Deep here, in the centre of things, my Gift has grown much more powerful. I can read a chapter of a monograph, (say, the Italian delegation’s expense report for their mission to Chubut in 1937), put it down and turn back time. The only change is an almost-imperceptible shift of the monograph on my table, to where it was before I picked it up. But the memory of that chapter remains in my head, and I can pick up the document again and read a new chapter, and no Time has gone by at all!
No more nausea, no headaches or nosebleeds. This is my own private cave, my own Salamanca, and I alone rule here.
However, in the last few days before I sealed myself up in these catacombs, I felt an eerie presence, something tracking me from a distance. One evening, above the ambient noise on the subway, the thing I heard most clearly was the sound of a girl of twenty-something slowly scraping a metal file against her fingernails. She looked up and stared me directly in the eyes, and how it startled me! It was, indisputably, Mandinga, giving me notice he was coming forward to claim his prize.
Every day, I feel him coming closer. The way the filing cabinet quivers, as if it aches, when I pull the drawer all the way out and reach for a file in the back. The way the stale air of the archives grows staler. The fluorescent light hums just a little louder, and I hear his nails scraping along the cinderblock-lined passageway just outside the archives door.
I knew he’d find me down here, but I’m not dreading him. In fact, I’ve taken a page from Miranda’s book, that gaucho who’d tricked Mephistopheles in San Luis all those years ago. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I have no desire to destroy the coven, for I’d like to think Argentines will be selling their souls in the Bulnes subway station from today until Judgment Day. Besides, I think it would be highly unbefitting for a Saint—no, a God—like me to shove a crucifix up my ass.
I have a simple remedy, and Lucifer gave it to me himself. Sitting here, I’ll turn back time again and again, in a smooth, constant loop. As a result, Mandinga will always be one step away, always a moment from claiming my soul but unable to. Like Napoleon on coronation day, I have outwitted the bishop, and I have crowned myself Emperor.
Outside this loop, in the world beyond this Basement Paradise, mortals bumble on in their own time. Lovers will meet, procreate, worry about their babies’ fevers, go to school plays, become decrepit, lose erections, lose their hair, go to funerals of childhood friends, go to their spouses’ funerals, finally go to their own. I, on the other hand, have liberated myself from that pathetic circle. Only I will reign supreme and FOREVER!
Perhaps Mandinga will try, on and off, for the next hundred years or so, to wear me down, hoping I’ll crack under the strain of solitude. Poor thing. He’ll soon learn there’s no creature more resistant to isolation or to boredom than a bureaucrat. I’m confident that, one day, he’ll forget all about me, and I’ll be able to break this loop of time and get up and explore the darker corners of the archives, wade deeper into this Pool of Knowledge.
But, for now, I’m quite content to sit here at my desk. In honour of my last and greatest achievement, I have ordered a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a butter cookie with a small, candied cherry on top. (An extravagance, I admit, but it will be my last expense in the earthly realm.)
On the saucer, there is one largish crumb and three smallish crumbs. There is one, last sip left in the cup. I shall soon collect those crumbs with the moistened index finger of my right hand and bring them to my mouth, and I shall take that final sip—that moment which makes a perfect cup of tea complete. When I turn back time, it will be to this exact moment of supreme contentedness. Then I shall grab a file folder from the thousands stacked around me and read a chapter or two. Moisten my finger, savour the crumbs, sip the tea. And again and again and again, ad infinitum but certainly not ad nauseam. All the while, I am becoming more learned and complete.
Soaking in the Power around me, I have come to new realisations. For one, I have changed my opinion about Ezequiel. No, I haven’t stopped hating him, for he deserves my ire, deserves to suffer torment and defeat. But, as I reflect on him now, he reminds me less of that mad, Nordic squirrel sent up by Nidhogg to taunt me and more of the slave boy Alexander the Great once trained with.
When I was at school, I once read that the future Emperor and his slave would escape Philip’s camp at dawn, running through golden fields, rows of heavy wheat. Their naked bodies shone in the rising sun. They raced, neck and neck for miles, flying over stones, thrusting themselves over fallen logs, until they turned at the river and raced back towards camp. Just as Alexander saw the peak of his father’s tent, they passed a stone marker at the side of the road, whose inscription read, ‘You are now a god, mortal no more’.
At this sign, Alexander would break away from the slave, inspired by his dreams of crushing Attica beneath his heels, while the slave would slow and falter in his dust, bending over, lungs on fire, cupping his palms over his knees.
As young gods, we must compete with slaves, for they tone our bodies and sharpen our minds. We need to agonise against them in the wrestling ring, in order to appreciate the sweetness of our victories later on. This I now understand.
For the past few weeks, I have been writing chapters in this chronicle, in the only books worthy of my story. In the company of my fellow Saints. Under what better heading to recount my victory than that of Saint Perpetuus . . . for I am the God of Perpetuity. I reign over this endless circle of minutes as Zeus reigns over Mt. Olympus.
I have just called a messenger to come pick up these books. In a few minutes, he’ll be here, and I’ll give him explicit instructions to scatter them throughout the best used bookstores of Buenos Aires. (Once he leaves the archives and exceeds the diameter of my reach down here, I’ll start my loop of time.)
He’s to pretend to browse through the shelves, and, when he’s sure no one’s looking, insert the books somewhere in the philosophy section. That should be easy enough, even for a member of the Herd.
Because you’re reading these pages, you must have seen this book while rummaging in a bookstore for guidance. Something about it—the title, perhaps, or the feel of it in your hands—called your attention. Something of the emerging Saint in you recognised its worth.
You’ve read my story. You now know what awaits you in the Salamanca. What you do with that knowledge, what awful revenge you wreak or what fantastic delights you acquire, is up to you.
As for me, I have achieved everything I’ve ever dreamed of. In this folder-filled room, under the artificial twilight of the banker’s lamp, in the creaking of the files, in the gnawing sounds of its insects here and there, I perceive the humming, the deep and steady rumbling of the subway, and the exultant shouts of the Salamanca!
Ah, there’s the bell. The messenger’s arrived.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I got up early last Sunday morning, trying not to make too much noise as I bumped about, getting dressed in the dark. I kissed Julieta on the forehead and whispered in her ear, ‘I’m going out to buy fresh bread for breakfast.’ I felt bad about deceiving her, but I swore to myself this was going to be the last time. There was one more thing I had to do in the service of Saint Perpetuus.
I took the ‘D’ line towards Catedral, getting on at Agüero station. Since that night, I haven’t dared enter Bulnes station again. If the train I’m riding on ever stops there, I remain riveted to the subway straps, I feel a shock of fear bathing my entire body. I’m horrified to even look at the mural of the Salamanca. But, in spite of myself, I always crane my neck to see if the grey, metal doors are locked. Thank God, they always are.
Since it was early on a Sunday, I got into the first wagon that came along, and I made it to Tribunales in under 7 minutes. When I reached Plaza Lavalle, I carefully skirted ‘Zamudio’s hollow’, afraid of the spirits inside.
Hobbling across 9 de Julio, I got stuck half-way across on a little cement island, which made me feel more relaxed. (With my bum leg—it never quite set properly after the beat
ing Gutierrez gave me—I’m always tardy to my classes at the university. But that’s fine with me, because I’ve developed a sort of phobia for punctuality.)
As for my withered hand, well, I’ve come to terms that it may dry up and die before the rest of me does, but that’s a small price to pay. And cold creams these days are really rather good.
I reached the curb at Córdoba and Pellegrini, just as the waiter at the Café Madeleine was setting up the wooden chairs. I passed by the cheap book stand still packed up in its blue, metal box from the night before, passed by the flower stand that was just opening. Then I turned left, directly in front of where 719 Pellegrini should be, the office of that anonymous civil servant whose diaries started me on this misadventure.
There was not, however, a squat, grey building encrusted with angels. There was not, for that matter, any building whatsoever. There was only a parking lot covered with a freshly-paved asphalt cap and newly-painted yellow parking spaces. Long, black strips of fabric were suspended above the cars to block out the heat, and they rippled and snapped in the wind.
On the walls of the buildings that boxed in the parking lot, I could make out discolorations and chips in the concrete, signs that a building once stood there, and that it had been torn down.
I asked the attendant sitting on a folding chair (a chubby, young girl, her face full of freckles) if she knew anything about a building once being there. Looking over the top of her fashion magazine at me, she replied, ‘Dunno . . . I been workin’ here only three weeks,’ and then she lowered her eyes back to the magazine.
I wandered around the lot here and there looking anywhere for the signs of an opening, a manhole or a coal chute, but there was nothing. Just the freshly-paved asphalt beginning to run and smear in the rising sun.
Scanning my eyes along the painted yellow lines, I wondered where my Saint was, where my Dark God of Buenos Aires was sealed off somewhere beneath my feet. I wondered if, caught within his loop of time in the archives, he’d realised the building had been torn down around him.
Did he ever suspect his agency had ceased to exist, after Mr Engineer Smaevich and the rest of his staff had forgotten he was still down there? Had he felt the trembling of the wrecking ball when it came crashing through the floors above? I imagined him, sealed beneath the earth, intent on one sentence, scribbling it over and over again, drinking his Earl Grey, nibbling his biscuit. I hoped he was happy with his success.
After a while, the parking attendant started shooting annoyed glances at me, so I wished her a good day. I bought some fresh bread at the corner bakery and decided to walk back home. After all, it was still early, the sky was a bright azure, and there wasn’t even a wisp of a cloud.
***
Forgive this rather tattered edition of Lives of the Saints between whose lines I’ve written this account. It was the best I could afford on a professor’s salary. Tomorrow, I’m going to go browsing at my new, favourite place, El Emporio de Zanzibar, a tiny little nook of a bookstore just off Tres Sergentos street. When no one’s looking, I’m going to slip this book onto the shelf.
Maybe you’re a philosophy student. Maybe you’re a professor. Or maybe you’re a former civil servant like myself. Whoever you are, I’m sure you felt there was something mysterious about this book that made you pick it up.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t let the secret die with me. After all, why risk leading another man astray, why risk having him sell his immortal soul or use the power of Time Travel to destroy the world?
I guess . . . well I guess, I’m too much a believer in all that Rousseauian free will shit. I mean, all that free will nonsense. (Now that Miguelito’s repeating everything I say, I’m trying to watch my language.) Anyway, I needed someone to know the whole story and, besides Julieta, you’re the only one who does.
You’re free to use the secrets of time travel to seek revenge. Or you can use them to get to work on time.
Although . . . if I were you, I’d just put the book back on the shelf where you found it and leave it for some other unlucky bastard to take. If you came across this book while browsing on your lunch break today, why not skip work for the rest of the day? Call in sick. Go back home and make love to your wife in the middle of the afternoon. Or pick your kids up early from school and go play with them in the park.
Like Julieta said, you can’t make up for lost time. You either use it or lose it.
Like they say, tempus fugit. Except, perhaps, for you.
FIN
Works Consulted and Cited
I gratefully acknowledge the following reference materials that helped The Saint Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires come alive.
Chapter One:
Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan reprinted from the 1651 edition with an essay by W.G. Pogson Smith (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1909). Citation from Chapter xiii, ‘Of the Naturall Condition of Mankind, as concerning their Felicity, and Misery’. This work appears in the public domain and can be found at: http://oll.libertyfund.org/?option=com_staticxt&staticfile=show.php%3Ftitle=869
Book II:
These beautiful refrains come from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, translator Helen Zimmern (1906). Citation comes from Chapter IV, ‘Apophthegms and Interludes’. This work appears in the public domain and can be found at http://www.authorama.com/beyond-good-and-evil-1.html. (This page was created by Philipp Lenssen based on the text of ‘Project Gutenberg’.)
Book III:
Benjamin Jowett’s 1856 translation of Plato’s The Republic, from Book I. This work appears in the public domain and can be found at http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/republic.2.i.html. (In his translation, Jowett seems to prefer the word ‘master’ to ‘monster’, but it’s easy to forgive him the mistake.)
The ‘zapam-zucún’s’ endowments are artfully described in Roberto Rosaspini Reynolds’s excellent Cuentos y leyendas argentinos, 3rd Edition (Buenos Aires: Ediciones Continente, 1999) 37-39.
Book IV:
Friedrich Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, translator Helen Zimmern (1906). Citations come from Chapter IV, ‘Apophthegms and Interludes’. This work appears in the public domain and can be found at http://www.authorama.com/beyond-good-and-evil-1.html. (This page was created by Philipp Lenssen based on the text of ‘Project Gutenberg’.)
Book V:
Jorge Oscar Canido Borges is a master of the streets of Buenos Aires, and his book must be consulted: Buenos Aires, esa desconocida: Sus calles, plazas y Monumentos (Buenos Aires: Corregidor, 2003).
A safe way of viewing the murals at the Bulnes stop, without venturing there yourself, is to read Fernando Alonso, et al., Arte bajo la ciudad/Art Beneath the City (Buenos Aires: Manrique Zago, SRL, 1998). The mural ‘Canciones, costumbres y leyendas del país de la selva’ is by Alfredo Guido (1892-1967) and was placed by Cattaneo y Cía in 1938. It has been in the public way since then.
Book VI:
Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince (1532), from Chapter XVII—’Concerning cruelty and clemency, and whether it is better to be loved than feared’ and Chapter VIII—‘Concerning those who have obtained a principality by wickedness’. This work appears in the public domain and can be found at http://www.thepublicdomainlibrary.org/machiavelli/the-prince/ chapter17.html.
Book VII:
You can read Schmidl’s account in Jorge Fondebrider’s La Buenos Aires ajena: Testimonios de extranjeros de 1536 hasta hoy (Buenos Aires: Emecé, 2001).
Book VIII:
For an excellent study of Buenos Aires’ parks, see María del Carmen Magaz and María Beatriz Arevalo, Historia de los monumentos y esculturas de Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires: Municipalidad de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, Secretaría de Cultura, Instituto Histórico de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires, 1985)
Book IX:
This beautiful reference to the widest avenue in the world is, Avenida 9 de Julio: Leyes, ordinanzas, decretos, estudios, datos, informes, referentes a su construcción, (Buenos Aires: Iglesias y Matera, February 12, 1938)
.
Book X:
The source of all things is Ernesto Sabato’s, El Túnel (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1967).
For the city beneath the city, see Daniel Schávelzon’s, Arqueología de Buenos Aires: Una ciudad en el fin del mundo 1580-1880—Translated from The Archaeology of Buenos Aires, A City at the End of the World, by Alexandra Lomónaco to Spanish (Buenos Aires: Emecé Editores, 1999).
At the risk of immersing yourself in the Scalabrini Ortiz/Canning polemic, consult Jorge Oscar Canido Borges’ Buenos Aires, esa desconocida: Sus calles, plazas y Monumentos (Buenos Aires: Corregidor, 2003) 75.
Chapter 5:
For a nightmare description of Evita’s doll-like body, see Tomás Eloy Martínez’s Santa Evita (Punto de Lectura, 2007).
Chapter 6:
Apocryphal quotes of Borges abound!
For an excellent history of Jewish culture in Argentina, see Mario Javier Saban’s, Judios conversos: Los antepasados judios de las familias tradicionales argentinas (Buenos Aires: Distal, 1990).
It is unfortunate no reference to this alleged story by Mujica Lainez has survived. For those stories that have survived, read Manuel Mujica Lainez, Misteriosa Buenos Aires, 30th Edition (Buenos Aires: Dirección Editorial Canela, 2000).
Chapter 7:
For those not afraid to descend into the Salamanca, see Daniel Granada’s Supersticiones del Río de la Plata (Buenos Aires: Editorial Guillermo Kraft Limitada, 1947), 80.
This adaptation of Miranda’s story is drawn from an interview collected by Dr Berta Elena Vidal de Battini with a 76-year-old gaucho by the name of Valentín Vega in the province of San Luis in 1944. The original version appears in Perla Montiveros de Mollo’s Leyendas de nuestra tierra, Third Edition (Buenos Aires: Ediciones del Sol, 1998), pps 55-59. It is with the kind permission of Ms Montiveros de Mollo that this reference has been used and adapted.
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