Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

Deformed trees stood there with trunks of gold-coloured metal, leaves of yellow brass, and flowers of chocolate paper. The same tackiness could be observed throughout the garden: in the shrubs and grass, in the wasps and butterflies fluttering listlessly among the dead calyxes, and even in the gigantic mushrooms, which took flight like a child’s balloon at the mere brush of one’s foot. The place was thick with wingèd figures of Mercury and revolving effigies of Fortune cast in wax or soap, according to the norms of the most outrageous kitsch. Nevertheless, my curiosity was soon attracted by a big villa hulking in the middle of the garden, whose sorry, peeling frontispiece matched the rest of the buildings in the Plutobarrio . The astrologer had me walk around the outside of the mansion, and I saw that each of the four facades was in a different style. The northern facade was Egyptian, the southern Greek, the eastern medieval, and the western Renaissance.

— The architect who designed this mess, I told Schultz, had his head in one godawful muddle.

But the astrologer put his index finger to his lips and ordered me to keep my ears peeled. Listening closely, I noticed that from inside the palace, as though filtering through its cracks, came the sound of music played on exotic instruments; its slow monotony reminded me of the Oriental strains in the Café Izmir, or of certain Hebraic laments I’d heard at night on Gurruchaga Street. And given the mansion’s apparent state of long abandon, fear stirred within me at the thought that it was haunted only by such music. At this point Schultz took me by the arm:

— Let’s go in, he said, pointing to the Greek facade.

We passed between two columns to a monumental door, which my guide unceremoniously pushed open, causing it to creak harshly. A new wave of fear would have held me back, had Schultz not given me a violent shove to the shoulder and propelled me, tumbling and staggering, inside the house. When I regained my balance, I found myself in an enormous hall and in the middle of a circle formed by couples dancing like automatons to the aforementioned music; wordless and expressionless, they danced beneath immense chandeliers in whose crystal teardrops, chipped and dirty, the light guttered and died before it reached the floor. The phantasmagorical dancers, ladies and gentlemen alike, wore rigorously formal attire: men’s tailcoats alternated with the uniforms of military officers and diplomats; the tulle of young ladies, with the satin of matrons. But all of their apparel and adornments, shamefully rumpled and tattered, ravaged by moths, were crying out their antiquity and ruin. As I observed this, I was struck by the disquieting suspicion that those poseurs had been there dancing nonstop for the past half century. 62I looked around for Schultz and found him behind me.

— Look at the orchestra, he told me, completely unperturbed.

Only then did my eyes take in the entire room. As I said earlier, it was an immense hall which, according to my reckoning and despite all logic, must have taken up the whole building. The orchestra, installed in a theatre box off to one side, was made up of twenty musicians decked out in gaucho-style chiripás made of satin, wildly embroidered jackets, multicoloured kerchiefs, and accordion boots. It was impossible, however, to identify the noble son of the pampas in those musicians of Hebraic nose, gold teeth, thick glasses, and wan complexion. Moreover, instead of the bandoneón or guitar, their hands held the psalter, trumpet, cymbal, bagpipes, and drum; with these instruments they were playing the lugubrious air we’d already heard from outside, but which had now assumed the tempo of a very slow waltz, to whose strains the dancers seemed to be spinning eternally.

I was watching the scene in amazement, when an official with the greenish face of an actor introduced himself to us. Judging by the megaphone in his right hand, he was playing the role of an announcer.

— Don Moses Rosenbaum is on view, he announced. This way, gentlemen. The cloakroom is on your left. Our show will commence right away.

He led us among the dancing couples until we came to a red curtain, the first of a series that seemed to conceal several stages around the room. I looked at Schultz and saw curiosity in his eyes, but I didn’t have a chance to speak to him because our announcer was preparing to speak into the megaphone.

— Your attention, please! he shouted in a falsetto voice.

The dancers stood stock still on the spot, the music stopped, and the curtain went up to reveal a scene in which the characters acted like puppets as soon as the announcer started to speak:

— Ladies and gentlemen! said the man with the megaphone (his voice of a hoary old rogue recited in a liturgical style, his tone rising and falling according to the exigencies of the text). You are about to witness a tragicomedy which, though contemporary, possesses an antique quality verging on the mystical. The first scene takes place, as you can see, in the parlour of a tenement house on Warnes Street, where a gathering of people stirs excitedly; drinks in hand, carefully circulating amid sewing machines and piles of overcoats, they are celebrating the circumcision of the twelve sons whom Don Moses Rosenbaum owes to the magnificence of Jehovah. Ladies and gentlemen, look to the right and see how the rabbi, anointed with the oil of wisdom, counts the product of his difficult art! And look to the left at Don Moses Rosenbaum himself (stuffed into his lustring frock coat and holding the cane which, according to him, has been passed down by his ancestors): he is the hero and martyr of our story. His eyes, at once festive and attentive, seem to bless the guests and watch every move they make, lest they make off with some utensil! Ah, ladies and gentlemen, put your hand on your heart and tell me: do you not feel you are in the presence of a scene straight out of the Bible? Me neither.

The announcer fell silent, the curtain came down, and we applauded coldly. Then, as the orchestra took up the same air as before but now in foxtrot time, the dancers began to dance again. Meanwhile, the announcer led us before a second stage.

— Your attention, please! he cried again.

Orchestra and dancers halted once more, and the curtain went up to reveal a second tableau:

— Gentlemen, recited the announcer. As you will recall, we left Don Moses Rosenbaum in a humble tenement house on Warnes Street. Look at him now in the book-filled study in the mansion he’s built overlooking the gardens of Palermo. 63Ah, if you could look through the picture windows of his study, you’d see the cheerfully fuming smokestacks of his factories! But tell me: who are those twelve unanimous lads who have their twelve identical noses buried in as many books, atlases, and guides? They are the twelve sons of Don Moses Rosenbaum training to do battle by studying codes, itineraries, statistics, and languages! See how the proud father looks at them, as he scratches his beard gone grey, which releases not dandruff but powdered benevolence! And answer me this: doesn’t Don Moses look to you like a man who has realized his ambitions? Yes? Well, look out, then! Because Don Moses Rosenbaum, despite his satisfied air, already has one eye on the wheatfields by the coast and the other on the cattle herds in the south, one ear on the quebracho forests in the north, and the other ear on the mineral deposits in the west; his right nostril is already sniffing at the winepresses of Cuyo and the left nostril smells the sugar mills of Tucumán. 64But, hey there! What’s happening now? The twelve lads have just got up! See how they follow Don Moses’s nervous index finger as it traces routes on a map. Now they take out twelve identical suitcases, they put on twelve selfsame raincoats, and they head off in the twelve directions of the Argentine Republic! Curtain.