Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

PEREDA

Let’s say the ambition for glory.

ADAM

Maybe. Dante speaks of the glory his work will earn him. And he talks about it so seriously, one can guess it isn’t a human prize but a divine reward he hopes for.

PEREDA

Reward for what?

ADAM

(He hesitates, then suddenly blurts out.)

Let’s say for his “fidelity” as an imitator of the Word and as an agent of First Love.

SCHULTZ

Are you sure the poet’s fidelity is so great?

ADAM

The true poet will sacrifice all for his vocation. (Dramatic.) Listen well: even his soul!

SCHULTZ

(Point blank.)

Would you write if there was no one left on earth to read you?

PEREDA

Bravo, Schultz!

CIRO

Ecco! Ecco!

ADAM

(At the height of exultation.)

Look, Schultz. Imagine a rosebush on the verge of producing a rose, and just then the angel’s trumpet announces the end of the world. Would the rosebush stop?

SCHULTZ

(Surprised.)

I don’t think so.

ADAM

(Sublime.)

Thus is the poet!

(There is an eloquent silence. Ciro Rossini, who has been savouring those grand words without understanding them, shows symptoms of suffering a fit of lyricism, for he is feverishly assailing his hair dyed with La Carmela. Very worried, Luis Pereda turns his attention to the other group, where the three Bohemians are now singing and gesticulating amid a hurricane of Homeric laughter. The astrologer Schultz is a statue.)

PEREDA

Baudelaire had the same excessive idea. Didn’t he say that God reserves a place among his angels for the poet?

ADAM

(Somber.)

I wouldn’t count on it.

PEREDA

And yet, you were just saying…

ADAM

(Now locked in an internal struggle that later will cause him to break down. The drums of the night are beating in his soul, but they are still far away.)

I’m referring to something else. The poet is an imitator of the Word in the order of Creation, but not in the order of Redemption.

SCHULTZ

(Fixing him with cold eyes.)

What do you mean?

ADAM

(The nocturnal drums are beating louder and louder in his soul.)

I mean, if it’s easy for me to imitate the Word in the order of Creation, it’s difficult to do it in the order of Redemption. (Stammering, increasingly distressed.) On that level, only the saint perfectly imitates the Word. Do you know what a saint is? Read the life of Saint Rose of Lima, for example. Something terrible, monstrous, repugnant… 13

PEREDA

(Getting worried.)

Che! Che!

CIRO

Cripes!

SCHULTZ

I’ve suspected something was up. For some time now.

ADAM

(Doesn’t hear them. Continues talking as if to himself.)

It’s absurd! One is swimming along in murky waters, and suddenly one realizes one has swallowed an invisible hook. Do you understand? (The drums beat in a deafening crescendo.) One resists, thrashes around, tries to cling to the bottom. It’s no use! The invisible Fisherman is tugging from up above! (The drums have beaten themselves out. Adam Buenosayres lets his head fall forward on the table, noisily toppling the only glass.)

CIRO

(Frightened, addresses Pereda.)

Santa Madonna! What’s wrong with him?

PEREDA

(Picking up the fallen glass.)

He’s pissed as a newt!

(With extraordinary gentleness, Ciro Rossini pats Adam on the shoulders. The bard of Villa Crespo, responding to this wordless solicitude, lifts his head and executes the following motions: he puts his right hand into his pocket and pulls out the Blue-Bound Notebook, then quickly puts it back as though in alarm; he reaches into the other pocket, pulls out a faded handkerchief, and dabs his eyes with it; he puts the handkerchief back in his pocket and accepts a glass of wine that Luis Pereda holds out to him in the attitude of the Good Samaritan; finally he smiles, shy and embarrassed.)

ADAM

Absurd night! (Sighing.) It’s nothing.

CIRO

Ecco! That’s the spirit.

PEREDA

Brother, I thought you were having an attack.

ADAM

It’s over now. (Recovering.) Let’s go on to the third point.

SCHULTZ

The work of art?

ADAM

That’s right, the work of art. (Still sighing.) Do you know what a “homologue” is?

(Schultz prepares to answer, but loud voices coming from the other sector cut him off.)

BERNINI

(Shouting at the top of his lungs from the other table.)

Hey, you guys! Come here, all of you!

PEREDA

(Shouts back.)

What’s up?

BERNINI

They’re gonna have it out!

PEREDA

Who?

BERNINI

The payador Tissone and Franky!

The incident had occurred when The Bohemians had finished their number. In the silence following the applause, the payador Amundsen, eyes sparkling, fiendishly challenged the payador Tissone. Tissone blanched under the pressure of everyone staring at him and waiting for his response. A wave of courage rushed through him, and he cried in a sublime tone:

— I’m called to my game!

The conditions of the contest were set out forthwith. The payador Amundsen was to put a difficult question to the payador Tissone, who then had to answer to the best of his ability. Tissone would accompany himself on his own guitar, whereas the payador Amundsen, whose fingers weren’t in shape that night, would be accompanied by one of the three Bohemians. Those listening were duly constituted into a Jury that would decide who was the champion. No betting was allowed; as Franky pointed out with dignity, this was no cockfight or boxing match; it was a first-class criollo competition.

When Luis Pereda, Ciro Rossini, the astrologer Schultz, and Adam Buenosayres arrived at the arena, the tableau laid out before their gaze was impressive. The two contenders sat face to face, serious and dignified as befitted the occasion. The payador Amundsen, his finger on his temple, was listening very attentively as his accompanist rehearsed the few bars of music to which Amundsen was to set words when it was his turn to sing. He was flanked by the pipsqueak Bernini and a second Bohemian, the two patting him on the back and cheering him on with words of unconditional devotion. Samuel Tesler, Prince Charming, and the third Bohemian were with the payador Tissone, who sat holding his guitar, oblivious to everything, even Samuel Tesler’s supposedly confidential offer to place his wisdom at the payador’s disposal, if Franky’s question — hollered Samuel thick-tongued — got him into a tight spot.

Stalling for time, Franky Amundsen, the centre of everyone’s expectation, turned to the payador Tissone and said:

— Don’t crap out on me, pard.

— Don’t you fret none, Tissone drawled back, with a stolidity revealing of his mettle.

There were a few more seconds of silence. All of a sudden, Franky’s face lit up and an ineffable smile dawned on his lips.

— Here goes! he said.

His guitarist strummed furiously, and Franky addressed the following ditty to his opponent:

My countryman Don Tissone,

if you really know what’s right,

then tell me, your humble servant:

Why does the seagull shit white? 14

The listeners exclaimed in amazement and exchanged knowing looks, for Franky’s question was a tough one probing the most arcane depths of nature. The payador Tissone looked profoundly shaken.

— That’s one killer question! said Bernini.

— It’d stump the devil himself, opined one of the Bohemians.