Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Yes, sir. We feel like laughing like crazy.

— So go ahead and laugh! Zanetti ordered us from on high.

Schultz forced a loud and theatrical guffaw, which in spite of its falseness did not entirely displease Zanetti.

— Now you! said the collector, training his opera glasses on me.

I laughed in turn, without mirth. But Zanetti must have been satisfied, because he went on to shout:

— Have you laughed, comrades?

— We have laughed, Schultz and I answered as one.

— And you’ve laughed like perfect idiots! he scolded, throwing his copy of La Brecha in our faces. Because the abstract numbers those bourgeois pigs are accumulating to no purpose are, at bottom, nothing more than the hidden bread of those who go hungry, and the invisible roof of those who suffer the elements, and the stolen overcoat of the destitute, and their elemental pleasure being snatched from the wretched. And this being the case, comrades, don’t you feel you should be weeping and wailing like heifers?

— Precisely, Schultz admitted, that’s just what we’re feeling now.

— So, weep! Zanetti now in a rage enjoined us.

But neither the astrologer nor I was about to shed the required tears. Slipping away under cover of the dust cloud, and deaf to the sublime insults Zanetti threw after us condemning our flight, we ran at a trot until we reached the ruined buildings which, as I said, bordered the circus of the plutocrats. There we had to slow down to a tortuous walk, for we had just entered a gigantic shed, where rusty old iron was piled up everywhere in a veritable slag heap: abandoned locomotives, blown-out boilers, rust-eaten rails and cogs, all impeded our passage and forced us to make irksome detours. We might have wandered infinitely through that sad labyrinth of wornout materials, had the astrologer Schultz not found the way out. On his right, he saw a high pile of horizontal trunks and he began to climb it. Hopping from trunk to trunk, and ignoring the rats that scurried off squealing almost between my legs, I followed him all the way to the top of the pile. From there I could view a scene whose general features looked familiar. It was a vast lumberyard full of stacks of logs, rounds, and rough-hewn timber; above them, a black crane extended its gallows arm. At the back of the yard rose an industrial building; its walls were cracked and split, its skylights broken, its windows blind, its roof caving in. Ten paces ahead, a crumbling smokestack seemed to totter on its brick footings. Silence, cold, and a sense of abandon seemed to ooze from the ruins like sweat from a dead man.

We went down into the yard. Approaching the front gate, we saw a man leaning against the base of the smokestack. He was sweating and panting as if he had been running, and as he stood there his eyes darted left and right like those of a hunted animal. I recognized him instantly, for countless times in Villa Crespo I had chanced upon that industrialist of exuberant backside, narrow shoulders, spherical belly, short legs, drooping mustache, and cascading double-chin. Seeing how agitated he was now, I called to him mildly:

— Señor Lombardi!

But when he heard me, the man gave a start and took off running toward the building.

— He’s the boss of the sawmill, I told Schultz.

— Ah! he rejoined. Is he not the gentleman who used to pass by the San Bernardo church? The one who would raise his hat and pretend to scratch his neck so as not to let on he was saluting?

— The very one.

Without another word, the astrologer and I took off after the fugitive, giving chase until we caught up to him just as he was entering the engine room. Then, giving up flight, Lombardi turned a panic-stricken face toward us:

— Shhh! he ordered us. They’re over there! They’re planning to blow up the sawmill.

— Who? Schultz asked him.

— The one-armed man and the stoker! shouted Lombardi. The boiler is about to explode, and they keep on shovelling and pouring the coal into her! Just look at the needle on the pressure gauge! The motor’s screeching and the gears are grinding! They want to blow up the sawmill! The one-armed man is the ringleader!

I looked around and noted the same state of abandon and the same cold silence as out in the yard. The motor was literally dissolving, eaten by rust. Old cobwebs covered the regulator, the flywheel, and the arm of the piston. Lacking both glass and needle, the pressure gauge eloquently summed up the state of disrepair. But Lombardi continued to shout his alarm. All of a sudden, as though expecting an explosion, he covered his ears with his hands and started running again. We pursued him through dismantled workshops until he reached his dusty desk and plopped down on a chair.

— What do you want now? he muttered, finding himself hemmed in between his filing cabinet and his cashbox.

I turned to Schultz:

— It’s Don Francisco Lombardi, honour and decorum of industrial Villa Crespo.

— Ah! commented Schultz. Isn’t he the gentlemen who used to confess every Saturday, took communion every Sunday, and went back to the sawmill every Monday greedier than ever?

Lombardi reminded him acidly:

— Don’t forget that every Sunday at Mass I threw three pesos into the collection bag.

But he quickly recovered his attitude of alarm and, looking around uneasily, asked us:

— The one-armed man hasn’t followed you, has he?

— Look, I assured him, there isn’t a soul in the whole sawmill. Who is the one-armed man?

— A vengeful type! whimpered Lombardi. His arm got cut off on my circular saw, and he demanded the insurance he was entitled to. I denied it, declaring before the authorities that the man had got himself mutilated because he was notoriously drunk at the time.

Lombardi was suddenly silent, no doubt having seen the expression on our faces.

— Oh! he exclaimed a moment later, don’t look at me like that! I know very well nine hundred pesos wasn’t a lot to pay for a man’s arm! Now I’d give him the whole sawmill. I’ve offered it to him countless times. But the one-armed man won’t accept!

He was silent again for a moment and then voiced his worries:

— Tell me, he asked in a shaky voice. Are you sure the old man hasn’t slipped in behind you?

— What old man? I inquired.

— The stoker. I threw him out of the sawmill when he could no longer lift a shovel. Forty-six years at the boiler had consumed his eyes, dried out his body, and had his nostrils constantly dripping yellow mucous into his mustache. But can he ever handle a shovel now! He’s the right-hand man of old One-Arm! You look at me again with hard eyes? Listen, you’re in for a big disappointment if you think I’m a bourgeois scared out of his wits. It isn’t the catastrophe itself that’s wrecking my nerves. It’s the way they’ve got me worrying and waiting for an explosion they just won’t stop crowing about! And I’ll tell you something else: what’s really giving me sleepless nights is a disturbing idea… hmm!

He stopped talking for a moment and looked at us with perplexed eyes. So I ventured to suggest:

— It can’t be easy to put into words.

— It’s an not an idea easy to grasp! Lombardi rejoined aggressively. Never mind, just listen: up in the rafters of the sawmill, I have a hiding place the stoker and the one-armed man don’t know about. There, where my only company is a grey mouse and two resident spiders, I’ve been able to have a good long think. And I’ve come to the conclusion there is such a thing as immanent justice.

— Good! Schultz interrupted, as though encouraging him.

But Lombardi looked at him with severity.

— Your approval means nothing to me, he said. Are you surprised to hear me talk like this? I went to school, too. Or do you take me for an ass loaded with money? Hmm! Anyway, I haven’t said anything special yet. Now comes the hard part. I already mentioned a troublesome idea that’s been keeping me awake nights, ever since I started thinking, up in the rafters, about what I did to the one-armed man, the stoker, and all those people now rising up against me. Oh, don’t think I’m talking about ordinary claims, like eight-hour days or minimum wages. Trifles! At bottom, do you know what I did to those poor devils? I robbed them of their human time! Do you understand?