Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Let’s hear his reasoning! Pereda demanded. Quiet!

— I speak as a second-generation Argentine and as a close descendant of Europeans, Adam began, already regretting that he’d got himself into this futile controversy. To get some insight into my country and myself, I needed to visit the old country, the land of my parents, and see how those people lived before emigrating. I saw them in their villages, where they scratched out a tough living from their fields. They had a heroic sense of existence; whether happy or resigned, they had discipline, faith in God, the stability of their customs. I’ve seen them: that’s how they were and still are. What did our country do when it dazzled them with the perspective of getting rich? It tempted them.

Franky Amundsen was showing signs of consternation.

— Schultz’s tempting angels! he said mysteriously. Steamboat angels with twin propellers and hides of steel! 29

— When they got here, Adam continued, what system of order was on offer in this country that would replace the one they were losing? A system based on a sort of gleeful materialism that mocked their customs and laughed at their beliefs.

The philosopher of Villa Crespo snickered malignantly.

— And why? he said venemously. All because a couple of revolutionary mulattos who’d read Voltaire impressed the hell out of two or three other mulattos and scandalized their nunnish aunts!

This undesirable trait in the philosopher got him into endless trouble: a ferocious racism that rendered literally the entire universe mulatto, 30with the single exception of the philosopher himself. Leaving aside his infinite vanity on this score, and recognizing in him a man obviously favoured by the Muses, his interlocutors wondered: what gave him the right to insult the patriotic feelings of his like-minded colleagues? He, the last offspring of a people that as a result of a theological curse was still wandering the world and had entirely lost its sense of nationhood? Such thoughts perturbed the minds of those who’d heard Samuel’s damnable words. Once the low rumble of protest had quieted down, Franky Amundsen reacted:

— He’s insulted our gigantic forefathers! he roared, threatening the philosopher with his fist.

— A foreigner! shrieked Del Solar. An undesirable!

— He bites the hand that feeds him! insisted Franky, remembering a serendipitous scrap from his sketchy readings.

Here Luis Pereda raised a threatening arm:

— Stop squabbling! We’re listening to a new point of view on our national reality. Would you please shut up!

Silence was immediately restored, and Adam Buenosayres was able to proceed:

— I was saying that what immigrants found in this country was not a system of order but a temptation to disorder. Most of them had no education: they were defenceless. They forgot their scale of values for the easy lifestyle our country showed them. The process of corruption began in the fathers and was completed in the sons. Children learned to laugh at their immigrant parents, to ignore or hide their genealogy. They are the Argentines of today, uprooted and adrift.

Adam Buenosayres had finished; there was a short silence in the metaphysical sector.

— I’d say he’s laying it on a bit thick, Del Solar said at last, turning to the pipsqueak Bernini.

— Real thick, agreed the pipsqueak. He’s talking bull, no doubt about it.

Serious and scholarly, Luis Pereda asked Buenosayres:

— If that’s your point of view, what is your position as an Argentine?

— Very confused, Adam answered. Unable to endorse the reality our country’s currently living, I’m alone and motionless: I’m waiting, I’m an Argentine in hope. 31That’s how I relate to the country. Personally, though, I feel that, since my forebears cut the thread of their tradition and destroyed their scale of values upon arrival here, it’s up to me to retie that thread and rebuild my identity according to the values of my race. That’s where I am now. And I think that when everyone does likewise, the country will have a spiritual form.

For some time now, the pipsqueak Bernini had been chomping at the bit. A man of intellect and passion, his dual nature was threatening to explode.

— Our country doesn’t need to search for her soul abroad, he announced. There’s someone else who will give it to her, and without being asked.

— Who? Adam asked.

— The Spirit of the Earth!

Samuel Tesler’s dangerous laugh was heard once more.

— Naturally! he said. One fine day the pampa will spread her legs and give birth to a metaphysics.

— The Spirit of the Earth will speak, insisted the Pipsqueak, overcome by the mystery of it. The Spirit will speak, you can be sure of it! 32

— And cut a sorry figure, said Franky. It’ll moo like a cow. 33

But Del Solar was in no mood for compromises.

— With or without the Spirit of the Earth, the foreigners should leave us in peace. This is no longer a country: it’s a colonial trading post!

The line was drawn, positions had hardened, and civil war seemed imminent. And belligerent ardour was already glinting in all eyes, when Mister Chisholm saw fit to put aside his reserve, which hadn’t fooled anyone anyway, and let all the chill of his native English fog fall down hard upon Del Solar.

— That’s sheer ingratitude, he said. Ingratitude and savagery. What on earth would have become of this nation, for example, without the aid of England? That’s what I’d like to know. Upon my word!

The keenest astonishment flashed across everyone’s face. Del Solar, Buenosayres, Pereda, Bernini, Franky — all of them looked at each other in petrified silence. Then, instintively, those men of such diverse origin, humour, and mindset moved closer together, as if closing ranks before a common threat. A wave of heroic zeal blazed in their faces; the hair on the back of their necks rose in anticipation of the impending clash. The first to sally forth was Bernini, a famously intrepid warrior in this sort of international battle. 34

— I don’t think Mister Chisholm has quite understood, he began. For us, England isn’t foreign.

— Aha! smiled a pleased Mister Chishom. So what it is it, then?

— England is the Enemy! trumpeted Bernini.

It was the signal to launch the attack. Samuel Tesler suddenly advanced toward Mister Chisholm, performed a deep bow, and solemnly announced:

— Delenda est Britannia! 35

— Twice England has invaded us and twice we have repulsed her, thundered Del Solar. But a third invasion has defeated us: the invasion of the pound sterling! 36

Flushed red as a fighting cock, Mister Chisholm shook his fist at the insurgents.

— No one can deny England’s civilizing mission, he rasped. Who dares to deny it?

— I do! said the philosopher. Historically speaking, England hasn’t changed since Roman times. It has never been completely civilized, refractory as it is to eternal tradition and order. And these barbarians wrapped in elegant tweeds claim to be civilizing a people with forty centuries of metaphysics in their veins!

— There he goes again with his forty centuries! muttered Señor Johansen bitterly.

— Indians! scolded Mister Chishom. Worse than Indians!

At this point, Bernini sounded the famous charge that was to win him so many future laurels. Turning to his peers, he exclaimed:

— Enough pussyfooting around! Give us back the Malvinas, or else! 37

From that moment on, confusion reigned supreme. The pipsqueak’s charge was met by shouts, laughs, and threats. Wielding his garbled Spanish like a broken sword, Mister Chisholm tried to respond to his numerous enemies, but his voice was buried beneath the weight of the many voices beleaguering him. Franky went to the sky-blue divan and plunked himself down between his sister Ethel and Ruty Johansen, his carrot top shaking with laughter. Meanwhile, Samuel Tesler was now standing on the piano stool, shaking an aggressive fist at Mister Chisholm and bellowing: