The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  “Ah, yes,” he said, visibly moving his head to answer, as if our arrival meant nothing to him. He prepared to get up and I realized he couldn’t: it was causing him great effort. Then he held onto my arm, grasping my elbow. To be more specific, he tugged on my sleeve. Honestly, I didn’t like him tugging on my sleeve so I pulled him up, grabbing on to his arm forcefully. He started taking tiny little steps and I thought to myself, I’ll walk him to the subway station and then, sayonara. But I had to take the subway, too, and I asked him:

  “Do you suffer from a foot condition?”

  “It’s my heart.”

  He said this without looking at me, his head somewhat bowed. I found myself wondering whether there was anything beautiful about this old man, whether he was wearing a beautiful hat, for example, or whether it was a beautiful day—for a Monday morning. And I asked myself why that should matter. Maybe because everything that happens to me has to have some trace of beauty. I looked at the old man and realized my thoughts were dumb and pointless. Then I had two more thoughts, simultaneously: how sad life is and how pathetic the social system is—letting a poor old man with a heart condition walk around with two different shoes. But I also thought, in disgust: Why did he tug on my sleeve? Besides, his neck is all sweaty with those little lines that form on the necks of bald men, inevitably giving off a bad smell. When we got off the subway I wanted to hand him over to someone else, so I asked him where he was going.

  “To the Ministry,” he said.

  I asked him which ministry and he didn’t know what to say: he kept pointing insistently with a shaky finger in a vague direction. I figured it would be extremely difficult to get him down the stairs, so before starting down I said:

  “Wait for me here, I’m going to ask where the Ministry is.”

  I walked off solicitously, like a helpful citizen, and I noticed he was looking at me as if I really were. I felt invigorated as I walked down the stairs, but when I got to the bottom I asked myself: How am I going to ask where the Ministry is? They’re going to ask me which one. I can’t just point with my finger like the old man. This worried me, but then I tried to regain the demeanor of a helpful citizen. I asked a worker, pointing with an air of complicity at the old man, alone at the top of the staircase. He wasn’t attempting to walk down.

  “Excuse me, the gentleman has to get to the Ministry and he doesn’t know which one. Could you…”

  “Ah, yes,” said the man, and he gave me the address.

  How did the worker know which ministry the old man was going to? He didn’t even bat an eye. He didn’t seem surprised. But I was, and I couldn’t help but think about that, because it’s happened to me before: people know things that seem otherwise impossible, like now, the relationship between a ministry and that old man. But I didn’t pause to think because the old man was up there waiting. I hastened to get back to his side, eager again, and I thought: In case somebody else…In case somebody else does what? Offers to take him there? And then what? As if I had first dibs on him! But nobody came along and we walked slowly down the stairs. At some point I said to him,

  “It’s really hot.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said.

  But it didn’t seem like the heat bothered him. By the time we reached the bottom, scores of people had gone up and down. We ended up in a big plaza with a pond in the middle. The old man grabbed me by the elbow again and, without saying a word, walked me over to a bench. I figured he was tired, although he could have spoken up. I asked him:

  “Weren’t we going to the Ministry?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything else. People walked by and looked at us and I wondered, Do they think we’re related? And I realized I didn’t want them to think we were related. On the other hand, it didn’t really matter. I kept looking at him sympathetically—much too kindly for a relative. Furthermore, I told myself, he doesn’t look like he has any relatives. At least I couldn’t imagine it. This made me feel better and I asked him politely,

  “Are you retired?”

  His face lit up and he said:

  “Yes, yes, retired.”

  I suspected—because my question seemed to provide him with an answer to justify himself, and because I figured he wasn’t actually retired—that perhaps when he was younger he had been a bum. But I couldn’t have actually asked him that, although something told me that if he had been, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Clearly, the old man wouldn’t have paid any mind to the question.

  “So,” I told him, “now we have to go. The Ministry is really close.”

  “Yes,” he said, and he got up. Then I realized he would have been impervious to anything I said: he had lost faith in everything, so now he could place his trust in anyone, that’s why he had pulled on my sleeve. I felt his hand on my sleeve again, as if to confirm my thoughts, and we started walking to the Ministry.

  There it was, before our eyes. Suddenly it hit me: the Ministry had been newly renovated. There were bright marble walls and benches where one could sit and wait, the employees wore such elegant ties. What were we going to do at the Ministry? I wasn’t sure and I figured I should ask—he wasn’t going to know what to say. And it’s not like I’m well versed in the type of thing one says at a Ministry, but I could articulate it better than him, whose hands were starting to shake. So I asked him:

  “What are we going to do at the Ministry?”

  He didn’t answer and, his hands still shaking, he took out an old piece of paper. It was all folded up, but you could tell it was valuable to him: it hadn’t been crumpled or torn. It said: “Laguna’s widow,” and something else, something entirely unintelligible. What were we going to do with this? What was it for? I racked my brain wondering just what would happen next. In the end, fed up, I made up some nonsense: Laguna’s widow was a real good kiddo. I laughed, but then I thought perhaps it was inappropriate. We walked into the Ministry and once inside the old man’s stride became lighter, as if he had gathered new strength. He touched one of those employees wearing an elegant tie and said,

  “Toranzelli.”

  “The lawyer Toranzelli isn’t with us any longer,” the employee said. “Now Rodríguez is working with us.”

  I was amazed that, despite his elegant tie, he treated the old man with such respect. Then I reproached myself for not having wanted to be related to the old man, and I decided I should treat him with the same amount of consideration.

  “Come back on Tuesday,” he said.

  The old man cupped his hand to his ear to hear better and the employee repeated:

  “Tuesday.”

  Then I thought: Alright, now I’m leaving. I’ll call an ambulance for the old man and be on my way. That’s fair, I told myself. Yes, that’s just what I’ll do.

  As soon as I walked out onto the street, leaving the old man sitting on a bench (he seemed entirely ambivalent to whether I stayed or left, anyway), the first thing I saw on the street was an ambulance. How is that possible? Is that the ambulance I’m looking for? I asked myself. Could the man in the tie have called an ambulance without telling me? Could this be another case of someone knowing things that seem otherwise impossible? What a ridiculous notion. I walked the old man out to the street and we tentatively approached the ambulance. There was a man and a young woman in the front seat. The man was making a joke and she was flirting with him. He was saying:

  “We should get some gas.”

  And then they drove off at full speed. The old man didn’t notice a thing and I silently resolved to take him home.

  It ended up getting really late on our way back; there were hardly any buses. I was distracted, standing next to him, looking around, when I vaguely noticed that he held his hand up to his chest. I saw it, but I didn’t pay much attention. Like I said, I was somewhat distracted and it didn’t seem to mean anything—but then he put his hand to his chest again, which
startled me. It’s a quirk of mine not to notice when somebody’s in pain. I could spend two days with someone whose face is just pure agony and I wouldn’t even realize it; but if they told me, I would take charge right away. Honestly, I just need them to spit it out. But my mother always says sharply:

  “I shouldn’t have to say anything.”

  I asked him:

  “Are you in pain?”

  He signaled again to his chest and I noticed that he was having trouble breathing. We got a cab and I took him home. He didn’t say anything on the way there, he just gave me the address. When we got out I asked him:

  “How do you feel?”

  And he made a gesture with his hand, like when you’re shooing the chickens away or fending off a busybody; the gesture was rather impatient. I noticed, however, that as he approached the house, and especially when he opened the door—he opened it by himself—he perked up and became more confident, he wasn’t as hunched over. I’d already seen this change in behavior at the Ministry, when he asked for his lawyer. He told me to put the kettle on and I did. I didn’t ask what for. I told him:

  “I’m going to give you a rubdown.”

  Strictly speaking, I wasn’t convinced about the effectiveness of rubdowns. I’d seen them done when I was a kid, and I remember once being surprised by how the flesh and skin continue to be exactly the same after a rubdown, they don’t change color or get stronger. Plus, the adults always said: “You’re going to feel much better now.” It was the only type of treatment I knew how to do. I removed his black hat, which smelled old, and I started the rubdown. Every once in a while I would ask him:

  “Any better?”

  And he moved his head a little, by which I imagine he meant yes. Around ten minutes into it he threw up his hands as if to say: Enough already! So I stopped and got ready to leave. On my way out, he called to me and uttered the first complete thought I’d heard since we met:

  “I don’t have any neighbors. I can’t call the doctor. Stay.”

  The truth is, I live alone. I didn’t have anybody to call, so, on that front, staying wasn’t any sort of imposition. But still, I felt a certain uneasiness and I didn’t know why. I kept going to look out the window. I looked at the trees, the sky, and the houses. At some point I turned around and noticed this: he had prepared water for a foot bath and he was putting a lot of mustard in it. I thought, cruelly: He suffers from a foot condition, just like I thought, and he didn’t tell me. So I asked him:

  “Do you have a foot condition?”

  “It’s my heart.”

  “Couldn’t it be your heart and your feet?”

  He didn’t answer. He was contemplative, soaking his feet in the water, and less agitated. The sun was rising so I got ready to leave. He grabbed on to the sleeve of my coat and said to me:

  “Tuesday.”

  “What about Tuesday?”

  “The Ministry.”

  And he gave me the smudged piece of paper that said, “Laguna’s widow,” so I would go back.

  “I’m not taking this with me,” I said.

  I’d never done anything of the sort—going to a place like the Ministry with a tattered old scrap of paper! There was no way I was going back with that piece of paper. I told him to explain the matter to me and I would relay it to the lawyer. He didn’t say a word, but he stuck the piece of paper in my pocket. Storming out, I said in a purposefully hostile voice:

  “Good night.”

  He raised his hand to say goodbye as he splashed his feet in the water.

  * * *

  —

  All Tuesday morning I had that disgusting “Laguna’s widow” piece of paper with me. I would be walking along, peacefully, and then suddenly remember it: my hand would brush up against it in my pocket and then I’d recoil as quickly as if I had touched a toad. At one point I thought: I’m going to throw it out, I’m going to rip it into a hundred pieces. But I knew I couldn’t throw it away, it wasn’t my piece of paper. And even though I’d said no, I did end up going to the Ministry that afternoon. I sat in the back corner, humiliated, hunched over. And when the employee with the elegant tie walked by I asked him if the lawyer was there. To my surprise, he was, and they called me in shortly. I tried to assume the most impersonal air I could and I reminded myself that I was smart, I had gone to college. But I couldn’t help thinking it didn’t matter how many degrees I had, with that smudged piece of paper…When I finally took it out of my pocket it was entirely unplanned: I did it without even realizing it, but I blushed when I gave it to him. He looked at it matter-of-factly, handed it back to me, and said:

  “This could take a while.”

  I thanked him—even if it would take a year—because I had secretly been expecting him to say: “Where did you get this ridiculous piece of paper from?” and thought he might give me a funny look. But he didn’t say anything else; he kindly bade me farewell and I left quickly because I needed some fresh air. I sat on a park bench for an hour; I really needed that fresh air. I looked around and everything I saw seemed beautiful to me, but too distant. And I was tempted to lie down on that bench and stay there for a long time without thinking about anything in particular; but I didn’t. Now I think maybe I should have. Instead, I said to myself: I thought everything was going to be more complicated. In fact it was rather simple; so simple that I almost didn’t even realize when I took out the piece of paper. Then I thought: Now I should go tell the old man, which put me in a foul mood. Although, it wasn’t exactly a foul mood, it was like a vague desire to curse. I started to say “Goddamned—” and then I didn’t go on, I waited for someone to come along and tell me who was goddamned. And again I said, “Goddamned—” and then I shut my mouth. I started to look around and I ended up saying: “Goddamned sky.” But that seemed wrong, so I chided myself: It was only a game. Then I had an idea. I repeated several times: “Goddamned piece of paper,” which made me happy, but then I thought: If I curse the piece of paper, how am I going to do the paperwork? Do I truly want to get the paperwork done? I didn’t want to answer that question and I managed to distract myself by looking around again, but there was nothing interesting to look at, and I started to feel bad. I felt like when you eat breakfast and you know that after breakfast there’s nothing else worthwhile, so you have to slow down, eat lots of things and read the newspaper. I couldn’t find a way out now, like I do when I eat breakfast, but suddenly I thought mournfully: I’ll buy a cake. I’ll buy a cake and we’ll eat it together. That’s how we’ll forget about that disgusting piece of paper. I said “we’ll forget” without realizing that the old man didn’t have anything to forget: for him the piece of paper was perfectly in order. When I went to buy the cake I tried to cheer myself up by choosing one with lots of cream and chocolate, and if the old man had some wine (I had a sneaking suspicion he would), then we could eat the cake with some wine. It took me a while to get the paperwork done, and I left the cake in my house for two days before taking it to him. Then one afternoon, opening the cupboard, I found it. (I didn’t need to open the cupboard, I knew the cake was there.) I thought: This cake is going to turn stale, so I took it over to him. I told him about the paperwork and I unwrapped the cake. The old man was happy, he took out a big knife and cut huge portions. He sliced up half the cake and put the other half in the cupboard. He started wolfing it down. I wasn’t at all interested in eating and I couldn’t help but think: Sure, sure, he says he’s got a heart condition but just look how he’s gobbling up that cake. This reminded me of something my mother would say when I was a child, which always seemed outrageous to me. When I felt sick and I couldn’t deal with something in particular, she would say:

  “Sure, you say you’re sick, but—”

  Then not even the cake was enough, not even a newspaper would have been enough. I had the overriding need to stop watching the old man as he ate his cake. I sat there another five minutes without looking a
t anything in particular, then I suddenly got up and left. Once on the street, I absentmindedly stuck my hand in my pocket and realized that I had forgotten to give him the piece of paper about Laguna’s widow.

  By now I was going over every night to give him updates about the paperwork I’d submitted that day to the Ministry. I had to repeat things to him several times because often he didn’t understand. When he did understand he would get upset; he wanted everything to go more smoothly, he didn’t understand all the inconveniences inherent to paperwork. Every night while I was there he would soak his feet in a bucket with mustard and he had started to address me with the informal “tu.” That is, he had used “tu” a couple times when specifically addressing me, although he never called me by my name. In fact, I don’t think he ever asked me my name. One night, when I arrived later than usual, he was waiting for me outside. His light blue eyes followed me closely, which was rare. He was clearly angry; more than angry, he was outraged. He asked me:

  “Why are you so late? You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  I looked at him in dismay and sat down to think. Undoubtedly, I really needed to think and I said to myself: I can take this in two different ways: either I can assume the possibility of my own guilt if he has a heart attack, which is a big responsibility (although I didn’t feel at all responsible) or I can take it ironically. I can say: “Sure, sure, you say you’re going to die from a heart attack, but—” Or I can find some middle ground. All this I said to myself almost out of breath, and I noticed I had tears in my eyes even though I tried to fight them back. Some middle ground. I could assume you’re just bewildered, that you’ll be over it in a couple days. That sure, you might feel some mild heart pain, but it’s not an outright attack. Nevertheless, the mere suggestion of the word “attack” filled me with terror. I didn’t say anything. I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see me cry and I went to the backyard. I couldn’t stay inside any longer.

  * * *