The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires

by Eric Stener Carlson

  And then I left, into the early evening darkness after the storm. I wasn’t in the mood for any of Esteban’s shit. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I headed to my office.

  ***

  I let myself in with my key. The guards weren’t there. The janitor wasn’t there. There was no one around to bother me. I clicked on my desk lamp and sat down to read the last of the entries given to me by Professor Pendleton’s sister.

  Book XVI

  (Continuation of fourth entry, Lives of the Saints)

  The next day, I purposely left my apartment five minutes late, just to test the new Power I’d acquired.

  At Bulnes, the doors shut hermetically. The chimes sounded, and we rumbled forward. The stops flew by: Agüero, Pueyrredón, Facultud de Medicina. But, as I looked at the commuters around me, I became aware of a strange sensation. Things seemed clearer than they had ever before. The crisp outlines of the standing men. The stark figures of the sitting women.

  Well, it’s hard to describe, but I felt in sync with every movement, every sound in the subway. I could hear the separate ticking of every wristwatch. I could differentiate which ones were fast or slow or right on time.

  I felt—no, I knew—which commuter would get off at which stop and what their final destination was. I felt the Panther at work . . .

  But this was just for a moment, and then the sensation vanished.

  I roused myself from these thoughts, chalking them up to the after-effects of the peas. I nursed the burn on my hand from that harrowing journey through the cave.

  We approached Tribunales stop, and I got off. I followed the route I always go, keeping a steady, gentlemanly pace. I can’t remember anything out of the ordinary, except for an unusual sense of calm . . . calm in my decision to destroy Ezequiel.

  When I arrived at precisely 9:00 a.m., I did something I never do—because of the cost. I called the café on the corner and ordered the waiter to bring me a cup of Earl Grey. I needed my strength. I needed to think clearly and carefully, to evaluate every step I’d made the night before.

  Still recovering from my ordeal, I avoided Ezequiel as much as I could.

  As the days passed, sometimes I would have that Great Sense of Clarity, when I felt in harmony with everything, not only with the wristwatches in the subway car, but also with the rivers and the tides and the rhythm of concierges sweeping the sidewalks early on Sunday mornings.

  Feeling stronger and more assured with my newfound Power, I resumed my regular schedule. I drank Earl Grey in the morning. I showered regularly, masturbated frequently.

  Late at night, after work, I continued to organise and catalogue my Great Uncle’s maps. I would light my kerosene lamp and bring down a bundle of maps from the cubby-holes. Huddling over them, I would make notations in the margins and update my file-card collection. As I drew my fingers along the faded ink lines—roads, railways and sewer systems—I could feel the energy of Buenos Aires pulsating through them.

  You often hear the Herd talk about the ‘energy’ of Buenos Aires. But the fools are referring to its bars, restaurants and nightclubs. They’re ignorant as to the source of that energy, the dark gullies, jagged crevices beneath the city from which a fountain’s bubbled up.

  That’s where the subway came from . . .

  We’re told by Hunt in his estimable Historia de los subtes de Buenos Aires that the C, D and E lines of the Hispanic Argentine Company for Public Works and Finances were built on top of paths that preceeded them. Obviously, Hunt knows more than he lets on, so I’ll explain. . .

  Every city expands and falls, is destroyed, and builds upon its old foundations. As such, you shouldn’t be surprised to learn our asphalted roads follow older roads—rutted paths of mud over which the colonists pushed their primitive carts.

  But how did these first immigrants of Buenos Aires start these paths? Starved and exhausted, they had very few calories to waste. They avoided moving rocks and cutting down trees as much as possible. Like everyone after them, they followed those who trod before, in this case, the Indians.

  ‘And the Indians?’ you may ask. ‘Why did these paths seem “natural” to them?’ Well, they were made by the boar and the deer, looking for waterholes and dark hiding places in the underbrush.

  The last question is, ‘But why did the animals choose these paths?’ That’s what Hunt fails to address.

  When the engineers designed the ‘D’ line of the subway, when they ordered their dumb labourers with pick and shovel underground, they were following the primordial forces below.

  And when Cattaneo was contemplating the theme for his mural at Bulnes station, it seemed natural to him to base it on local ‘mythology’. Cattaneo didn’t have to know, consciously, he was decorating the Great Entranceway.

  Book XVII

  A few days later, I was heading towards Bulnes station, feeling confident I was about to turn the tables on Ezequiel. I went through the turnstile, just as the train was pulling into the station.

  The wagon that stopped in front of me was brimming with the Herd, but there was still enough space for one. Just as I was about to board, however, an elderly man with a silk kerchief knotted around his liver-stained throat turned his face towards me. The glare from his horn-rimmed glasses momentarily blinded me, and I dodged when I should have weaved.

  In consequence, the old bastard got the better of me and pushed inside the wagon. I was left on the spiteful side of the glass doors, and the train pulled away.

  These things happen, even to a Saint . . . but I had time to catch another train coming down the tracks. Just as I was preparing myself for the second attempt, I saw a young man out of the corner of my eye. He was standing some metres to my right, half a pace over the yellow line.

  A civil servant can sense when someone’s at his breaking point. The eye twitch of a father who’s stood three hours in line to register his son’s birth. Or the thin beads of sweat that appear on the rural school teacher’s lip, when you tell him there’s something wrong with his retirement account.

  Dishevelled, wrinkled like his suit, the young man’s eyes said, ‘I cannot live another day like this. I cannot stand my life. I want to end it now.’

  Suddenly, the young man coiled his legs and jumped into the path of the second train. I screamed ‘No!’ and reached for him . . . But too late.

  As he fell beneath the metal wheels, I burst uncontrollably into tears. This couldn’t be happening! This boy couldn’t be killing himself . . . Now, it would be impossible for me to get to work on time. You have no idea how long they keep the tunnel closed when someone jumps! There’ll be gawkers and policemen taking notes . . .

  But as I screamed and reached out to the falling body with every fibre of my being, the most extraordinary thing occurred. That sense of close fraternity with Time came upon me again. It swirled all around me, and I began to see things rewind, undo themselves.

  The bloody body jumped back from the gravelled trough, its head bobbing ridiculously in reverse. The second train retreated from the platform, heading back towards Scalabrini Ortiz. The first train backed away from Agüero and reappeared in front of me, and the old goat who had tricked me stepped out of the wagon. I was blinded by the momentary glare from his horn-rimmed glasses (only this time in reverse).

  All of this occurred so suddenly, and then it shuddered to a stop. Once more, I was going through the turnstile, that I’d just stepped through fifteen or twenty seconds before.

  The only thing different was that I felt my upper lip was moist. I probed it with my fingertips and realised my nose was bleeding.

  I was giddy, almost retching from the shock of travelling through Time! But this was the moment I had prepared for all my life, and I knew what I must do.

  Just as the old pensioner turned towards me, I turned my face away and jabbed him in the ribs with the pointy corner of my portfolio. In one fluid movement, I dodged his bony body and jumped inside the train, leaving him moaning silently, trying to suck in his b
reath.

  As the doors closed, I saw the boy about to kill himself from a new angle. Through the window of the subway car, I saw how he screwed up his face. And, with his last ounce of courage, he threw himself under the second train . . .

  As we sped away towards Agüero, I could hear the sick grinding of the wheels of that other train, and the screaming of the poor devils left behind on the platform, doomed to get to work late.

  But I went on ahead of schedule. Safe, alive and filled with—no, flooded over by—such exhilaration. Such clarity. Such fulfilment. My beautiful, beautiful gift.

  As the train rocked along, I felt warm in the realisation that the Salamanca had granted me the power to manipulate Time!

  After all, Time is the key to all the gifts those soul-sellers throughout the ages write about—dancing, riding, seducing women, playing cards. Time is what separates us Saints from the mortals.

  Think about it. You can be born amongst the Herd, stupid and unrefined. But say you stumble upon a place where Time stands still. More than a tidal pool of Time. A great, permanent, immovable cavern, filled with all the drippings of Time. There, you can study for a thousand years. There, you can read and research, practice and pray until you perfect whatever skill it is you desire. And when you leave that place you are an Einstein or a Buddha.

  Time outside that pool has barely advanced a second. So, to these mortals, you have ‘suddenly’ surpassed them, ‘suddenly’ become a genius. Or why do you think that St. Peter writes, ‘That one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.’

  Ah-hah, so now you see why the Holy Church despises me! After all, we’re competitors in this God Game to gather disciples.

  Now you see why Fernandez and his men were torturing that Indian: to find that location of Power, that godly reservoir the natives knew about and which they used to turn back Time.

  Or why do you think it took so long for us to massacre the Indians? If you’ll recall, it wasn’t until 1877, with the campaña del desierto, that we launched our first, tentative raids against the savages, pushing them south of the Río Negro. Even so, we had to continue burning their villages and raping their women all the way into 1883.

  In history class at school, I used to think, ‘Were we really trying hard enough? I mean, couldn’t we have put our backs into the genocide a bit more, applied a little Anglo-Saxon elbow grease?’

  Historians often tell us the pacification of the Indians took so long, because they were fierce, mobile nomads, ‘centaurs of the plains’. But knowing what you do now about the Salamanca, what’s more logical: that the Indians survived so long because they were skilled horsemen or because they had a supernatural power that I, myself, now possessed?

  Every time the caciques were surprised by an advance group of soldiers, they turned back Time, just long enough to hide in the brush and to slip away unnoticed. But our soldiers finally slaughtered them. And why? Because, as powerful as the Gift is, when President Roca’s men finally caught them in the open, it was of little help.

  Let me be clear on one point. Time travel is no H.G. Wellsian affair. You can’t go back a hundred or a thousand years. The Devil’s giving, but he’s not indulgent. I’ve tried it, again and again, pushing the limits of my power. Under normal conditions, I could set time back 17 seconds, 24 seconds tops. Of course, later, my wisdom deepened, and I realised it wasn’t how much time you manipulated, but how you used it . . .

  So, imagine you’re an Indian on the Pampas, lance in hand, and you’ve just been caught unawares by a conquistador, halberd drawn. When you’ve come to that point, what’s the use of going back in Time? The clash is inevitable, and any knowledge you could gain from travelling back wouldn’t do you any good. If you’ve done any fencing, you know what I mean.

  Let’s say it’s a 4-to-4 match, and next point wins. From first position, you advance, then passé avant twice, balestra, and then you leap at him, a perfectly-executed fleche. Keeping your line straight, you brush past him on his left, just missing him.

  He, on the other hand, turns just in time to plant a point in the small of your back. His green light flashes. The judge calls the match against you. You lose.

  Now, what would you gain by turning back time? What have you learned? Only that, given the fatigue of the match, your opponent is quicker than you are, and, if you rush past him in the fleche again, you’ll lose.

  So, what do you do the ‘second’ time after turning back Time? Go from the advance, then passé avant twice, balestra, and (to differ from the first exchange), passata-sotto, lunging at him as deeply as you can, while you dip one hand to the floor.

  But don’t think you’ll necessarily win with this.

  Your opponent isn’t surprised that you’ve lunged instead of run at him. He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting anything at all, because, from his perspective, this is the first time you’ve attacked.

  So, let’s say you do lunge this time, miss, and he taps your blade, thus breaking your line. He ripostes. You successfully parry quarte. You riposte, and he parries sixte, ripostes. You fail to counter, and he plants the touché. You lose ‘again’.

  Now, if you could go back one more time, in all of this what would you change? Still lunge or not? Try to make sure he doesn’t break your line? If you miss, would you immediately fall to the floor and feign a sprained ankle? Or do you jump back a step, passé arriere?

  For everything you do, there is a countermeasure, a well-executed parry or a mal-pare. Every change on your side opens up a new set of variables on his.

  So, in my example, you could go on like this, forever at 4-to-4 . . . if you have the stamina for it. I was exhausted the first time I travelled back, and my nose bled like a leaky faucet for a week.

  And, remember, this Indian on the pampas is not a fencer. His main concern is not losing a ceremonial touché, but avoiding being skewered on a pike. And when you’re dead—although this may seem an obvious point—you can’t move back Time.

  So, the Power I gained was, indeed, great. But it’s misplaced on the battlefield. It’s only really good for sneak attacks, for situations of unequal power, ambushes from dark corners.

  In other words, it’s perfect for bureaucracy . . .

  Book XVIII

  I could have routed Ezequiel quickly and decisively. But I wanted to savour the hunt as much as the kill. So I planned my attack slowly, like Madame Borgia caressing the catch on her poison ring.

  One day, Ezequiel and I had come together in front of the Engineer’s desk. Each one of us was presenting a separate proposal on the font (and size) of the new letterhead. I had gone with Times New Roman number 10 (a classic, refined option), and he was backing that slut of a Sans Serif 8.5.

  It was one of those set-piece battles. In and of itself, it does not make a difference, but the cumulative effect of them can be devastating.

  And then it happened. As Ezequiel reached over to measure the height of the lettering with a wooden ruler, the right sleeve of his suit jacket rode up ever so slightly. Both the Engineer and I saw a large, blue ink stain on the cuff of his white shirt. He saw us staring at it, so he said—as nonchalantly as he could muster—‘Oh, dear, that must have just happened, as I brushed up against a pen on the desk.’

  But I knew otherwise.

  If the Engineer had looked just a bit closer, he would have seen the slight thinning on the edges of the fabric around the stain. This was an obvious sign that Ezequiel had tried to bleach it out weeks before.

  The only decent thing for the boy to have done, of course, would have been to have tossed the shirt, because you can’t represent the Institute looking like a slob. But who has money to buy a new shirt but once a year?

  I saw my opportunity, and I struck. Pulling deep inside of me, thinking of the Black Train, I turned back time ever so slightly.

  Ezequiel was (once again) leaning over the documents. Just as the blue stain emerged under his cuff, I said, ‘Oh, Ezequiel, you really sh
ould do something about that stain. I saw it the other week at the water cooler, and thought, “That boy should try soaking it in lemon juice.” ’

  Ezequiel suddenly turned pale. A confused look distorted his face. (What a shock it must have been!) I had, literally, stolen the words from his mouth and turned them against him.

  Trying to distract the Engineer from the stain, he stuttered, ‘You, you know . . . now, now that I see the two fonts, side by side, I rather do like Times New Roman, although I should prefer font size nine.’ After a few more half-hearted comments like this, Ezequiel stopped struggling and crumbled altogether. The Engineer finally compromised in my favour: Times New Roman 9.5.

  Take that you little shit. That was for the peas!

  I cannot describe to you what a joy it was to come to work every day after that, what a pleasure I took in seeing Ezequiel. (It’s odd that the company of someone who irritates you so much can be transformed into joy when you have the power to torture him.) Every innovative idea he had, every attempt at modernisation that met with the Engineer’s approving nod, I snatched.

  Ezequiel was about to say—really, he had just said it—’Mr Engineer, don’t you think we should commission an external consultant to create a virtual map of the border markers? By running a regression analysis of all the incidents to date, we could create a model to predict the next Chilean incursion.’ But I turned back time and said it myself instead.

  Ezequiel was about to say, ‘Mr Engineer, congratulations on your favourite rugby club winning last night’, but I pre-empted him with, ‘What a warming victory for the Hindus, Mr Engineer. 4 to 3. My, that was close.’

  Poor boy. It must have seemed like mind-reading to him.