Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Goodness! commented Reynoso, hiding a smile behind his tobacco-stained mustache.

— You think I’m making this up? Don José asked him, laughing already.

— No, no, said Reynoso. So, whose kid was the “little angel”?

— I’m getting to that. Hearing all the hubbub, an old crone comes hobbling in, grabs the “little angel” from Goyo, and — pff, pff, pff, pff! — blows out the four candles. “Any more horse-play,” the old coot scolds, “and the wake’s over.”

Choking with laughter, Don José leaned back to rest his shiny bald head against the wall, and remained there for a while facing the sky. Then, still laughing, he looked around at the others and saw two serious faces. Zanetti, bitter as ever, and a pensive Reynoso were both facing the door of the chapel. Don José caught the sorrowful significance of their look, and his hilarity dried up immediately. Putting on a solemn face, he lowered his brow as though weighed down by gloomy thoughts. Still fingering his derby, the Young Neighbour glanced now and again at the street door, clearly anxious to leave. Pancho hadn’t taken his eyes off him for a minute, and now he finally recognized him. He was the dude who flirted with the dark-haired girl from the warehouse; more than once Pancho had shouted at him: “Leave that bone alone, doggie!” The mystery solved, Pancho snuggled up against his father’s chair and yawned deep and long. All in all, a wake wasn’t near as much fun as the boys made it out to be.

The collector Zanetti was getting ready to speak. In his infinite resentment, Zanetti had come to divide Humanity (with a capital “H”) into two irreconcilable camps. On one side of the battle line stood he, Antonio Zanetti, with his endlessly aching feet and the rancour he’d accumulated trying to collect abstract sums of money from certain people as slippery as eels. On the other side was the World (with a capital “W”). And a sinister conspiracy organized against Zanetti, it was: a clew of travesties, iniquities, and aberrations that Zanetti promised to fix if only he were allowed to be president for twenty-four hours. Men and women, beasts, and inanimate objects all had it in for the collector. He was certain, for example, that when he was going home at night with his feet in a sorry state, the cobblestones intentionally stood on end with the express purpose of exacerbating his martyrdom. But once he was home and his tortured feet were soaking in a basin of warm water, the collector Zanetti let himself taste glory as he dreamed up elaborate fantasies of revenge against Society, World, and cobblestones. He’d show them who Zanetti was! And no, he didn’t lack for courage! During the Semana Trágica of 1919, 5the collector Zanetti, well hidden in the chicken coop out back, had fired all six bullets from his revolver into the air. Ever since that memorable occasion, his self-image had been contradictory: the collector both admired and feared himself.

Fortunately, Zanetti’s current cogitations had nothing aggressive about them. Right now his mind was ploughing richer earth. At first, he was revolted by the imbecilic Don José’s brutish story; it illustrated once again all the ignorance, obscurantism, and superstition the collector insistently opposed with one of his lapidary dictums: “More schools, fewer priests.” Next, and quite understandably, the storyteller’s obstreperous hilarity had just about made his blood boil and rush to his head, for all thoughtless laughter grated on his ears like a slap across the face of Humanity itself. And the collector Zanetti, in a voice from the beyond, was wont to ask those cachinnating barbarians: Does Humanity have the right to laugh? Finally, the collector’s philosophical soul ascended to the plane of generalizations: he thought about the wake, indeed about all wakes, and about the routine of men “whose feet are still fettered and pinned by absurd prejudice.” This last phrase wasn’t actually his own; he’d got it from La Brecha , 6a morning paper he read religiously, not only during his daily foot-soak, but also — more discreetly — during the concluding operation of his digestive tract. In short, it was no wonder that by this time Zanetti was trembling like a generous fruit tree beneath its embarrassment of riches.

— Vanity! he scolded at last, shaking his head from side to side.

Don José was taking a pull on the latest round of mate , which Reynoso had just brewed up bitter-style, unsweetened. He glanced at Zanetti in mild surprise.

— What’d you say? he asked.

— That, over there! said the collector pointing at the mortuary chamber.

— A-hah! Don José replied cautiously.

Old man Reynoso sighed.

— Yes, yes, he murmured. Poor old Juan.

But Zanetti stared hard at him.

— I’m not talking about the dead, he grumbled. What do I care about dead men? I’m talking about the living. There’s the cadaver, starting to rot already, and what do the living do? Tart it up with rags and lights and flowers. What for? Just to satisfy their own vanity. Dead men!

Don José ventured a half smile.

— It’s custom, he said. I wouldn’t get my britches in a twist over it.

— Custom, you say! objected Zanetti. I’ll show you customs! (It was the collector Zanetti’s standing promise that he would ban all traditional customs if ever he was given the presidency of the Argentine Republic for twenty-four hours.)

— But that’s how things are, my friend, laughed Don José. You too will be adorned and saluted when you go off in your funeral coach, just like you adorned and saluted the ones who left this world before you.

Zanetti didn’t conceal the anger these words provoked.

— I don’t take off my hat for funeral coaches! he growled. It’s just bourgeois prejudice! (The collector Zanetti never took off his hat in front of churches or funeral coaches, but he did so unctuously before conventillos , hospitals, and penitentiaries. A bitter enemy of all superstition, Zanetti spilled salt on purpose, broke mirrors, beat black cats, and ate meat on Good Friday.)

— Fine! rejoined Don José, quite amused. But when you’ve become a stiff yourself, they’re gonna fix you all up nice with lights and flowers. And you’ll have nothing to say about it.

For the first time that night, a smile lit up the sour face of the collector Zanetti.

— They’re going to be out of luck! he said with perverse joy.

— How’s that?

— I’ve already made my will, laughed Zanetti. I’m leaving my body to the Society for the Incineration of Cadavers. Oh no, they’re not going get the better of me . I’ve got it all arranged: a van with no cross or flowers or anything. Straight to the crematorium!

Don José and Reynoso stared at him slack-jawed, and Zanetti enjoyed his future triumph in those two living effigies of astonishment. Yep, it was a brilliant move, a direct poke in the jaw to priests, undertakers, the municipality, florists, gravediggers, marble masons, and all the shysters who worked the death racket. Don José, however, quickly recovered his joviality.

— Can’t say I admire your taste, he told the collector. Burning a person like he was an old piece of junk…

— Hmm! assented Reynoso, pensive.

— So what? argued Zanetti. It’s more economical. And more hygienic! (The collector Zanetti didn’t bathe for months on end, but when it came to his corpse he was scrupulously conscious of social hygiene.) 7

— Have you ever seen a corpse burn? Don José asked him. They say when it’s in the oven, it stands up and shakes its arms and legs.

— The last dance! said Zanetti, who had never danced in his life.

— Bah! concluded Don José. Give me the good old earth and the birds singing.