The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires

by Eric Stener Carlson

  ***

  When I got back from the meeting, I was in a foul mood. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ I kicked my chair and sent it crashing against the cubicle wall.

  ‘Why so angry, my little honeybee?’ came Esteban’s voice.

  ‘In that fucking meeting, Gutierrez told the Deputy Minister he had “full confidence I’ll do an excellent job of running the conference.” They’ve given me responsibility for the budget, the invitations . . . the whole lot. They signed a memo and everything.’

  ‘Man, that’s harsh. The only time they have “full confidence” in you around here is when they’re sure you’re totally going to fuck things up.’

  ‘Yes, Esteban, I realise that. It’s like rats leaving a sinking ship, and I’m stuck, scrubbing pots in the galley. I swear, I could totally murder Gutierrez.’

  ‘Miguel, man, I’m feelin’ what you’re sayin’. But you really gotta be more careful with your karma.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, righting my upturned chair, ‘Or in my next life, I’ll come back as a worm like Gutierrez.’

  ‘Exactly. You see, you’re too permeated by all these bullshit Western concepts like success and achievement. You gotta get more oriental in your approach. Look at me. I’ve come to terms with my mediocrity.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a real help, Esteban. Why don’t you just stuff my head in the shredder?’

  ‘No, no, man, hear me out. Look, I smoked pot all through high school, and I don’t remember a thing, except somethin’ about the protons goin’ round the neutrons, or the other way around, and that other thing about the square being a rectangle but the rectangle isn’t a square. Then in college, just to pass my history exam, I screwed my teaching assistant, and, man, was she a nasty piece of work, with really hairy, spindly legs.’ After this grain of wisdom, Esteban was silent.

  After I stuck some meeting notes onto the fabric wall with a pushpin, I asked, ‘I’m sure you’ve got a point in there somewhere?’

  ‘Oh, yeah . . . You see, I’m reapin’ what I sowed. Being here in this shithole is my punishment. But I’m cool with that, ’cause things’ll turn out better next time around. Now, look at you. You once had a lot of potential, and people thought you were goin’ places. But the truth is, you fucked it up, and now you’re Gutierrez’s little butt monkey. All I’m suggestin’ is that you give up hope about goin’ somewhere and just be in the moment. Things’ll get better then.’

  ‘You’re a wise man, Esteban,’ I said, looking around for my coffee cup. ‘You really should write a book some day.’

  ‘Only if the universe so wills it, Miguel. Only if the universe so wills it . . . Look, I gotta go out for a smoke. Can you cover me while I’m gone?’

  ‘Yeah, Esteban, whatever.’

  When Esteban got back, reeking of weed and breath mints, he said in hushed tones, ‘I was thinkin’ about what you said . . . about writing a book. You know, maybe I could start off writing somethin’ for a magazine, like in instalments. That way it would reach more people.’

  Barely listening, I said, ‘Yeah, sure, Esteban. You could be the guru for an entire generation.’

  For the rest of the day, I tried to concentrate on writing up the budget for the conference, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Lives of the Saints. Of course, it was all still so absurd, but how could I find out something about the author?

  Then something clicked in my head. What was it Esteban had said? . . . something about instalments?

  What if the book I had wasn’t the only one with an entry? What if there were instalments, just like a magazine? Maybe there were more entries out there, scattered throughout Buenos Aires? I’d found one. Why couldn’t I find more? The one thing I did know was that I didn’t have the nerve to go back to Bernardo’s.

  ***

  It was the sixth used bookstore I’d tried, and it was getting dark. I’d left work twenty minutes early, with the intention of dropping by just one store to see if I could find a copy of Lives of the Saints. And I promised myself, if I couldn’t find one, then I’d just forget about that stupid entry altogether.

  Well, I’d come across fourteen copies by now, and none of them had a hand-written entry under Saint Perpetuus. What excuse was I going to give Julieta this time, when I showed up late, that I was trying to find another copy of the book I’d hidden from her?

  It was raining now, and I was a few blocks away from the park on Vicente López. Actually, I hadn’t even been looking for the store, and I’d never noticed it before. (It was hidden in the shadow of two looming Art Deco buildings.) I’d ducked inside, because it was in front of the bus stand for the number 60, and that’d be the fastest way to get back home.

  Looking at my watch, I realised I’d be late for dinner. Why was I always just late for going somewhere or late coming back from somewhere I’d just gone to? ‘Shit!’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’ a thin, old lady at the back of the store said, lifting her head from behind a stack of books. She had on very thick glasses and held a pair of tweezers in one hand and a small paintbrush in the other.

  I came closer and could see she’d been bent over, repairing the binding of an old book. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I, uh, I’m just browsing.’

  She muttered something I couldn’t make out and then bent her head back down behind the books.

  I looked at my watch and then peered out the window to see if I could make out the dim outline of a bus through the misty rain. ‘Say,’ I said, fairly unenthused at this point, ‘you don’t happen to have a copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints, with a—I don’t know—a hand-written entry under Saint Perpetuus?’

  The old lady put down her book. She said, faintly, ‘Could you please come closer, I’m a little deaf.’

  I came up in front of her, glancing over my shoulder to see if the bus was coming.

  ‘What was that you said?’ she asked.

  Speaking slowly and loudly, I repeated, ‘Do you have a copy of Butler’s Lives of the Saints, with a handwritten entry under Saint Perpetuus?’

  ‘I still can’t quite hear you.’

  Thinking this was such a monumental waste of time, I bent my head down to her and began, ‘Do you have . . .’ and then I shrieked in pain as she bent over and bit me on the ear. Blood trickling down my cheek, I tried to pull away, but her small, claw-like hands clasped my arms like two iron bands.

  ‘Lady, what the fuck are you doing!’ I screamed.

  Breathing in my ear, she muttered, ‘Are you a member of the Club?’

  Trying to twist free, I said ‘What are you talking about?’ but I still couldn’t get loose. Then, pain shooting through my brain, I made a wild decision. ‘Yes, yes,’ I screamed, ‘I’m a member . . . I’m a lifetime member. Now, for God’s sake let go of me.’

  Since I normally guess incorrectly what people are thinking or feeling, I closed my eyes, expecting the woman to rip my ear clean off. But, mercifully, she released her hold on me, and I fell backwards onto the floor, knocking over one of those rotating postcards stands.

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, wiping the blood away from her lips with a small, embroidered handkerchief, ‘you taste like a bureaucrat. I do believe you are a member.’

  Getting up carefully and feeling for the small flap of flesh that was hanging from my earlobe, I said, ‘Uh . . . thanks for believing me.’

  Then she reached down amongst the books around her and held out to me a copy of Lives of the Saints. ‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Consider it a gift.’

  I extended the full reach of my arm and grabbed it cautiously, making sure I didn’t get within biting range.

  ‘You know the rules,’ she warned. ‘You must never come back here again. You must never tell anyone you were here. And, when you’re finished reading it, drop it off at the next, approved store. Now, go. The number 60 always gets here at 7:23, so it’s going to arrive in exactly four seconds.’

  Without asking anything more, without complaining of my treatment and without even bothering to say ‘Goodb
ye’, I flew out of the shop, and through the open door of the bus number 60 that had stopped exactly in front of the shop, as it if it had arrived especially for me.

  When I got back home, Julieta was already in bed, snuggled up next to Miguelito, so I snuck into my study and read the following entry.

  Book VIII

  (Second entry, Lives of the Saints)

  Halfway up the escalator, the sounds of barking dogs float down to you, along with the sounds of many dog-walkers screaming ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ You see the black spikes of the public dog-run jut skyward, and the stench of urine blows down the subway hole. As you adjust to the smell, the escalator deposits you right in the middle of Plaza Lavalle.

  In their Historia de los monumentos y esculturas de Buenos Aires, Magaz and Arevalo describe how this great, green space was boxed in by the construction of the Palace of Justice on Talcahuano Street, the National Cervantes Theatre on Córdoba Avenue and the Colón Theatre on Libertad. Then they note how it was first called Plaza del Parque, until, by ordinance on September 16th, 1878, it became known as Plaza Lavalle.

  Now, all of this is technically correct. Those streets surround the plaza. Those buildings dot along it. Indeed, the place is named for General Juan Galo Lavalle who, having overthrown Governor Borrego in 1828, heroically had him tied to a post . . . and shot him through the head.

  As a testament to Lavalle’s victory, a marble likeness of him thrusts skyward on a column just a block behind you, the base of which is used as a perennial tip for mounds of asphalt and construction equipment (for mysterious works that never seem to be accomplished).

  But I think Magaz and Arevalo give the wrong impression . . . as if Plaza Lavalle had been ‘created’. As if it were the expression of some rational desire to fill in the empty space between all those streets and buildings.

  The Colon Theatre, encrusted with its stone scarabs and pipe-mouthed gargoyles wasn’t completed until 1908. The sombre Palace of Justice, its mausoleum-like columns stained with long streaks of grey, wasn’t finished until 1910. Viamonte Street wasn’t called Viamonte until 1912 (originally born as San Bernardo in 1738 and then rebaptised Ocampo in 1808). And Córdoba Avenue—and this almost seems impossible—wasn’t called Córdoba until 1915 (beginning its life as Santa Rosa in 1769 and then Yañez in 1808).

  Since colonial times, architects’ visions have been realised and demolished outside the plaza’s perimeter. The roads surrounding it have been named for certain military heroes who crushed their enemies. And then they were renamed when their new enemies (their former friends) crept into their bedchambers and slit their throats. Ah . . . but the fate of our dear Plaza is different.

  This open space has not been shaped by man’s so-called ‘progress’. Rather, it bends the surroundings to its will. It has always been there. It will always be.

  Long before these structures, before these roads, before Plaza Lavalle was called Plaza Lavalle, even before it was called Plaza del Parque, it was simply known as ‘Zamudio’s Hollow’.

  This is the ancient name for the ancient owner who abandoned the land long ago. For years, it became a haven for highwaymen, a place decent people feared to cross at night. For this reason, I prefer to call this place the ‘Hollow’, for all the word’s magnificent connotations—emptiness, darkness, menace.

  Put your head down and trot in the direction of Viamonte street, about fifty yards ahead of you. When you’ve crossed it, you’ve got a weighty decision to make. Do you go straight along the walkway until Córdoba Avenue and then turn right until Libertad? Or do you venture into the depths of the Hollow, hoping to save time by making a bee-line to the corner of Córdoba and Libertad?

  Now, listen to me carefully. No matter how tempting, do not try to cross into the interior of the Hollow.

  Look beyond its patches of grass, palm trees and statues and you’ll see a place of ruin, a place of death. As you know, the old railway line used to pass through the park. Its tracks now covered up, it transported wagon after wagon of bloated corpses during the yellow fever epidemic of 1871. (Even above the dog urine, you can still sniff the stench of Death.)

  As I’m sure you’ve heard, the ‘Widow’ can still be seen in the Hollow on moonless nights. An apparition dressed in impossibly-dark, impossibly-long mourning clothes. She gnaws the bones of men fool enough to stop and ask the sobbing hag in rags if she needs any help.

  The Hollow’s not a place to trifle with, not even for a Saint.

  Of course, you may have already dismissed the idea of crossing the Hollow for mathematical, if not mythological, reasons. The path that cuts through it curves around an amalgamation of monuments, benches and splintery children’s slides. But even if the path were straight, and even if the Widow didn’t exist (which she does . . . for I’ve seen her!) I wouldn’t advise it. You see, it’s just too intellectually-challenging for a mind such as yours.

  In order for you to capture the Hollow’s true complexity, think of chess. You do follow chess, don’t you? Good . . . you’re not a complete imbecile then.

  Ask any eight-year-old child, ‘Hey, Junior, how many squares are on a chessboard?’ If he’s not a cretin, he’ll look at the board, eight long and eight across, and he’ll reply, ‘Teacher told me 8 x 8 are 64’.

  Of course . . . Teacher’s wrong! There are many, many more squares on a chessboard.

  For one, there is the chessboard itself, which is one, big square. So, there are 64 + 1. Then there are the groupings of 2 x 2 squares that you can make out within those 64, making 49 more. Then, there are the groupings of 3 x 3 squares you can also make out (thus adding 36). Then, there are the 4 x 4 squares (25 of them), the 5 x 5s (16 of them) and the 7 x 7s (4 of them). In total, we see:

  8 x 8 = 64

  The chessboard = 1

  # of 2 x 2 squares = 49

  # of 3 x 3 squares = 36

  # of 4 x 4 squares = 25

  # of 5 x 5 squares = 16

  # of 6 x 6 squares = 9

  # of 7 x 7 squares = 4

  Total = 204

  So, there are 204 squares on a chessboard. And how many combinations are there in chess? INFINITE! And how many Muscovites have gone mad trying to sort them out?

  Now, keep this in mind as you go towards Córdoba Avenue. Look down at the concrete blocks that compose the walkway. Starting just where the ornamental fence begins to circle the plaza, you’ll see a regular pattern of concrete rectangles 49 cm x 90 cm laid lengthwise. (I took measurements one day, pretending to extract a stone from my shoe, so as not to attract the attention of the Herd.)

  As you walk along ‘Paseo Dr Luciano Florencio Molinas’, pay no attention to the motorcycle couriers sitting on cement benches drinking wine from cardboard boxes. Count, DAMN YOU! And you’ll get to 214 of these rectangles, by the time you come near the end of the ornamental fence, where the walkway turns right, parallel to Córdoba Avenue.

  You’ll notice the cement rectangles are now laid width-wise. Begin counting. Don’t ask yourself why the large, German shepherd there is always crushing the same plastic water bottle in its teeth. Pay no attention to the homeless woman, washing her hair in the public water-fountain, a host of carefully-arranged plastic bottles gathered all around her. Keep on going, until you’ve counted that very last rectangle, and you’ll get to the number 188.

  Look up, and you’ll see you’re almost at the corner of Córdoba and Libertad, facing that awful, ancient synagogue.

  Do your calculations, and check them twice!

  You’ve observed that the Talcahuano side of the Hollow is composed of 214 rectangles. And the Córdoba Avenue side of the hollow is composed of 188 rectangles. That means that the Hollow is composed of 214 x 188, or 40,232 rectangles. Now, think back to the chess board. How many squares could you fit within those 40,232 rectangles (remembering, of course, that rectangles are even more complicated than squares)? I won’t even waste the space here doing the calculation!

  Therefore, if chess is the most intellectually-chall
enging game ever devised by man, then imagine the combinations required to successfully plot your course across the thousands of rectangles that compose Zamudio’s Hollow. It boggles the mind!

  That’s why I say to you, do not waste your energy on crossing the Hollow. You’ll need your intellect fresh to overcome the last—and greatest—hurdle standing between you and getting to work on time: crossing 9 de Julio Avenue.

  Book IX

  Cross Libertad, and put as much space as possible between you and Zamudio’s Hollow. Hug close to the plumbing supply store but not too close to the terrible synagogue looming to your right.

  From a distance, you’ve caught flashes of the swarming traffic ahead. But it’s not until you reach the street corner up ahead that, all of a sudden, 9 de Julio Avenue opens up before you, like Machu Picchu rising from the mist . . .

  There it is . . . the widest avenue in the world! Lanes, so many lanes, rush past like a coursing, tumbling river, a panic of taxis, a swallowing of omnibuses. Smog and fire, smoke and desperation. Stone islands jut out here and there to shelter pedestrians tossed about by its waves and flattened by its crests.

  Describing the avenue in its totality is impossible. How do you describe a river, every shoal, every curve different and changing constantly? All I can hope to do is tell you what I’ve learned about crossing at one particular point—at the corner of Córdoba and 9 de Julio.

  Bear in mind that what I’m about to say is absolutely useless for crossing at any other point, and don’t get me started about the corner of Paraguay and 9 de Julio farther up. (There, you can barely cross one stone island to another before the light changes, and you’re left clutching to the side of an electric pole.) There are just some places you shouldn’t cross the Avenue, where hidden reefs and drop-offs abound.

  Before you try to cross this murderous river of cars, you need to understand the nature of its currents. You must reach for the deeper vision of its architects, feel their true intent. Don’t bother looking for the Avenue on any map before 1938. Before then, it simply didn’t exist. And don’t trust the modern maps! They’ve lost track of the city’s Great Mysteries.