The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  So, she was going to practice the piano now. She walked over to it silently, without saying a word. She couldn’t say:

  “Mama, I’m not going to play the piano.”

  Because her mother would say:

  “As far as I know there are no trombones in this house.”

  Her mother had bought the piano at an auction. She’d bought it because it was an old piano with yellowish keys, like the one Uncle Abel had.

  Uncle Abel played the piano too, although several times he’d been chased by the police from rooftop to rooftop. At the auction her mother had haggled so much that Hebe thought she was acting like a gypsy, which embarrassed her.

  Sometimes Hebe imagined that her mother was an overweight gypsy who had stolen her as a baby, but she wasn’t quite sure why. Up until a few years ago, Hebe imagined her real mother had actually been someone else. Still, for a gypsy, the one she’d ended up with wasn’t so bad.

  Sometimes the gypsy cried and Hebe felt a little sorry for her, not that she could comfort or say something sweet to her: whenever that gypsy cried she would end up blurting out something entirely out of character to reveal that she was really thinking about something else. For example, she would sniffle and then ask:

  “Did you feed the cat?”

  Then her mother was no longer a gypsy. She was weak and almighty at the same time. Hebe thought about how a Roman emperor can have moments of weakness. As a Roman emperor her mother was imposing. That massive body in a chair—her very own chair—sitting by the lamp to read the newspaper. She held the newspaper up high, from afar, as if examining something absolutely repugnant. She scrutinized the news with a critical, selective spirit and turned the pages quickly to read whatever piqued her interest. She was always right on the money.

  Whenever her mother read the newspaper, Hebe would go out of her way to make a big circle around the chair, as if the surrounding area were prickly.

  But she was also a lady with great presence of mind.

  Presence of mind meant being up to any task: whether it was buying a pair of shoes or dealing with sickness, any task should be accomplished with grace.

  Perhaps it was the lady with great presence of mind who intimidated Hebe the most—more than the gypsy or the Roman emperor. The gypsy was a stranger, Hebe could relax with her to some extent. The Roman emperor was ruthless, but it was just a matter of getting out of her way. The lady with presence of mind absolutely baffled Hebe. How did she always know exactly what to say to rub salt into the wound?

  The lady with great presence of mind was mysterious because she seemed to have a plan of action, a strategy for each and every person. What did she have in mind for Hebe? It remained unclear.

  Now, Hebe needed a new dress for the recital. She could make do with one of the dresses she already owned, but they didn’t shine or stand out. And everyone else was going to have a dress made so they could really shine. When Hebe told her mother that she needed a dress, she was in the middle of recalling her childhood in the countryside. Everything used to be more intense, it seems. Winters were harsh, the way they should be, and the sun scorched the earth in summer, which was logical. Beasts were more ferocious back then, and no one has ever seen frost like that. Back then, she had even more presence of mind than now—if such a thing were possible—because it was an era when people were tough. They struggled; there was no time for funny business. Likewise, people never used to get new dresses all the time. In the countryside you could pick someone out from afar by their clothes, and that was a good thing: you never made a mistake. That’s why, at her mother’s house, no one talked about clothes—they discussed the Second World War, which had ended by then, and the Maginot Line.

  When Hebe reminded her mother that she needed a dress, her mother said:

  “Yes, I already spoke to Carmen.”

  Carmen was Hebe’s cousin. She always got Carmen’s dresses as hand-me-downs. They were big on her shoulders and small on her hips. Hebe didn’t say anything. She knew there would be no new dress and she thought, you’ll see.

  Her, you’ll see, wasn’t referring to anyone in particular—it was everyone. Immediately after she said it she envisioned her own wake. It was an enormous threat, albeit an empty one, but she felt like doing something rash. She didn’t quite know what it was they were all going to see, but her wake was something concrete. There she was in the coffin, dead, her mother by her side, and sometimes the neighbor lady too. Her mother was saying how much she regretted having been so cruel to her. How could she have mistreated such a good girl like Hebe? How wrong she had been! And she asked for Hebe’s forgiveness. Dead Hebe forgave her mother, filling the real Hebe with a sense of peace. She was going to have to wear her cousin’s dress, of course.

  She laughed to herself, feeling refreshed by a new, bitter joy. She felt a deep sense of purpose. She was enshrouded by the darkest of shadows; there was no place for her in the sun, but she felt fiercely determined.

  * * *

  —

  There was nothing refreshing or pleasant about the way Carmen’s dress felt against her skin. It was made of an expensive fabric, but it had balled up into tiny pills. It was a thick silk covered in small shiny sequins, as if designed to cover a large surface area. It was meant for a wiser, more mature lady to wear—someone who knew how to mask the faint scent emanating from that cloth by adding a touch of perfume, as if to say: Here I am, poised, a bit chubby, and somewhat morose, so what?

  But Hebe was just a girl and the gleam of those little beads made her look hasty and angry.

  Her mother wore the brooch to the piano recital. The brooch was a little rectangle no bigger than a razorblade covered in faux rhinestones, which she wore on her bosom. The brooch was too small for that enormous bosom, but still, it caught the eye because she wore it like a shield, as if to say: Wearing this shield is uncomfortable, it’s hot, but at least they know I’ve got a shield; they know who calls the shots.

  Hebe imagined that when she walked out on stage she would briefly nod her head, as a formal greeting; but right beforehand, before they saw her, she tripped on a beam backstage and this discouraged her from following through with the greeting.

  She walked over to the piano and sat down. Even though she couldn’t see them, she knew that her mother, her cousin Carmen, and the lady from next door were there.

  Unlike when she played the piano at home, she couldn’t keep her composure now, tentatively sounding out each key. She started to play in a full-on frenzy, as if she were two different people: one was shocked by watching the other—an obedient but unpredictable animal playing of its own free will.

  After the first piece there was—absurdly, Hebe thought—applause. They don’t notice anything, she realized. She could relax as she played. So, feeling more relaxed, she pretended to connect with Chopin, like she did for real at home, and then there was more applause. That applause gave her a moment to glance up at the audience, out of the corner of her eye. The first thing she saw, in the front row, was the shimmer of the brooch; it was those rhinestones that shone.

  She hated that brooch, she had never liked it; that shine aroused her anger and she thought, you’ll see.

  She started to play with all the precision and malice she could muster. And when she knew she had played well, at the end of the piece, she whacked the piano two or three times with open palms, making a racket. Then she got up and walked offstage without taking a bow. They didn’t give her any prizes, but Hebe was satisfied thinking about the idea of her wake. It was what comforted her most, what made her felt wholly reconciled with the human race.

  Just Another Day

  I WAKE up at five o’clock and at six I turn on the radio for the weather report. Once a lady I know said in disgust: “People have to be told the temperature just to know whether they’re hot or cold.” I didn’t say anything back, but I’m extremely sensitive to judgments that corresp
ond to the aesthetics of the soul. Besides, I can’t help myself: I need to know the temperature and the time. It annoys me when CNN, after each program (every half hour), lists the temperature of all the cities in the world; in Istanbul it’s always cold and they always claim it’s ten degrees hotter in Buenos Aires than it really is. What a sham.

  I want to know what time it is too, and something too strong to resist compels me to look at the clock on the wall. I used to have some idea of what time it was—not anymore. I look at the clock and if it’s two o’clock, I say: “Time to sleep again.” But if you’d asked me, it might as well have been seven o’clock. To fall asleep I repeat lists of names from A to Z: Abraham, Abdel, Abenámar, Abdocia, Abdullah. And they’re all real names. But when I’m happy about something and I feel accepted by the world, I make up a name. When I’m feeling down or really tired I do it too. (Only one.) If you repeat the same list of names in the same order at siesta, you fall asleep. And then I start to think:“How interesting the brain is!” That’s why it’s better not to give it a second thought, because then the sleepiness vanishes. I didn’t always list names. I used to use a list of insults and slights from an old boyfriend. I used that list for several years; the idea was to make it to twenty insults. It went more or less like this:

  1) He walked out on me.

  2) He lost his shit because I told him how a lady had used the term “rest area.”

  3) He disappeared for two weeks.

  4) He told me to go smoke in the other room.

  And so on. Trying to think up twenty reasons bored me and I never could so I switched to names; there are so many more of them.

  Anyway, every day except Saturdays I turn on Radio Continente at six o’clock and my whole gang of friends are there. They always get there at the same time. The host is Pérez, who’s sometimes a bit basic when it comes to his taste in literature—I think he’s religious, I’m fond of him in general. Later Antonio Terranova comes on. He’s an editorialist who’s entitled to reflect on what happens or doesn’t happen. Sometimes he’s right on, but sometimes he flounders because he thinks he’s got the right to make all types of observations about the way things are going in our country and around the world. He asks himself questions like: As a country, are we perhaps going to hell in a hand basket? That puts me off because if there’s one thing I don’t like it’s prophecies: doesn’t matter if they’re ecological or they’re from the Bible. On Saturdays I leave the radio off because Fernando Cuenca has a three-hour agribusiness program. He says things like, “Pregnant cow in disuse,” “Remaining balance,” “Keeping old cows.” He also talks about cattle diarrhea. He interviews people who talk about soybean caterpillars. When he starts the program he asks for the blessing of Our Lady of Luján and it conjures up the sad sight of inland Argentina where dingy offices that operate out of old houses have an image of Our Lady of Luján on the wall, and outside the cows are pregnant or in disuse. And I don’t want the countryside to make me sad. I don’t say “cow in disuse.” But sometimes I listen to him anyway on Saturdays because he interviews an agricultural engineer—I don’t remember his name but it doesn’t matter: his voice is what matters. He’s an old man and his voice is deliberate, like someone who has gently taken control of his life. He speaks very clearly, as if everyone else were a little childish, and he manages to calm down Fernando Cuenca, who always sounds somewhat rushed, and who ends by saying: “The voice of the Argentine countryside” in a grandiose tone. Who is he to think he represents the countryside? Even if he did live there, he probably got kicked by a horse. And if he was sent to be reeducated in the countryside, I’ll bet he got mixed up in all the wrong places. His job was probably to chase the chickens. The agricultural engineer, on the other hand, I could marry him. Well, I don’t know if I would get married at this point in life, but I would like to spend a long time with him in a house in the countryside (if he has one) or in a village, so he could explain to me what a lightweight steer is, what “wintering cattle and breeding cows” mean, and stuff like that. Ten minutes afterwards I’ll surely have forgotten it all, but just to hear that voice. But there’s more to life than staying by the radio all day. So I tell myself: “C’mon Catriel, it’s polka” (they used to say that to Chief Catriel so he would dance faster), and I pick up the pace. I have to go get a little glass I left on the night table to take a pill at night. My little glasses are beautiful, they’re like tiny bells, but they have two flaws: they fall and break immediately, and they have a seam. And I didn’t see that. It’s as if they were made with the remnants of some sort of material and that reminds me again of the lady who says people need to be told the temperature to know whether they’re hot or cold. Once she even argued with me about some little cups or glasses. I said that if I liked the shape of a cup or a glass, it didn’t matter to me whether it was ordinary or refined. Then she said: “You don’t appreciate human craft, or the culture that produces porcelain, etcetera.” I’m going to appreciate human craft; I’m going to put on some socks that are a little bit nicer. Dear Lord, how do I even go out on the street in these socks? Today they looked alright to me, but now I realize they’re impossible. One day something shifts, and then you see something you’ve always considered to be acceptable in a bad light. But I’m so fickle that I see it in a bad light and maybe within a couple of hours, I’ll see the same thing as good again. So I leave them in a special spot in the closet, which is like a limbo for socks, sweaters, and other trifles. One day I’m going to organize that limbo—I will, but not today. After all, it’s nice to hide things, forget that you have them and then discover them all over again as if they were something new. Could this be a trace of old age? I’m always reminded of the myth of Tithonus the sorcerer and the Cumaean Sibyl, who babbled to herself in a bubble. I’m like the sorcerer: I go from the kitchen to the bedroom carrying things back and forth; I forget something and go back to the bedroom. What will old age hold for me? Will I walk pointlessly in circles with no visible objective, or will I search for a potato or a towel with a gesture of heroic determination? Who knows. This must be forestalled: I’m going to go out for a walk, walking renews one’s thoughts and strengthens the legs.

  * * *

  —

  Okay, it’s time to walk. First I have to decide which direction to take. There’s only a few: north, center-north on Córdoba Street until Plaza Serrano, and, if I’m really happy, a few blocks until the strip of bars in Palermo Viejo. By the time I reach “El Taller” or any other bar, I’m happy: people bask in the sun on the sidewalks, their dogs tied up here and there and a street fair in the square. The happiness doesn’t last; even early in the day idle people are about, and that entire neighborhood makes me think of a life of permanent idleness: reading the newspaper in the sun, then taking the dog for a walk in the park, the street fair…Besides, the route from my place to Córdoba Street is dark, not even the sun can lighten those eyesores that look like old camels. I can go directly north and end up in Palermo, but I’ve walked that way so many times and, besides, crossing from Almagro into Palermo is difficult: it’s an area where they sell bolts, nuts, and screws, like a no man’s land. And, anyway, my sense of justice tells me that I can’t always take the same path. I’m going to give the west a chance. My sense of justice is like that: a little bit in each neighborhood, a little bit for each shopkeeper, when I haven’t been to a shop for a while I remember and I tell myself: I should go there. I’m going to give the west a chance, I’m going to walk down Rivadavia Avenue until Primera Junta—although I’m also reminded of a shop called “Designs for the Soul,” which is near the Abasto shopping mall, but I don’t want to risk disillusionment if I change direction, because it’s always closed and the storefront is dark and dirty. I’m going to Rivadavia Avenue, which keeps getting wider as I walk, reminding me of the pampas; way out west is the countryside. Rivadavia is flanked by eyesores, but they’re a lighter shade than the ones in Serrano: reddish, yellowish and light brown.
The avenue is so wide that you can see the number 26 bus from afar. Out here the buses don’t hurtle around the corner; they glide along with a certain somberness, almost a gracefulness. The 26 turns onto various side streets, as if to say: “Live around here? I’ll drop you off.” If I had been born in the neighborhood of Caballito and stayed there my whole life, I would have married a construction foreman who had wanted to be an engineer but never made it, because he had to contribute around the house. But, at a certain point, we would have moved from a one-story house to an apartment with reddish walls and a bit of gold on the door (gold adds luster to dreams), and I would be like that woman over there who is heading out now, all dressed up with her dark blonde hair. She’s well dressed but proud of being working-class; in fact, she likes people to notice her worn hands. They’re worn because she worked so hard polishing the brass on the door and took great, great care of her husband, like I would have taken care of the construction foreman until he was a little old man—and the dog too, sewing winter coats for it. Tartan coats, because tartan is refined. And now the dogs are out, the furry little one with legs that go tiki tiki as it struts along, and another one with a rectangular face, the one I call “ugly mug”; that face astonishes me. I talk with the owner of one of those dogs and ask her:

  “Have you gotten used to it? To your dog’s face?”

  “Whatever do you mean, he’s a saint!”

  Virtue surpasses the most improbable appearances. In my neighborhood there’s one teeny-tiny dog, the owner puts a clip in its hair, it must weigh less than two pounds. Once I spoke with the owner and she said: