The Book of Fantasy

by Jorge Luis Borges

  We knew very well that don Juan was not a man who would carelessly cut off the water in the garden during a dry summer. We had so far considered him a pillar of the community. His portrait is a faithful representation of the character of our fifty-year-old: tall, of stout bearing, whitened hair combed in docile halves, whose waves form arches parallel to those of his moustache and to the lower ones of his watch chain. Other details reveal an old-fashioned gentleman: breeches, leather gaiters, spats. Throughout his life, governed by order and restraint, nobody, as far as I can remember, had ever spotted a weakness in him, be it drunkenness, loose women or a lapse into politics. In a past which we would willingly forget—which of us, if we’re going to talk infamy, didn’t let our hair down?—don Juan kept clean. Not for nothing did the very auditors of the Cooperative—hardly respectable people; layabouts, frankly—recognize his authority, etcetera. Not for nothing in those harsh years did that moustache constitute the handlebars the upright families of the village steered by.

  It must be recognized that this exceptional man expounds old-fashioned ideas and that our ranks, themselves idealists, had so far not produced any great figures of comparable mettle. In a new country, new ideas are short on tradition. As everyone knows, without tradition there can be no stability.

  Our hierarchy placed no one above this figure, except for doña Remedios, mother and only adviser to such an overwhelming son.

  To complete the picture of those who live in the chalet, there is only one undoubtedly minor appendix to add, the godson, don Tadeíto, one of my students at evening classes. Since doña Remedios and don Juan rarely tolerate strangers in the house, neither as helpers nor as guests, the lad takes on the roles of labourer and assistant in the yard and as servant-boy in Las Margaritas. Add to this the fact that the poor devil regularly attends my classes and you will understand why I let rip at anyone who, jokingly or out of pure spite, calls him names, mocking him. That he was gloriously turned down for national service matters to me not at all, since envy is not one of my sins.

  That particular Sunday, somewhere between two and four in the afternoon, there was a knock at my door, a deliberate effort, judging by the noise, to break it down. I staggered to my feet, murmured, ‘It can be no other’, uttered words inappropriate to a teacher and, as if this weren’t a time for unpleasant visits, opened the door, sure that I would find don Tadeíto. I was right. There he was, smiling, his face so thin it didn’t even block out the sun, which shone fully into my eyes. I understood he was asking straight out, and in that voice which suddenly drops, for first-, second- and third-year textbooks.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what for?’ I inquired irritably.

  ‘Godfather asked for them,’ he replied.

  I handed over the books on the spot and forgot the episode as though it had all been part of a dream.

  A few hours later, as I was on my way to the station, stretching out the walk to kill time, I noticed the sprinkler was missing in Las Margaritas. I mentioned this on the platform as we waited for the 19.30 Plaza express, which turned up at 20.54, and I mentioned it that night in the bar. I didn’t refer to the request for the textbooks, and even less did I link one event with the other, because, as I said, I had barely registered the former in my memory.

  I imagined that after such a restless day, we would get back into our usual stride. On Monday, at siesta-time, I joyfully said to myself, ‘This time it’s for real’, but the fringe of my poncho was still tickling my nose when the rumpus started. Muttering, ‘And what’s up with him today? If I catch him kicking that door, I’ll make him shed tears of blood,’ I slipped on my espadrilles and went to the hall.

  ‘Is interrupting your teacher to become a habit?’ I growled on receiving back the pile of books.

  The reply confused me totally, because all I got was, ‘Godfather wants the third-, fourth- and fifth-year ones.’

  ‘What for?’ I managed to articulate.

  ‘Godfather wants them,’ explained don Tadeíto.

  I handed over the books and went back to my bed, in search of sleep. I confess I did sleep, but I did so, believe me, in the air.

  Later, on the way to the station, I saw that the sprinkler wasn’t back in its place and that the yellowish tinge was spreading in the garden. I postulated all sorts of far-fetched ideas, and on the platform, as I showed off my body to frivolous groups of young ladies, my mind was still working on the interpretation of the mystery.

  Watching the moon, enormous in the distant sky, one of us, I think it was Di Pinto, always given to the romantic notion of cutting the figure of a man of the country (for goodness’ sake, in front of your lifelong friends!), commented, ‘It’s a dry moon. Let us not attribute, then, the removal of the device to a forecast of rain. Our don Juan must have had his reasons!’

  Badaracco, a sharp lad, with a mole, because in previous times, apart from a bank salary, he earned a certain sum as an informant, asked me, ‘Why don’t you approach the idiot about it?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your student,’ he replied.

  I approved the idea and applied it that night, after class. First I tried to dazzle don Tadeíto with the truism that rain is good for plants, then finally got straight to the point. The conversation went as follows:

  ‘Is the sprinkler out of order?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t see it in the garden.’

  ‘Why would you see it?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because it’s watering the depot.’

  I should explain that amongst ourselves we call the last shed in the yard, where don Juan piles up the materials which don’t sell much, such as strange stoves and statues, monoliths and mizzenmasts, the depot.

  Prompted by the desire to tell the lads the news about the sprinkler, I dismissed my student without questioning him on the other point. I both remembered and yelled after him at one and the same time. From the hallway, don Tadeíto looked at me with sheep’s eyes.

  ‘What does don Juan do with the books?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he shouted back, ‘he puts them in the depot.’

  Bewildered, I ran to the hotel. Just as I had predicted, the lads were perplexed by what I had to tell them. We all contributed an opinion, since it was a pity to say nothing at the time, and luckily nobody listened to anybody else. Or perhaps the landlord lent an ear, the enormous don Pomponio of the dropsical stomach, whom those in the group could barely tell apart from the pillars, tables and crockery, because we are blinded by pride of intellect. Don Pomponio’s brassy voice, muffled by rivers of gin, called us to order. Seven faces looked up and fourteen eyes fixed on one shiny red face, split by his mouth, to inquire, ‘Why don’t you appoint a committee to go and ask don Juan himself for an explanation?’

  His sarcasm awakened one of us, whose surname was Aldini, who takes correspondence courses and wears a white tie. Arching his eyebrows, he said to me, ‘Why don’t you tell your student to eavesdrop on conversations between doña Remedios and don Juan? Then use your cattle prod on him.’

  ‘What prod?’

  ‘Your schoolteacher’s authority,’ he clarified with hate.

  ‘Does don Tadeíto have a good memory?’ asked Badaracco.

  ‘He does,’ I asserted. ‘Anything entering his skull is temporarily photographed.’

  ‘Don Juan,’ continued Aldini, ‘asks doña Remedios’ advice about every thing.’

  ‘Before a witness like his godson,’ declared Di Pinto, ‘they will talk in complete freedom.’

  ‘If there is any mystery, it will be revealed,’ Toledo prophesied.

  Chazarreta, who works as an assistant at the market, grumbled, ‘If there’s no mystery, what is there?’

  Since the conversation was getting sidetracked, Badaracco, famous for his equanimity, restrained the contenders. ‘Lads,’ he reprimanded them, ‘you’re old enought not to waste your energy.’

  Just to have the last word, Toledo repeated, ‘If there’s a
ny mystery, it will be revealed.’

  It was revealed, but not before several days had passed.

  Next siesta-time, just as I was falling into a deep sleep, naturally enough the knocks resounded. Judging by my palpitations, they were beating on the door and in my heart at the same time. Don Tadeíto was bringing back the books from the day before and asking for those of the first, second and third years of secondary school. As the more advanced book was outside my scope, we had to go to Villarroel’s bookshop, wake up the Spaniard by banging loudly on the door and subsequently pacify him with the knowledge that it was don Juan who was asking for the books. As we had feared, the Spaniard asked, ‘What’s got into that man? Never in his life has he bought a book and all of a sudden . . . Needless to say, he only wants to borrow them.’

  ‘Don’t take it to heart, mate,’ I reasoned, patting him on the back. ‘You sound like an Argentine, you’re so bitter.’

  I told him about the previous’ requests for primary textbooks and maintained the strictest reserve as to the sprinkler, of whose disappearance, so he himself gave me to understand, he was perfectly aware. With the books under my arm I added, ‘Tonight we’re meeting in the bar of the hotel to debate all this. If you’d like to chip in, that’s where you’ll find us.’

  We didn’t see a soul on the way there and back, except for the butcher’s rust-coloured dog, which must have been suffering from indigestion again, because even the humblest irrational being doesn’t expose himself in his right mind to the heat of the two-o’clock sun.

  I told my student to report to me verbatim the conversations between don Juan and doña Remedios. Not for nothing do they say that the punishment is in the crime. That night I was subjected to such torture as I had not foreseen in my rapacious curiosity: to listen to those interminably uninteresting dialogues recounted in every detail. I was occasionally about to make some cruel, ironic comment to the effect that I didn’t care about doña Remedios’ opinions on the last lot of yellow soap and the flannelette for don Juan’s rheumatism but I restrained myself, for how could I leave what was to be considered important or not to the lad’s discretion?

  Needless to say, the next day he interrupted my siesta to bring the books back for Villarroel. That’s when the first new development occurred: don Juan, said don Tadeíto, didn’t want any more textbooks; he wanted old newspapers, which he was to buy by the kilo from the haberdashery, the butcher’s and the baker’s. In due course I discovered that the newspapers, like the books before them, were to end up in the depot.

  Afterwards there came a period when nothing happened. The soul is never satisfied. I missed that same knocking at the door which before had wrenched me from my siesta. I wanted something to happen, good or bad. Accustomed to living intensely, I couldn’t adjust to the lull. At last, one night the student, after an orderly inventory of the effects of salt and other nourishing substances on doña Remedios’ system, without the slightest alteration in his tone to announce a change of subject, recited, ‘Godfather said to doña Remedios that they have a guest living in the depot and he very nearly bumped into him the other day, because he was inspecting a sort of funfair swing which hadn’t been entered in the books, and that he remained cool-headed although its state was pitiful and reminded him of a catfish gasping out of the lake. He said he hit on the idea of bringing a bucket of water, because without thinking he had understood that he was being asked for water and he wasn’t going to let a fellow-creature die whilst he stood by and watched. He got no appreciable result and preferred to draw a drinking trough near rather than touch the visitor. He filled the trough with buckets of water but got no appreciable result. Suddenly he remembered the sprinkler and, like a doctor who tries, he said, various remedies to save a dying man, he ran to fetch the sprinkler and connected it up. The result was visibly appreciable because the dying creature revived, as if breathing moist air suited him admirably. Godfather said he spent some time with the visitor, because he asked as best he could if he needed anything, and the visitor was, quite frankly, very sharp, and after a quarter of an hour was saying the odd word in Spanish and asking him for the basics so that he could teach himself. Godfather said he sent his godson to ask for the primary-school textbooks from the teacher. As the visitor was, quite frankly, very sharp, he learnt all the primary courses in two days, and in one what he felt like of secondary school. Next, said Godfather, he started to read the newspapers to find out what was going on in the world.’

  ‘Did the conversation take place today?’ I ventured to ask.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘Whilst they were having coffee.’

  ‘Did your godfather say anything else?’

  ‘Of course, but I don’t remember.’

  ‘What do you mean, “I don’t remember”?’ I protested angrily.

  ‘Well, you interrupted me,’ the student explained.

  ‘You’re right. But you’re not going to leave me like this,’ I argued, ‘dying of curiosity. Come on, make an effort.’

  ‘Well, you interrupted me.’

  ‘I know I interrupted you. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘All your fault,’ he repeated.

  ‘Don Tadeíto is a good man. He’s not going to leave his teacher like this, half-way through a conversation, to carry on tomorrow or never.’

  With deep sorrow he repeated, ‘Or never.’

  I was annoyed, as though something of great value were being stolen from me. I don’t know why it was that I reflected that our dialogue consisted of repetitions, but I suddenly saw a glimmer of hope in that very thought. I repeated the last sentence in don Tadeíto’s narrative. ‘He read the papers to find out what was going on in the world.’

  My student carried on indifferently, ‘Godfather said that the visitor was stunned on discovering that the government of this world wasn’t in the hands of worthy people, but rather in those of half-castes, if not complete ne’er-do-wells. That such a rabble should have the atom bomb in their care, said the visitor, was something which had to be seen to. If worthy people had it in their care, they would end up dropping it, because it is clear that when somebody has it, they drop it; but that it should be in the hands of that rabble just wasn’t on. He said that they had discovered the bomb in other worlds before now, and such worlds inevitably blew up; that they didn’t care if they blew up, since they were far away, but our world is nearby and they fear that they could be involved in a chain reaction.’

  The incredible suspicion that don Tadeíto was making fun of me made me inquire of him gravely, ‘Have you been reading On Things You Can See in the Sky by Doctor Jung?’

  Fortunately he didn’t hear the interruption and proceeded, ‘Godfather said that he came from his planet in a vehicle made specially, with blood, sweat and tears, because over there there’s a shortage of adequate materials and it’s the result of years of investigation and work. That he came as a friend and liberator, and that he was asking for the full support of Godfather to execute his plan to save the world. Godfather said the interview with the visitor had taken place that afternoon and that he, at the gravity of the matter, hadn’t hesitated to bother doña Remedios, to ask for her opinion, which he already took for granted was the same as his own.’

  Since he did not resume after the pause which followed, I asked what the lady had answered.

  ‘Ah, I don’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you mean, “Ah, I don’t know”?’ I repeated, angry once again.

  ‘I left them talking together and came here, because it was time for my lessons. I thought to myself: when I’m not late, it makes my teacher happy.’

  Shining with pride, his sheep’s face awaited my congratulations. With admirable presence of mind I reflected that the lads wouldn’t believe my story unless I took don Tadeíto along as a witness. I grabbed him violently by the arm and pushed him towards the bar. There were my friends, with the addition of the Spaniard Villarroel.

  As long as I am capable of remembering, I shall never
forget that night. ‘Gentlemen,’ I shouted, as I pushed don Tadeíto against our table, ‘I bring the explanation of the whole thing, important news and a witness who will not let me lie. In great detail, don Juan told his mother of the event and my faithful student didn’t miss a word. In the depot in the yard, right here, the other side of this wall, is staying—guess who?—an inhabitant from another world. Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen. Apparently the traveller is not of robust constitution, since he cannot withstand the dry air of our city very well—we can still compete with Córdoba—and to prevent him dying like a fish out of water, don Juan set up the sprinkler for him, which constantly moistens the air in the depot. What’s more, apparently the motive for the arrival of the monster should not provoke anxiety. He has come to save us, convinced that the world is going to be blown up by an atom bomb, and he expressed his point of view to don Juan outright. Naturally don Juan, whilst he drank his coffee, consulted doña Remedios. It is unfortunate that this young man here’—I shook don Tadeíto, as though he were a puppet—‘left just in time not to hear doña Remedios’ opinion, so we don’t know what they decided to do.’

  ‘We do know,’ said the bookseller, moving his thick wet lips like a snout.

  I felt uncomfortable at having been corrected about news which I thought was a scoop. I inquired, ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ said Villarroel, who can see underwater. ‘If it’s like you say, all that about the traveller dying if they remove the sprinkler, don Juan has condemned him to die. On my way here I passed Las Margaritas and by the light of the moon I could distinguish perfectly the sprinkler watering the garden as before.’

  ‘I also saw it,’ confirmed Chazarreta.

  ‘With my hand on my heart,’ murmured Aldini, ‘I tell you the traveller wasn’t lying. Sooner or later we’ll all be blown up by the atom bomb. I see no escape.’

  As though he were talking to himself, Badaracco said, ‘Don’t tell me that those old people, between the two of them, have killed our last hope.’