Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— By your leave, I would th ugge th t they’re involved with the countere th pionage of our wily enemy. Black market and New York gold…

The woman let slip a greasy guffaw.

— Officer, she interrupted him, I think you read too many detective novels.

Next she turned to Schultz and smiled at him with grotesque coquetry, holding out her hand for him to kiss.

— Never, Madame! the astrologer refused. I am the Demiurge of this inferno, and wisdom tells us: “Thou shalt not adore the work of thy hands.” 56As you know full well, with these thumbs of mine I modelled your jugs, your belly, your double chin, all of which I see have filled you with reprehensible pride.

— Insolence! screeched the woman, piercing Schultz with basilisk eyes. Officer!

— At your service! answered the Cyclops.

— Grab the Demiurge and boot him out of here!

Again Seleucus picked us up, and again we suffered the nausea of his trot. At last we seemed to emerge through an exit, and the Cyclops threw us outside like a couple of sacks. Sitting on the desolate ground, out of breath and dismayed, the astrologer and I looked back at the portal that had just ejected us: circular in shape, it was now closing in a centripetal movement like a gigantic sphincter.

VIII

We picked ourselves up off the ground. Schultz’s indignation over the offense suffered at the hands of his own creatures got translated into foul language hardly appropriate on the lips of a Demiurge. Swearing like a trooper, the astrologer went so far as to curse the hour he’d got the bright idea of taking me for a visit to that filthy eatery. Once his anger had subsided, and while we fraternally straightened each other’s neckties, he and I engaged in the following colloquy:

— Schultz, my friend, said I. How is it possible that your very own creatures do not recognize you as their creator?

— Not only is it possible, it’s common, he replied. Take the example of the immortal gods. What theological negation have they not received from men? What rebellion have they not put up with? What impiety have they not suffered? If you think about it, all of that is flattering to a Demiurge with any pride.

— Flattering? I protested, my kidneys still feeling the touch of the Cyclops.

— Let’s suppose you endow a creature with being, and you do so with so much plenitude that the creature, far from recognizing you as its first cause, imagines it exists for its own sake, free of all cause-and-effect relationships. Let’s suppose that Don Quixote, for example, denied the existence of Cervantes. Would not that exuberance of being, which Cervantes had given to his hero and by virtue of which the author finds himself denied, constitute the most pleasant incense a creator could receive from his creature? 57

— Hmm! I observed. Theoreticians less dangerous than you ended up burnt at the stake, when the world was more prudent.

— Don’t confuse things, he rejoined. The Demiurge uses two hands: one of wool, which is the hand of Mercy, and another of iron, the hand of Rigour. If on the one hand he can look without anger upon the iniquity of his creature, he cannot on the other hand ignore the imbalance such iniquity introduces into the created order. Because justice is a necessity not even the gods themselves can escape. The Demiurge needs to re-establish the equilibrium broken by his creature, and he does so either with the hand of Rigour or with the hand of Mercy.

— And you, which hand would you use on the Cyclopes?

— I’ve got half a mind to go back there and put the boots to them! answered the still rancorous Schultz. Fortunately, he added, the next barrio of Cacodelphia will prove less unruly.

Without another word, the astrologer entered the new twist of his Helicoid, and I followed him through a gloom that quickly thickened so much that it felt solid. Lost in the blackness, we soon spied a light as though from a candle casting a faint, wavering circle of clarity before us. Drawing nearer, I observed that the light came from an oil lamp placed upon something like a courtroom dais, with two or three steps leading up to it. On the dais loomed someone of judicial aspect, his gaunt figure towering like a dark bird. Placing tortoiseshell spectacles on his rampant nose and twisting the cottony locks of his wig, he smoothed the leaves of a huge book lying open before him, around which fluttered anxious moths.

When we reached the dais, the judge stared at us without the slightest curiosity:

— How were the poor devils? he asked at last, his voice monotonous, indifferent, somnolent, expressing all the boredom of his office. 58

The astrologer Schultz took another step forward:

— They were like the fox and the sheep, he responded. “Ah, madame,” said the fox to the sheep. “I’m going to eat your little lamb up, because I see he now has two teeth and a nice fat tail!” “Very well, Don Juan,” answered the sheep, “but tell me, are you not authorized to perform baptisms?” “Yes, ma’am,” said the fox, “by the priest of Huancacha.” “I’m glad,” said the sheep, “because, that being the case, you can baptise him for me before you eat him up.” Licking his chops in anticipation, the fox went to the river to fetch some water for the baptism. And then the sheep gave him a push, plunging him into the swift current.

Astonishment dawned in the face of the judge when he heard Schultz’s reply. He came down one step from the dais and asked again:

— How were the poor devils?

— They were like the woodtick and the roadrunner, answered Schultz. One day the roadrunner, proud of his fast legs, was razzing the tick. So the tick said to him, “Bet I can beat you in a race.” “You beat me?” snorted the roadrunner, splitting his sides with laughter. “Bet you ten bucks,” challenged the woodtick. “You’re on,” the roadrunner accepted. The day of the race came, and the two agreed that the first to reach the finish line and then sit on a cow’s skull waiting there would win the race. The two got lined up, and the roadrunner checked with his opponent: “Ready?” “Any time!” answered the tick. Since the roadrunner couldn’t see the tick on the ground, he asked her again: “Ready?” “Sure, let’s go!” she cried nearby. Then the sneaky tick hopped onto the tail of the roadrunner, who took off running like blazes. When he got to the finish line, the roadrunner, thinking he was the winner, went to sit on the cow-skull. But the tick shouted in warning: “Hey, pard’, don’t crowd me, I got here first!”

Even more astonished, the judge descended another step:

— How were the poor devils? he asked once again.

And Schultz replied:

— They were like the farmer, the tiger, and the fox. The tiger said to the farmer: “I’m gonna eat you up, oxen and all.” And the man begged him: “Don’t eat me, Mister Tiger, I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed!” “Save your breath,” responded the tiger. “I’m gonna eat you anyways.” But the fox, who had been listening to them, hid in the tall grass and in a harsh voice shouted to the farmer: “Hey friend, you seen the tiger around here by any chance? Me and my dogs is lookin’ for him.” The tiger, thinking a hunter was on his trail, flattened his belly to the ground and said to the man: “Tell him you haven’t seen me!” “No, sir, I haven’t seen no tiger.” “Whadya mean, you haven’t seen him?” the fox called out again from his hiding place. “What’s that layin’ on the ground over there?” “Tell him it’s beans,” ordered the tiger. The man obeyed: “Sir, they’re beans I brought here to plant.” “If they’re beans,” said the fox, “then put them in that sack you got there.” “Put me in the sack!” the tiger ordered again. So the farmer put the tiger in the sack and said: “Done, sir.” “My friend,” insisted the fox, “tie the sack up good n’ tight, so the beans won’t spill out.” “Tie up the sack!” whispered the tiger to the man. The farmer obeyed, tying the sack with a leather thong. But the fox cried out again: “Look here, my friend, that sack is kinda lumpy. Give’er a knock with the head of the axe and soften’er up a bit for me.” The farmer grabbed the axe and pummelled the tiger until he’d killed it.