Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— How would you define love, if I asked you to?

— Oh no you don’t! protested Adam. Don’t come to me asking for definitions!

— I’m not asking you for the kind of nitwitted definition you’d get out of Reader’s Digest . I’m looking for something transcendental, a definition in three bound volumes.

— You’ve got some nerve if you’re expecting anything of the kind from me!

Samuel Tesler lowered his head to signal his dismay.

— O world, o world! he sighed. What has happened to sacred Philography? 26

— What if you give me your definition? proposed the visitor in a conciliatory spirit.

Samuel Tesler raised a professorial index finger:

— I won’t begin with a definition, but rather a methodology. Summarizing Plato’s ideas — although only on the plane of the earthly Venus, the real lollapalooza — I’ll say that love has two phases: the bedazzlement of the subject (me) upon seeing the beautiful form (Haydée Amundsen), followed by the anxious urge of the subject (me) to take possession of the beautiful form (Haydée Amundsen) in order to procreate in her beauty. Am I right?

— Too right! grumbled Adam. That second phase smacks of metaphysical obscenity.

— Anyway, Samuel reminded him, it’s clear that I, being well versed in the subject, had the right to be initiated according to the classical norms. Right or wrong?

— Right.

— Well then, declared the disconcerted philosopher, the thing happened to me backward!

— What do you mean, backward? demanded the visitor, likewise in consternation.

— I mean there was no initial bedazzlement, in spite of the methodology. I’m telling you, at first Haydée was nothing more to me than a topographical feature of Saavedra; she left me completely indifferent. In a word, I didn’t notice any symptoms betraying the penetration of one of the Imp’s arrows into the third space of my rib cage.

— Then what?

— Then, in the course of my metaphysical inquiry into primordial matter, I started observing all her gestures, poses, and grimaces. As you can see, it was merely out of scientific interest.

— Poor innocent schmuck! exclaimed Adam on the verge of laughter.

The kimono’d philosopher glared at him.

— Are you going to let me talk? he said acrimoniously.

The visitor recovered the serious composure befitting so thorny a subject, and Samuel Tesler proceeded:

— Later I had the amazing realization that, whenever I saw her, Haydée always looked decidedly stupendous, as if she took on the fullness of her grace when she came before my eyes.

— It had to happen! Adam murmured fatalistically.

— Until one day I discovered a highly suggestive phenomenon. Every time the creature appeared to me in a happy mood, I felt terribly low. And vice versa: if I saw she was sad, I was idiotically and inexplicably thrilled.

— And you still didn’t realize? Adam asked.

Samuel Tesler smiled with pity.

— Clearly, I’m not too quick on the uptake. Once the magnitude of the phenomenon had sunk in, I took stock of my heart. I opened books, consulted authors, and got to the root of my problem. And finally in my head there was a noonday light: I was up to my balls in love!

— It was about time! laughed Adam. So then what?

— Well, the first phase of the methodology having been altered, it was only right that I proceed to the second phase: to wit, the possession of the beautiful form.

— Cynic!

— Everything was inviting me to that pleasant exercise in practical Philography: the cement angel, my condition of a bored Faust, the aromatic nights in Saavedra…

— And you haven’t yet declared yourself?

— Not yet, responded the philosopher. It seems impossible. There are days when I arrive at her house feeling like a real Trovatore , with a mouthful of phrases that would melt a heart of stone: the declaration is imminent, I can feel it coming, and my face is taking on shades of Tristan and Isolde. And then, nothing. Because that’s the day the creature’s in a good mood, nowhere near the idyllic trance I need her to be in. On the other hand, if I get to her place feeling totally vulgar, the poor woman suffers a fit of romanticism that could turn a guy’s stomach.

A dense cloud had spread across Samuel Tesler’s face as he divulged the details of his impossible entanglement. With downcast eyes, drawn mouth, and rampant nose, the philosopher looked as pathetic as a unicorn in love.

— So what do you plan to do? asked Adam, perplexed.

— I don’t know, answered the unicorn. Sometimes I try to say to hell with her, but it’s useless! By day her image possesses me, wreaks havoc in my thoughts, and drives me to the most shameful actions.

Here the unicorn lowered his voice, as though weighed down by a secret ignominy.

— Imagine this: I’ve gone so far as to write her a sonnet.

— I can’t believe it! cried Adam scandalized.

— I’m telling you: a sonnet. Me! Do you realize how ridiculous this is? I’m not going to read it to you, of course.

— I guess not. That really would be going too far!

— That’s not all, insisted Samuel. At night, I’m the one who possesses her image…

He suddenly fell silent, his jaws clenched, nostrils flaring, eyes foggy, mouth dry — a demonic mask 27reflecting the glint of flames from ancient cities condemned to perish by fire. But it was all erased in an instant, and Samuel Tesler’s eyelids lowered like two dead leaves.

— Does anybody suspect what’s going on? Adam asked.

— Anybody? groaned Samuel. Just the whole neighbourhood! The kids in Saavedra use their slingshots on me, housewives point at me, dogs follow me around nipping at my heels. And as if all that weren’t enough, the cop on the corner has decided to shadow me. I sense him right behind me at night when I take a walk along their block or stop in front the Amundsen house.

— He probably takes you for a chicken thief, laughed Adam. It’s dangerous to wander the byways of Saavedra with an undeclared love in your gullet. If I were you, I’d show up at the house as an official suitor and get it over with.

— Yes, sometimes I decide I should do it. But my well-oiled imagination gets me looking at the future consequences of such a drastic step.

— Such as?

— First of all, the scandal among my tribe — lapels being rent, weepy Hebrew elegies being intoned. Then I, Samuel Tesler, deserter of my people and my gods, see myself inside a tuxedo rented from the Casa Martínez, climbing out of a limo in front of a church that isn’t mine; I’m surrounded by a mob of dolts saying nasty things about me, and by street urchins shrieking for pennies. The bride’s mother is blubbering like a beached whale, and her relatives stare at me with stony eyes, while clutching a little steel coffer with the guarantee of the girl’s maidenhood inside, duly signed by two public notaries. Depressing, don’t you think?

— Brutal! protested Adam. When you look at it that way, poetry doesn’t stand a chance.

But Samuel Tesler wasn’t flinching.

— No, that’s not what the city expects of us. Buenos Aires is dying of vulgarity because it lacks a romantic tradition. It needs enriching with legends! I am right or am I wrong?

— It all depends.

— Wait’ll you see! exclaimed the philosopher, warming up now. I’ve got dozens of projects in my head!

— For instance?

— Among others, I’m toying with the idea of promoting lovelorn suicide. Not the bourgeois, pedestrian type, of course; I’m talking about the original, sublime suicide. Take your case, for example. If you want to help me out, you could hang yourself from an ombú 28in Saavedra, not before nailing to the tree trunk an epistle in rhyming verse (it’s gotta be a masterpiece), wherein you explain to the police the reasons for your fatal decision.