an irascible will to take revenge on the jokers.

  – You scoff, he intoned mirthlessly. But you haven’t even an inkling of the invisible horde lurking in the dark. Perverse eyes are watching us, as I speak. Hmm, it’s the witching hour.

  – The dark powers exist, Samuel affirmed in a voice from the tomb.

  The astrologer Schultz noticed that everyone was quiet now, and he deliberately prolonged the moment of silence.