The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  Yes: Gustavo, the short guy with the briefcase, and his partner were right. When everyone worked together to defeat the thousand-headed monster, human beings would be free from a series of absurd impositions; together they would commence a more humane, natural life. Why drink Coca-Cola and Orange Crush when water is better and more natural? Why do we need powdered detergent when we can make our own soap at home? So, can’t people have anything at home? They can have books, CDs, recordings of concerts. The guy with the briefcase had a friend who had visited the Puna region. He had decided to stay in a small village of illiterate goat herders. Right there, in the middle of that incredibly silent desert, while chatting with an old local man, he took out his portable recorder and played Beethoven’s second symphony. The old man was spellbound because he was pure, his ears were pure. The desert stretching out before him was pure and the river running through it was pure, too. If we don’t take urgent measures we’ll all drown in a sea of trash. Which one is Beethoven’s second symphony? Is it the one that starts, “dundundun-dun”? No, you animal, that’s the fourth.

  Excited by the conversation, Franco wanted to be part of it and he said, “I read in People magazine that…”

  The partner looked at him with utter disdain. “You read People magazine?”

  “At the barbershop,” Franco said timidly. “I certainly wouldn’t buy it. You thought I would buy it? C’mon…”

  “Not even in the bathroom,” said the partner.

  People magazine was for shallow types. Therefore, he was shallow. The partner began to think less and less of him. Eventually, she stopped listening to him altogether, so he ended up not saying anything at all. Since he never said anything, they didn’t even notice he was there. One day he was tired and he said, “Well, I’m going to go…”

  Nobody asked him if he had something else to do, or why he was leaving. As he left he said to himself, Perhaps I shouldn’t go back. He didn’t bother to say, I’m never going back because he knew that sometimes he said that and then went back anyway. These thoughts flooded him with grief. He wanted to cry—not burst out sobbing, but his eyes welled up all the same. It wasn’t an intense feeling, it was a light mist that had risen to the surface without his consent, persistent and underlying. If his thoughts drifted to something else, the mist would suddenly return. It was so persistent that it began to annoy him. He looked at himself in the mirror to see what the crying fellow looked like. His face was gloomy. He had a few gray hairs, but they weren’t distinguished or emphatic. His face was lifeless.

  * * *

  —

  “Well,” said Franco, “pompadour hairstyles are out, so I can’t wear my pompadour shoes anymore. Sleek hair is in, so I should use sleek shoes to match.”

  He bought a pair of simple loafers. And a pullover with a high collar looks good when you’re tan, but when you’re pale, a bit haggard if you will, that high collar seems to swallow you up, as if you’d just as well hide your face behind the collar. What about a plain, simple white collar that’s inconspicuous, paired with a pullover in a discreet color; not gray—you don’t want to look like a priest. Yes, that’s nice. The truth is, it suited him. He wasn’t going to stay at home dressed in such nice clothes. He hadn’t been to the café in a long time. Would Guillermo be there? Nobody had ever seen Guillermo again. Rolando? Rolando was hanging out at a different café now, he ran with a new crowd. Franco sat down and remembered how Rolando would call the waiter over. “Waaiiter,” he would say, emphasizing the first syllable, sing-songing at the end, with neither humility nor arrogance. Now that Franco was a gentleman, the waiter came running. Being a gentleman, he could have his shoes shined, and while the man polished them, Franco put on his expression that was beyond good and evil. But he was thinking, Guillermo isn’t here, Rolando isn’t here and there’s nobody I know. If only Corrales would drop by…Corrales always used to pop in, in and out, in and out, sticking his head through the door. Sometimes he would be invited to sit at a table. He was considered to be a mediocre person…Although he did know all about coin collecting, so who knows…

  But Corrales didn’t stop by either, he must have had something better to do than go to the café. Was it possible that Franco didn’t know anyone at any of the tables, not even someone he recognized from the street? It was as if the world had entered a different orbit, spinning on another axis, following other plans. He ordered a whisky. As soon as he started to drink, he realized both his thoughts and everything around him would be exactly the same once he had finished. It wouldn’t matter if he had ordered roast kangaroo. Suddenly, someone broke the spell. He saw a familiar face, someone he knew from a long time ago. It was the Bible salesman. Nobody knew his name, and no one asked him either. Back in the day he had been an old man, but he hadn’t aged much since. He wore the same clothes in winter and summer, and in winter he didn’t wear socks. He was still enthusiastic—socks or no socks—going from table to table. Only one out of every ten tables he approached would engage with him, briefly, but he was undeterred. He didn’t care whether they accepted or rejected him because he was on a mission to spread the word of God. As soon as Franco made eye contact, the man approached, taking purposeful strides, and Franco, who had always considered him to be mediocre, said, “Sit down. Would you like some coffee, or something else?”

  “Thank you,” said the Bible salesman.

  He never drank anything. He took out the Bible, opened it to the book of prophecies and started to read about all the calamities predicted by the prophet Ezekiel, because of all the sinners. It was impossible to interrupt the Bible salesman; neither Franco nor anyone much more seasoned could have done it. But why should he send him away? He ordered another whisky and felt reassured; he was alive, he had some money to spare, the weather was nice. He had completely disengaged from what the Bible salesman was saying. Once in a while he heard something like, “but then Jonas…” or “Thou shall never say.” At some point the salesman lifted his finger and said, “The path is narrow.” Franco stared at him as if he were listening. Once in a while he heard something random. It didn’t matter. He was filled with a new, joyous sensation. He was alive and he had some sort of hope. He didn’t know what for, but it didn’t matter.

  Sunday Afternoon Visit

  MRS. Emma found lots of little ways to pass the hours, and although she was mostly content with them, she didn’t know what to do when there was too much time to complete a simple task, but not enough to take care of something more involved. It was idle time and lately she felt like there was both too much time and not enough. When she wanted to start on some task—for example, organizing the shelves—she would say to herself: “But I won’t have enough time.” That’s how she felt on Sunday afternoons when she thought about cleaning out the drawers or pulling dead leaves off the plants. It filled her with a sense of sadness, too, because the city was absolutely silent. She wondered where everyone had gone—not one noise, not one sign of life. Besides, she’d realized that plants can survive a long time without someone fussing with them, and as for the drawers and the shelves—let them fill up with whatever they wanted. There were so many exhibitions, concerts, and conferences to attend. She read about them diligently in the newspaper—but how to know which one was the best? They all seemed equally interesting; she found herself saying, “Yes, I could go.” She’d tried going to some exhibitions, book launches, forums, and debates, but once she’d arrived she felt like she could have stayed there forever and never gone home. On Sunday afternoons her house became even more monotonous than it was on other days. Sometimes she felt like doing something extraordinary, but she didn’t know what that could be. As a result, she’d come up with a new way to kill time that wasn’t too demanding. Every two weeks, on Sunday afternoon—never any other day—she invited over Paula, the girl from the apartment next door. Paula came over with her puppy dog, which was going to grow to be the size of a small horse and was already enormous. The sheer size of the a
nimal seemed inconsistent with its leaps and twirls; you’d think a beast of such stature would have reached the age of moderation. Mrs. Emma poured him water in a red bowl and gave him an old piece of string from a roller curtain to play with; the dog had learned to expect both these items when he arrived. Paula often would tie an elegant bandana around his neck, knotted stylishly at the nape. As soon as they’d walk in, the dog would tug at it until it came off and play with it, sprawled on his back, paws up in the air as if he were doing the air bike.

  “It’s because he’s so excited to come over here,” Paula explained.

  Paula had already gone through her fashion phase last year, when she wanted to be a catechist and a model. She arranged her scarf just so—tucked in, in an attempt at both practicality and functionality. Indeed, the dog got all riled up when he came over—like an overwrought actor effusively thanking his audience. Paula was the dog’s trainer: there was a sharp contrast between the animal’s merriment and the little lady’s sense of restraint. Paula’s stern tone of voice, with menacing undertones, foreshadowed a personality that has what it takes.

  “Enough! I’ve said it once and I won’t say it again.”

  Mrs. Emma felt sorry for the dog—getting scolded so harshly. She brought over his bowl of water. The dog took a few laps to show his appreciation and then trotted right back over to the sofa, so as not to miss a thing. He seemed to be pulled in every direction, he went from exploring to licking their faces, and then right back out to explore.

  Mrs. Emma gave Paula a book about astronomy (now she wanted to be an astronomer). It explained the hole in the ozone layer and the possibility of life on Mars. She’d rationalized it to the bookseller by telling him it was for a 12-year-old girl—she didn’t want him to think the book was for her. She couldn’t stand the idea of people imagining she were even stranger than they already thought. Since she spent all her time alone she figured some people in her neighborhood must think of her as a harmless lunatic.

  And there they were, reading questions and answers posed by the book. While Paula read about Ganymede, the dog ripped a piece of paper into tiny bits and ate it: his trainer was distracted. Other strange planets followed and the reader became entirely absorbed.

  “Does he eat paper?”

  “He eats everything,” she said without looking up.

  Mrs. Emma gave the dog some old crackers which he crunched up loudly, in celebration.

  “Look up something about Mars.”

  Mars had always intrigued her when she was a girl, and even much later in life. Now, after so many years, she was still drawn to it: there may have been life, there still could be, but no one knows. The dog was lying at his owner’s feet, undoing her shoelaces. What did the book say? Was there or was there not life on Mars? But of course there was! It was a nebula. Paula blurted out enthusiastically:

  “There’s a probe that’s going to reach Mars in the year 2004!”

  “Wow!” replied Mrs. Emma hypocritically. In truth, she was thinking about several things, other things, all at once. She was remembering how passionately, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, she’d wished there were life on Mars. As if it would have changed her destiny. She was also thinking about how her blouse needed to be washed; how she couldn’t forget to buy mandarin oranges when she went out; and how the dog had fallen asleep at his owner’s feet. Why did she enjoy their visit so much? If they’d come over separately—just the girl or just the dog—she wouldn’t have liked it as much. But the subject of astronomy was getting tedious now: they’d come to a part about planets from another galaxy, which were something like 10,000 light years away, so Mrs. Emma asked her:

  “Tell me about the little gypsy girl.”

  Paula had a classmate at school who was a gypsy, and whose mother was even more of a gypsy. If the little gypsy girl was somewhat unorthodox, the mother was even more so—at least according to Paula’s aesthetic criteria. It seems the little gypsy girl had some learning problems and she hardly ever spoke to anyone.

  “Don’t be cruel to her,” Mrs. Emma said, adding some explanations about why gypsies were the way they were.

  “No,” replied Paula.

  This no was meant to say they were hardly cruel to her; in fact, they’d never even spoken to her.

  “I mean, her mother wears high heels that look like this,” she drew them painstakingly, remembering exactly what they looked like, as if it were a scientific drawing. In her depiction the back was rounded and the high heel was sectioned off from the rest of the shoe, which had little strings hanging from it. The shoe looked like a bizarre animal, as if it were alive. “And her hair combs look like this,” she said drawing them. “Like she’s wearing a birdcage with exotic birds on her head: greens, blues, and reds.”

  She wanted her drawing to be an exact replica of real life. Suddenly she realized she’d forgotten one detail and said:

  “Wait. Do you have any markers or glitter?”

  “No…The little gypsy girl wears high-heels to school?”

  “Nooo—her mother.”

  The sleeping dog let out a sigh.

  “All that patchwork of colors mixed together is unbelievable; they mix purple with red—I mean, when it’s a muted red, that’s one thing, but…”

  Those words seem to expound upon Paula’s aesthetic criteria—criteria that were also ethical, like the Greeks: the qualities of restraint, moderation, and harmony are equally good and beautiful. Then, as if driven by an impulse, she abandoned her reflection and began to pull at her dog’s jowls.

  “What are you doing? Leave him alone,” said Mrs. Emma.

  Paula replied apologetically: “It’s just that while he’s sleeping is the only time I can check to see how his teeth are growing.”

  The dog let his teeth be prodded and stayed asleep. The teeth were perfect: huge and white.

  By now nighttime had come; that unpleasant hour between seven and eight o’clock had come and gone. When Mrs. Emma was alone she always kept her eyes glued on the clock at that time of day. First came a thin layer of gray, as if the sky itself were growing faint. The sun set slowly, which made everything glow. Night had fallen without her even realizing it. Lately, not only had she felt like there was both too much and not enough time, she’d also felt, now and again, that time was frozen. And when time was frozen, Mrs. Emma took pleasure in its passing—although she knew it was a guilty pleasure. But today, time had been good to her, it had sped by, and the dog was awake again. She asked Paula somewhat apathetically:

  “What have you taught him to do?”

  “Lie down, sit, and shake. Shake, boy.”

  The dog looked at Paula as if to say: What could she possibly want with me now? Coolly, he held out a tepid paw.

  “Don’t force him, let him be.”

  When the dog heard this, he walked over and started to lick Mrs. Emma.

  He always sensed when the visit was over, even before the humans themselves. When there was a lull in the conversation he went to find his leash and headed to the door.

  “Alright,” said Mrs. Emma. “I am going to buy him that ball—this time I’ll remember.”

  In a flash they were at the door and she started to make a list in her head: she needed to buy a very heavy-duty ball, some markers to draw gypsies and little gypsy girls, and some glitter. Perhaps she should learn something new about Mars or Venus? Who knows.

  Miss Irma

  MISS Irma was the youngest of three sisters. The elder two, who married young and produced several children, had somewhat horse-like features. The prettiest of them all was Irma, and she was both lucky and unlucky to have those sisters. Lucky because when it came to comparing their features and figures she carried the day; unlucky because there was still a family resemblance between the three. They lived in a small town and Irma read poems as a girl, but not just love poems. She read poems about landscapes and frames
of mind, too. She studied to be a teacher and admired important historical figures, scientists, and self-sacrificing people. Her favorite poem was one that described how the whole world was just one big prison. Deep down she wanted to be an actress, but she also thought contemptuously that every stage was like a big prison. She made grandiose gestures with her hands: for example, if she made a movement to express “Let sleeping dogs lie” she could conjure up spite flawlessly, together with her haughty expression and squinty eyes. If there was something she truly treasured—namely a landscape from a book she had read—she clasped her hands together as if she were praying and her eyes lit up.

  Then she had a boyfriend who she never introduced to anyone, and no one ever knew why she stopped seeing him. Afterwards, it wasn’t clear whether she’d suffered or cried, but she did become more of a loner and cared less about petty things. By this time, she no longer thought the world was a stupid prison; she’d simply resigned herself to her own toxic prison to be braved without trusting anyone. If someone at work started a conversation with her by saying, for example: “What crazy weather we’re having! One minute it’s raining, then the sun comes out…” Miss Irma would answer: “It’s true, what crazy weather.”

  But there was something in her voice that was strained, as if any sort of weather could be crazy. A mixture between reservation, sadness, and distraction. She also used some slang words from lunfardo that had become common among the teachers, for example despelote. But when she said despelote it didn’t evoke an image of what the word meant: chaos, a three-ringed circus, a riot. It was as if she were caressing the word with that sweet, flat little voice of hers.

  Miss Irma was the type of person who truly abhorred ignorance. At school, the other teachers and the principal were indifferent to ignorance. But nobody hated the rural schoolteachers. Everyone admired them from a distance—how could you not? But they occupied about as much space in her coworkers’ brains as nuclear fission. In contrast, Miss Irma was capable of quoting Ms. Ermelinda de Suárez, the teacher from Faimallá who had invented a reading method based on color-coded index cards. Miss Irma was in favor of working with minimal resources, for example old matchboxes, rolling papers, etcetera. The children used the matchboxes as a place to keep little bugs. She decorated the classroom with dolls that all looked alike, wearing dresses trimmed with garlands. These dolls were made of cardboard: the top half was flat, but to make their dresses round and get them to stand up, she put carrots under their skirts. To celebrate Independence Day, on May 25th or July 9th, the dolls (which she crafted all year round to play with) wore lace mantillas on their heads and held cardboard fans in their hands. For the May 25th celebrations it was Miss Nélida’s turn to decorate the school staircase. The Cabildo tower had been constructed from an empty toothpaste tube—but it seems she hadn’t had time to cover it with paper. It was plain to see how it had been a toothpaste tube, brand name and all. And in front of the Cabildo tower there were two big potatoes, which must have been meant to represent the cannons. When another teacher saw it—Miss Amanda, who wore a gold watch and beautiful shoes—she said: