The next morning, when the receptionist came in to work, she found his cold body wrapped in the Argentine flag (the one with the bright-yellow embroidered sun we fly for visiting dignitaries). Blue in the face, his corpse lay amongst the broken shards of glass from the enlarged photograph of President Juan Domingo Perón we had hanging in the entranceway.
The autopsy later confirmed a high blood alcohol (and salt) content, and the coroner found the tip of the sausage wedged in the back of his oesophagus. The inquest concluded that my grandfather, drunk and cold, had probably wrapped himself in the flag for warmth and, at some point during the night, had choked on the sausage. The destruction of Perón’s photograph remained a mystery, although I’ve always considered it my grandfather’s last ‘ciao fangulo’ to my grandmother and her fetish for straightening photographs.
Now, all of this probably wouldn’t have done me any good if the night my grandfather died hadn’t been September 10th. This was the eve of the Revolución Libertadora, when President Perón was overthrown by a coup and sent into exile.
It started off simply enough. The secretary sent a telegram to the Institute’s then-President Estéfano Bertrand-Berciatura, who was attending a Comparative Ice Studies conference in Paris, informing him of my grandfather’s death. It read as follows:
Clerk found dead in office. Wrapped in flag. Choked to death. Perón’s photo shattered.
Dr Berciatura, a devout Peronist, father of ten, and suffering from an advanced case of dementia, read this telegram while dining at a bistro in Montmartre. Upon reading it, his heavy tears fell into the froth of his café latte. As had been reported by Le Monde that morning, pro-revolutionary hordes had descended on public offices throughout Buenos Aires. They’d smashed busts of Perón, shattered storefront windows and burned copies of Evita’s La Razón de mi Vida.
Dr Berciatura contemplated my grandfather’s dedication: a man who’d dared keep vigil at the Institute, to defend it against the anti-Peronist hooligans. More than that, grandfather had been ‘wrapped in the flag’ (surely a patriotic metaphor on the secretary’s part!). How horrible it must have been, Dr Berciatura imagined, for my grandfather to have been overwhelmed by the mobs, scum who dashed the picture of his beloved President to the ground before choking him to death. Mais non, such a man’s family deserved much more than his condolences.
Right then and there, Dr Berciatura penned a memo on the back of a lovely, white paper napkin, with little, yellow flowers printed on it. In this memo, he guaranteed that my grandfather’s post would be reserved for his first-born son, and, when he died, for his first-born son, and so on and so on ad infinitum. (The napkin now sits in my Permanent File, although the flowers’ colour has faded a bit.)
Thus, my father, at the age of twenty-three, became Dr Berciatura’s new clerk, and I took over my father’s position when he disappeared during the dictatorship in 1979.
Now, by mentioning my father’s disappearance, I don’t want you to think I come from a ‘political’ family. It’s possible father was done in by the right-wing death squads or by left-wing guerrillas. But I think it’s far more likely he simply abandoned us. One night, he just stepped out the door and never came back. Ah, I remember his final words to my mother, as if it was yesterday, ‘I’m going out for some cigs, you stupid cow.’
My mother didn’t look into it all that much. When Alfonsín was elected in ’83, she got a special pension for families of the ‘disappeared’, and then she shacked up with some municipal worker from Chacabuco. I never saw her again, which is neither here nor there, because I’m the important person in this story.
I began my job a week after my father disappeared, earning 275 pesos a month. Because of a later law limiting special entitlements, this was reduced to 150 pesos. (With such a pay cut, it’s sometimes a struggle to buy imported Earl Grey tea, let alone eat, but the position was a god-send nonetheless.)
Given this, you’ll understand why I consider my post at the Institute less my job than my birthright. But being born with saintly inclinations is not enough to ascend to greatness . . . to enter into the Mysteries of Time.
Above all else, one must perfect the proper technique.
Book III
My great-uncle’s admonition, ‘I’ll be damned if you can’t show up to work on time’, has become my credo.
Throughout the day, a legion of challenges confront me. The mimeograph machine gets jammed with a paperclip that appears out of nowhere. The carbon copy of the acquisition form for the new typewriter gets misplaced. A protestor for democracy is murdered by police just in front of the corner bakery . . . and they cordon off the shop all day long! (Where, I ask, do they expect me to buy the morning pastries?)
These are inconveniences even Saints can’t avoid.
But tardiness? Tardiness interrupts the Great Flow of Time from 9:00 to 5:00. Tardiness once can lead to tardiness twice, which can lead to an entire, consuming vortex of tardiness.
This can lead to verbal reproaches from superiors. Verbal reproaches can lead to poor appraisals. And poor appraisals can transform themselves into strongly-worded letters in your Permanent File.
Of course, you’ll still keep your job, no matter what you do. (Have you ever heard of them sacking a bureaucrat?) But the shame of it: a letter in your Permanent File!
My advice to you is to not concern yourself with quality. Rather, concentrate on punctuality.
Yes, punctuality. Through much research and meditation, I’ve found this is what marks the great divide between mortality and the Everlasting.
But to hear many of my colleagues speak, it would seem that getting to work on time is some Great Mystery far beyond their reach.
‘My elevator’s out of order,’ sobs the secretary, rubbing a bruised shin, ‘so going down the dimly-lit stairs of my apartment this morning, I broke a heel and almost tumbled to my death. That’s why I’m five minutes late.’
Or ‘My son had a fever of 43º centigrade,’ whines the administrative assistant, ‘so I had to take him to the emergency room.’
Or, ‘Sorry, I just got here, but the subway was so packed this morning,’ gripes the accountant. ‘I had to let two trains go by before I could squeeze into one.’
Well, this is what I have to say about that. Why doesn’t that slut of a secretary wear flats instead of stilettos, or will it stop her from getting a raise from her horny old boss? Why doesn’t the admin assistant drop an icepack on her son’s head and leave him with the maid? And, for fuck’s sake, I don’t care if the accountant has to pull an old lady out of the subway car and dash her little bird-like body against the platform. But she will take the first train that comes, and she will get to work on time.
The most infuriating part about all this is that they blame the subway! Murder. Rape. Eating food sacrificed to Pagan Gods. All this can be forgiven.
But pinning your tardiness on the subway is like blaspheming against the Holy Spirit! In fact, I’ve often thought Matthew 12: 31-32 would flow better if it read:
‘Wherefore I say unto you, all manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Argentine Subway System shall not be forgiven unto men. And whosoever speaketh a word against the bus lines, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the ‘D’ Line, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come.’
I’m not going to lie to you and say that getting to work on time is easy. Like poisoning a pruny-faced old aunt who’s keeping you from your rightful inheritance, it takes planning, good timing, and, most of all, finesse.
I’m sure you’re familiar with the masterpiece, Motion Study: A Method for Increasing the Efficiency of the Workman (New York: D. Van Nostrand Company, 1911). In it, Frank Bunker Gilbreth—may His name be praised!—describes how to accomplish rudimentary office tasks with the least amount of movement and the least amount of force. Thus, the least amount of Time!
Up ’til now, Gilbreth’s ideas have been m
isdirected into meaningless tasks, like teaching a one-armed man how to type. (‘Oh, Boo-hoo, I lost me arm in the Great War, and I wanna typin’ job.’ The buffoon!) But, like alchemists applying Greek Fire to warfare, I’ve harnessed Gilbreth’s breakthroughs to where they make the most difference: getting me to work on time!
I’ll sketch out my morning, so it’s easier for someone of your limited intellect to grasp my genius.
My alarm-clock sounds at exactly 8:00 a.m. With the same sweep of my right hand that stops the frenzied, tin hammer, I switch the hotplate next to my bed on full. (I’ve already filled the kettle the night before.)
With my left hand, I pull the covers off me, sandwiching my sheet and thin, wool cover between my index finger and thumb. With a quick flex of the abdominals, I’m out of bed in a single bound. I’ve practiced these actions over and over again: clock-hotplate-sheets-jump, clock-hotplate-sheets-jump . . . (I average 7-10 seconds, depending on how far I jump and how solidly I land.)
I thrust my left hand through the plastic curtain and give the hot water valve a sharp, three-quarters turn to the left and the cold water valve a half-turn to the right. (My great uncle jerry-rigged the pipes almost a century ago and the water’s been free ever since.) I’ve found this to be the precise combination to achieve enough pressure to wash my hair and the correct temperature to sustain an erection.
The way I describe all of this, it probably seems effortless. But like sex during adolescence, it takes months of planning, and seconds in the execution.
Then I do a 180° twist to face my bed. Hands working together in scissor-like unison, I unbutton my pyjama top and shrug it off. I fold it lengthwise and sidewise and slide it under my pillow. I pull my pyjama bottoms all the way down to the floor and kick them to the bed. Again, I fold them lengthwise and sidewise, and under the pillow they go.
I reach over with my right hand and pull the sheet and coverlet across, covering the pillow and tucking with both hands under the mattress.
This whole business of stripping naked, storing my pyjamas and making the bed is accomplished in a mere twenty seconds.
With one stride, I’m under the curtain and in the shower. I reach for the shampoo on the dangling wire rack and open the flip-top with my thumb. Squirting once onto the crown of my head, I return and cap the shampoo to complete the circle. I begin to lather my head with my right hand, as I stimulate my genitalia with my left, using the dripping shampoo residue for lubrication.
Touching myself may seem self-indulgent, but—listen to me, oh, Doubting Thomas!—it purifies the mind. You’ll certainly recall what old Sophocles replied when he was asked whether he still lusted after women. He said, ‘Most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious monster.’ Yes, that’s what desire for a woman is, a Monster that’ll have you running all day long to distraction.
How many times have you strained your neck in the subway for a glimpse at lace panties peeping out from under a skirt? How often have you followed the flowing lines of a liposuctioned thigh until you’re cross-eyed?
And breast implants . . . don’t get me started with them! Yes, we’d all like bigger and firmer tits jiggling in our faces. But think of Siddhartha! Look at the object of your desire in the extreme, and you’ll see the folly of your ways.
You see, Sophocles’ monster has a name. Doubtless, he’s referring to the Zapam-zucún, that big-titted Bitch Creature from the province of La Rioja. Local folklore describes how she comes to campesinos late at night.
Sweeping through the fields of wheat, walks a beautiful, naked woman. Her colossal breasts—like two prize watermelons from the county fair—rub against each other, making the noise for which she is named—‘zapam-zucún’, ‘zapam-zucún’. Her enormous nipples scrape along the tips of the grain.
At first, it seems all your school-boy fantasies have come true to see a woman so endowed. But you realise, too late, she’s not a woman after all . . . but a demon come to murder you most foul.
As you nuzzle up to her, getting the best second base of your life, she presses your neck between the hairy folds of those gargantuan boobs.
Then, SNAP! . . . she crushes your larynx between those two, dangerously-dangling glands, cracks your ribs, pins you ’til she’s satisfied your spine’s been broken. Then, your body twitching in the last throes of death, she retreats, satisfied, back across the field to her hidden den.
Think for a moment, and you’ll realise all women are Zapam-zucúns. Or do you think they’d go under the knife just to please you? Make no mistake about it, beneath those bags of silicon beats a heart of darkness.
That’s why, when you’re in the shower, you must evoke the image of a woman who distracts you during the morning commute. It could be the itinerant coffee vendor whose tight, white apron frames her ass like a heart-shaped, Viennese chocolate. (The rumbling of her cart along the broken sidewalk makes you lose track of time.) It could be the buxom wench selling subway passes behind the glass partition: the way she dips down towards the cashiers’ drawer in her V-neck makes you forget to count your change.
As for me, I focus on my receptionist’s lips, the pursed and perfectly-crimsoned moisture of them. Be sure to caress the bottom folds of your scrotum gently, in a circular, rubbing movement, slowly rising up the stem with your fingertips, gently now, gently . . . Then, when you’re in full control, when you can clearly visualise whatever part has been bewitching you—the apron, the V-neck, the crimson lips—drive it home fiercely, and rid yourself of the Beast!
Remember, form’s as important as speed. To this end, I’ve studied some of Egon Schiele’s early charcoal self-portraits of masturbation at the National Archives. (Once I even had to bribe a guard with a five-peso note to get into the vault and make some quick sketches. Five pesos, indeed! Couldn’t he guess my importance, just by looking at me?)
I’ve practiced hours at a time, with my member in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, perfecting my technique. So it’s research, application, research, application. Masturbation, as I’m sure you’ll agree, lies at the juncture of Science and the Arts.
Then I twist close the two valves with my right hand, and I pull down the towel with my left, thoroughly rubbing myself from head to feet. In another bound, I’m out of the shower. The kettle’s just now boiling.
I jump, bounce once on the bed and roll across it, turning off the hotplate with a flick of the wrist, and I pour hot water into my cup. (At the bottom is one bag of Earl Grey, which I’ve lovingly placed there the night before.)
Like masturbation, a proper cup of Earl Grey requires you to soak your bag in hot water for exactly three minutes. That gives me my time-frame for dressing. Of course, you could just as easily drink one of those cheap herbal mixtures that don’t require more than thirty seconds to prepare. (While we’re at it, you could skip masturbation altogether.) But don’t be a fool!
Reaching down to the floor, I lift the pile of clothes I’ve carefully folded. Like the Books in the Old Testament, the order is very important. From top to bottom:
Underwear (Genesis)
Shirt (Exodus)
Trousers—keys already in my right-hand pocket—(Leviticus)
Belt (Numbers)
Tie (Deuteronomy)
Jacket—handkerchief already folded in my left-hand breast pocket, wallet containing a two-peso note and two subway tokens in my right—(Joshua!)
In one, sweeping movement, I put my socks on and double-knot my shoes, so I don’t have to worry about them the rest of the day.
Now it’s tea bag out and cup to my lips. Savour this experience for one, full minute. Think happy thoughts. Float away on the bitter taste of Earl Grey. Like a Samurai archer, focus on the target ahead.
Repeat the bureaucrat’s mantra . . . ‘The memos of yesterday are written. The memos of today will be written. The memos of tomorrow have yet to be conceived.’
Now put down your cup and step out the door. Having locked th
e Monster in her cage, you must now confront the Herd of commuters on the sidewalks below.
Book IV
In a quick but dignified manner, I stride across Coronel Díaz and cross Santa Fe. As I go towards the Bulnes subway station, I pass by the mouth of the Alto Palermo shopping centre. Half-naked women in perfume posters. The smell of croissants and candied nuts. Beggars and homeless men who open taxicab doors. Oh, like Christmas carollers and organ-donors, they all make me so sick!
A bit farther down, you’ll see a huge subway poster set into a wrought-iron frame. It reads ‘Subte’ in yellow on black and ‘BULNES’ in white, set against a field of green.
Of course, across the street, there’s another entrance for the Bulnes stop. But don’t be fooled! Keep in mind, Bulnes is one of those mystical stops with no common connection between the platforms.
That is, if you were to get on at the next stop, Agüero, you could enter on either side of Santa Fe; then, after the turnstiles, you’d have the luxury of choosing which direction you’d like to take.
Not so with Bulnes, that most austere and honest of stops. Oh, no! If you go down the steps on the shopping mall side and through the turnstile, there’s no option but taking the line towards ‘Catedral’. If you go down the steps on the opposite side, there’s no remedy but going the opposite way towards ‘Congreso de Tucumán’.
The only way to cross from one platform to the next once you’re inside the gates of Bulnes would be to jump down into the trough and cross the rails. But that’s on pain of death, because of the electrical lines that twist and writhe along the oily gravel.
Such a simple concept this two-entrance system. And yet, how many pensioners have I seen, whimpering to the subway guard that they’ve gone down the wrong side! ‘Oh, boo-hoo, I’m a pathetic, little retiree off to baby-sit my snot-nosed grandchild. I only brought enough change to make it there and back! Please let me go down the other side.’
The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Page 3
