Adam Buenosayres: A Novel

by Leopoldo Marechal

  The astrologer and I left the area; in vain did Samuel invite us to witness the fall of a few more mulattos, who in his opinion were the best of the lot. We adamantly refused, especially Schultz, who declared his boredom and went on to censure Samuel Tesler for his loose language when talking with the Adonis, a slight against both the majesty of the place and the dignity of his visitors. Hanging his head, Samuel took the lead again, though grumbling inwardly, and led us to the portico of a monumental building situated among the gardens. The road leading up to it was flanked by numerous statues of salt: figures dressed in tuxedos, pot-bellied and rigid, proudly erect on pedestals of saltpetre, they ceremoniously doffed their felt hats as we passed by.

  – Who are those pompous personages? I asked Samuel.

  – The Grey Presidents, answered the philosopher sporting an enigmatic expression.

  We arrived at the portico of the building, where three black porters in uniforms luxuriously festooned with buttons were each sucking on a gigantic mate, completely oblivious to our presence. Samuel opened the door; behind it I saw neither hall nor vestibule nor corridor but rather a space of grand proportions evoking the exact notion of a parliamentary chamber, complete with benches arranged in a semi-circle, presidential rostrum, press gallery, and a railing in the upper reaches. As soon as we entered, I noticed everyone was in place: Members of Parliament on their benches, House Speaker at his rostrum, reporters at their desks. Appearances notwithstanding, as I realized moments later, the Parliament was actually in session, though soundessly, enacting a series of dehumanized gestures that put me in mind of a well-oiled machine. What first caught my attention was a character perched on a pedestal facing the chamber – a rustic man with weathered features and a stunned expression, clad in baggy, country-style trousers and a very threadbare vicuña-wool poncho. At the base of the pedestal were baskets of roses and marble plaques that read: “In homage to Juan Demos,160 from his passionate admirers.” When I tried to get closer to the man on the pedestal, Samuel Tesler stopped me:

  – Stay put! he ordered me. And open your ears. The session is in full swing.

  – But I can’t hear a thing! I rejoined.

  Nevertheless, by paying close attention to the assembly’s whispering, I managed to hear a few fragments of the debate which I now transcribe with the help of the typescript Samuel gave me when we left the chamber:

  MR UNGULA:161 How many members of parliament are present?

  MR SPEAKER: Right now there are seventy-eight members present.

  MR OLFADEMOS:162 I observe, Mr Speaker, that this way of counting quorum is anarchic. I call for the roll be called aloud. The count must include only those indicating their presence.

  MR LUNCH:163 I second the request of the honourable member Mr Olfademos.

  MR PLUTOPHILE: With the three members who have just left there was quorum.

  MR OLFADEMOS: Which means the Ministry is not doing its duty.

  MR ASINUS: At this moment I think there are seventy-nine members present.

  MR PLUTOPHILE: Let the three members who just left be asked to return to the chamber.

  MR OLFADEMOS: Speaking from a minority position, I hereby note that the House Speaker made a faulty count.

  MR SPEAKER: I’m going to propose that we wait another fifteen minutes, inasmuch as the member who presented the motion to close the session has left the room and cannot vote.

  MR UNGULA: I’m in favour of closing the session.

  MR SPEAKER: The roll will be called again. To that end, will the members without a key please stand up.

  MR ASINUS: I move that the roll be called.

  MR SPEAKER: The rule will be adhered to.

  At this point, the Honourable Member Olfademos spoke up to address the man on the pedestal who, all wrapped up in his poncho, was following the debate without understanding a word:

  – What do you say, Mr Demos? asked Olfademos. Did you see how I’ve gone all-out on your behalf?

  – Nice! answered the man on the pedestal. Although, to be honest with you, I didn’t understand a whole lot of what the honourable members were saying. One thing’s for sure, though, I’m real cold: this old poncho’s about as good as an onion skin.

  At those words, the legislators shook off their lethargy and got to their feet.

  – For shame! thundered the Honourable Member Ungula. Mr Demos is cold? Then I move that a window be closed in the chamber.

  – What do you mean, a window? cried the Honourable Member Aristophile. Are we in the Middle Ages? I move that two windows be closed.

  – Let all the windows in the chamber be closed! vociferated the Honourable Member Lunch. It’s no time to be scrimping on resources when Mr Demos’s health is at risk!

  The Honourable Member Lunch’s motion was put to a vote and adopted by a crushing majority. Lunch then turned to the man in baggy trousers and shouted:

  – What d’you say, Mr Demos? Are we on or aren’t we?

  – That’s sheer demagoguery! grumbled the Honourable Member Aristophile. Two windows were enough!

  The debate then continued, muffled and cold.

  MR SPEAKER: We shall deal with items of business on the agenda.

  MR UNGULA: Let them be referred directly to the committees.

  MR SPEAKER: If there is consensus, so it will be done. (Agreement). Now the Honourable Member for Santa Fe has the floor, for a few words of homage.

  MR VULPES: We ought to vote on Mr Aristophile’s motion.

  MR ARISTOPHILE: I had made a motion to deal in session with the projects of declaration that are on the table.

  MR PSITTACUS:164 Mr Speaker, I have applied at the Ministry for intervenor status on a point of privilege.

  MR PLUTOPHILE: The Honourable Member has not asked for the floor, because he was out of the room when the session opened.

  MR ASINUS: One must ask for the floor orally.

  MR SPEAKER: There is a motion on the table to deal in session with the projects of declaration.

  MR PSITTACUS: A point of privilege takes precedence according to the regulations.

  MR SPEAKER: We are going to vote on the motion tabled by the Honourable Member for the Capital.

  MR ASINUS: What is the motion?

  SEVERAL MEMBERS: We are voting!

  MR ASINUS: How can we vote on a motion when a point of privilege has been raised? (Several members speak at once; the bell sounds.)

  MR SPEAKER: We are going to vote on the motion on the table.

  MR ANTHRAX: What are we voting on?

  MR SPEAKER: The motion put forward by the Honourable Member Aristophile.

  MR ANTHRAX: What is the motion?

  MR VULPES: If you had been in the room, you would have known!

  MR ANTHRAX: That’s no reason not to inform me as to what it’s about.

  MR VULPES: One may not impede the working of the Chamber.

  MR ANTHRAX: It’s absurd that I have to vote on a motion without knowing what it is.

  MR ARISTOPHILE: It is a motion to deal in session with the projects of declaration.

  MR ASINUS: Points of privilege come first.

  MR SPEAKER: We are going to vote on the motion moved by the member for the Capital.

  MR X: I would ask that the Speaker of the House inform us as to whether the vote about to take place – the third vote on this matter – is or is not an amended version of the one already approved.

  MR CACAPHONE: It cannot be an amended version of any vote, because without a proclamation there was no vote.

  MR ALLPHA: Could the Speaker inform us as to whether the vote has taken place or not?

  MR CORNO: It’s best that we vote without further deliberation.

  MR CACAPHONE: I would ask for information on whether a motion has been made to amend the vote.

  MR VULPES: Information had previously been requested so that the Chamber might know what had been voted on.

  MR SPEAKER: There was a vote, but the result was not proclaimed because of the disorder reigning
in the Chamber.

  MR CACAPHONE: So, if there was no proclamation, there was no vote.

  MR SPEAKER: The vote will be taken again.

  Here the Honourable Member Cacophone addressed Juan Demos triumphantly:

  – Don Juan, do you see what a battle my faction has won for you?

  – Yes, yes, answered the man on the pedestal. I’m starting to catch on now. It’s like throwing the taba,165 ain’t it? One time it lands wrong, another time it comes up lucky. Real nice! But . . .

  The man on the pedestal scratched his neck dubiously.

  – Spit it out, Don Juan! the Honourable Member Cacophone encouraged him.

  – People’s talkin’, Juan Demos drawled. They say youse guys’ve been sellin’ me out to the gringos on the sly.

  – That’s the opposition slandering us! exclaimed Mr Lunch.

  – I ain’t sayin’ I believe it, rejoined Juan Demos. But the thing is, I’m gettin’ hungry. Why not come right out and say it?

  Once again, and in great agitation, the legislators got to their feet.

  – Hungry? squealed the Honourable Member Equis. And this country being the bread basket of the South! I move that Mr Demos immediately be served a café con leche and some bread and butter.

  – What a lack of respect for Mr Demos, observed Mr Vulpes. The café con leche must be served with three croissants.

  – Only three? barked Mr Alpha. Five croissants, and then some!

  – Let him be served all the croissants left in the buffet! wailed Mr Asinus.

  A tedious process of voting on the motions gave victory to Mr Asinus’s motion. He turned to Juan Demos, holding his emotion in check and showing only his tear-filled eyes. The legislators once again resumed their mechanical attitudes, and the debate recovered its tone of unspeakable monotony:

  MR SECRETARY: Out of a total of 123 members of parliament . . .

  MR ANTHRAX: What? Before, only 120 voted.

  MR SECRETARY: Eighty-one members voted in favour and forty-two against.

  MR CACAPHONE: Before the proclamation is made, I request a compulsion, so as to know if the vote . . .

  At this point I turned to Samuel and said:

  – Enough, sir! This is an opiate.

  – Have you only just realized? he responded mildly.

  And gesturing that we should follow him, he crossed the room to a door which, like the one before, opened unexpectedly onto the street.

  We followed Samuel out of the strange Legislature to go for another trot through avenues that brought us to a building of grand proportions, seemingly like all the buildings in this fine City of Pride. The Doric columns of the portico, as well as the pediment decorated with artistic figures in bas-relief, inspired great expectations for both the building and its inhabitants. But once we’d passed between the Greek columns and through the bronze door behind them, disappointment struck and my spirits fell through the floor. True, the ground floor was an enormous open area rendered cathedral-like by the light streaming through the stained glass of arched Gothic windows. But unfortunately, in barbaric contrast to the noble architecture and mystical light, men in bloodstained lab coats and tortoise-shell glasses were busy at tasks better suited for a morgue, hospital, or butcher shop: the lab coats, bent over operating tables, wielded shiny scalpels to slice open the outstretched bodies and extirpate organs, then feverishly sewed up the incisions and rushed on to the next body, paying no attention to the cheers and applause coming from an ecstatic mob gathered in a kind of grandstand or amphitheatre.

  Whether or not it was a School of Medicine, it held little interest for me, a literary type. It’s well known that sawbones, from time immemorial, have enjoyed scant favour in literature, and I didn’t want to be the exception to such a venerable tradition. So I was just deciding how best to make myself scarce, when Samuel Tesler and the astrologer Schultz pointed out one of the surgeons, in whom I recognized the bright, self-satisfied young medic, Lucio Negri, busily exploring the viscera of a human being. No longer in evidence, it must be said, was the showy elegance for which Doctor Lucio Negri was known in Saavedra. We drew closer and watched him plunge his rubber-gloved hands into the prone body he’d just sliced open. Seemingly full of holy curiosity, he yanked out heart, lungs, liver, every anatomical part possible, and examined them one by one, avidly sniffed at each, and with grand gestures of dismay finally tossed them aside:

  – It’s no use, he moaned to himself. I can’t find it!

  – What are you looking for? asked Samuel, with a touch to his shoulder.

  Lucio Negri turned around. Recognizing us, he vented his anger:

  – It’s your fault! he shouted. An “immortal soul,” you used to say in Saavedra! Don’t make me laugh! I’ve looked for the soul, am still looking for it. And I can’t find it, it doesn’t exist. Look for yourselves! See if you can find it!

  And in a fit of rage he started throwing the human organs he’d just pulled out at our heads.

  – Take at look there! he roared. If you find an immortal soul, send me a letter! Two-bit charlatans! A soul!

  Full of hypocritical commiseration, Samuel Tesler turned to us:

  – Poor wretch! He’s confusing the soul with a kidney ulcer.

  Lucio’s shouting had caught the attention of the other scalpel-operators, and their work being interrupted, they noticed us. Then a fat surgeon took the floor:

  – Esteemed colleagues. For now, I’ll not comment on the intrusion of these profane persons into this sanctuary. The three fine young gentlemen who have barged into this room are not, as far as I can see, in pre-operatory condition, for which reason I hold them in profound disdain and consider them unworthy of the electric scalpel. But, dear colleagues, the day will come, thanks to our scientific fervour, when all humanity will be in pre-operatory condition, from newborn babes to old men with one foot in the grave. And what I’ve just affirmed is not a vow, but a prophecy.

  A salvo of applause burst forth from the grandstand, and excited voices rang out:

  – That’s what I call a speech!

  – A real master!

  – Shhh! Shhh! Listen!

  The fat surgeon resumed his peroration:

  – My real purpose just now is to denounce before this College the strange conduct of our young student Lucio Negri. Prey to retrograde influences, he has regressed to the dark ages in the grip of a reprehensible mania; to wit, that of searching for a soul in the very anatomies this College has so generously put at his disposition.

  Laughter and shouts resounded now:

  – Reactionary!

  – Throw him out of the College!

  – Inexplicable anachronism!

  The fat surgeon gestured impatiently for silence.

  – No, my esteemed colleagues! he said. What worries me is not our young disciple’s fantasy or his anatomical soul-searching. My real fear – and I’m absolutely serious – is that by dint of searching Dr Lucio Negri may end up discovering it.

  A wave of astonishment rippled over the surgeons and audience in the amphitheatre.

  – What?

  – The professor’s gone mad!

  – What’s he saying?

  The fat surgeon looked at them coldly:

  – Doctors! he expounded sadly. With unspeakable sacrifices we have invented and disseminated a mystique of the body. You will recall that for centuries humanity witnessed a shameful spectacle: the Soul, duking it out with the Body, resorted to low blows. All to the great satisfaction of ugly theologians who, lounging in plush seats at ringside, presided over the boxing match, jeering at the Body and cheering like crazy for the Soul. Fortunately, we came along and set ourselves up as the Body’s trainers. By means of gargles, massages, and adulation, we managed to bring him around; and in the final rounds the Body got the Soul on the ropes and won by a clean knock-out.166 So now the Body is the idol of the multitudes. So successful was our rehabilitation of the body that all of humanity now depends on our scalpels. Have I got it right,
or am I exaggerating?

  – Right on, you’ve got it! came the exclamations from the stands.

  – Well then, concluded the fat surgeon. What would happen if, thanks to treachery or madness in a few colleagues, the Soul came back into the ring and rained on our parade?167

  Silence dominated the room for about half an hour:168 those present had trouble digesting the fat surgeon’s question. But once the lightbulb of comprehension lit up, all hell broke loose. The College fell en masse upon Lucio Negri, who was now struggling at the hands of the scalpel operators. Body parts fell down on us like a shower of projectiles. All was shouting, fighting, and confusion in the room.

  We took our leave, Samuel out in front, Schultz and I bringing up the rear. The best thing might have been to escape through the bronze door out to the open air. But Samuel, who must have had his itinerary, led us to another door off in a corner. On it was a sign reading Do Not Enter. Ignoring the order, Samuel opened the door, ushered us through, and closed it stealthily behind him. Now we found ourselves in a room with tiled walls and a linoleum floor. Over to the left, someone was taking a shower, a little bald man with abundant body hair. To the right, a male nurse sat at an upright piano, languidly playing Schumann’s Traümerei. A roly-poly female nurse was bustling here and there, now laying out clothing or tending to the sterilizing apparatus, now observing the pianist or darting sharp glances toward the shower stall. At the back we could see the grille-door of an elevator.

  When she saw us come in, the female nurse just about choked with rage:

  – There’s a sign on the door! she yelled. How dare you interfere with Dr Aguilera when he’s preparing for work!

  Samuel laughed abundantly, crowing between guffaws:

  – So here we have the illustrious, the fantastic, the incomparable Dr Aguilera?

  – Quiet! whispered the nurse. Dr Aguilera is about to go up to the Operating Room.

  And indeed, the little man emerged sputtering from the shower. The nurse draped a towel around him, dried him from head to foot, sprayed eau de cologne on his furry torso, and finally handed him a pair of immaculate white trousers.