The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  One day, a lady I often visited said to me:

  “Father, don’t you have a holy card for me?”

  I didn’t have any holy cards. In fact, among the more evolved priests we sometimes made fun of the ones who gave out holy cards.

  “I don’t give out holy cards,” I said condescendingly.

  “You’ve got to get one for me, alright?” she said.

  “Alright, alright. I’ll bring you one.”

  And every time she asked me I would tell her I didn’t have any, that I had forgotten, disproportionately feigning my oversight. I didn’t want to give out holy cards. I started to think about how strange people are. This stubborn lady, for example, who could win a fight against five truck drivers, who was relentless and headstrong, and wanted a holy card at all costs. Forgive me for laughing, but the contrast between this lady and the holy card amuses me.

  Then I began to approach the matter differently: they wanted to give me something, cake or wine, and they expected something else in return—even if it was just a holy card, a token to remember me by. Apparently, the only thing I could receive were the cakes I praised, or the wine. But they wanted something, too. Why couldn’t they give me something else at my visits? Because the gifts distracted me from dealing with their real problems. When I brought up something personal, trying to get to the core of it, they would defend themselves tooth and nail, so I figured, they’re not ready yet. Now’s not the right moment.

  I was fatter and heavier by the day, and I had gotten used to giving out holy cards. An unexpected event ended up freeing me from that apathy. One of the houses I visited belonged to a couple; they were still young, almost middle-aged, and I would listen to their confession. They were some of the few people with whom I could talk freely, in confidence and with a certain degree of intimacy. They had beautiful children, were a handsome couple themselves, and had everything they needed without being rich. Their house was welcoming, their kitchen cozy, and on many nights we would get together to talk. They would invite me over to dinner on a whim, when they felt like it. I was comfortable with them because they were practically the only people who told me what they really thought of me: that I was starting to let myself go.

  I don’t know exactly what I liked most about that house, the confidence it inspired or that I could leave whenever I wanted—I think it was everything. The children, the dog—everything made me feel good there. Meanwhile, I worked to chip away at a hint of intolerance I sensed, a certain stubbornness of theirs regarding religious and political matters. It seemed to be a shallowness inherent in people who were well off, to those who hadn’t endured a childhood like my own. Their theories about potato farmers were quite far-fetched. My whole family had been potato farmers, so I could tell them all about my own experience. But I’ve always found it difficult to express myself: I know what things are like, I feel them, but perhaps I refrain from explaining things because I find it hard. That’s why I admire Father Frers, who speaks Latin and expresses himself so perfectly in Spanish. He has the gift of language, which is a gift from the Holy Spirit. But getting back to my story, one day, Pablo, the oldest of their children, comes to get me and says:

  “José, come quickly! Papa…Papa—he wants to kill Mama.”

  But I couldn’t move. I became petrified, as if I had been struck by a blow that shook my whole body. I started to sweat. I drank a glass of water and walked over as best as I could. Pablo kept saying:

  “C’mon, let’s go.”

  They lived right by the church. I walked through their charming little yard—it’s somewhat neglected, and now it felt sinister to me. I walked inside and there he was with a gun in his hand. She was sitting on the floor, her legs spread in a daze. He saw me come in and said:

  “Careful with the gun, it’s silver.”

  I asked the Holy Spirit to enlighten me, quickly, about what I should do. I didn’t have time to think. Then the Holy Spirit moved me to say this to him:

  “Moron, asshole. What a nice gun you’ve got there. You like guns, huh? What a big man you are.”

  I spoke in a controlled and violent tone. It was the voice of—how can I describe it…? Like a gangster’s voice. And afterwards I was surprised by the fact that I had spoken in that tone. I managed to catch him off guard, he never imagined that I could talk like that. He put down the gun and started walking around. Pablo watched everything carefully. The wife got up, and that meant it was all over.

  I told him:

  “Look your boy in the eyes.”

  He hugged the boy and cried, then all three of them gathered together and hugged and cried. Luckily the littlest one wasn’t there. Then the wife took Pablo to bed and I stayed with the husband, talking in the kitchen. I used the courage that had been given to me by the Holy Spirit—it wasn’t my own. Physically I felt bad, but I had to rise to the occasion because he needed help just then. I used courage I didn’t have and it was bad for me, because I felt sick. I think it was bad and good. It was bad for my body but good for my soul. I’m not sure if you can understand what I mean. My body got sick, but after it all went down I felt a sense of relief and a need to leave that place, that town. The event led me to realize that I had been wanting to leave that town for a long time. Lots of things went through my head. Even though the Spirit had spoken through me in that gangster voice to calm him down, every time I looked at him I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d said and my tone of voice. It was as if I had been struck by a spirit. Meanwhile, whenever I looked at the little houses with their perfectly trimmed grass, the stately homes with their little streetlights, I thought, Just imagine all the disasters going on inside! Those houses had lost the sense of peace they used to inspire in me. But despite that lurking sensation, I felt like my soul had been revived. Having regained my own soul, I was able to locate the souls of other people again because they had become lost to me, too. And even though I was in a rush to leave—and I was—even though a whole series of sinister visions appeared to me, I felt a sort of gratitude. The idea of leaving made me happy. I told my superior that I wanted a transfer, and my superior transferred me to this school, where you see me today. The truth is—I’m going to be honest here—I’m not cut out for school.

  The first bell rings, we raise the flag, and when everyone goes to their classrooms I think, “Now the cattle have gone to their pen.”

  I have to take great pains not to say it out loud, some of the teachers would be horrified. They come and tell me:

  “Father, we bought a microscope.”

  And I say:

  “How marvelous! I couldn’t be happier that you’ve bought something so useful, so beautiful!”

  “Come, Father, come take a look.”

  I go over to get a glimpse. I look through the microscope for a while and say:

  “How extraordinary!”

  But I don’t know what it is, I can’t tell. The truth is my mind is somewhere else. Ever since I started at this school I’ve been thinking about something else, which really helps me to cope. They go on about how they’ve bought a telescope, how the Spanish teacher fought with the History teacher, and I try to deal with the mothers. Mrs. Luchesi sought me out five times until she tracked me down: it was to inquire why I had given her son an “A” instead of an “A+”. She came ready for an argument but we ended up on friendly terms. And I’m patient, I’m in a good mood because I’ve decided that, as soon as I can, I’m going to go live in the countryside as a beekeeper. Bees—do you know how industrious they are?

  I Don’t Have Wings

  WADDLING along on his short and stubby legs, Don Mascali made his way through the sown fields of the farms, carrying a basket. He stepped flatly with one foot and then the other, swaying from side to side and singing as he went. Every day he walked through the farms selling salami and fresh home-baked bread. His house smelled like smoke from the bread oven; his neighbors watched from afar
as he fanned the fire with his two sons, Enrique and Leonardo. They were his assistants and he was their master: he taught them the secrets of fire, all about the bread paddle, and everything else they needed to know. He told them that on their way to school they were never to walk by the river because there was a crazy man down there. He also told them they should set aside two whole salamis and one hunk of cheese for the school principal (bless that woman’s heart, may God grant her a long life!). To all these life lessons, the boys answered:

  “Sí, papito!”

  The school principal had already told him not to give the boys salami and cheese for breakfast: such heavy food made them drowsy right after morning recess, and they fell into a deep sleep. Yes, he had taken the lice medicine home with him, but his wife threw it out. She’d gotten better for a while, but before long she was back to her old tricks: she spent the whole day looking at herself in a tiny mirror under the sun. Or she put on makeup and shaved her legs right next to the chickens, the pigs, and the cow. She called herself by more than one name: María de las Glorias Argentinas, Princess, and Maribel. “My princess!” was what Don Mascali had called her while they were dating.

  * * *

  —

  But it didn’t take long before she decided the countryside wasn’t for her: the house smelled of smoke. Besides, she wanted magazines to keep up on what was going on in the city. Whenever he could, Don Mascali went to town and bought them for her: magazines filled with smartly dressed girls sitting on leather armchairs. It all started one day when she broke into tears, ripped up the magazines, and burned them to ashes. He explained to the children:

  “Mama’s feeling a little sick, but she’s going to get better.”

  There were no fashion magazines for boys: Don Mascali dressed them for school in long wide pants that had been donated to them, and besides, they tucked the pants into high boots anyway. He cut their hair nice and short so it would last, but his eyesight was starting to go and sometimes his haircuts weren’t entirely even. The boys’ hair was too thick for the comb, and often their father couldn’t find the comb, the scissors, or even a knife. Those boys alternated between unbridled joy and snotty-nosed tears. They were overjoyed to see the principal (she knew better than to scold them because they burst into tears at the drop of a hat), but when the other children laughed at their hair, they cried. Especially little Enrique—one kid called him “baldy with braids.” And they cried when they couldn’t find their pencils at home: because they wrote with thick carpenter pencils, even their own handwriting brought them to tears. Sometimes you couldn’t tell whether the expressions on their faces were from laughter or tears, or everything all mixed together. But they never refused to go to school because the principal was there; she assured them that they would learn and she would hold on to their school supplies for them.

  * * *

  —

  Not long after Mrs. Mascali burned up the magazines, she started to say that the cow was giving her the evil eye; she wanted that cow taken away. Don Mascali moved all the animals as far away as possible, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted him to go to town and bring her face powder, lipstick, bobby pins, a hairband, and fabric to make dresses. So with basket in hand, he went off to town once a month and bought her everything she asked for. At first he had trouble explaining himself to the shopkeeper, and it was almost impossible to read the scribbled notes he took to the fabric store. But since he always bought the same items, the shopkeeper nodded to his clerk, and looked the other way:

  “Give him the usual.”

  And Don Mascali returned home with his heart in his mouth, never knowing whether the errand would be well-received, because sometimes she was happy but other times she was displeased. She would say that the face powder smelled like manure and the fabrics were so wrinkled they looked like someone had chewed on them. On those days, the presents infuriated her more than ever, and she would go on about witchdoctors who chewed on fabric. She blamed the poor cow too, which was off grazing unaware of her tirade. Don Mascali could tell when she was worse based on her clothes: the most dangerous of them all was María de las Glorias Argentinas, with her long skirt that hung to the floor and a spade she used as a scepter. In that attire she ranted and raved about the founding fathers; plus, the scepter was dangerous. When he saw her dressed up like that, he didn’t give her anything. She wore the hairband no matter which outfit, and didn’t remove it to take a break from Maribel or Princess. In summer, she always wore the same old slip; in winter she wore the same dress that was coming apart at the seams. She was at her best when she sewed something for a long time, and read under the sun. She jotted down notes in the margins of the magazines. But one time, she seized the knife and started cutting up the cheese and salami. Ever since then, he began hiding the basket behind a tree and buried the knife in some ashes. Once he spoke with a doctor in town, who told him:

  “She needs to be put away.”

  So he ended up having to leave the children alone for quite some time. How he wished to have wings so he could fly from here to there! By the time he went to visit her, her skin had almost turned black: she’d stayed out in the sun at the hospital, refusing to get up from her bench. She told him:

  “Take me home, I promise I’ll be good. Take me with you, I don’t like this school.”

  Seeing her all burnt by the sun, he took her back home. Besides, he couldn’t up and leave everything to go visit her. The place was so far away; he had to sell his goods to make a living. He’d left the boys alone, his feet were tired, and he thought, I don’t have wings. If I did have wings, I would first make my rounds and then go visit the hospital so she wouldn’t feel so alone. That way he could sell in town too; he would make so much more money; with his earnings he could build a room for her—no, not just a room, a whole house behind the main one. No, not just a house, a palace, so she would be comfortable, to make her happy. That way they could be together and separate at the same time.

  * * *

  —

  Every now and then he went to the principal’s house to see whether she’d buy his goods. Sometimes she told him:

  “Not today, I don’t need anything today.”

  But he wouldn’t leave; he stayed chatting about the children for a while, about their progress. One day she said:

  “Leonardo is learning, but Enrique is a lost cause.”

  And his eyes filled with tears. Lately, he found himself shifting from laughter to tears in a split second, and the principal thought to herself, What an admirable, hard-working man! How does he manage it all? What a good father! He could teach the rest of us a thing or two. He could use a break. Plus, he’s so sensitive. I wonder, that expression of his—when you don’t know whether he’s about to burst into laughter or tears—it must run in the family, because Enrique has exactly the same expression.

  Then she gave him some advice about life: you’ve got to carry on, God willing. But you must also take care of yourself—eat a diet with fruits and vegetables, fruit is very important. And the children don’t need to be so bundled up: they’re always running around during recess, they get so sweaty and, well, you know…

  But Don Mascali just stood there. He wanted to ask her if maybe…Just until his wife got better, just until they found the right cure, the right medicine—whether the principal couldn’t possibly take care of the children for a while…Even if they were to live right there in the school, they knew how to sweep and clean.

  He started to say:

  “I wanted to ask you…”

  But he didn’t finish. There’s that face again. Oddly enough his skin looked yellowish in some spots, tinged with red and purple splotches in others. It contorted as if on the verge of something.

  The principal didn’t know what else to say, so she told him:

  “Alright, chin up. Even the longest night comes to an end. God who gives the wound gives the salve.” And then:
<
br />   “Excuse me Don Mascali, but I’ve got some things to take care of…”

  And she gave him some lice medicine.

  He put the medicine in his pocket and left. He was overwhelmed by so many battlefronts. For starters, the pocket had a hole and he had to make sure the entire way home that the medicine didn’t fall out. The principal had given him so many instructions he had already started to forget them. Plus, he couldn’t help but worry about what state he would find his family in when he got home. He didn’t have wings to get home more quickly. The walk seemed neverending.

  * * *

  —

  Don Mascali had always sold his products at the only market in town. The locals gathered there, drinking grappa or Cinzano. He used to peddle his goods at the door, but recently they’d called out to him:

  “Come in.”

  But he didn’t sit down with them. He sat at an empty nearby table and they conversed from one table to the next. He ordered grappa and downed it like a shot, as if it were cool refreshing water. The most insolent of the locals said:

  “Looks like we’re thirsty.”

  And his sidekick added:

  “Yep, parched.”

  “Don Alfonso,” the first man said to the owner. “Another grappa for the gentleman.”

  He said “gentleman” wryly. Don Mascali protested: No thanks; he was just on his way out. That’s when the insolent one told him:

  “Got you on a short leash, has she? Yesterday your princess was in here.”

  “Yesterday when?” he said alarmed.

  “As far as I know, yesterday was yesterday. All decked out when she came in. Looking real snappy.”

  “Yep, above all, real snappy,” said the sidekick.

  Don Mascali wore that face like he had just stopped laughing and was about to cry all at once.