and the diver
but the ring and the cruel princess
then the whirlpool; yes a ballad.
“You’re sad,” said Andrés. They were walking along Paseo Colón, wrapped from time to time in shreds of fog, seeing cars and people pass by, alien and distracted things.
“No, it’s just that the night is an appropriate time for thinking,” said Clara, in a slightly mocking tone.
“Excuse me,” said Andrés.
She touched his arm with the tip of her fingers.
“I didn’t say that because of you. Talk to me. You should know that.”
“Yes. But it isn’t the same.”
“Same as what?”
“The same thing as really wanting me to talk to you.”
“Don’t be silly. How sensitive we are. Juan, Andrés is getting mad at me!”
“What a shame,” said Juan, moving ahead to join the others. “Andrés’ anger is noble because it’s metaphysical above all else. When it focuses on an object, it loses efficacy. Aquila non capit, et cetera.”
“Swine,” said Clara. “You make me into a fly.”
“On the eve of your exam you should remember that if Homer says something like that it practically becomes praise. And how about Lucian, my dear? I love flies, and it grieves me enormously when winter begins and they start dying on the windows and curtains. Flies are the chamber music of the fauna. You, really, are the bitchy fly of invective. Bitchy fly, that’s great!” And rocking his cauliflower he laughed like a madman
(like a madman who laughed that way,
but isn’t true);
and a newsboy on the corner of Hipólito Yrigoyen stared at him and began to laugh slowly, fighting against it.
“Bitchy fly!” howled Juan doubling up with laughter. “That’s terrific!”
“What’s he going to be like when he drinks this vintage Trapiche?” asked the scandalized chronicler. “Come on, buddy, stop that. Stop acting like a baby.”
Andrés continued a few more steps and then stopped, letting them get ahead. He could just make them out in the fog. He remembered the little kid in Plaza de Mayo, the anxious and hanging faces of those watching the ritual. Was that why the kid was there? he thought. Very likely, he’s got the white face of those who really know horror. He ran his fingers over his moist face.
“Let’s cross the sweet plaza of Cristóforo,” ordered the chronicler. “Watch out for the trolley. Stella, your arm if you please. Yes, it’s vintage Trapiche; we’ve got to return to the simple rites, eutrapely, the art of pleasant conversation.”
The tall ghost on his back burst into view suddenly, his feet enmeshed by the agitated figures, the cross, the torsos at work. Another one on his back, thought Clara. Another one staring at the water of nostalgia—useless path of escape. A dog sniffed her skirt, looking at her with sweet surrender. She touched his hairy neck; he was wet, like Tomás when
her teddy bear, Tomás,
she left him forgotten outside and in the morning, at daybreak:
“Clara, Clara, that girl! Is that why we give you toys?”
And the horror, the remorse—Tomás frozen, Tomás soaked—my poor little Tomás soaking wet all night surrounded by fairies by cabbages by owls forgive
me forgive me Tomás,
I’ll never do it again.
“The War Ministry looks like it’s made of cardboard,” said Stella.
“Nice image,” said the chronicler.
Anyway, it was odd to see Andrés so self-absorbed, such a friend of created silences (and how hard that is in Buenos Aires), and calling attention to himself two steps behind the others;
—the woman had blond hair, she walked brusquely out of the doorway, as if on stage—or moving on ahead and then waiting for them, with a monumental air.
As if he expected something from me, thought Clara. As if I owed him something.
“Then she came over and put an ant in his hand,” Stella explained to the chronicler. “She’s terrible. You never know what she’s going to do. So naughty.”
“Kids,” said the chronicler, “They’re tragic.”
“They’re wonderful!”
“They’re death itself,” said the chronicler. “Incredibly filthy and wild. You women love them with your skin, your noses, your tongues. But if you think about it a bit …”
“Men all say the same thing,” said Stella. “Then they become fathers and start drooling.”
“I wouldn’t drool, not even if I had my cheek pressed up against Gail Russell’s pubis,” said the chronicler. “Guys, we’ve got to sit down on a good bench and have a slug of this, while we contemplate Columbus and the progress of the stars.”
“You’re more sensitive than you seem,” said Stella, interested. “You play at being ironic, but you’re really good.”
“I’m an angel,” said the chronicler. “Which is why I don’t live in fear of kids. What’s eating you, kid?”
But Juan was looking into the distance, toward the hedges outlined in the fog. He took out a handkerchief, dusted the bench,
(As did Darius to the sea,
or was it Xerxes?)
and Clara sat down with a sigh of relief, making room for Juan, with Andrés on her right. Stella sat on the end with the chronicler between her and Juan. Then Andrés got up again, as did Juan, staring at the hedges.
“Come on, take a little rest,” the chronicler was saying. “Here we are in the prettiest, most centrally located, most dilapidated plaza in Buenos Aires. No one comes here, except for lovers and people employed by the ministry. One night, I saw a black guy kissing a boy about fourteen years old. Kissing him as if he wanted to tattoo his palate. The kid put up a bit of a fight, ashamed to see that I was observing them from a distance.”
“And why did you have to butt in?” asked Juan. “You shouldn’t carry journalism over into love.”
“What things they say,” complained Stella. “Kissing a boy, what a disgusting thing.”
“Not at all. It had its charm,” said the chronicler. “They were like statues—which is always appropriate for a plaza. Come on now, Juan, your famous corkscrew.”
“I don’t carry it anymore. We’re screwed if you don’t have one.”
But the chronicler did have one, although it shamed him to pull out his enormous yellow-bone jackknife—seven blades in one knife, Solingen steel, guaranteed.
“We’ve got to drink from the bottle. First the ladies, and a toast to Columbus dressed in fog. Stella, don’t be so finicky. Follow Clara’s example. You can see she’s got a drinker’s pedigree a mile long.”
“It’ll take away the stickiness of the fog,” said Clara, passing her the bottle. “Actually, you might have bought white wine.” “It wouldn’t have been proper,” said the chronicler. “Completely incorrect. Like asking Charlie Parker to play a mazurka. Your turn now, Juancito. You look like a soldier on guard. Who goes there, Juan?”
“I’d like to know,” said Juan, grabbing the bottle. “I think Andrés would, too. Did you see something, Andrés?”
“I don’t know. It’s so foggy. I think I did.”
Clara stood up looking toward the parking lot of the Automobile Club, following the confused form of the street, the lights of the A and C buses lined up at their stop.
“It looks like the first scene of Hamlet,” said the chronicler. “Or was it Macbeth?’
“Let them rant,” said Stella. “These three guys love to make up stories. What’s that on your face? Let me get it off.” “It’s fuzz,” said the rather astonished chronicler. “It’s extremely rare that I have fuzz on my face.”
“The wind,” said Stella. “And with the humidity, it stuck to your nose.”
Two ladies and a boy came through the plaza, stopping by a flower bed so the boy could urinate. In the silence of the plaza, the sound of the little stream hitting the gravel was clearly audible.
“And then they catch a cold,” said one of the ladies. “All this time in your h
ouse, and he doesn’t have to go, but soon as he walks out, he’s got to.”
“At least that’s all he had to do,” said the other lady.
“May you have children,” said the delighted chronicler. “Well what do you want? He should sweat it out instead? Are you listening to this, Clara? Do you realize what he’s saying?”
“No. My head was in the clouds,” said Clara. “Andres, why do you worry so much? You’d think he was going to eat us.”
“Who?” asked the chronicler.
“Nobody, Abel,” said Clara. “A boy.”
Tired out, Andrés sat down again. “Well, now that you’ve said his name we can talk about this. This makes three times that I’ve seen him tonight.”
“Twice for me,” said Juan and Clara at the same time.
“Or that we think we’ve seen him. This fog …”
“It isn’t fog!” said the chronicler. “I’m getting tired of telling you over and over. But you’re all keeping secrets. What is this about Abel?”
“Nothing,” said Juan handing him the bottle. “A guy who’s not been right in the head lately.”
“Abelito is a little odd,” said Stella. “But to see him three times … You’d think he was following us.”
“Brilliant,” said Andrés, patting her on the back.
“Don’t be mean.”
“Okay. I won’t. This bench is wet.”
“Let’s go home.” Juan spoke into Clara’s ear without lowering his voice.
“No, no. What are you so worried about?”
“I’m not saying we should go because of that. I’m afraid you’re going to catch a cold. You’ve got to be in good shape tomorrow.”
“No one’s ever in good shape tomorrow,” said the chronicler. “I’ve got a million comebacks like that. You should see how much the Editor loves them. I’m what he calls aphoristic.” “Aphonic would be better,” said Andrés. “Who said tomorrow? It already is tomorrow, that’s what this tapioca thing annoying us is.”
“What?”
ABEL. ELBA. BAEL. BELA. LEBA
EBLA. ABLE. ELAB. BALE. EBAL.
“The air’s really full of fuzz,” Stella said suddenly. “I just swallowed some.”
“That fuzz is made up of the words people say, preserved and sent around by the fog,” said Juan. “It is a night …
‘A night, one of those
nights that bring joy to the soul,
when the heart forgets
its doubts and quarrels,
when the stars shine
like candles at an altar,
when, inviting us to pray,
the moon, like a holy Eucharist,
slowly rises
above the waves of the sea.’
Ten bucks says you can’t name the author.”
“A Spanish Romantic,” said Andrés. “Besides, tonight is the complete opposite of your poem.”
“Of course. I recited it so I could conjure up that perfect night. Stars: come out!
and you, Belazel, little sugar cube, come from above
and show us how to weave reeds and steeds!
I know lots of charms. I know many, many charms.”
EBAL ELAB LEBA
ABLE BAEL
“Campoamor,” said Andrés.
“The Duke of Rivas,” said Clara.
“No.”
“Gabriel and Galán,” said the chronicler.
“No. Someone else? Núñez de Arce.”
CERA AREC CREA
ECRA ACRE RACE
“Well,” said Andrés, “You sure found yourself a beautiful example.”
At the corner of Leandro Alem and Mitre, leaning against a doorway in the market, Abel lit a cigarette. For some reason, there was no fog in the market (a thermal difference or something like that). The people coming back from Plaza de Mayo emerged from a tunnel—the spotlights set up in twenty-fivefoot intervals (after the attack against the Cardinal-Primate, in front of the bookstore with the sign “Bookstore of Knowledge”) sent light right through it, making it look like a tunnel of light.
When Abelito was lighting his cigarette (now the scene was prolix and minute).…
EBAL BAEL
Baskets and more baskets
the baskets of Maria Andrea, a paperboy was singing.
Abel dug around in the pocket of his vest, lower right. He needed a stamp. He delicately extracted a piece of paper and looked at it. A pink bus ticket. Maybe in the other pocket.
On my wedding night
I didn’t sleep a wink …
ELAB
“More than two hours without mentioning literature. It’s incredible,” said Juan, toying with the empty bottle. “Shall we break a streetlight?”
“The perfect Buenos Aires gesture,” said Andrés. “Go on, don’t be left with only the desire.”
But Juan hid the bottle under the bench, slightly ashamed of himself.
“It’s pleasant here,” said Stella. “Less heat than in the Plaza.”
“Then let’s take this opportunity to carry out a survey,” said the chronicler. “What kind of education did you have, Andrés? Don’t get annoyed. I can’t stop being a newspaper man. nihil humanum a me alienum puto. Ever notice how the moment you quote something in Latin you look ridiculous?”
“In any language. Which is why the best thing is to quote from the Spanish and not say it’s a quotation. Which is what I’ve just done by the way.”
“You’re quite a guy,” said the chronicler. “But really, I would like to get a hold of everyone and ask them: What was your education? What did you read when you were ten years old? What movies did you see when you were fifteen?”
“That’s all?” asked Juan mockingly. “Only fine arts and letters?”
“Let the chronicler talk,” said Clara. “It’s a great moment, a great plaza, a great fog to be speaking about these things.”
“I think we’d learn a lot about Argentina studying the cultural learning of people our age. Not that it would be of any real use, but you know that statistics … Man, statistics what a science! First they find out how many dogs were run over during the past five years and how many rivers overflowed their banks in the Sudan.”
“There are no rivers in the Sudan,” said Juan.
“I meant to say the Transvaal. Then they compare the results and derive a law about birth rates in families made up of Italian singers.”
“Careful now: statistics are democracy in its scientific state—essences isolated by means of individuals!”
“Listen to this guy!” said Andrés, laughing. Clara heard him laugh and was surprised at her own surprise. So odd, she thought. It’s good he laughs. She touched his cheek softly, and he looked at her.
“The chronicler wanted to know how you came to culture. You’re the first guinea pig,” said Clara.
“Second,” said the chronicler. “I’m the first. The statistician should sacrifice himself on the altar of science, fill in the first note card of the story.”
“I had an idiotic childhood,” said Juan. “But you tell, Andrés.”
“I don’t like to talk about my childhood,” said Andrés, now surly, and Clara felt something like a violent taste of tenderness, of carob seeds, of summer saliva.
Childhood
how good it is not to speak to leave it on its blurred corner
on its hopscotch, how good it is not to betray …
Hiding place watermelons, eaten all the way across;
siesta,
ladybug ladybug fly away.
God the Father, God the Father. Smells,
Carnival. Plays.
I’m a “Tarmangani” and you’re a “Gomangani.”
Enough.
“… from then on,” said the chronicler. “What I want to know is how you made the leap. When your adolescence ended, the onanistic period—self-abuse and the cultivation of lavatories.”
“Sweet chronicler, you most certainly did speak,” said Andres. “I can help you out in
this business. Look, I was not precocious, but I began writing things with a great deal of rage, things I wouldn’t have the nerve to say now. One funny thing: I wrote in a hypocritical language—without even the slightest obscenity. The characters always spoke familiarly to one another, and the action took place anywhere out of Buenos Aires. It’s incredible how much you can aspire to universality. The idea of doing something local terrified me. I wanted my stories and my poems—yes, dear Juan, in those days I engendered some ferocious sonnets—to be as intelligible in Uppsala as they would be in Zárate. The language was stupid, but what I was trying to say had more power than what I’m writing now.”
“You’re completely and utterly wrong,” said Juan. “But go on, let’s see which path you take.”
Andrés was smoking, having slid down on the bench, the nape of his neck against the backrest. “Sometimes,” he said, “determinism—well-beaten—bounces back off the ropes and splits your face open on the way back with a good punch. Look at me. Until I was twenty-five, I had a creative fever that was really notable. I won’t tell you I actually wrote a lot; I carefully polished and reworked my things. But I filled more pages than I have in all the rest of my life, and when I re-read them I realize that I was on the right path. I screwed up, I wrote tons of garbage; but today I wouldn’t be able to summon up the energy to write some of those things, or the style to produce a sonnet like the ones I wrote back then. Besides, I liked writing, I enjoyed myself as I did it. It was pleasurable suffering, like having a well-scratched rash—it bleeds but you like it anyway.”
“And why did the flow stop?” asked the chronicler.
“Influences, prejudices disguised as experience. The bad thing is that they were necessary, that they were good at the time. The good thing is that they turned out bad in the long run. Look, it isn’t easy to explain, but I can give you an idea. I had a couple of friends who loved me a lot. I think that’s why they almost never praised my stuff and tended to criticize it with self-sacrificing severity. I could never expect gaping astonishment from either one. They pointed out all my purple passages, everything useless; they saw something like an obligation to correct in me. That forced me, out of loyalty and gratitude, to close the larger valves of my creativity and leave only the small stream flowing. I would put my glass under it, and every few days—after nights and nights revising it, honing it down, taking things out, moving things around, cursing—something would begin to form that could stand.
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