The Scent of Buenos Aires
Page 14
* * *
—
On the street—if you could even call it a street—Goran saw an equal number of light-skinned and dark-skinned folks. This made him want to learn more about the history of the town. He asked Alicia, who sold school supplies, candy, and cigarettes, and served coffee in a big, grim room. What did she know about the history of Iramain? He was the only customer drinking coffee, and she drank a cup along with him. Goran didn’t know whether he was a customer, a friend, or whether he should buy one of the objects for sale hanging on the wall. She told him:
“There aren’t any thieves in Iramain because we’ve only got a population of three hundred. But do be careful with the dogs, because you never know how they’ll act around someone from out of town. Now, if you want, you can go to Don Montiel’s place—he can explain better than me. But come back whenever you’d like, that way I can ask you all about the Netherlands. I’d love to go on a trip, but when someone comes to visit from abroad, or from Buenos Aires—not long ago they came from Buenos Aires to film the giant pumpkins—it’s like traveling without even having to pack a suitcase.”
He went to see Don Montiel, who was sitting on the sidewalk in a pair of traditional gaucho pants with a belt to match. His wife walked up soon after. She didn’t seem too convinced by their conversation. She looked faded and withered, as if the dust from the streets had penetrated her skin. Goran asked Don Montiel:
“Are you criollo?”
“Criollo and headstrong.”
“Pig-headed?”
“No, never. Pig-headed, what for?”
“Ma’am, what’s your last name?”
“Decker,” she said austerely.
“So you’re German.”
“I’m Russian.”
“With a German last name.”
“How should I know?”
She wasn’t the least bit interested in her roots. Don Montiel said, his eyes twinkling:
“Now, she’s pig-headed.”
At first Goran was shocked, then he realized it was a joke. He asked:
“How old is your house?”
“Uff, at least a hundred years old. These houses used to belong to the foremen, really rich folks. My mama lived out in the country, and grandfather used to lash us with a whip. My mama had a thousand hens and she made her own butter.”
Don Montiel’s wife interrupted and said:
“Used to be all Russian carts.”
Goran didn’t inquire about grandfather’s whip, but he did ask about the Russian carts.
Don Montiel said:
“They’re gonna make a museum inside the station: put the carts on display, the ones that used to be called troikas back in the day.”
There was a certain reluctance in his voice, as if to say, What will they think of next!
“Gonna display all types of old-fashioned things, even spittoons. Who keeps somethin’ like that? If you got one, you use it. Otherwise, who’s keepin’ a spittoon around the house? Now people even use ’em as flowerpots.”
From the museum they moved on to animals, and that’s when Goran really learned a thing or two: how an animal knows when it’s going to die, how a horse recognizes its master by their tone of voice, how people become fond of the animals they raise. “Especially the ones fed on a bottle,” said Don Montiel. “Once I had a pig used to follow me around for three miles at a time.” He also said they named the cows—there was a calf named Maruca, and another with curved horns called Bugle; there was even one called The Girl of Seventeen. And when Goran didn’t understand the Spanish word for “curvy” Don Montiel made gestures until he did. Suddenly, taking him by surprise, Don Montiel asked:
“Tell me now, how come everyone hates the Jews so much?”
Goran had studied at the university in Leuven; he thought back to all the things he’d read in the past and tried to explain the best he could. He didn’t feel like he’d given a good enough explanation, and Don Montiel seemed to agree because he said:
“But that’s all water under the bridge. What about now?”
So Goran painstakingly tried to explain again, but Don Montiel just said:
“Aha.”
Then he added:
“The Germans appear to be more easily seduced by evangelists, and the Christians too, I guess. I’m not a hundred percent Christian myself, but I suppose I’m more drawn to the priest. Although deep down, not really. Once we had a real good priest, he’d show up no matter the weather—rain, hail, or shine. Truth is, one day I got tired of him comin’ around so much, always ridin’ his bicycle down the same street, so I laid out a dead snake right where he got off his bike, just to see what he’d do.”
“What for?”
“Whatcha mean, what for? Just so he’d go somewhere else to ride his bike, so he’d stay home when it rained. When it rains everybody wants to stay in the houses. The pastor we got now ain’t worth a cent, just like the choir leader. We used to have one who could get even the stones a-singin’; the one we got now can barely hold a tune. Tell me now, how come there’s people you can’t understand when they talk? Some evangelists come down here from North America, white and black folk, built a church right next to the old bridge. You seen it? Brought a translator with ’em to sign the deed for the land, because the deed’s gotta be in Argentinean, and then they disappeared. Never came back. Makes sense, anyway. How they gonna give a sermon? Who’s gonna understand ’em?”
“Do you understand me?”
“Everything, son. Every word you say.”
Goran felt a bit shook up when he left: they’d spoken of guinea pigs, Protestants, Jews, Russian carts. What had the conversation amounted to? Clearly people in this town didn’t worry about exhausting every subject—in fact, when they said “certainly” it was almost as if they were distracted, as if “certainly” were an answer for anything. He noticed when they responded with an “aha” they actually were interested, as if reflecting on something new. But the occasional reply was enough, they didn’t inquire further, perhaps they were processing all the information in their heads. And then he noticed some people had approached them to listen in—around five or so—but they weren’t actually interested in the discussion itself. They just walked off without saying goodbye, as if the conversation had been part of a movie or on the television, and once you lose interest you can just change the channel. No greeting. But Goran was so thrilled that people really understood him when he spoke, he promised to come back and visit Don Montiel the next day.
On the third day Goran went out for a walk—which is just a figure of speech because in that town all you could do was glide gracefully from inside to outside. There were no doorsteps, you were just suddenly on the sidewalk without even thinking about it. Across from the station the vast countryside unfolded in every direction. Everything was so uncluttered, so indistinguishable, there was no room for secret thoughts. He looked down at the ground, at some dried manure, at a sheep in one yard standing by a lawnmower, a red plant in the next yard over, the kind you’d expect to find in a suburban garden. From another house came the murmur of the radio, there were chickens out back and a car out front. That’s when he understood why they interweaved topics of conversation: because everything was a mixture. Two southern lapwings hopped down the street in front of a couple (he was dark-skinned and she was blonde) with some sort of outdoor furniture workshop across the street under a parakeet cage. Goran asked the man whether he knew of anyone whose grandparents had been immigrants, to hear their story. He said:
“Of course, there’s Don Herman. He doesn’t live far, although he’s a little messed up, poor guy.”
“Messed up?” Goran asked in alarm. But he understood that the man was sick because “messed up” meant twisted, pig-headed, and sick, too.
“I’ll walk you over,” the man offered.
Don Herman’s house was on
ly twenty feet away, but it must be tradition to accompany everyone in town where they’re going. The house was white with a garden in front, and Don Herman was standing at the door as if he knew they were coming to see him. He was a very tall, thin old man who looked fragile, as if his body were uncomfortable with its surroundings. After Goran had bid farewell to the carpenter he explained to Don Herman that he’d come from the Netherlands and asked him:
“Where was your family from?”
The man started to speak in the weary voice of a convalescent. When he realized that Goran could barely understand him, he yelled back into the house:
“Eva!”
Out came Eva, her face bearing the expression of someone who’d done this all before; “same old story,” it seemed to say. She was carrying a tattered sheet of yellowish paper with the family history. The paper stated that in 1470 they’d been Czechoslovakians emigrating to Germany. The year 1470 seemed so long ago, especially because a ton of grandchildren were running around the table, that Goran asked him:
“And your grandfather?”
So Don Herman told a long story: from Germany to France, from France to Paraguay, and while his aunt was in Paraguay his brother was in Olavarria—but then they returned to breed sheep. He said:
“We were the first settlers in Iramain.”
Wow, thought Goran, what a fascinating story. But between the man’s wavering voice, the exasperated look on Eva’s face as she did the dishes, and the ten children running circles around the table, it was hard to sort out. Besides, it seemed like Don Herman wasn’t far from joining that long list of ancestors from Essen, Alsace-Lorraine, and Paraguay. So he said:
“I don’t want to tire you out.”
Eva concurred—silence gives consent—and Goran asked her:
“Do you like living here?”
“What do you think? I’m going to move to Buenos Aires.”
Her tone of voice made it obvious she thought no one could possibly enjoy living there. Don Herman looked even more shriveled and yellow, like the edges of the tattered paper about his ancestors.
When Goran left—the house was directly across from the square, he couldn’t get away from that square: the Mycenaean mask and the dog laying beside it, the same old tree with the “artistic” structure around its base made from leaves and a tire, the same tiny church—he said, “Hans, tribauss, mackassen.” What am I doing here? Don Herman was about to croak any day now, and what do I care if his sister’s aunt was from Alsace-Lorraine? Who could care less? I could die, too—I’ll be damned if it’s while I’m in this godforsaken town. And the Mycenaean mask and Don Herman’s aunt who went off to Paraguay, everything began to meld into part of the same era, all forming part of an irrelevant yet grueling past.
He saw a market called “The Redhead.” His first thought was, I should find out what that name’s all about. But then, like Don Montiel’s wife, he said to himself: What do I care? The Redhead could be a woman, a cow, anything—whatever had occurred to the shopkeeper. The town was coming to an end, abruptly; he could hardly believe a place could have such perfectly defined limits, that everything could be so still and so out in the open. Then he decided to try something new: to reach the countryside (which was his goal) he decided to make himself smaller, to move more slowly, so that the town would last longer. He looked down at the ground. Sure enough, the ground was filled with things to look at; sure enough, there was cow manure, both fresh and dry, but what do I care? On the edge of town he saw a magnificent vegetable garden at least half a block long with giant pumpkins and cornstalks. It was next to a tin house and right by the door there was a sleek car. A young man who looked like he belonged in the city was washing the car. He seemed out of place next to that house; his face didn’t look like the face of someone who tends a vegetable garden. Goran walked closer to look at the garden with feigned interest; he was still feeling the negative effects his last encounter, but he was curious to know what the relationship was between that man and the shack. He called out, hypocritically:
“What beautiful pumpkins!”
The young man stopped washing his car and said:
“Come closer, come get a good look.”
But Goran didn’t want to go look at the pumpkins or the cornstalks or any other vegetables cultivated by humans since the beginning of mankind. The young man graciously welcomed him into the shack and back out to some sort of shelter with a dirt floor, an unsightly shelter. And in a cosmopolitan voice, with flawless manners, the young man called inside:
“Mama, could you please bring out the chairs?”
From inside emerged an old lady with bright eyes and the face of someone who has hardly any friends. The son said: “This man is Dutch.”
The old lady seemed unfazed by this news, so to flatter her Goran said:
“What beautiful pumpkins!”
She replied:
“Yep, ’cept when they came from the television to film ’em there was only about seven. I always keep a club behind the door because there’s a lotta bad folks out there.”
She wasn’t a grouchy lady, just someone who seemed like she’d been born a sourpuss, and he couldn’t imagine her looking different or younger. She started to list all the bad things in the world: a woman who’d twisted her arm while rescuing a calf from a well, corrupt politicians, immoral behavior, and evil ways. Since she was a little jorobada and complained of pain in her legs, Goran imagined that each and every wrongdoing had somehow become embedded in her bones. Plus, she looked like the type of person that fought with her husband, who was walking up to them now with an egg in his open palm. He was an extremely tall man, and to change the subject Goran wanted to ask him what his heritage was, but the man obviously didn’t care because he looked at Goran flatly as if he’d always been there, without a trace of curiosity. He practically lived in the garden and every once in a while, he would walk over to the shack to say something, like now, with his palm stretched wide open:
“The hen laid an egg outside the coop.”
Without waiting for anyone to answer, or take the egg from his hand, or acknowledge him in any way, he turned back to the garden. When Goran got up to leave, the queen of wrongdoings told him:
“Careful with that dog, he’s a scrounger.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’ll bite you in the butt.”
Trying his best to make sure not to upset the scrounging dog, Goran said goodbye to the son who was still washing his car with gusto.
* * *
—
Curiously, his visit to the sourpuss-witch had been stimulating. The sun was setting and everything seemed more beautiful: the sounds, the colors. The decorative plant seemed even redder and the white mark on the white-faced calf looked like a cloud; the birdie with hiccups sang with zeal. The whole world was a concert of cows, doves, and frogs; there were no soloists. And recently, he’d been feeling thankful and happy that time was passing inadvertently, as if he couldn’t handle the passing of time from one hour to the next, and he was grateful to nature for taking care of it for him. He knew there was something wrong about that, about killing time, but the satisfaction of feeling another time of day arrive, of everything changing, was worth it. He made his way back to the houses (now, like Don Montiel, he said “the houses” and understood the expression: in the city it’s my house or your house because there are so many of them; here the houses are human shelters, they belong to everyone and no one, like shady groves). On the sidewalk he saw Don Montiel drinking yerba mate, who said:
“Come on over and cool off. Would you like a mate?”
He drank some mate to get back on his feet. Don Montiel was with one of his sons, one who looked like life had got the better of him. Don Montiel spoke and the son looked standoffish. Goran told them:
“I went out on the edge of town, to a shack.”
“Aha.”
>
“And I spoke with a woman there,” he described her using gestures. “And met her husband. Is she pig-headed?”
Don Montiel laughed and told his son:
“Did you hear that? He went out to…”