Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

But, alas! Not all was fervor and reverence in that Olympus: the naysayers, the mockers, the eternal agnostics constituted a third contingent, which included Adam Buenosayres, the astrologer Schultz, Samuel Tesler, and Franky Amundsen. An insolent mob, they couldn’t ask but had to continually shout for the bottle. When their poisonous tongues weren’t rustling like sibilant scorpions, they would explode into offensive laughter and interrupt the storyteller, disconcerting the three studious listeners, who sensed that catastrophe was imminent.

The taita Flores, aware of the ambience of veneration surrounding him, stopped talking yet again to turn a long face toward the group of mockers. Pereda attempted to save the situation:

— And were there a lot of people? he asked.

— A lil’ old hoe-down on the patio, Flores answered. The Froilán women-folk used to organize dances with a coupla kilos of mate and a demijohn of whatever was around.

— And how ’bout the Froilán broad, a good-looker or what? asked Bernini in his best underworld accent.

The taita lowered his eyes and spat out a splinter of the toothpick he’d been gnawing.

— She had the right stuff, he said at last. She had tango in her blood. When she really got into it, she used to cut figure eights that had the dance-floor sweatin’ sawdust.

— Wow! Pereda was ecstatic.

— And did they hit on her much in the ’hood? Del Solar threw out the barbed question.

The taita ’s smile mixed menace and swagger.

— Maybe, he said. I didn’t see nuthin.

— You kiddin’ me? Rivera growled in adulation. Nobody came sniffing around the taita Flores’s nest.

— Sure, sure, Del Solar quickly admitted, seeing a malignant gleam in the taita ’s eye.

For a long while, Juan José Robles had been stroking the ears of the puppy dog Balín, but now he broke his silence.

— What about the tirifilo Nievas, the pretty-boy? he drawled.

Flores’s face clouded over, and vexation glinted in his gaze, as if the name made his blood simmer with an old grudge.

— I was getting to that, snarled the taita . Yeah, Pretty-Boy Nievas.

— So, who was the tirifilo ? asked Del Solar.

— Son of the police chief, Flores answered. A no-account twit. The punk had a taste for slumming it. He’d picked up a rep as a tough guy, just because two or three times, in brawls in Palermo, he’d had fisticuffs with his old man’s White Spittoons.

Del Solar and Pereda exchanged an eloquent look. The famous Son of the Police Chief! So the legend was true!

— Who were the White Spittoons? Bernini interrupted emotionally.

— Police officers, Rivera clarified. In those days they wore white helmets.

Del Solar had a few points to clear up.

— Wait a minute! he said. How did Pretty-Boy Nievas used to dress?

The taita was quiet as he seemed to search his memory.

— Yep, he said at last. Narrow grey trousers with black bands down the seams. And his sports jacket was a shit-standing-upper …

— What? Bernini burst out.

— It was a style of jacket kinda on the short side, Rivera explained. So, as a joke, we called it…

— Yes, yes, Del Solar interrupted impatiently. What else did the tirifilo wear?

— High-heeled ankle boots, a cheap scarf around his neck, and a beaver hat on his mop.

Del Solar and Pereda looked at each other again, feverish with the same enthusiasm. The description was accurate!

— Very good, Flores, my friend! Del Solar approved. So what went down with you and the pretty-boy?

— Nuthin, Flores answered. The lad took a notion to get fresh with my gal, according to what I heard. I asked her about it, in case she’d given him any encouragement. You know how skirts can be.

— Hmm! agreed Bernini, sounding like a man who’d been burned.

— But the gal was on the up-and-up, added Flores. So I waited for my chance.

— Where’d you mix it up with the tirifilo ? asked Del Solar, giving his words a tough edge.

The taita hung back, tired and modest.

— It’s not worth telling, he said at last. He was a silly little compadrito .

— Tell us, Flores, Rivera asked him.

— Don’t play hard-to-get, said Juan José, quite absorbed in watching Balín try to bite his tail.

After considerable begging, the taita Flores gave in. He frowned, cleared his throat two or three times, and shot a sidelong glance at the group of mockers, who really were starting to get up his nose.

— Okay, he said. The fight took place at the dance the Froilán girls put on. People were dancing up a storm on the patio, and everything was fine ’til Pretty-Boy and his gang showed up. They’re all half sloshed, and the tirifilo barges in like he owns the place and shouts: “Clear the decks!” The music stops, the women’re all a-flutter, and the Froilán girls look at me scared.

— They knew what was coming! exclaimed Rivera.

— And did you go for him on the spot? asked Del Solar, drunk with courage.

The taita smiled placidly.

— I knew Pretty-Boy real good, he answered. And, of course, I cut him some slack. So the dance just started up again. As soon as they started playing “El Choclo,” 10I see the tirifilo trying to get my gal to dance, and I see, too, that she’s resisting. So, sitting right where I was, without getting up, I shout: “Listen, kiddo, that woman don’t dance!” The music stopped again, the couples separated. The tirifilo , he gets his dander up and shouts back: “We’ll see about that!”

— The kid had balls, Bernini ventured.

— All mouth, no action, like the chajá , muttered Rivera.

— And what did you do? asked Del Solar, looking the taita in the eyes.

— I got up real slow, Flores responded. I gave the pretty-boy the onceover from head to foot. Then I says, “Have it your way, then. My game is calling me!” and I start crossing the room. The women start squealing and the men are all worked up. But then the tirifilo pulls out a heater…

— A heater? exclaims Pereda, scandalized.

— He was real tough with a gun in his hand, assented the taita sadly. So he’s pointing the heater at me and he shouts, “One more step and I’ll shoot!”

— And you? asked Del Solar, knitting his brow.

— Me, I slip out my blade and walk towards the pretty-boy, drilling him through with my eyes. “Go ahead and shoot,” I says. “But don’t miss! Because if you go and miss, my blade here says you’re chopped liver!”

— He missed, I can just see it!

— Nope. Couldn’t even shoot, said Flores sorrowfully. As soon as my words were out, the tirifilo turned white as a sheet, and the revolver started shaking in his hand. I took it away, so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

— A pretty-boy! scoffed Del Solar.

— A silly little malevo , the taita declared indulgently. Did the women ever laugh!

The group fell silent in adulation. The three scholars stared at Flores as if they’d just discovered who he was. 11The lines hardened around the pesado Rivera’s mouth. The taita bowed his head as though overburdened by laurels. Only Juan José Robles seemed indifferent to the emotion of the moment, absorbed as he was in the antics of the puppy dog Balín, who was now playfully biting his shoe. But just then a brutish guffaw erupted from the circle of mockers; the criollistas came plummeting down from the heights of heroic inspiration and in unison turned to look angrily at the trouble-makers.

— Now they’ve got me mad! growled the taita , screwing up his mug threateningly.