Andrés Neuman - The Things We Don't Do

Borges was blind, although he could still make out shapes, blotches, shadows. He could not read books or recognize faces, but he could see phantoms. Golden phantoms. As those of us who were his unconditional fans were aware, out of the precarious well into which time had gradually been plunging him, Borges could distinguish a single colour. Therefore, when we learned he had agreed to give a talk to our Foundation, some of us thought up the idea of preparing a modest homage for him: all those present were waiting for him dressed in yellow, the feline yellow. Irma buttoned up her blouse, staring into space.

At two minutes past seven, on the arm of a young woman I did not know, Borges crossed the courtyard and carefully advanced between the fig plants. Several members of the Foundation went out to receive him. He approached them smiling gently, as though he had just been commenting on some amusing anecdote or other. The first thing I heard Borges say was exactly: Oh, you don’t say. And then: But that would be impossible. To my disappointment, I never found out what he was referring to. He was wearing a smart, old-fashioned-looking suit. His hair was better groomed than perhaps he himself would have wanted, and he was clutching a slim, black-bound volume. I remember how impressed I was by Borges’s hands: manicured, podgy, cold. As if, in their lassitude, they were the hands of someone who had fainted or was caught up in a not entirely pleasant dream. In a calm voice, Borges asked about details of the mansion. All our replies seemed to leave him thoughtful. Following the presentations, and after exchanging a few polite phrases which I am afraid will never find their way into any collection of aphorisms, we moved towards the events room. Borges freed himself from the arm of his young companion and walked across the entrance hall, his forehead pointing up towards the ceiling. At once there was a murmur of excitement, and the sound of chairs being pushed back. Everyone stood up and began to applaud. Still sideways on to the audience, he greeted the applause with a shy nod of the head and allowed himself to be led to the platform. I preferred to stay standing by the door. It seemed to me that it was only when he was seated and silence had returned to the room that Borges felt at ease again. And it was then that, clearing his throat, he directly addressed the yellow gathering. At first there was a slight tremor on his absent face, then it contracted; and finally, after a few seconds of whirling eye movements, it relaxed into a knowing smile. His eyes shone like two coins underwater. Chuckling mischievously, Borges exclaimed: And to think that one had already given up the idea of seeing treasure in one’s lifetime… We all laughed, and applauded once more: for a while it seemed as if the event would end there and then, before it had started.

I do not think I would be making any great mistake or showing any lack of due respect for Borges if I say there was nothing extraordinary about his talk. Borges gave us thirty-five minutes during which he simply retold, in his habitually skilful and elegant manner, what he had already said in many other lectures. That evening at the Foundation he talked about North American narrative, Nordic swords, two or three milongas , Irish revenge; I also seem to remember there was an ironic reference to Sartre. As soon as he had finished, half the hall rushed to congratulate him, ask him to sign a book or simply touch his elbow. When I bumped into Irma Moguilevsky, she gave me a bewildered look and whispered in my ear: Did you understand any of that? Surrounded by a throng of yellow, Borges attended to everyone unhurriedly, still smiling up at the ceiling the whole time. The room gradually emptied. We saw him search out the young woman’s arm and cross the dark courtyard once again. By now, night had fallen. Outside the building, several of us who were his greatest fans suggested we invite him to dinner. Borges made his excuses, saying he was afraid of catching a cold. There were some who, for this reason, were critical of his polite refusal. But what they did not know, what almost nobody knew, was that at the end of his talk his companion had come up to me to ask if I was part of the organization. Borges wanted us to know he was deeply touched by our golden greeting, and was adamant he did not want any fee for his talk, calling on our absolute discretion.

I do not think it is unfair to suggest that the lukewarm words Borges pronounced in the Foundation will soon be forgotten. And yet I know that evening was memorable. The memorable evening in which among all of us, thanks to him, we succeeded in causing a tiger.

A POET AMONG those so-called major figures receives a letter containing a poem. It is a windy morning, and the poem is by him: a magazine has translated it into a neighbouring language. His linguistic intuition suggests that it is an awful translation. Therefore, with the sincere intention of finding out if he is wrong, he decides to send this foreign version to a certain friend of his: a professor, translator, poet, and short-sighted. He accompanies it with a friendly little note begging him to translate the text into their shared mother tongue. The poet smiles, perhaps mischievously: he has of course not mentioned who the author is.

Since his friend belongs to the old postal school, not a week has gone by when in his letter box the poet finds a carefully addressed envelope containing the required response. The sender also admits he is slightly surprised, because he cannot help but feel that it must have been relatively easy to read for someone as discerning as his beloved poet, and in addition so expert in other languages; nevertheless he is happy to provide a version in their shared language which he hopes will meet with his approval, and signs off with affectionate best wishes. Without wasting a second, the poet sits down to read the translation. The result is a disaster: on a close analysis, this third poem has failed to grasp anything of the rhythm, the tone, or even what is evoked by the original. He considers himself a reader who is more tolerant than not of other people’s literary liberties. However, in this case it is not that his friend has permitted himself certain artistic licences, but seems to have taken them all at the same time. The subtleties have been lost. The diction seems unclear. Its sonority has sunk without trace.

Once he has recovered from the horror, he hastens to write to his friend, thanking him for his diligence and, above all, for the translation which he considers without a doubt to be exquisite. In spite of this, the poet does not give up, and sends this third version to another translator, who is less of a friend but has more of a reputation. He asks him if he would be so kind as to translate it into another neighbouring tongue. The excuse he gives is that a foreign magazine has asked him to translate a poem by a friend and he quite frankly feels incapable of carrying out such a delicate task. So, offering his sincerest admiration and gratitude, he signs off, promising him, wishing him, etcetera.

By this stage, the poetic result is what matters least to the disturbed poet; as soon as he receives the second translator’s reply, he dispatches it again, with an apocryphal signature, to a rigorous, bald philologist whom he has never known personally but who on one occasion penned a highly favourable review of his work. He asks him to put this text by an important foreign poet into their own language so that he can study it more closely. Several weeks later, with typical, courteous academic delay, the professor sends the rewritten poem back and suggests they meet some day to discuss the author. Although he is plainly of only minor literary interest, the philologist is amazed not to have heard of him before.