Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  – Sir, declaims an unmoved Fratino. I committed a lapsus . . . how do you say?

  – I’d say a lapsus memoriae, laughs Adam.

  – That’s it, a lapsus memoriae.

  From his corner, Papucio eyes Fratino malevolently.

  – If you didn’t yap so much, he says, you wouldn’t make so many dumb mistakes.

  – One can have a temporary lapse of memory, can’t one? protests Fratino.

  – Go on back to the farm and drink chicken milk!

  Papucio’s advice causes a wave of hilarity throughout the class, except for Cueto, off in his own world, and the clown Bustos, who is tatooing an anchor on his wrist; both boys are deep in meditation. The actor Terzián, moreover, is miming a pensive and dignified Pythagoras, the index finger of one hand on his temple, the other stroking his hypothetical philosopher’s beard. All to the delight of Fatso Atadell, who encourages him with his vast, full-moon smile. Meanwhile, the hilarity has calmed down. When silence has been restored, Papucio can still be heard whinging in his corner.

  – The flowerpots still bothering you? inquires Adam.

  – No, grouses Papucio. I was thinking about that theorem. What’s it good for?

  Adam Buenosayres looks at him benevolently.

  – Once upon a time, he says, a great mathematician had to sleep in a bed so short that, no matter how he tried, the poor fellow couldn’t stretch out to his full length. Either his feet hung over one end, or his head over the other. Well, he got out of bed quite perturbed, turned on the light, measured the bed, found a pencil, and started writing out all kinds of formulas. Until finally he remembered Pythagoras’s theorem and found the solution.

  – How? Falcone, very intrigued, wanted to know.

  – He lay down along the line of the hypotenuse – in other words, diagonally.

  Amid the unanimous classroom laughter, Papucio scolds one last time:

  – Wouldn’t do me no good, he says. I sleep on the floor.

  – Seriously, though, Adam continues, man cannot ask that all things be useful in a grossly utilitarian fashion. How have we defined man?

  – An intellectual creature, says Ramos.

  – That’s right. Man, as an intelligent being, takes pleasure in knowing. And that pleasure in intelligence – isn’t that in itself useful?

  – True! exclaims Falcone, astounded perhaps by an insight into himself.

  But Adam Buenosayres notices that most of the boys are not following him. And so, changing his tone of voice, he adds:

  – That’s why I always tell my pupil Atadell . . . Heavens!

  Suddenly the target of everyone’s gaze, fat Atadell exhibits his mandibles in motion, his eternal, ruminating placidity, his smile lodged somewhere beyond good and evil.

  – Up to the front! Adam tells him. Empty those pockets!

  Not without effort, fat Atadell gets up from his desk, walks between two rows of curious onlookers, and lumbers up to the teacher’s desk. Once there, splendidly good-natured, he plunges his left hand into a fathomless pocket. From the cave comes a host of objects that form a line on the desk: two small half-eaten chocolate bars, a handful of currants, six obviously sticky dates, nine not-very-clean mints, a shapeless packet of Japanese-style nougat, two pods of carob beans, half a cake wrapped in tissue paper, a string of rock-hard doughnuts, four walnuts, and eight almonds. The felicitous birthing of the pocket’s progeny elicits jubilant exclamations. Expectations are high when Atadell plumbs his other pocket with his magic fingers. But, alas! The other pocket disappoints such legitimate hopes, for its contents amount only to six beat-up marbles, six feet of twine, and the very rusty trigger from a revolver. The fat boy’s two cornucopias now emptied, Adam Buenosayres sends him off with a benevolent gesture, then turns to the class.

  – Work on your notebooks now, he orders.

  While the pupils write in silence, Adam leans on the windowsill. Leaning out toward the street, he lets his eyes wander. The pregnancy of the air resolves now into a very fine drizzle which, veil-like, shrouds the suburb and softens its harsh contours. Below, by a doorway, an old man sits smoking his pipe. Beside him, a pensive woman forgets her mate, and her mind drifts off toward drowsy distances. A road sweeper, in the middle of the street, gathers dead leaves, puts them into his wheelbarrow, and goes off with his pile of silver and copper tones, furtive image of autumn. Dripping sheets hang straight down in empty patios. In one patio, over there, a magnolia rises like a sombre ghost. In another, a lemon tree staggers under the weight of its fruit. Further away the poplars are nodding in the Plaza Irlanda. In the distance, unanimous in their elevation, the two steeples of Our Lady of Buenos Aires point to the highroads of heaven for the benefit of the suburb. Gazing at them, Adam evokes the interior of the basilica, its altar in the form of a shrine, and the image of a woman enthroned in the heights, with the Child in one arm and a ship in the other.4 How good it would be to find himself in that deserted space now, beneath the light filtered and exalted by the stained-glass windows! And to meditate there on the secret of that enigmatic Woman, on the vocation of the Child, on the odyssey of the Ship! He notes, however, that his meditation is returning him to a clime that is off-limits for him this afternoon. He leaves the window and looks at the desks: all heads are bent over notebooks. All except Nossardi’s. With eyes on his miniature airplane, he is lost perhaps in a daydream of conquered heights. Bellerophon!5

  – Isn’t our floating debt already too big? shrills the Principal, angrily setting his coffee cup aside.

  – In my opinion, Señor Inverni rejoins, the national reserve is so formidable, it’s no problem to mortgage it somewhat. That is, of course, as long as it’s done for the benefit of public works and social projects, which we owe to future generations. (Bravo! Very good! Señor Inverni seems to hear frenetic applause from an invisible crowd.)

  In front of the Principal’s angry face, Inverni takes a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. He is a teacher lean of flesh, and he has the pimply complexion, that colour of venereal disease frequently found in men of advanced ideas. But the Principal’s menacing brow is still furrowed.

  – Ha! he laughs bitterly. Hand the country over to foreign interests!

  The scene unfolds in the Principal’s office, around a table circumscribed by eight teacherly figures drinking their afternoon-recess coffee. Beside the window, the women teachers huddle in a hermetic group, their faces turned toward a waning light – the dry, withered faces of virgins dedicated to the goddess Pedagogy.

  – It’s not just that our resources are in foreign hands, growls Di Fiore. The worst of it is that foreigners are carrying out a veritable program of corruption.

  – How is that? asks Inverni.

  – The Argentine, by nature, was and must be a sober man, as our country folk were and still are. And so were, and are, the immigrants responsible for the existence of the majority of us. But what’s happened? Foreigners have induced us into a cult of sensuality and hedonism, inventing a thousand needs we didn’t have before. And – of course! – it’s all so they can sell us the geegaws they produce industrially, and so redeem the gold they pay us for our raw materials. In plain language, that’s what I call eating with both hands!

  The Principal raises his hand as if to bless Di Fiore.

  – You said it, sir! he exclaims. You said it!

  – So, protests Inverni, shouldn’t our country keep up with the benefits of progress?

  – Useless needs! shrieks the Principal. Flimflams of foreign capital! Just look at what the English are up to now, trying to get us to wear their Oxford trousers!

  Adam Buenosayres urgently elbows Quiroga:

  – Look out! he warns him under his breath. Perfidious Albion is about to make an appearance.

  – What have Oxford trousers got to do with anything?

  With a half smile, the Principal spells out his concerns:

  – It’s a scheme for selling more wool, he asserts. They design them ridiculously wide, so it tak
es twice as much material to make them, and long enough so they get worn out rubbing against the ground. And that’s not all! They’ve also introduced . . .

  Here he gets flustered and glances out the corner of his eye at the didactic virgins.

  – . . . short underwear, he says at last, cautiously.

  – What for? asks Di Fiore.

  – You’ll see. Short underwear has the effect of putting one’s knees in direct contact with the wool of the trousers. And so, within a single year, the body’s sudoriferous secretions destroy the fabric, which otherwise would easily last three years.

  – A diabolical plan, growls Adam Buenosayres, as Quiroga tries to stifle a laugh.

  And looking at the Principal as though eliciting a confidence, he says:

  – I imagine you wear long underwear.

  – Naturally! confesses the Principal. I’m not going to fatten the bank accounts of the English!

  Quiroga’s laughter explodes with intense hilarity:

  – But, Sir! he exclaims. Nobody wears long underwear anymore!

  The Principal gives him a look full of vinegar and bile.

  – Sir! he upbraids him. This is no joking matter.

  Half joking and half sincere, plaintive and pathetic, Di Fiore begins to extol the virtues of long underwear:

  – Our glorious forefathers wore it. And the garment gave them a truly patriarchal sense of security and decorum. It’s worn by old politicians even today, those who stay in power forever and never get around to kicking the bucket. And they’re right, because I’m telling you now, the secret of longevity is in long underwear.

  The scholar’s words return the tertulia to its true atmosphere.

  – A luminous theory, laughs Adam Buenosayres, looking affectionately at Di Fiore, lean, intelligent, down in the mouth.

  – Hmm! objects the Principal. The problem with Argentines, gentlemen, is that they turn everything into a joke. And the solution to our problems, gentlemen, requires great seriousness.

  – They’ll get serious one day! Di Fiore warns in a menacing tone.

  Inverni looks at him for a moment, with lowered eyelids and a half smile:

  – When? he asks.

  – When the hour of truth arrives.

  – And how do you know that hour will come?

  – Sir, answers Di Fiore, I believe in la Grande Argentina.6

  CIRCE-FERNÁNDEZ: “On the way, you will first come upon the Sirens, who fascinate all men who cross their path. Woe to the reckless one who approaches them and hears their voices! Never will he see his wife again; nor will his little ones throng round him at any joyful homecoming. Seated in a smiling meadow, the Sirens bewitch mortal men with the sweet harmony of their song. But beside them, human bones and rotten cadavers are piled up, drying out in the sun. Give them a wide berth, and use soft wax to stop the ears of your companions, so that none may hear them! But if you wish to hear them – if you wish to listen to those melodious voices without risk – have them bind you to the sailing ship: have them lash you to the mast, feet and hands.”

  Through the voice of Fernández speaks Circe, she who knows many drugs. That admonitory voice, resounding in the classroom, makes the children’s eyes brighten with a sense of foreboding. Standing side by side with Fernández, Terzián is waiting, all ready to act out a hair-raising version of Ulysses. Balmaceda, Fratino, and MacLeish, the three illustrious voices of the year, will read the part of the Sirens; though still silent, their bearing already hints at menace.

  In the watery afternoon light that rubs out lines, kills colours, and seems to devour even the slightest sound, thirty boys under the spell of ancient words now leave their jail and clamber over a honey-coloured beach, beneath a torrential sun that makes Circe’s palace glitter in the distance. The musical coast is festooned by a double line of foam. Beside the saltwater, the ship of grand adventures still lies upon the sand. The sparkling sea, bellowing like a young bull, licks the keel and the naked heels of the sailors. As Circe speaks, Adam Buenosayres, from his corner, studies the constellation of rapt eyes. Ramos, golden-headed, holds his breath as though afraid that his creative urge might disrupt the harmonious flight of the rhapsody. Forgetting his cardboard wings, Nossardi is now gliding in other skies. And even Bustos has been enraptured, his penknife in one hand and a half-tortured pencil in the other.

  But Ulysses holds forth in his mariner’s voice:

  ULYSSES-TERZIÁN: “My companions tie me to the mast, then resume their places on the ship’s benches and once again ply the foaming water with their oars. The vessel moves rapidly. Now we are close to shore, no doubt our voices can be heard from there. And now the Sirens notice the ship’s approach and begin to intone their sonorous chant.”

  Ulysses stops talking, and immediately Balmaceda, Fratino, and MacLeish burst out in chorus:

  THE SIRENS: “Oh, famous Ulysses, glory of the Achaians! Draw near, stop the boat and hear our song! No mariner has ever passed in his black ship without listening to the sweet tones flowing from our mouths. Rather, he who listens to us returns to his land wiser than before. For we know all the travails that Greeks and Trojans alike have suffered in Ilium; nothing happens in the vast universe outside our awareness.”

  Ah, the ship! Watch out! The oars rise and dip in the accelerated rhythm of flight. The oarsmen’s torsos glisten in the sun. And thirty boys, aboard the ship of Ulysses, watch the hero as he struggles to free himself, at once prisoner of a mast and of a song. The boat flies over the salty meadows. The threat of the music has been left behind. Now it is time to untie Ulysses! Let wax no longer cover his prudent ears!

  But Adam Buenosayres has deserted the ship and leapt to the beach. Amid carrion stinking in the sun and under a cloud of sticky bluebottle flies, he has seen the face of the Sirens and inhaled the breath from their horrible mouths. To hear the music, without falling into the snare of the one who proffers it! How? Most certainly, a ship and a mast are required.

  Within the classroom and without, the foggy afternoon light gnaws at everything in a sort of universal dissolution. But thirty children row with Ulysses in the direction of the Blessèd Isles.

  And Adam Buenosayres, lost in his corner, evokes an enigmatic figure of Woman in whose right hand a little ship fills its sails.

  Chapter 3

  – One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

  The twelve bell-strokes were twelve little owls:

  Someone opened the cage of the steeple, and off they flew.1

  Midnight: solitude, emptiness. Alone, I alone on the skin of the world, spinning as it flees, fleeing as it spins, “an old top without children.”2 Why without children? At that time I was playing around with logic, not noticing that dissimilar objects are always harmoniously related: splendor ordinis. Last night I tried to explain it at Ciro’s place – quite sloshed. That other image, too: “The Earth is an antelope in flight.” Or this one: “World, a stone buzzing in the seven colours.” Cosmic terror, ever since my childhood: a little boy clinging to his motionless horse and sobbing in anguish beneath the southern stars. The cold mechanism of time, cone of shadow, cone of light, night and day, solstice and equinox: the sun tells us fabulous lies, and the earth dons and doffs her splendours like a prostitute; “Hail, drunken bluebottle!”3 And in the end only a stone fleeing as it spins, spinning as it flees in an infinite space . . . no, indefinite space. Because the notion of infinity applies only to . . . Enough, my soul, enough!

  Adam pauses, under the rain, at the corner of Gurruchaga and Triunvirato. From there, still undecided, he contemplates the ghostly ambience of Gurruchaga Street, a tunnel burrowing into the very flesh of the night, elongated between two rows of shivering paradise trees, their feet bound in metal rings, like two files of galley slaves trudging toward winter. Phosphorescent like the eye of a cat, the clock of San Bernardo peeps out from its tower. Not a single tremor of the final bell-stroke remains in the air, and silence flows now from above, blood of de
ad bells. Unexpectedly, a treacherous gust rakes the trees and they whimper like children. A fistful of rain hits Adam in the face; he staggers in a deluge of fallen leaves rushing along, rustling like old papers, while the streetlamps suspended overhead dance a mad jig of hanged men. The gust has passed. Silence and stillness are restored beneath the rain’s soft song. Solitude, emptiness, Adam enters Gurruchaga Street.

  – Hermetic doors and windows, the keys turned, bolts drawn: thus they defend their escape into sleep. The sleeper’s house, safeguarded like trench or tomb. Yesterday’s combat, right here: not a soul left on the battlefield! Men and women, Trojans and Tyrians, what are they doing now? Their prone bodies sailing away on beds of iron, wood, or brass inside impregnable cubes – all have stolen away! Only I alone. If in the depths of midnight, if at the precise instant when one day gives way to another, if at that very juncture one might slip through a crack, freed from time! Yesterday, an anxious little boy among the party lights and music, who saw how time flowed like acid, gnawing at the festive house and those inside. Or an adolescent who dreamed of banishing Time from his poetry . . . Lord, I would have liked to be like the men of Maipú, who knew when to laugh and when to cry, when to work or sleep, fight or be reconciled; men well grounded in this world, in its bright and colourful reality! And not go wandering doubtful and mistrustful as though among vain images, reading into the signs of things much more than they literally say, and receiving, in the possession of things, much less than they promised. For I have devoured creation and its terrible multiplicity of forms: ah, colours that call out, impetuous gestures, lines to make one die of love! Only to find my thirst deceived, then to suffer remorse for my injustice to the world’s creatures, for demanding of them a happiness they cannot give. And now this disappointment – also unjust! – that makes me see creatures as letters of a dead language. Not to have looked, ah, not to have looked! Or to have looked always and only with a reader’s eyes like those I had in childhood, back there in the garden of Maipú, when in the beauty of intelligible forms I attained a vision of that which is stable and neither suffers autumn nor undergoes change. And therein lie the injustice and the remorse: to have regarded with a lover’s eyes what I should have seen with the eyes of a reader. (Must jot this down as soon as I get home.) How well they go together, the street and midnight and the drizzle! The Izmir Café is closed, too. No. Somebody’s singing.