Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Well then, he said mysteriously. As an anonymous citizen, the humblest louse in the world, I can tell you about a fool-proof method for demonstrating the existence of the soul.

Astonished voices, incredulous laugher from the metaphysical sector.

— Yes, Franky Amundsen assured them. When some benighted pagan dares deny the existence of the soul, there is only one sure-fire way of showing him he has one.

— How? asked Señor Johansen.

— By breaking it for him! 24

Applause engulfed Franky, who saluted the crowd like boxer, joining his hands above his head of red hair. Suddenly, his brow clouded over and he addressed Luis Pereda.

— Blood of a walrus! he said bitterly. For such idiotic trifles, these pagans made us turn off the compadrito mil novecientos !

Now Bernini’s hour had arrived. Cutting-edge sociologist, the pipsqueak had been born (if we are to believe the horoscope Schultz drew up) under a peculiar set of astrological conjunctions and oppositions, such that for every human problem his mind found a solution that some qualified as whorish and others as rigorously scientific, but which in any case invariably had something to do with the union, as difficult as it is pleasurable, of the two sexes.

— Intellectual squabbles, he pontificated, brawls at the soccer stadium, back-biting in the political meeting hall. What are they, when all’s said and done? Escape valves for a sexually repressed people.

— The sexual problem! Franky announced ominously.

Samuel’s ironic guffaw joined Pereda’s laugh in a thunderous chord.

— Go ahead and laugh! Bernini reprehended. Statistics show an alarming imbalance in the ratio of men to women. 25

Franky grabbed him roughly by the lapels:

— Let’s have the hard numbers! he shouted. According to your pimpish statistics, how many women does each of us men get?

— Half a woman! lamented Bernini.

Franky could not conceal his relief.

— I’m in the clear! he exclaimed. Give me the half I’ve got coming to me. Blood of a walrus! Half a woman is better than none.

Then he added, eyes glinting mischievously:

— But with one condition.

— What condition? asked Bernini.

— That I get the half from the waist down.

Annoyed and worried, Señor Johansen put his index finger to his lips and pointed with his other hand at the girls on the sky-blue divan.

— Shhh! he begged. Not so loud!

But Samuel Tesler was glowering.

— How can they make the human enigma turn on the question of sex! he grumbled. The beast crowned with flowers.

— And why not? said Lucio Negri. According to Freud…

— Freud is a German pig! Samuel interrupted, as if he were talking about the devil himself.

Lucio Negri subjected him to a bilious smile.

— My understanding is that Freud belongs to the “chosen people,” he retorted blandly.

With a gesture of intimate pain, the philosopher acknowledged the blow.

— That’s the worst of it, he said. He belongs to a theological race, a race he’s dishonoured.

And getting to his feet, he waxed mightily wroth in conclusion:

— Any prestige that outcast has come to enjoy is thanks to the international bourgeoisie. In Freud’s psychology they find scientific justification for their worst vices. That’s it in a nutshell!

— Bravo! shouted Franky, fervently pressing the philosopher’s hand, which Samuel had raised as if to condemn urbi et orbi .

— An anarchist! squealed Señor Johansen. Just as I feared!

Trembling with indignation, Lucio Negri got to his feet.

— I’m leaving, he said. This is a loony-bin.

And without further ado, he abandoned the field of battle where he’d given and received so many honourable wounds. Neither vanquished nor victorious, Lucio Negri headed for the sky-blue divan along the path of a soft look that had been beckoning him, inviting him to abandon the wrath of war.

To convey the commotion now felt by Señor Johansen when he saw his young ally leave is a task verging on the impossible. Faithful to his hyperborean nature, Señor Johansen put coldness aside and entered a state of belligerent ardour he could scarce contain for another second.

— Barbarity! he stammered, indicating the philosopher who was once more sitting in his armchair. This gentleman is a raving lunatic!

— Good, good! said Pereda. So the Bear from Lapland is getting into it too?

Samuel Tesler considered Señor Johansen with retrospective malevolence:

— This gentleman, he said, was weeping tears of joy when that charlatan was singing the praises of progress.

— I haven’t cried at all, retorted Señor Johansen with absolute innocence, but also very angry.

Franky Amundsen intervened once again.

— Watch out! he warned without hiding his alarm. The Bear from Lapland is timid, but when he gets mad, stay out of his way.

Thrilled at having this new adversary, Samuel wagged his finger at Señor Johansen.

— This man, he said, labours under the unfortunate misconception that he has the right to talk about things he does not understand, never has, and never will.

Pereda turned to Franky.

— Hmm, he said. The Lion of Judah is showing his claws.

— But the Bear is no slouch, Franky replied. Quiet! The Bear’s speaking.

Adopting a dignified air, Señor Johansen looked at Samuel Tesler with great humanity.

— I may not be a man of learning, he declared, but I do have something that you don’t: experience in life.

— Good for the Bear! exclaimed Franky. The Bear speaks like an open book.

A deceptively indulgent smile stole across Samuel’s face.

— Let’s see, he said, facing his rival. How old are you, anyway?

— Fifty-seven, answered Señor Johansen cautiously.

— Well, declared the philosopher. I’m forty centuries old.

His declaration was greeted with astonishment. No one, even in his most optimistic reckoning, had imagined such incredible longevity.

— You’re crazy! protested Señor Johansen, stupefied.

— Either the Lion is lying, observed Franky, or he’s as old as pissing against the wall.

Samuel Tesler raised his arm in a gesture entreating calm.

— I mean, he said as though pregnant with secrets, that my experience has been accumulated over the course of forty centuries, through numerous reincarnations.

— A madman! Señor Johansen insisted.

— Moreover, added Samuel, you will recall that intelligence is a metaphysical gift. One is born intelligent just as one is born blond.

His eyes turned to examine the chubby figure of Señor Johansen.

— Now then, he expounded magisterially, do me the favour of palpating the gentleman’s cranium. Hard as a rock!

— That’s enough insults! shouted Señor Johansen.

— Forty centuries of humanity, concluded Tesler, and a hundred philosophical doctrines could pass over that cranium without leaving the slightest trace.

Señor Johansen teetered on the edge of defeat.

— It’s outrageous, he choked, almost voiceless.

Pereda turned to Franky Amundsen.

— The Bear’s on the ropes! he cried. The Bear is completely groggy!

Franky lowered his red head.

— The Lion’s too nimble, he murmured. Nobody would take him for forty centuries old!

It was true: Señor Johansen was defeated. With more disdain than bitterness, he turned his back on the group to leave, just as the phegmatic Mister Chisholm approached from across the room. Their respective right hands met and clicked with mechanical urbanity. From their hushed conversation, only the odd word was audible: “obstreperous colonials” from Mister Chisholm; “beyond belief” from Señor Johansen, still stammering and looking askance at the metaphysical sector.