The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  The other guy smiled and asked him, “What do you do?”

  Franco said, “I think, I read, I wander.”

  Using short answers made his voice sound provocative. It was a deep voice—somewhat condescending, but still interesting.

  “What are you reading?” asked the blond man.

  Franco told him that he was reading a book of poetry about the anthill of humanity. The blond guy agreed with Franco: the anthill’s incomprehension—how it lacked any clarity, any sense of freedom or passion—was impressive. They each continued to add more details about the anthill’s incomprehension, agreeing about everything.

  Incomprehension is a fascinating subject, but after there is utter agreement about every type of incomprehension, a silence ensues, like an embarrassing interlude after which no new conversations can be started. There’s nowhere to pick up from. Finally, the blond guy said, “Would you like to study with me? I’m reading Essence and Existence.”

  “Yes,” Franco said.

  He didn’t know whether he wanted to study. Maybe it would be nice.

  He started to read Essence and Existence with the blond guy every afternoon, for around two hours. Franco always got there first, after a bit of a stroll. Before his new friend arrived he would think, Who will walk through the door now? Perhaps a King and a Queen. The King and Queen would walk up to Franco’s table. The King would say:

  “Son, take care of the Queen while I’m away.”

  Franco would take care of the Queen until the King came back. He would go wherever they led him. Every time he went to the café his greatest joy was imagining that someone attractive, powerful, and charming would walk in. This person would approach him and regale him with splendid clothes and a home with wall-to-wall carpeting. When the blond guy arrived, he started reading from Essence and Existence and Franco listened. When the blond guy understood something he’d say, “Of course, of course,” as if to himself. If Franco didn’t understand something he didn’t mention it, and that’s how foggy areas began to accumulate in his philosophical understanding, which led to his complete indifference. But he couldn’t say anything to the blond guy, who was so excited because he’d discovered the underlying connection between essence and existence, which Franco had somehow missed. And while they studied, Franco secretly wanted to go out to the street to see if people would look at him.

  The blond guy eventually realized that Franco was distracted and told him, “Franco, I can’t study with you. You can’t concentrate.”

  That let Franco off the hook, filling him with relief. The philosopher added, hesitantly, “We could still meet up to chat…”

  “Of course,” said Franco.

  By now he greeted people at the neighboring tables. At the next table over, there was a theater director whose play was about lack of communication; each character said their lines, but they had nothing to do with what the next person said. It was about lack of communication and retrogression; all the furniture was in ruins, but there were still remnants of former grandeur. There was petrified food and a big cobweb to symbolize the general sense of entrapment caused by lack of communication and retrogression. When one of the female characters said, “Charles has arrived,” the entire audience already knew that Charles wasn’t a person who came to visit; he was a ghost, or in any case it was a visit so private that only she could see him.

  Now the director had a problem. He was about to put on the show for the first time, but all the actors had gotten into a fight. One fellow, who had a small part, had lost his temper and sworn never to lay eyes on any of them ever again. The director had become disillusioned by the actors; he thought they were twisted people with problems. Lately, he didn’t care much about talent. What he really wanted was to direct people with principles, people who say they’re coming at five o’clock and follow through—not people who show up an hour later. People who know how to get along with each other, who have a sense of justice. He was hopelessly thinking about how to replace the man who had walked off the set when he noticed Franco: lovely face, attractive body, pleasant appearance. So he called him over.

  “Franco.”

  “Yes,” Franco said courteously.

  “I need an actor. I’d like to audition you for a small part. Are you up for it?”

  Franco was flattered. He said yes, he thought so.

  “Let’s see,” said the director. “Say: ‘These early autumn evenings make me daydream.’ ”

  Franco said the line, albeit a bit rushed.

  “Alright,” said the director, “that wasn’t bad. We’ve got to take your nerves into account, because you’re new. But you’ve got a nice voice. And a hint of nerves in a new actor is natural. It’s natural. I’d almost take it as a good sign.”

  That was how, day after day, Franco ended up going to rehearsal after his walk. He had to wait an hour to say, “These early autumn evenings make me daydream.” And although he only had one line, he spent the whole rehearsal thinking about the moment he’d walk in and say it. With the director’s help, he had learned how to control himself, how to say it in a particular way. Still, he was curious to know how it would turn out, as if he were spying on himself. He thought about which tone to use, how fast he would speak, etcetera, when he said: “These early autumn evenings make me daydream.”

  By now word had gotten out all around the café: Franco was an actor. He didn’t think about the King and Queen anymore. Now that he had become an actor he was more dynamic, he visited several tables. He felt like he had wings on his feet. You could almost say he wasn’t afraid of interrupting anyone.

  One day, a guy from the café asked him, “Franco, are you an actor?”

  “Yes,” said Franco cautiously.

  “So why don’t you invite us to see the play?”

  He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to invite this guy to see the play. “It’s almost over.” Franco said.

  “Exactly, that’s why you should invite us, because it’s almost over,” said the guy.

  “Well, I don’t know if there are any tickets left…”

  “But we want to go,” said the guy, acting as the group’s spokesperson.

  Franco didn’t invite them, but they still showed up. When he saw them he became more nervous than usual. Instead of walking meditatively across the stage, he moved quickly as he said, “These early autumn evenings make me daydream,” and since his voice was monotonous and deep, it sounded bad.

  The next day, Franco sat down at the same table as that guy who had made him nervous. His name was Guillermo. Franco waited for some sort of comment—good or bad. He’d come in expecting a change in the table and the faces, as if the faces, table, and coffee cups should look different because he’d performed and they’d seen him, but that didn’t happen.

  Guillermo, with a blank face—the same expression as always—said to him:

  “Hey, Franco, these early autumn evenings make me daydream.”

  Franco didn’t know how to take it so he smiled, confused. Guillermo was drinking wine and lately Franco had been drinking a bit, although he tried not to because it affected his voice. But this time he drank two glasses and plucked up the courage to ask Guillermo what he thought of the play. Imitating Franco’s deep voice in a mocking tone, Guillermo said, “These early autumn evenings make me daydream.”

  Franco took offense to what Guillermo had said. It was an injustice, but there was something new about it. In addition to his perception of spitefulness, his embarrassment, and the violent sense of discomfort in his body, there was something new: immense grief and uneasiness. And using his embarrassment, grief, and uneasiness, Franco—who wouldn’t harm a fly—grabbed a chair and broke it over Guillermo’s head. This fight was discussed at length in the café. Someone said, “There’s nothing worse than getting hit by a first-timer. When a first-timer punches, they give it everything they’ve got. They’re
capable of anything.” As if by magic, everyone at the café agreed with this, except for the old man, who just sat there drinking his wine alone because he hadn’t even noticed. That fight earned Franco an ambiguous reputation. On the one hand, they laughed at his outburst, on the other, they were somewhat afraid.

  When Franco left the café, he felt better. So good that for a while he didn’t look at anyone on the street like he usually did. He felt solid, heavy, and calm all at the same time. He started to think, Nope, I’m not going back to that place. Never again. The play had ended and he said to himself, I should work. After brooding over the idea of working he looked around and saw a woman around the age of thirty. She looked back at him, and her expression wasn’t one of utter awe. Her look seemed to say, Yes you should, and this reaffirmed his intention to work.

  He got a job at an office. A woman explained the job to him and helped him at the beginning. Sometimes she looked at him, at his haggard, troubled face that was beyond good and evil, and she said to him sweetly:

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m thinking.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. Let’s leave it at that.”

  She started to grow curious about him, wondering what he thought about. What does he think about? And she told her friends at the office there was a man with a mysterious face who looked like he had complex and profound thoughts.

  She also suspected him of great sadness, or maybe he had a secret weighing him down. She began to worry about him, to take care of him. He got used to that tenderness. Once in a while he’d say, “Oh!” like he was disillusioned. That mystery tortured her; they got closer and he thought that maybe they could even move in together or get married. But when she started up about the house they’d live in, the furniture they’d have, it made him feel strange. He thought, A house? Furniture? as if it were all surreal, impossible. He thought, Isn’t having a house and furniture for mediocre people? Besides, they’d undoubtedly end up with a small house.

  He no longer referred to “the anthill,” now he spoke about “mediocre people.” But he couldn’t tell her he didn’t want to get married, because he couldn’t bear to shatter her fixation with furniture, pots, and pans. Something strange was happening to her. In the afternoon, when she saw his indifferent face she’d become disappointed; but by the next morning she’d forget about that look on his face and jump right back into talking about what to buy, what to choose, which she found quite pleasant. Finally, when she could no longer ignore how disconnected he was from the entire project, she said to him, “Just tell me. What’s wrong?”

  And Franco responded, “Human beings are radically alone.”

  The girl, remembering all the pots and pans she’d purchased, said to Franco, “You’re a real asshole.”

  And he left, so as not to become involved in mediocre arguments.

  * * *

  —

  Human beings are radically alone, Franco repeated to himself. This thought—which could seem to be so harrowing—comforted and encouraged him: “Ah, solitude amidst the masses, among those who don’t understand.” And since he was radically alone, why not go to the café for a while? Who would he find? Would anyone still be there a year later?

  All the mutual accusations and the breakup meant he hadn’t bathed in two days. When he took a bath he thought, Baths are so refreshing! Back out on the street he was still in awe: A bath makes all the difference! But that thought didn’t do him any favors; nobody stole even the slightest glimpse at him. He tried to concentrate. Let’s see, “Human beings are radically alone…Humans are more than just humans, they’re also a result of their circumstances…Man and his circumstances…Man and his habitat…”

  The “habitat” of the café was exactly the same; only the old man with his glass of wine was no longer there.

  Guillermo, the guy he’d gotten into a fight with, saw him come in.

  “Franco!” he called out. “How’s it going? Where have you been hiding?”

  “I wasn’t hiding,” Franco said, somewhat irritated, and added, “I’m up to my same old tricks.”

  “Ah!” said Guillermo. “Well, I was on my way out but I hope to see you again soon.”

  “Of course, of course,” Franco said.

  “I’d like you to meet a friend, Gustavo.”

  Gustavo was dressed entirely in gray. He was fat, and on top of all that gray, as if to add a hint of color, he was wearing a small tartan scarf.

  “Alright man, I’m leaving,” Guillermo said to Gustavo. “We’ll continue another day.”

  Franco asked, “Am I interrupting a conversation?”

  “No, not at all,” said Gustavo.

  Referencing something from before, Gustavo said to a short little man, “I think it’s simple alienation.”

  “I think it’s second-degree alienation,” said the short little man with a briefcase. He wasn’t drinking anything and he kept his hands on the briefcase. What they’re saying is so interesting, thought Franco. It really is. But who else was at the café? Over there was Rolando, acting like a real gentleman. He’d gotten older, but he was still as pretentious as ever.

  As Franco prepared to greet Rolando, a young woman came over and stood next to the guy with the briefcase. He introduced her as “my partner.”

  The partner gave Franco a merciless look. Franco took the opportunity to head over to Rolando’s table. Rolando asked him politely, as if there were no past, present, or future in this life, or rather as if they were meeting in another, different life, or as if they’d seen each other two days ago, “How are you Franco? What’s new?”

  “Good. I’m good,” Franco said, somewhat disconcerted, without knowing what had perplexed him. He couldn’t help but admire Rolando just like before. His nonchalance, his tact, the way he never minced his words…

  “How are things going?” Franco asked.

  He couldn’t remember exactly what Rolando did.

  “They’re going,” Rolando said with charming indifference. “Weren’t you in the theater at some point, or am I mistaken?”

  “I was, for a spell.” Franco said reluctantly.

  “A play called Only a Few Concomitances, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it was Only a Few Consequences.”

  “Oh, right, Only a Few Consequences.”

  Two tables over a woman around the age of thirty-five sat down. She seemed proud and arrogant. Franco looked at her, then looked at her coat. He didn’t know which was more incredible: the girl or the coat. Franco started to think, “She’d take me home with her. Then I’d have a splendid overcoat, too. We’d have tea in the garden.” He looked at her, but she didn’t take the hint. Rolando asked him, “Would you like to meet her?”

  Rolando knew her! Of course, how could Rolando not know her. He was a King and she was a Queen. With a roguish wave of his hand Rolando called her over. “Monica!”

  Monica got up, pleasantly startled. She came over and said to Rolando, “How are you, darling?

  Rolando said, “Hey there, sweetheart.”

  They used Sweetheart and Darling like proper nouns, like Florencio and Susana. She looked at Franco out of the corner of her eye. Rolando, in that same great tone, with the tact he used to ask about other people’s affairs, said to her, “How are things going?”

  “They’re going,” she said.

  It was as if things could walk on their own, on a slippery course.

  “Alright, dear,” she said, “I’m off. I’m actually in a real hurry.”

  She said dear like she might say Antonio.

  “Go on, go ahead,” Rolando said.

  What a prudent man. So respectful of other people’s affairs.

  “What does she do?” Franco asked.

  “I think it’s something to do with sales, although I couldn
’t be sure.”

  Franco looked over at the table where he’d been sitting before. The guy still had his hands on the briefcase. Gustavo was talking endlessly. His partner wasn’t talking, but her eyes were engaged and her whole body was leaning forward in anticipation. Franco wanted to go back over there for a while. He didn’t want to interrupt or anything, but they looked so lively!

  He didn’t have to explain himself. Rolando knew how it worked: today we sit at one table, tomorrow another. Today we’re here, tomorrow we’re gone, and so it goes. Rolando realized that Franco was about to get up, so just when Franco was about to say goodbye, Rolando pretended to be momentarily distracted, as if suddenly wrapped up in his own affairs. Franco said, “See you soon, Rolando.”

  Rolando, apparently startled, responded warmly, but obviously without losing his usual tact: “Farewell, until eternity.”

  And Franco went back over to Gustavo’s table. The Queen hadn’t looked at him once. Franco didn’t even know if she was still there or not. Some people were blocking his view of the table where she’d been sitting. What fun, not knowing whether she was still there. Bah, she was missing a tooth. That girl was missing a tooth. Gustavo’s table was like a non-stop cinema: you could take a seat anytime, and the sacred fire of conversation never went out.

  The subject was alienation, with all its implications. Alienation was like one of those sea creatures with lots of tentacles; its interrelated tentacles formed a living organism. For example, if you touched the consumerist society tentacle and were momentarily able to express yourself clearly and eloquently on the subject, the tentacle would retract. A brief sensation of triumph would settle over those present, having made a stand against consumerist society. A silence ensued and then another of the monster’s tentacles emerged: the mass media and their pernicious influence on the education of children.