Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Chacharola, Chacharola!

A chorus of harsh voices brutally cut short his speculations. Adam took his bearings: Hidalgo Street.

— Chacharola! cried a boy’s voice, hard and rough as gravel. What about the four linen sheets you brought over from Italy?

The chorus echoed in spiteful chorus:

— What about the four linen sheets from Italy?

Instantly the old woman croaked hoarsely:

— Brigante!

— Chacharola! What about the gold ring? crowed another childish voice that had never known innocence.

— What about the gold ring? repeated the chorus.

Adam quickened his pace.

— Bandito! cawed the voice of the old woman from over on Hidalgo Street.

— Chacharola! Remember the fifteen pesos in the old sock?

At the corner of Monte Egmont and Hidalgo, a troop of boys charged past Adam Buenosayres, spinning him like a top, then scattered off down the street amid whoops and shrieks. At the same moment Chacharola’s broomstick came sailing into view, describing an arc in the air. Arms a-tremble, she hurled a final insult at her cowardly enemies:

— La putta de la tua mamma!

The broomstick fell at Adam’s feet. Picking it up, he walked over to Old Lady Chacharola, and returned it to her still-clenched hand. Slowly, the old woman rearranged her wrinkles into a spectral smile. She pointed after the fleeing boys with an index finger whose nail was a sorry sight.

— A bunch of sons of whores! she pronounced in impeccable Castilian Spanish.

Then, pointing with the same digit to the nearby steeple of San Bernardo, she moaned piously:

— Today, Saint Vitalis. Bello!

— Yes, replied Adam. The mass of Saint Vitalis. 3

The old crone donned a mask of ire and pierced him with two fanatical eyes.

— A martyr! she cried polemically.

— A great saint! Adam placated her immediately.

— Povero Saint Vitalis! she sobbed without a tear in her eye. Bello! Bello!

She went off down Monte Egmont toward Olaya Street, her head swinging back and forth in brooding denial.

Polyphemus lowered his cyclopean right hand (beneath its skin coursed a network of thick streams of blood). While his right hand lovingly stroked the strings of his sleeping guitar, his left hand dug into his coat pocket and jingled some hidden coins. The sound gladdened his ears, those of his body and those of his soul. His raised his majestic head and, describing with it an arc from east to west, he sought out the eye of the sun burning above him, until he felt on his skin the star’s warm gaze. Polyphemus was lucky and strong: he could look at the sun with wide-open eyes. Being blind, of course, he couldn’t see the forms and colours of the world, but in compensation his ears were open to all the music of the earth. Just now he was listening to the dulcet tones (hmm!) of the jazz band that rehearsed every day in the backroom of La Hormiga de Oro. Polyphemus didn’t mind their music, but just then he wished they’d stop so he could hear the pigeons cooing in the steeple of San Bernardo, the neighbourhood seamstresses chattering, the sparrows’ cheerful racket — the wide world of sound his ears knew how to tune in. Okay, that was just art for art’s sake. His real job was to lie in wait for passers-by, closely monitor each one’s stride, and guess whether it belonged to a man or woman, someone young or old, if the gait revealed a heart charitable or stingy, if the person was in a good or bad mood or somewhere in between. Then all he had to do was let his wonderful voice unfurl (in a register suited to each particular case) and pick up the coin that inevitably fell onto his tin plate. Polyphemus’s pride consisted in three distinct perfections: his infallible skill in ambushing souls, the heart-wrenching versatility of his voice, and above all the visual figure he struck. He could see himself clearly in his imagination — the Spanish guitar he didn’t know how to play, but which gave tone and substance to his schtick, his old moss-coloured coat, flowing beard, and eyes of a blind prophet. Finally, there was his arm, which he knew how to raise menacingly and point toward the statue of Christ with the Broken Hand. What a wonderful actor Polyphemus was! Tra-la-la! Business was great, and nobody in Villa Crespo suspected that inside the mossy old coat lurked the owner of three rental properties, with a bid pending on a fourth, all of them won through the steady practice of his art. Tra-la-la! Polyphemus felt laughter stirring in his gullet, but stifled it instantly, not only for the sake of appearances, but also because of a sudden twinge of conscience. What if he, Polyphemus, really was a miserable bandit, an out-and-out scam artist? He thought about it for a moment, his reddened eyelids fluttering. No, no way! Divine Providence, who provides even for the birds in the field, had blessed him with these gifts to help him in his misfortune. Polyphemus clung to this idea, its irrefutable logic: yes, that’s how it was. Calm now, he went back to enjoying the sun, the pure air, the jazz that wouldn’t let up at La Hormiga de Oro, savouring the sweet juice that oozed from his very ripe self-justifications. His euphoria was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching from his right.

“Male,” he deduced right away. “Not too old. Stingy? Got things on his mind.”

Then, with his solemn right hand aimed at the Christ with the Broken Hand, he declaimed:

— Aaalms for the blind! Aaalms for a man who sees not the light of day!

The man was right in front of him. Polyphemus waited, giving his throat a rest. The coin didn’t drop. The footsteps were moving on.

— Strange, grumbled Polyphemus. Is this a punishment?

Don José Victorio Lombardi, of the firm Lombardi Brothers’ Sawmill, hadn’t seen the cyclops with the guitar (an oversight in itself offensive to an artist), and if he heard Polyphemus’s voice, it came to him as mere background noise. Truth be told, Don José Victorio Lombardi wasn’t lacking in aesthetic appreciation (witness his stentorian “Bravos!” at the Colón Theatre, 4in praise of the tenor who could sustain a trill for a full twenty-eight seconds, clocked on a stopwatch). No, Polyphemus didn’t know it, but the attention of that paragon among sawyers was totally absorbed by a serious theological problem perilously intensifying with every step that took him closer to the San Bernardo Church. Had he been gifted with sight, Polyphemus would have been able to admire the hemisphere of Lombardi’s full belly (full of something better than tear-soaked bread!), a gold chain tracing an equator across its complacent girth. But what’s more, he would have observed Lombardi’s steps getting shorter, and his perplexed eyes darting to the Christ with the Broken Hand. So, then! When he passed before the church, would Lombardi take off his hat or would he not? That is the question! 5Polyphemus, were he somehow apprised of Lombardi’s dilemma, would have been quite wrong to attribute Lombardi’s vacillation to unbelief, rebelliousness, or any other theological emotion. True, Lombardi had drifted far from the marvellous faith that had nourished him in childhood, but he could never quite get over the fear that someone Up There might be watching and judging. But this craven need to doff his hat was countered by the fear of ridicule: the hostile glances and mocking laughter that a gesture so unusual in this neighbourhood might provoke from the men and women on the street. Would he take his hat off or not? Lombardi slowed down, Lombardi stopped. But just then, the One-Armed Worker and the Blind Stoker surged up from memory to stare at him accusingly. For sure, that severed arm and those dead eyes were going to be weighed in some hidden balance. Lombardi came to a decision, Lombardi resumed walking. As he passed in front of the San Bernardo Church, he tipped his elegant wide-brimmed hat in a greeting to the Christ with the Broken Hand. But, oh dear, at that very instant he thought he heard a chorus of laughter coming from the seamstresses’ shop. Holding his hat between index finger and thumb, Lombardi pretended he was scratching the back of head with his middle and ring fingers, as if this had been his intention all along. Then, visibly relieved, he hurried off. Don José Victorio Lombardi, that paragon of sawyers, had managed to satisfy both God and the Devil.