Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  – Anything more?

  – By your leave, I would thuggetht they’re involved with the counterethpionage of our wily enemy. Black market and New York gold . . .

  The woman let slip a greasy guffaw.

  – Officer, she interrupted him, I think you read too many detective novels.

  Next she turned to Schultz and smiled at him with grotesque coquetry, holding out her hand for him to kiss.

  – Never, Madame! the astrologer refused. I am the Demiurge of this inferno, and wisdom tells us: “Thou shalt not adore the work of thy hands.”56 As you know full well, with these thumbs of mine I modelled your jugs, your belly, your double chin, all of which I see have filled you with reprehensible pride.

  – Insolence! screeched the woman, piercing Schultz with basilisk eyes. Officer!

  – At your service! answered the Cyclops.

  – Grab the Demiurge and boot him out of here!

  Again Seleucus picked us up, and again we suffered the nausea of his trot. At last we seemed to emerge through an exit, and the Cyclops threw us outside like a couple of sacks. Sitting on the desolate ground, out of breath and dismayed, the astrologer and I looked back at the portal that had just ejected us: circular in shape, it was now closing in a centripetal movement like a gigantic sphincter.

  VIII

  We picked ourselves up off the ground. Schultz’s indignation over the offense suffered at the hands of his own creatures got translated into foul language hardly appropriate on the lips of a Demiurge. Swearing like a trooper, the astrologer went so far as to curse the hour he’d got the bright idea of taking me for a visit to that filthy eatery. Once his anger had subsided, and while we fraternally straightened each other’s neckties, he and I engaged in the following colloquy:

  – Schultz, my friend, said I. How is it possible that your very own creatures do not recognize you as their creator?

  – Not only is it possible, it’s common, he replied. Take the example of the immortal gods. What theological negation have they not received from men? What rebellion have they not put up with? What impiety have they not suffered? If you think about it, all of that is flattering to a Demiurge with any pride.

  – Flattering? I protested, my kidneys still feeling the touch of the Cyclops.

  – Let’s suppose you endow a creature with being, and you do so with so much plenitude that the creature, far from recognizing you as its first cause, imagines it exists for its own sake, free of all cause-and-effect relationships. Let’s suppose that Don Quixote, for example, denied the existence of Cervantes. Would not that exuberance of being, which Cervantes had given to his hero and by virtue of which the author finds himself denied, constitute the most pleasant incense a creator could receive from his creature?57

  – Hmm! I observed. Theoreticians less dangerous than you ended up burnt at the stake, when the world was more prudent.

  – Don’t confuse things, he rejoined. The Demiurge uses two hands: one of wool, which is the hand of Mercy, and another of iron, the hand of Rigour. If on the one hand he can look without anger upon the iniquity of his creature, he cannot on the other hand ignore the imbalance such iniquity introduces into the created order. Because justice is a necessity not even the gods themselves can escape. The Demiurge needs to re-establish the equilibrium broken by his creature, and he does so either with the hand of Rigour or with the hand of Mercy.

  – And you, which hand would you use on the Cyclopes?

  – I’ve got half a mind to go back there and put the boots to them! answered the still rancorous Schultz. Fortunately, he added, the next barrio of Cacodelphia will prove less unruly.

  Without another word, the astrologer entered the new twist of his Helicoid, and I followed him through a gloom that quickly thickened so much that it felt solid. Lost in the blackness, we soon spied a light as though from a candle casting a faint, wavering circle of clarity before us. Drawing nearer, I observed that the light came from an oil lamp placed upon something like a courtroom dais, with two or three steps leading up to it. On the dais loomed someone of judicial aspect, his gaunt figure towering like a dark bird. Placing tortoiseshell spectacles on his rampant nose and twisting the cottony locks of his wig, he smoothed the leaves of a huge book lying open before him, around which fluttered anxious moths.

  When we reached the dais, the judge stared at us without the slightest curiosity:

  – How were the poor devils? he asked at last, his voice monotonous, indifferent, somnolent, expressing all the boredom of his office.58

  The astrologer Schultz took another step forward:

  – They were like the fox and the sheep, he responded. “Ah, madame,” said the fox to the sheep. “I’m going to eat your little lamb up, because I see he now has two teeth and a nice fat tail!” “Very well, Don Juan,” answered the sheep, “but tell me, are you not authorized to perform baptisms?” “Yes, ma’am,” said the fox, “by the priest of Huancacha.” “I’m glad,” said the sheep, “because, that being the case, you can baptise him for me before you eat him up.” Licking his chops in anticipation, the fox went to the river to fetch some water for the baptism. And then the sheep gave him a push, plunging him into the swift current.

  Astonishment dawned in the face of the judge when he heard Schultz’s reply. He came down one step from the dais and asked again:

  – How were the poor devils?

  – They were like the woodtick and the roadrunner, answered Schultz. One day the roadrunner, proud of his fast legs, was razzing the tick. So the tick said to him, “Bet I can beat you in a race.” “You beat me?” snorted the roadrunner, splitting his sides with laughter. “Bet you ten bucks,” challenged the woodtick. “You’re on,” the roadrunner accepted. The day of the race came, and the two agreed that the first to reach the finish line and then sit on a cow’s skull waiting there would win the race. The two got lined up, and the roadrunner checked with his opponent: “Ready?” “Any time!” answered the tick. Since the roadrunner couldn’t see the tick on the ground, he asked her again: “Ready?” “Sure, let’s go!” she cried nearby. Then the sneaky tick hopped onto the tail of the roadrunner, who took off running like blazes. When he got to the finish line, the roadrunner, thinking he was the winner, went to sit on the cow-skull. But the tick shouted in warning: “Hey, pard’, don’t crowd me, I got here first!”

  Even more astonished, the judge descended another step:

  – How were the poor devils? he asked once again.

  And Schultz replied:

  – They were like the farmer, the tiger, and the fox. The tiger said to the farmer: “I’m gonna eat you up, oxen and all.” And the man begged him: “Don’t eat me, Mister Tiger, I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed!” “Save your breath,” responded the tiger. “I’m gonna eat you anyways.” But the fox, who had been listening to them, hid in the tall grass and in a harsh voice shouted to the farmer: “Hey friend, you seen the tiger around here by any chance? Me and my dogs is lookin’ for him.” The tiger, thinking a hunter was on his trail, flattened his belly to the ground and said to the man: “Tell him you haven’t seen me!” “No, sir, I haven’t seen no tiger.” “Whadya mean, you haven’t seen him?” the fox called out again from his hiding place. “What’s that layin’ on the ground over there?” “Tell him it’s beans,” ordered the tiger. The man obeyed: “Sir, they’re beans I brought here to plant.” “If they’re beans,” said the fox, “then put them in that sack you got there.” “Put me in the sack!” the tiger ordered again. So the farmer put the tiger in the sack and said: “Done, sir.” “My friend,” insisted the fox, “tie the sack up good n’ tight, so the beans won’t spill out.” “Tie up the sack!” whispered the tiger to the man. The farmer obeyed, tying the sack with a leather thong. But the fox cried out again: “Look here, my friend, that sack is kinda lumpy. Give’er a knock with the head of the axe and soften’er up a bit for me.” The farmer grabbed the axe and pummelled the tiger until he’d killed it.

  No sooner had he heard
the astrologer’s third response than the judge descended the third and final step, and beckoned us to follow him. We instantly obeyed, and while the judge was leading us around the dais, I asked Schultz in a tiny voice:

  – Tell me, what poor devils was that shyster referring to?

  – He was referring to those who sharpened their claws on the mordant stone of avarice.

  – And what meaning is there in that mishmash of little fables you’ve just fed me?

  – Tomorrow’s researchers, the astrologer pronounced modestly, will bust their butts trying to dig out the admirable meaning hidden in those little fables.59

  I made no further response, because our guide was now pointing us toward an open hatchway alongside the hind edge of the dais. We entered the hatchway, Schultz in the vanguard and I in the rear, and went down a few squeaky stairs. The trapdoor closed above our heads. Suddenly a deafening clamour assaulted my eardrums. Meanwhile, my eyes were adjusting to a yellowish light, glacial and dense, that seemed to fill the entire area as far as the horizon.

  – The Plutobarrio, Schultz practically shouted into my ear.

  I could hardly hear what he said, for the din exploded with greater violence, in a strange chord of triumphal shouts and sobs, blasphemies and idiotic laughter, curses and songs of joy, all of which caused the structure of that Inferno to shudder and shake, down to its smallest nuts and bolts. But, on the other hand, I could now make out the irascible multitude shouting and pushing and shoving each other before us in a kind of vast arena or battlefield, which was ringed by a belt of ruined factories, broken smokestacks, truncated skyscrapers, and crumbling mansions. Everything my eyes took in, plafond and ground, city and men, faces and clothes, was tinted the same hypocritical, shitty yellow I just mentioned – a colour that could not hide its falsity, a trinket-like colour of gilded brass. Only later did I find out that Schultz, when he used it in his Plutobarrio, was trying to suggest the notion of corrupt gold, gold that betrays its destiny, gold in a state of mortal sin. Nevertheless, I still couldn’t make out what kind of activity occupied the Plutobarrians in that circus; they scurried hither and thither raising a cloud of dust that blurred their movements. The dust cloud, too, had a yellowish tint that again suggested the presence of the ignoble metal, but in the subtle state of filings.

  – What are those people doing there? I asked Schultz. From here it looks like a rodeo of unruly young bulls, or a battle of wild dogs, or I don’t know what.

  The astrologer said not a word, but led me by the arm to the very edge of the ring. From there, through the dust cloud that by now was irritating our nostrils, I could see men struggling in a melee so fierce and brutal, it immediately put me in mind of the time we Racing fans took it to the fans of San Lorenzo, on our home turf, the day a certain bloody-minded referee tried to disallow a goal scored by our victorious jersey. The crowd before us now was a mixture of businessmen (capacious Perramus coats60 and fat cigars), heroes of the Stock Exchange (sporty suits and congested faces), merchants in stiff tuxedos or impeccable workcoats, directors of companies, and alchemists of speculation. Now I saw clearly that they were all running, colliding with one another, falling down in the yellow dust, getting back up like automatons to return to the struggle, in the midst of a hurly-burly of bonds, banknotes, securities, and shares that a great, erratic wind swept and swirled over the ground according to no other law than its own caprice. Some men snatched at them in the air; others picked them up from the ground; they fought over them, pushing and shoving, shouting and punching; they filled their wallets, pockets, and hats with grimy bits of paper that came flowing in from the four points of the compass. I suddenly noticed that the most frenetic among them were devouring their harvest of paper on the spot. When they got to the point of choking, they activated some spring-loaded lever hidden in their abdominal region: the metallic click of a cash register was then heard, and luminous numerals flashed across their foreheads, indicating the sum-total swallowed. The less greedy among them carted their booty off, defending it tooth and nail, until they got to the centre of the circus. There, demonic, pen-pushing cashiers, all a-buzz behind the bars of tellers’ booths, were accepting bank deposits, counting papers, and making out receipts with agile fingers and glacial expressions. Receipt in hand, the depositors checked the total, and then fell into a trance-like state, only to emerge moments later to return to the fray, exclaiming: “Six figures! Seven figures! Eight figures!”

  As I watched those wretches at their arithmetical games, I tried to recognize some familiar face. But their physiognomies were all amazingly alike, wearing the same grimace in identical madness. And though I was able to pick out Polyphemous, the crafty beggar of San Bernardo, from among the harvesters, it was only because he was still clutching his unstrung guitar in his descent into hell, even as the multitude knocked him and spun him about like a top. Amid all the caterwauling, I thought I could hear him proferring his usual blessings as he lined the bottomless soundbox of his vihuela with paper bills.

  – Curious! I said to Schultz, pointing to the buffeted figure cut by Polyphemous. Seeing that beggar here among the filthy rich . . .

  The astrologer didn’t answer, for at that moment he was accosted by a voice declaiming from somewhere nearby:

  – Citizens! Hey, citizens!

  I turned in the direction of the voice, and only then noticed that beside us, half-hidden by the dust cloud, there rose a very high chair, similar to the ones used by the judges of tennis matches. A personage swollen with solemnity was sprawled in the chair. Looking at his face, I recognized the collector Zanetti, but in his Sunday best, wearing a red tie and a wide-brimmed hat à la Alfredo Palacios. Through a set of opera glasses held in his right hand, he gazed insistently upon the circus plutocrats. His left hand brandished a tightly folded copy of La Brecha, red with libertarian ink. Trousers rolled up to his knees, the collector Zanetti was soaking his martyred feet in a porcelain basin, the vulgarity of this operation in no way diminishing, however, his solemnly haughty demeanour.

  – I know this man, I told Schultz. And, unless I’m mistaken, we’re in for an earful of literature.

  Seated upon his high perch, the collector Zanetti was getting impatient:

  – Citizens and workers! he again bellowed. If you use your intelligence and study the precise meaning of the operation these bourgeois are applying themselves to, you will quickly realize how abysmally stupid they are. Let me explain why. These bourgeois pigs, with all their money, can no longer add a single exquisite dish to their feasts, nor another link to the very long chain of their fornications, nor one more luxury to their motley mansions, nor another tint to the already baroque fabric of their concupiscence. And yet, they keep piling up gold that can’t buy them anything more. Their gold is reduced to abstract figures. It can only take the fleshless form of an ascending arithmetic progression, recorded in monumentally forlorn bankbooks. Comrades, are we not in the presence of a ridiculous madness? Doesn’t it make you want to laugh hysterically?

  We did not respond at all, and the collector then threatened us with his copy of La Brecha:

  – Answer me, or I’m coming down there! he called to us, his heels wiggling in the basin.

  Schultz frowned with incipient indignation. But he hadn’t forgotten the ugly behaviour of the Cyclopes, and he answered prudently:

  – Yes, sir. We feel like laughing like crazy.

  – So go ahead and laugh! Zanetti ordered us from on high.

  Schultz forced a loud and theatrical guffaw, which in spite of its falseness did not entirely displease Zanetti.

  – Now you! said the collector, training his opera glasses on me.

  I laughed in turn, without mirth. But Zanetti must have been satisfied, because he went on to shout:

  – Have you laughed, comrades?

  – We have laughed, Schultz and I answered as one.

  – And you’ve laughed like perfect idiots! he scolded, throwing his copy of La Brecha in our faces. Because the
abstract numbers those bourgeois pigs are accumulating to no purpose are, at bottom, nothing more than the hidden bread of those who go hungry, and the invisible roof of those who suffer the elements, and the stolen overcoat of the destitute, and their elemental pleasure being snatched from the wretched. And this being the case, comrades, don’t you feel you should be weeping and wailing like heifers?

  – Precisely, Schultz admitted, that’s just what we’re feeling now.

  – So, weep! Zanetti now in a rage enjoined us.

  But neither the astrologer nor I was about to shed the required tears. Slipping away under cover of the dust cloud, and deaf to the sublime insults Zanetti threw after us condemning our flight, we ran at a trot until we reached the ruined buildings which, as I said, bordered the circus of the plutocrats. There we had to slow down to a tortuous walk, for we had just entered a gigantic shed, where rusty old iron was piled up everywhere in a veritable slag heap: abandoned locomotives, blown-out boilers, rust-eaten rails and cogs, all impeded our passage and forced us to make irksome detours. We might have wandered infinitely through that sad labyrinth of wornout materials, had the astrologer Schultz not found the way out. On his right, he saw a high pile of horizontal trunks and he began to climb it. Hopping from trunk to trunk, and ignoring the rats that scurried off squealing almost between my legs, I followed him all the way to the top of the pile. From there I could view a scene whose general features looked familiar. It was a vast lumberyard full of stacks of logs, rounds, and rough-hewn timber; above them, a black crane extended its gallows arm. At the back of the yard rose an industrial building; its walls were cracked and split, its skylights broken, its windows blind, its roof caving in. Ten paces ahead, a crumbling smokestack seemed to totter on its brick footings. Silence, cold, and a sense of abandon seemed to ooze from the ruins like sweat from a dead man.

  We went down into the yard. Approaching the front gate, we saw a man leaning against the base of the smokestack. He was sweating and panting as if he had been running, and as he stood there his eyes darted left and right like those of a hunted animal. I recognized him instantly, for countless times in Villa Crespo I had chanced upon that industrialist of exuberant backside, narrow shoulders, spherical belly, short legs, drooping mustache, and cascading double-chin. Seeing how agitated he was now, I called to him mildly: