Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

Just then, Minerva turned to spiteful Juno:

— You old coot, you just get crazier with age! she cried. How long will you go on amusing yourself by stirring up hatred among mortals, pushing them into disastrous wars? Let’s leave them to squabble on their own without our help, and find ourselves a quiet nook.

Juno accepted the invitation from her fearsome sister, and the two sat down together on the doorstep of La Buena Fortuna to watch events unfold.

The first to jump headlong into the fray was the Carter from the Hayloft. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and rage fermenting in his liver, for he has just heard his name ridiculed, the high secret of his love life besmirched in public. He looks daggers at Doña Gertrudis and briefly contemplates bringing his vengeful hand to bear upon a woman. But then he recalls his repute throughout all Villa Crespo. He remembers the three bullies he took down on the banks of the mighty Maldonado Creek, 18the two compadritos he wasted in La Paternal, 19the four slaughtermen he faced down that time on Liniers Street, and the eight students he sent packing in Rancagua Park. Drunk with glory, the Carter lets his gaze sweep in an arc over the crowd, seaching out a worthy opponent. His eyes fall on the gigantic Abdulla, who’s still laughing in the front row.

— Oh yeah? he shouts, applying his trusty left to Abdulla’s jaw. Laugh at this!

Beneath Abdulla’s wiry mustachios, laughter abruptly crumples into a horrible grimace. For a moment he stays on his feet, then falls to his knees with a crunch of bone. Before tumbling over like an ox, he clutches at a crate of oranges from Brazil. Golden oranges scatter over the ground. Face down in the dirt, Abdulla still struggles to get up, panting up tiny dust-storms. The patrons of Café Izmir weep piteously over their champion, now wrestling with the angel of death. Finally it’s all over, or it’s all about to begin: Abdulla’s heroic soul floats up over the multitude to the Prophet’s paradise, enters the great hall of the glorified, inhales the exquisite aromas of divine tobacco and celestial anis; free now of all human weight, he sits down between two buxom houris.

The Carter from the Hayloft looks around in triumph, a bit stunned by the trumpet-blast of glory. But just then, a tremendous voice rises above the clamour of the mob:

— Not hitting a man like that!

Before he knows it, the Carter is in the grip of Arizmendi the Basque who, filled with holy wrath, is crushing him in his cyclopean arms. The multitude emits a murmur of astonishment, then all is quiet for half an hour. 20The two heroes fight; the earth shudders beneath their feet. The Carter does his best to land punches on the head of the Basque, but Don Martín holds him tight against his gigantic thorax, squeezing harder and harder. Now the Carter’s blows are getting weaker, he’s pawing at thin air, his face is turning purple, and a cold sweat beads his brow. Finally his arms fall perpendicular to the ground, the light in his eyes goes out, and the Basque lets him fall like dead weight. But wait! The Carter isn’t out of it yet! He pulls himself together and, bones creaking, struggles painfully to his feet to take an aggressive step toward his enemy! Ah, but it’s his last gasp: down he goes for good. To the hoarse music of a bandoneón , the Carter’s soul goes plummeting down to hell. Rubbing his eyes rheumy with ire, he lurches among flickering shadows, still trying to duke it out with trolls and demons.

But Arizmendi the Basque will not come out of the battle unscathed. Looking to avenge the Carter, three burly lads rush in and grab Don Martín by the shoulders, neck, and waist. He thrashes like a bull attacked by a pack of dogs. Breaking free, he gives his aggressors a taste of the sidewalk. But they’re back on their feet, fists flying, landing terrible blows. Three times the Basque goes down on his knees, and three times he gets back up. But the fourth time he can’t do it. He senses the end is near; mortal sorrow floods his soul. Seeing him beaten, the burly lads leave him to his fate. Arizmendi drags himself over to the foot of a tree and there lays himself down, facing skyward, head pointed toward the east. Beating his breast, the Basque weeps for his sins, two in particular: cutting the milk with water before he sold it and stealing pigeons from Don Jaime. He plucks three blades of grass in homage to the Trinity and offers up his blue beret as a pledge to heaven. The Archangel Gabriel graciously receives it. Then the Basque brings his sinewed hands together forever in a simple and beautiful affirmation of Oneness.

Don Martín’s soul ascends, accompanied by a furious fanfare of angels’ trumpets. No sooner has his soul got to heaven than the battle below becomes general and tremendous. Myriad warriors raise clouds of dust, and the sun himself stops his chariot to take a look. But suddenly the sound of distant hooves is heard. It’s Sargeant Pérez of Police Precinct 21, galloping toward the brawl on his dapple-grey horse! The fighting stops instantly; Trojans and Tyrians flee. The arena is left empty of living and dead alike.

Ethel Amundsen brought the rhapsody to a splendid close with a crashing chord in the lower registers of the keyboard. The upright piano shuddered, two terra-cotta shepherds sitting on it toppled over, and the merchant ship placed between them began to pitch, as if casting off its moorings. The applause already resounding in the parlour grew warmer still as Ethel spun round on the piano stool, got to her feet, and walked over to the sky-blue divan, swinging her firm, guitar-shaped hips. Señor Johansen cried a hearty Bravo! , and even Captain Amundsen 1seemed to smile from his bromide photo up on the wall.

— A wonderful little woman! observed the spheroid Señora Johansen, turning her crass eyes to Señora Amundsen, who sat placidly smoking.

Her freckled face smiling, Señora Amundsen was silently taking in the group gathered on the sky-blue sofa. At one end Ethel and Ruty Johansen lounged beneath the intellectual gaze of the astrologer Schultz and the engineer Valdez. Toward the middle of that divan among divans, the bronze heads of Haydée and Solveig Amundsen joined the very dark head of Marta Ruiz in an intimate exchange of secrets. Still smiling in silence, Señora Amundsen stroked the full glass she held squeezed between her thighs.

But Señora Johansen was waxing sentimental:

— All grown up into a fine young woman. It seems like just yesterday… Olga! I can still see them in those heavy boats at the rowing club: Ethel and Ruty in their little-girl bathing suits, their skinny little legs!

— We grow old, Ana, said Señora Amundsen.

Turning to Señora Ruiz, she added, amused and tender:

— The moment we let our guard down, the little imps suddenly grow up and rob us of our illusions.

Señora Ruiz, yellow and dry, her clothes hanging from her stick-like frame, clapped her mousy little eyes on Señora Amundsen.

— Illusions? she croaked lugubriously. Then, correcting herself:

— Oh yes, illusions, quite so. (Silly old fool! she muttered in her soul. She hasn’t lost her illusions, and she’s well into her third youth, after raising Cain for years on end!)

Señora Johansen, however, was not about to give in to such melancholy thoughts.

— It’s not like that, she retorted. Our daughters are like mirrors: we look at them now and see ourselves as we once were; we remember and feel young again.

— Yes, yes, of course, approved Señora Ruiz, critically studying Señora Johansen’s double chin, her torrential udder, her fat haunches. She glanced at Ruty and, in spite of herself, admired her fine figure. “Mirrors,” she mentally grumbled. “Thank God it doesn’t work the other way around. Lord help the girl if her potential suitors saw her in the mirror of her mother!”