Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

Unfortunately, Schultz had never been able to stomach the sort of zoomorphic divinities his lugubrious interlocutor was referring to. To his mind, turning Thot into a dull bookkeeper was an act of lèse-majesté against the immortal gods, and weighing up the raw meat of Juan Robles’s heart was a gross display of butchery. In reality, his lugubrious interlocutor, being a Semite, tended more toward the ethical sense of things than to their metaphysical and profound meaning, because of racial influences causing him to see in every god a grotesque policeman.

— What about the Hebrew Kabbala? Samuel said acridly in refutation.

— That’s another kettle of fish, Schultz retorted.

Adam Buenosayres listened in silence to the polemic between his friends. In his mind the funereal scene, despite its garish reality, only prolonged the phantasmagorical series initiated that night by the group in their crossing of Saavedra. But Adam was sobering up now, the dense fumes of drunkenness breaking up enough that he could notice how profanatory was the tone of the argument between Samuel Tesler and the astrologer, standing as they were next to the black box, shaped like a ship, in which Juan Robles was sailing away. And furthermore, how striking was the absence of the soul in that vanquished body! Adam examined it where it lay: already the facial lineaments were sharpening, like the edges of a chunk of rock, the skin becoming clay-like, slick and opaque; a cold, earthy clamminess and a mineral silence seemed to waft up from that recently abandoned machine. Not ten hours ago had Juan Robles given up the ghost, and his body was already a mere clump of mud crumbling back into the earth it was made from, true to her plastic laws. “The soul’s instrument,” he thought. “It’s served its purpose and now the artisan throws it away before departing — a worn-out tool, all chipped and battered, spotted with bits of the earthy stuff it touched and worked throughout its days.” Adam looked again at the dead man’s face, tanned and hardened by the sun and the elements, then at the calloused hands, especially the fingernails — there were still traces of brick-making mud under them. An infinite pity invaded him; he felt the misery of that man as his own, and as everyone else’s too. And the soul? Samuel Tesler and the astrologer Schultz (two literary types, after all) insisted on dragging Juan Robles’s soul through every infernal twist and turn imaginable. But Adam trembled as he reflected on the fearful judgment awaiting the creature before his Creator. Through the alcoholic fog still clouding his awareness, he heard once again the admonitory drums beat within him, the eloquent resonance-chambers of his penitential night. “Not yet!” he cried within. “Don’t give in!” In spite of himself, he had raised his eyes to the bronze Crucifix, then looked away quickly. (Yes, a fish squirming on the hook, a fish no longer in the water nor yet in the hand of the fisherman.)

Just then, María Justa Robles entered, bearing coffee and little glasses of anisette on a tray held in both hands. Circumspect in her grief, María Justa went up to the three men who stood in vigil and silently offered them the tray.

— No, thank you, Schultz refused ceremoniously.

— Where are our friends? asked Adam.

— In the kitchen, she replied.

The three made polite gestures and went out to the yard, not without dedicating a final look at the deceased Juan Robles, wishing him god-speed. Then María Justa turned to the Three Crones lurking in their dark corner.

— Coffee? Anisette?

— Thank you, m’dear, murmured Doña Carmen, taking a cup from the tray.

— Ladies? María Justa invited Doña Consuelo and Doña Martina, who were hesitating.

— You’ve gone to so much trouble! whispered Doña Martina.

— You shouldn’t have! sighed Doña Consuelo.

Finally the two old women each took a cup of coffee. María Justa then approached the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, who looked as if they were dozing, and offered them the tray. Three hands suddenly emerged rampant from amid the swaddling dark cloth, three hands or three claws that quickly snatched glasses of anisette and withdrew with their prey, sinking back down into the somber chaos of their shawls. María Justa, careful in her grief, put aside the load of drinks, picked up a pair of scissors, and went from one bronze candlestick to the next, trimming the curled wicks. One by one the flames shot up and chased the skittish shadows back into the four corners of the room. The Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, offended by the sudden excess of light, fled backward, like the shadows, and hid their faces in their shawls of mourning. At the same time the Crones’ faces were lit up: three faces amazingly unanimous in their expression of fateful tranquility. Then María Justa walked to the head of the coffin and contemplated the deceased for a long time. A single tear left her eye and rolled down her cheek. Then she picked up the tray and left the room, minimal and silent as ever.

The Three Crones, who hadn’t taken their eyes off María Justa for a second, turned and looked at one another.

— Poor thing! Doña Consuelo lamented softly.

— So humble, isn’t she just? whispered Doña Martina. Ever so thoughtful in her sorrow!

At this, Doña Carmen stopped blowing on her coffee and frowned.

— A pearl in the pigsty, like the saying goes, she said in a low growl. She’s one in a million! Carries the cross for the whole family. And what a family! Don’t deserve her, they don’t. Lord knows they ain’t worth her little finger!

Doña Martina and Doña Consuelo, curious, pricked up their ears. But Doña Carmen said nothing more and eyed the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law suspiciously.

— Did you see her just now? insisted Doña Martina. On the verge of tears, but she held back.

— She shouldn’t have, opined Doña Consuelo. Better to let go and get it off her chest.

Doña Carmen’s lips smiled sadly.

— She can’t, she observed. Just like her mother in every way, my dear departed comadre , God have mercy on her soul! I wore myself out trying to convince her, “Cry, m’love, it’ll do you good.” But, no, she wouldn’t shed so much as a tear. The parade went by inside, you might say.

— Yes, yes, purred Doña Martina. I’ve heard talk.

— She took it all to the grave with her! Doña Carmen concluded. Anyway, she’s better off than us now.

But Doña Consuelo was dying of curiosity.

— Bad life? she asked a in low voice.

— A dog’s life, muttered doña Carmen. If these four walls could talk!

— I’ve heard talk, Doña Martina purred again.

Then Doña Carmen, her tongue itching so badly she could stand it no longer, leaned toward her two neighbours and whispered something. It must have been something incredible, for Doña Consuelo’s mouth fell open, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

— Him? she exclaimed finally, looking askance at the coffin.

— May God forgive him! affirmed Doña Carmen. He wasn’t what you’d call a nasty lot. But when a man’s on a bender…

— And with the same whip? Doña Consuelo asked, still dumbfounded.

— The very one he used on the mares, grumbled Doña Carmen. I seen ’m with these very eyes that’ll return to dust one day! And there was no talking to him, ’cause when he was in his cups, he was a holy terror and wouldn’t have listened to Christ on the cross.

— An outrage! sighed Doña Martina, clapping her eyes on Juan Robles’s casket.

Doña Carmen followed her gaze.

— Like I said, she went on, he wasn’t bad at heart. You should’ve seen him the next day when he sobered up. Eyes downcast, like the man was carrying a burden of remorse. Circling around his wife, wanting to say something but not knowing what. So he’d bring her a little something — a length of cloth, a pound of chocolate, some guayaba sweet. But she got away on him anyway! We held her wake in this very room.