Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

— Work on your notebooks now, he orders.

While the pupils write in silence, Adam leans on the windowsill. Leaning out toward the street, he lets his eyes wander. The pregnancy of the air resolves now into a very fine drizzle which, veil-like, shrouds the suburb and softens its harsh contours. Below, by a doorway, an old man sits smoking his pipe. Beside him, a pensive woman forgets her mate , and her mind drifts off toward drowsy distances. A road sweeper, in the middle of the street, gathers dead leaves, puts them into his wheelbarrow, and goes off with his pile of silver and copper tones, furtive image of autumn. Dripping sheets hang straight down in empty patios. In one patio, over there, a magnolia rises like a sombre ghost. In another, a lemon tree staggers under the weight of its fruit. Further away the poplars are nodding in the Plaza Irlanda. In the distance, unanimous in their elevation, the two steeples of Our Lady of Buenos Aires point to the highroads of heaven for the benefit of the suburb. Gazing at them, Adam evokes the interior of the basilica, its altar in the form of a shrine, and the image of a woman enthroned in the heights, with the Child in one arm and a ship in the other. 4How good it would be to find himself in that deserted space now, beneath the light filtered and exalted by the stained-glass windows! And to meditate there on the secret of that enigmatic Woman, on the vocation of the Child, on the odyssey of the Ship! He notes, however, that his meditation is returning him to a clime that is off-limits for him this afternoon. He leaves the window and looks at the desks: all heads are bent over notebooks. All except Nossardi’s. With eyes on his miniature airplane, he is lost perhaps in a daydream of conquered heights. Bellerophon! 5

— Isn’t our floating debt already too big? shrills the Principal, angrily setting his coffee cup aside.

— In my opinion, Señor Inverni rejoins, the national reserve is so formidable, it’s no problem to mortgage it somewhat. That is, of course, as long as it’s done for the benefit of public works and social projects, which we owe to future generations. (Bravo! Very good! Señor Inverni seems to hear frenetic applause from an invisible crowd.)

In front of the Principal’s angry face, Inverni takes a sip of his now lukewarm coffee. He is a teacher lean of flesh, and he has the pimply complexion, that colour of venereal disease frequently found in men of advanced ideas. But the Principal’s menacing brow is still furrowed.

— Ha! he laughs bitterly. Hand the country over to foreign interests!

The scene unfolds in the Principal’s office, around a table circumscribed by eight teacherly figures drinking their afternoon-recess coffee. Beside the window, the women teachers huddle in a hermetic group, their faces turned toward a waning light — the dry, withered faces of virgins dedicated to the goddess Pedagogy.

— It’s not just that our resources are in foreign hands, growls Di Fiore. The worst of it is that foreigners are carrying out a veritable program of corruption.

— How is that? asks Inverni.

— The Argentine, by nature, was and must be a sober man, as our country folk were and still are. And so were, and are, the immigrants responsible for the existence of the majority of us. But what’s happened? Foreigners have induced us into a cult of sensuality and hedonism, inventing a thousand needs we didn’t have before. And — of course! — it’s all so they can sell us the geegaws they produce industrially, and so redeem the gold they pay us for our raw materials. In plain language, that’s what I call eating with both hands!

The Principal raises his hand as if to bless Di Fiore.

— You said it, sir! he exclaims. You said it!

— So, protests Inverni, shouldn’t our country keep up with the benefits of progress?

— Useless needs! shrieks the Principal. Flimflams of foreign capital! Just look at what the English are up to now, trying to get us to wear their Oxford trousers!

Adam Buenosayres urgently elbows Quiroga:

— Look out! he warns him under his breath. Perfidious Albion is about to make an appearance.

— What have Oxford trousers got to do with anything?

With a half smile, the Principal spells out his concerns:

— It’s a scheme for selling more wool, he asserts. They design them ridiculously wide, so it takes twice as much material to make them, and long enough so they get worn out rubbing against the ground. And that’s not all! They’ve also introduced…

Here he gets flustered and glances out the corner of his eye at the didactic virgins.

— … short underwear, he says at last, cautiously.

— What for? asks Di Fiore.

— You’ll see. Short underwear has the effect of putting one’s knees in direct contact with the wool of the trousers. And so, within a single year, the body’s sudoriferous secretions destroy the fabric, which otherwise would easily last three years.

— A diabolical plan, growls Adam Buenosayres, as Quiroga tries to stifle a laugh.

And looking at the Principal as though eliciting a confidence, he says:

— I imagine you wear long underwear.

— Naturally! confesses the Principal. I’m not going to fatten the bank accounts of the English!

Quiroga’s laughter explodes with intense hilarity:

— But, Sir! he exclaims. Nobody wears long underwear anymore!

The Principal gives him a look full of vinegar and bile.

— Sir! he upbraids him. This is no joking matter.

Half joking and half sincere, plaintive and pathetic, Di Fiore begins to extol the virtues of long underwear:

— Our glorious forefathers wore it. And the garment gave them a truly patriarchal sense of security and decorum. It’s worn by old politicians even today, those who stay in power forever and never get around to kicking the bucket. And they’re right, because I’m telling you now, the secret of longevity is in long underwear.

The scholar’s words return the tertulia to its true atmosphere.

— A luminous theory, laughs Adam Buenosayres, looking affectionately at Di Fiore, lean, intelligent, down in the mouth.

— Hmm! objects the Principal. The problem with Argentines, gentlemen, is that they turn everything into a joke. And the solution to our problems, gentlemen, requires great seriousness.

— They’ll get serious one day! Di Fiore warns in a menacing tone.

Inverni looks at him for a moment, with lowered eyelids and a half smile:

— When? he asks.

— When the hour of truth arrives.

— And how do you know that hour will come?

— Sir, answers Di Fiore, I believe in la Grande Argentina . 6

CIRCE-FERNÁNDEZ: “On the way, you will first come upon the Sirens, who fascinate all men who cross their path. Woe to the reckless one who approaches them and hears their voices! Never will he see his wife again; nor will his little ones throng round him at any joyful homecoming. Seated in a smiling meadow, the Sirens bewitch mortal men with the sweet harmony of their song. But beside them, human bones and rotten cadavers are piled up, drying out in the sun. Give them a wide berth, and use soft wax to stop the ears of your companions, so that none may hear them! But if you wish to hear them — if you wish to listen to those melodious voices without risk — have them bind you to the sailing ship: have them lash you to the mast, feet and hands.”

Through the voice of Fernández speaks Circe, she who knows many drugs. That admonitory voice, resounding in the classroom, makes the children’s eyes brighten with a sense of foreboding. Standing side by side with Fernández, Terzián is waiting, all ready to act out a hair-raising version of Ulysses. Balmaceda, Fratino, and MacLeish, the three illustrious voices of the year, will read the part of the Sirens; though still silent, their bearing already hints at menace.