Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Give us back the Malvinas!

The whole room, startled, turned its eyes to the combatants in the metaphysical sector.

— What’s going on? asked Señora Johansen in alarm.

— Nothing, answered Señora Amundsen. I think they’re beating up on my Englishman.

Not masking her displeasure, Señora Ruiz looked at the upstarts.

— Frivolous fellows, she said at last, turning to Señora Amundsen. Frankly, I don’t know why you let such people into your house.

— They’re Ethel’s intellectual friends, explained Señora Amundsen with a benevolent smile.

At the same time, Lucio Negri, installed between Marta and Solveig, was painting the blackest possible portrait of the philosopher of Villa Crespo, who meanwhile continued fanning the flames among the belligerents.

— His case is very simple, he was saying. Simulation of genius, megalomania raised to the third power, and a truly remarkable dose of schizophrenia.

— You call that a simple case? said Marta Ruiz on the theshold of laughter.

— And that’s not all, Lucio went on. The man suffers from mystical delusions. A while back he tried to make me believe that, when he enters a state of heightened awareness, his head emits sparks and his skin exudes exquisite odours. They say he’s spent some time in the loony bin. He went around calling himself the Black Christ and slapping the faces of the wardkeepers. 38

But Haydée Amundsen wasn’t going to accept this.

— Slander! she protested, gracefully covering her ears. He’s a misunderstood genius.

— Come on, Haydée, implored Marta. The Black Christ! A man letting off sparks and aromas!

— I haven’t seen the sparks, Haydée declared very seriously, but I’m quite certain about his scent. It’s a cheap aftershave he puts on every Thursday and it’s called Nuit d’amour .

— What? cried Marta. It’s aftershave lotion?

Marta’s and Haydée’s laughter intertwined like twin braids. Even Solveig condescended to smile, distracted perhaps from her own mystery.

Meanwhile, Ethel Amundsen’s group, which had not yet intervened in the incidents of the tertulia, had just launched a discussion about an apparently harmless subject, but one that was to produce extraordinary events in the very near future. Valdez the engineer was developing an implacable thesis which scrapped, just like that, the eternal doctrine of free will; his thesis encountered quite contradictory reactions. Ethel Amundsen repeatedly interrupted the orator, alternately voicing firm objections and shaking her beautiful head in disagreement. Schultz, for his part, half-closed his eyes and smiled benignly, like an initiate listening to a novice expound the most rudimentary truths of occult science. As for Ruty Johansen, her astonishment turned to disbelief, and disbelief weakened to vacillation.

Weighty, no doubt, were the concluding words of Valdez’s allegation. What was certain was that Ethel ardently sprang up from the sky-blue divan and demanded the attention of the whole room.

— Listen, listen! she exclaimed. The engineer claims he can hypnotize anyone here.

A hush fell over the Amundsen salon as eighteen gazes interrogated Valdez, the engineer nonchalantly resisting the weight of so many eyes.

— It’s the commonest thing in the world, grumbled Schultz. Absolutely pompier .

— Hypnotism, Samuel Tesler declared with repugnance, doesn’t rise above the order of the natural. A parlour trick any minimally trained shopclerk can perform on anemic young women.

Affable as usual, Valdez the engineer agreed with a nod of his bald head.

— Exactly, he said. I was trying to explain as much to Ethel.

— When Charcot was conducting research at Salpêtrière… Lucio began to say. 39

But Ethel cut him off and challenged the engineer:

— Prove it! You’ve promised to hypnotize one of us in this very room.

— At your service, responded the engineer, studying those present with cold, cobra-like eyes. Who would like to volunteer for the experiment?

There was a general movement of aversion in the room. Obviously, no one wanted to be hypnotized. Even Samuel Tesler, who didn’t give an inch on any terrain, let it be known that he disapproved of this type of experiment, informing his already alarmed listeners about how dangerous it was to fool around with certain energies which, though of the natural order of phenomena, could sometimes breach the ramparts and leave one’s being exposed to a possible invasion by “errant influences.” But Marta Ruiz had a passion for the dark forces and craved all that was violent and unleashed. Disengaging herself from her frightened female companions, she took one step, two steps, three steps toward Valdez, as the engineer beckoned her with the most deceptively benign smile.

Who may tell of the wonderment that fell over the tertulia and of the respect inspired by Marta’s risky advance? Naturally, the serpent’s gaze that fascinates the little bird was the image on everyone’s mind. And who shall speak of the anguish of a mother who, forgetting even the wisdom of Doctor Aguilera, watched the fruit of her womb walk slowly toward the abyss? Señora Ruiz cried out once in protest:

— No, Marta! I don’t like these games!

But Marta Ruiz was already there; the engineer Valdez was stroking her sensitive wrists. Coughs, shifting chairs, whispers: the tertulia nervously readied itself to look deep into the darkness of the unknown. Señor Johansen had joined the group of matrons now trying to console Señora Ruiz, whose eyes bored holes in the presumed hypnotizer. On the sky-blue divan, the three Amundsen girls, Ruty Johansen, Schultz, and Lucio Negri formed a single block. All of them looked very excited, except for the astrologer, who was ostentatiously stifling yawns. In a front-row seat, Franky Amundsen swore like a trooper, announcing to his sidekicks that he’d learn the noble art of hypnotism if only to put his numerous creditors to sleep. Faithful to the metaphysical corner, Samuel Tesler and Adam Buenosayres waited, the former entrenched in hostile silence, the latter seemingly absent from the tertulia. Mister Chisholm — who after his battle had taken refuge in the Buenos Aires Herald 40— folded his favourite newspaper, curious to see what silliness the “colonials” were up to now. All was ready: stage, actors, and spectators.

The beginning was nothing sensational. Impervious to the general sense of expectancy, Valdez ordered the lights dimmed and began to chat with Marta in way that most took for quite offhand. But those versed in the hypnotic arts weren’t fooled; they knew he was using that soothing, mellifluous voice with consummate mastery to spin a subtle web for his prey. Little by little, Marta’s responses began to trail off. Her eyelids fluttered as an irresistible drowsiness overwhelmed her. Then the engineer touched her pulse with one hand, at the same time using the thumb of his other hand to stroke her temples. Marta went rigid.

— You are sleeping, he said. Are you asleep?

— Yes, came Marta’s barely audible response.

— Sleep, then. But calmly, in a state of perfect calm.

Only now did everyone realize the enormity of what had just happened; astonishment was expressed in barely contained whispers. But Señora Ruiz had turned the colour of autumn leaves.

— Let’s see, said the hypnotist to the sleeping girl. What’s your favourite piece of music?

— The overture to Tannhäuser , she replied without hesitation.

— Fine. Now listen! A distant orchestra is playing the overture. Do you hear it?

Marta seemed to strain her ears.

— Yes, she stammered. A distant orchestra.

— But it is drawing nearer. Do you hear the brass instruments getting louder?