They say that there is a spell on the ship and that those few who reach it discover something unforgettable. It seems impossible to think about that beneath the sun and brightness of this spring morning, the air transparent and tranquil.
Everything is suspended and I lie in wait. First came the divers, then the tourists will come and nothing will be left. If I manage to reach it, maybe I will still find something.
Sometimes I think that the ship has been there since far distant times, that it sank three hundred years ago, and then I imagine the ancient settlers who saw it struggle against the waves and capsize. I see the loneliness of the plain, ending at the sea, and someone who approaches the shore on horseback and, impassive, looks out at the immensity of the ocean. A Pampa Indian perhaps, scrawny, sallow, sitting on the back of the horse, which, like me, breathes the salty wind coming in from the south.
In the distance, there are gulls turning lightly in the wind; there is an abyss below, which has survived since before the land existed. We have a memory of that immensity and so are happy on the sea and wretched on land. When we enter the ocean, we lose our language. Only the body exists, the rhythm of the oar’s strokes and the resplendence of day on the water’s surface. While swimming, we do not think about anything, only the brightness of the sun against the transparency of the water.
The sea here is dangerous and deep, but not treacherous. You have to know the subterranean movements of the tides and avoid the frozen currents towing in the sea. It seems calm today, but the current, dark and heavy, is visible like some submerged creature in the clarity of the water. It means that the tides are low, and I will be able to swim, dodging the cold edges of the undertow until I cross the final breaker and reach the calm sea.
I pause at the water’s edge. The sun is at its zenith and there are no shadows on the sand. Nevertheless, in the background, far off, you can see rain falling on the remains of the sunken ship. A damp fog seems to shroud the desolate edges of the deck. The ship, under the rain, looks like a ghost ship, and I enter the sea and, determined, start to swim toward the center of the storm. The waves are slow and form in the distance, rising and rising until they violently break. I face the first breaker, some fifty meters from the coast. I sink a few meters and swim beneath the water, calm in the transparent stillness, and feel the waves above, breaking forcefully and buffeting me along as though someone were pushing me from behind.
I head for the open sea as soon as I have left the protection of the breakwater. The waterway is off to my left and I skirt its somber darkness and, for a moment, when I come too close, I can feel the water’s frozen depths. I move away toward the left, swimming almost diagonally. I advance calmly, rhythmically, my mind blank.
I face the second breaker and the waves push me toward the waterway, which reappears at the end of a line of foam. The current tows me away from shore, but I manage to float without much effort and without trying to fight the tide that gently tows me. The sea has changed color and is dark and temperate and tosses toward the horizon, in a line parallel to the coast. Little by little, I move myself away from the undertow, swimming on and off, skirting it, until again I feel the water growing more transparent and calm.
I am far away from everything, some two kilometers from shore. The city is no longer visible; the sheen of tall buildings is confused with the resplendence of the sun on the water’s surface. There is a clean and clear light, but further off, in front of me, the sea changes color, the sky is dark, and rain is falling like a gray cloth. There, amid the storm, sinking in fog, the ship is visible, tossing and creaking, beaten about by the tides.
All of the stern is underwater, but half of the deck projects upward from the surface. From below it appears impressive and motionless, like a building run aground. The gulls screech and circle above the red-painted chimneys.
I swim toward the rear and climb up along the anchor’s chain until I can clamber onto the keel, and I manage to gain footing on the deck. The ship is tilted slightly, but I can walk toward the prow. At first, the water covers my feet, but the end of the deck is dry, the white excrement of gulls scattered over the metal plating.
I am alone in this silent vastness, standing before the horizon. The water makes a slight noise as it shakes against the upperworks. I feel like a castaway on an island in the middle of the ocean. I wave my hand, but, of course, no one sees me. The storm is over the city now, and from here you can see the dark mass of the rain like a liquid light. Here, however, the sun is out in full and the sky is clean. The stillness is complete. It takes me a while to realize that the ship is barely moving.
Off to one side, there is an open hatch with an iron staircase descending toward the machine room and the hold. The water reaches up to the second step. I start to descend and sink under; I keep my head out of the water at first, but, in the end, I plunge and submerge myself into the depths of the ship.
I dive for a narrow passage. Along the sides, doors are open, leading to the cabins. Everything is ravaged and the water renders the objects and furniture distant and unreal. A table is floating near the window. I submerge myself once again and pass through one of the doors and enter a room full of water. There are strange sounds, like lost voices or whispers.
I am out of air and turn back toward the staircase and try to recover my breath. Afterward, I dive again and once again cross the passage to enter the main cabin. On the floor, there are metal objects, screws and clasps and the remains of broken bottles. I try to open drawers and cupboards, but the pressure prevents me from moving them. When I leave for the surface once again, I notice that I am bleeding from my nose. I can breathe because the water does not fill the room completely and there is a kind of layer of air. I lie on my back, the ceiling close by, and breathe calmly. There is a light in the corner, off to the side—a lit lightbulb. I fear there may be some short-circuited cable and the water may be electrified. Could there be a generator? A dynamo? I am hallucinating. But I immediately calm myself and sink again into the flooded cabin.
Behind an open door, off to one side, close to the passage that leads to the hold, I see a shadow and approach slowly. I touch and do not understand; it seems to be a dead body. Once I come near, I see that it is a fabric: it looks like a sack or maybe a flag. I am out of air and turn upward again but am slow in finding the brightness that guides me, and for a moment I am seized by the panic of remaining trapped there. Finally, I manage to ascend, and, when I stop at the staircase, I see that my nose is bleeding once again. I wash myself and start to breathe calmly again. I dive and swim directly toward the door and, after struggling with it for a while, get the fabric to break free. Above, I realize it is a jacket made of waxed cloth. The sun is on my right, so it must be close to four. I throw myself down to rest on one side of the deck and think that I drift off to sleep for a while. Then I examine the jacket, wet and oily. It’s missing a sleeve, but I manage to put it on all the same. It clings to my body, looks like a snakeskin. It has a pocket with a zipper. I discover a handkerchief and a map of Bahía Blanca that breaks apart as soon as I open it. At first, I think there is nothing more, but in the lining, underneath, I discover an object—flat, metallic, maybe a broken key, a stone. When I finally manage to get it out, I see that it is a coin. I take it in the palm of my hand. It seems to be made of silver; it is Greek. I do not know its value; it has a date I cannot decipher. I watch the sun shining. How many hands it must have held it before the sailor put it away in his pocket, in Athens or Thebes, and then sank with it. A Greek coin. It may yet bring me luck. I could use a bit of luck. It could do me no harm.
14
Diary 1965
I should explain what has happened these days, all very dizzying and strange. As always, the events enact themselves; a chain of contingencies decides things for me. I realized, some time ago, that my stay in La Plata had come to an end. My life is always divided, split into two, between Buenos Aires and this city. The issue lies in seeing which part will prevail.
&n
bsp; Coti started coming over to the house again after a few months during which we knew nothing of her. She had bought a Vespa scooter and would travel around between the boardinghouses, spending three or four days in each. The boys put their money together and paid for her to stay. She would comment, amused, “I have my own harem of men.” One afternoon, she turned up here once again and stayed with us. Everyone called her “the girl with the Vespa.” Always entertaining and anti-dramatic. According to her, the experience—a rather promiscuous one—serves to enrich her vocation as an actress. She is still studying acting with Gandolfo but makes her living as a “working girl,” which is how she defines herself.
She was with us on the day that Bardi had an accident and injured his hands: he had gone up a staircase to look for his summer clothes in the attic and fell into the window glass. Coti started taking care of him; both of his hands were bandaged and she helped him eat, bathe, and stayed with him all the time. Bardi fell in love with the girl and would, in fact, have preferred to stay with his hands bandaged so that she would look after him. At the end of the following week, Coti came, stayed with him for a while, and then started going from one room to the next, doing “her tricks,” as she says. Late at night, Bardi, who is a very purposeful and calm person, had a euphoric attack, entered the room of the man from Corrientes who was in bed with her, and made a mess, broke a lamp. He had an attack of jealousy, and Coti never understood what had happened to him. She stopped coming around for a week, but then everything went on the same as before, with the routine and habits of seeing her walk around the house. Sometimes she would cook for everyone, and on one of those days, a Saturday that rained without stopping, she showed us her talent as an actress. She dressed up in men’s clothing—she put on my leather jacket—and acted out Chekhov’s monologue “On the Harmful Effects of Tobacco” for us. She even slipped up in announcing the work that she was going to interpret, saying, “On the Harmful Effects of Work.” It was a joke, of course; she had a natural innocence and joy that is charming.
Coti was in my room, one afternoon, the two of us in bed, studying the declinations and morphology of Indo-European languages for one of the subjects I was thinking of taking in March. She was very interested in the idea of a language that was the common basis for all existing tongues and in the hypothesis that the group, or tribe, who spoke that language once existed but had been erased from the map by various barbarian invasions. She was very delighted with that rather unearthly history. And, standing naked in the middle of the room, she recited the Indo-European roots of Spanish verbs; she took the matter seriously and repeated the grammatical forms as though they belonged to a work of theater, written in a versified and incomprehensible prose.
I was half-asleep that afternoon but was awoken by the voice of Inés, talking to someone at the foot of the wooden staircase that leads to my attic room. Suddenly, I realized that Inés was coming toward me, accompanied by my father. No nightmare had never been as uncomfortable as this situation. There was no way to slow them down before they entered. And so, my father, Inés, and Coti crowed together in the room and greeted each other with a strange tone. The only one who did not lose her calm was Constanza (that was the name she gave my father when she shook his hand, formal and naked), who dressed at top speed; in a flash, she was ready and left.
My father had called Inés on the phone to ask for me; they had met in a bar near the building where she lives in Buenos Aires, and the situation became so strange, according to Inés, that, to lighten it, she proposed that they come to La Plata to look for me.
I can’t quite remember the details of what happened that night. I know that the three of us returned on the omnibus and that I made the decision to move to Buenos Aires and live with Inés. That was what I did. As always, the important decisions come along with circumstances that survive in my memory, stronger than the reasoning that has moved me toward great changes. I don’t even remember how I managed to get dressed that night.
Then we found a place to live; Cacho helped me move, and we went to La Plata together to look for my things. He had gotten—or “lifted,” as he would say—a rural Mercedes-Benz pickup truck, spacious enough to hold the books, albums, and few other possessions I brought with me. The conversation that afternoon, while traveling, was unforgettable. Cacho seemed to live on an unstable surface, and I realized he had lost all notion of personal identity. And so, on the route returning from La Plata, he started to talk about politics. I gave him a history of the left and a view of the general dead-end situation, caused by the military strike against Perón and the prohibition of Peronism. I discussed that because it seemed to be the logical framework that he could assume as his own. He is very intelligent and listened to what I was saying with great attention, asking precise questions about details or about situations that he wanted to better understand.
January 2
We will see how my life progresses. Maybe this will be a decisive year, though there are no decisive years.
Clear beginnings, murky endings.
I saw Antonioni’s Red Desert, a great film. He narrates it from the perspective of a disturbed woman, to whom reality seems threatening and hostile. Somehow, it seems similar to the story of Rosetta (from Le Amiche), as though she had not committed suicide and was married, yet still enthralled by the phantoms. (A subject. What happens after a failed suicide? How does life go on?)
Friday 8
The young student, after his attempt to “calm himself down.” He is settled and wants to “save himself.” Bardi, for example: his world is music, he is paused, motionless. He does nothing.
Thursday 14
Ever since I can remember, I have thought of myself as though I were immortal and had all of time available to me. Not immortality understood in a mystical sense (the denial of death), but rather the incomprehensible certainty of having time at your disposal that you do not need to use until some point in the future, one that you will never overtake. It is true that I have not thought seriously about my death (in this matter, my thinking, if it exists, is not at all philosophical, but rather a kind of thinking that, on the surface, seems to get me “to safety,” as though nothing but what I seek and what I want to do could matter to me now).
As for Inés, I accept her without reservation, like a presence here with me, and I watch her living with a mixture of detachment and confusion.
It’s absurd, this need for the endless days to pass, to lie in wait. I suppose I never stopped to think about how these days are really all I have and that in the future I would give anything for them. They are days, the same as the others, but for me they are like an empty syllogism or hypothesis. I am immortal as long as I have memory and can bear witness. Now it is raining and raining.
Saturday 16
A situation. Someone is stuck in an elevator on the upper floors of a building. We can go on about the setting (the lights cut out, for example, and it’s impossible to know that he is there), and then we would have a story in which the protagonist would be secondary. But if the person going up in the elevator is, for example, an assassin coming to kill someone on the top floor, a situation naturally starts to develop. In one case, the story sets off from the stopped elevator; in the other case, we set off from the character who has just murdered and is fleeing. I need to think about this situation further.
I was with Cacho until sunrise; we went to the casino, spent part of the night playing there, as Cacho says, with stolen cash. The feeling that money is just an object, taken without much effort, gives him a strange hint of lightness and emptiness that is clearly visible in his style of play. He would bet on red and, if he lost, he would double the bet, and, if he lost, he would redouble the bet and keep it raised in the air until the ball favored him. Then we sat at a baccarat table and lost fifty thousand pesos. We were forced to keep betting on banco because Cacho had the cards, but we went down a bad streak and it went to punto seven times in a row. Leaving, a silent walk in the sunrise with the clarity that someti
mes comes when you think you understand everything.
Encounter with Cacho. I think I have already spoken about the way he caught my attention, but his story comes back to me again and again. We were going to secondary school, at different high schools; he was a year ahead, was a friend of a friend. He started coming to the bar where we spent time in those days; he was particularly interested in motorcycles. He would go down Boulevard Marítimo, beating his own speed records. He was one of ours and, like us, did not really know what to do with his life. I saw him again in Buenos Aires because he was hanging around near my cousin Horacio. By then he had turned into a sneak thief. He went out on Saturday nights and broke into houses in Olivos and San Isidro. He is blond, with sky-blue eyes, and dresses in very fashionable suits when he goes out to steal. He had been taking amphetamines that night to be more lucid and conquer the internal barrier that was a greater obstacle than the barred windows. He chose that form of life the same way someone decides to be a daredevil. “The first time, it seems impossible to make up your mind and enter a house, jumping the fences and moving stealthily, with a hunch that the owners are out for the night.” That first night, it took several hours before he made up his mind; when he finally entered, he left again without taking anything more than a silver trophy. Later, he said, everything became easier; he would study the place and make his move, certain that the owners had left and wouldn’t be back until sunrise. Sometimes he would see them leaving and listen to their conversations from the sidewalk, hidden in the shadows. You don’t have to think once you’re in, he would say, you have to make up your mind and go with the flow.
The Diaries of Emilio Renzi- Formative Years Page 20