The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires

by Eric Stener Carlson

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I stood at the podium and looked out into the milling crowd. There must have been two or three hundred delegates, although it was difficult to be sure, because of the spotlight glaring in my face. I carefully rubbed my puffy cheek and felt my bandaged ribs under my suit jacket.

  Shading my one, good eye, I could make out small groups of people here and there, chatting, shouldering large conference bags, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups throughout the cavernous hall. Camera crews were switching on their equipment and buckling up their battery belts. A row of delegation leaders was putting on matching blue jackets and leaning their placards against the walls.

  I tapped my withered index finger on the microphone, and the awful screeching feedback suddenly made the room go still. All eyes turned towards me, and I could feel the sweat draining from me through the small of my back.

  ‘Wel-welcome,’ I squeaked into the microphone. Then, trying to sound more confident, I cleared my throat and said, ‘Welcome to what was promised in your conference bulletin as “A Clash of Green: Public Spaces in a Time of Social Protest”.’

  There was immediate, if somewhat scattered, applause.

  ‘My name is Licenciado Miguel Teodoro Ibañez, a civil servant from the Ministry of Parks, Public Monuments and Green Areas. My first job today is to convey to you the warmest, fraternal greetings from my Minister and my Deputy Minister and my Assistant Deputy Minister and our Division Chief and our Head of Human Resources, all of whom, unfortunately—because of unavoidable scheduling conflicts—couldn’t be here with us today.’

  Of course, I thought, none of them would have been idiotic enough to have come here today. They didn’t want to stand up here, baking under these lights and risk getting skewered by the crowd. But I’d known this was coming all along, so I ploughed ahead.

  ‘Hhhm . . .’ I cleared my throat again. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the list of international experts we’d invited from Germany, the UK, Australia and . . .’ I consulted my tattered list, ‘a late registration from Luxembourg. As described in the bulletin, this promised to be “a fascinating exchange of opinions, a truly democratic event, to decide on the pros and cons of gating the parks in the autonomous city of Buenos Aires”.’

  More applause, a bit more intense this time.

  ‘Before we begin, however, I need to make a few announcements. First of all . . . I regret to inform you that none of the international experts will be joining us here today.’

  A low hum immediately went through the crowd, and someone in the back shouted, ‘Typical! What do they think they are, too good for us?’

  ‘Actually . . .’ I replied, ‘No. They were all very committed to this conference, and they confirmed their attendance weeks in advance, but . . . it was decided to cancel their bookings.’

  More humming, this time louder. Someone else shouted, ‘Good. We don’t need those bastard colonialists. We can solve our own problems!’ This sparked an argument with someone else in the crowd, who shouted, ‘Who’re you calling a bastard? My grandmother was from Luxembourg!’ and there followed a struggle that wasn’t fully audible from the stage.

  I ignored the small distraction, continuing ‘And the lunch mentioned in your program, braised New Zealand lamb chops with mint sauce served with a side dish of pumpkin puree, has also been cancelled.’

  ‘Is this some sort of a joke?’ shouted someone close to the stage. Then others repeated similar things, and a woman screamed above the din, ‘You mean we’re not going to eat? Most of us have travelled from the provinces for this conference.’

  I kept going, ‘There will be no speakers, national or international, no buffet, and no presentations. In fact, the entire conference has been cancelled.’

  At this, the crowd exploded in recriminations—and gesticulations—against the Ministry, against me, my mother, and the university where the conference was being held. Someone tossed a hefty conference folder at my head, which I just barely dodged, and it knocked over a speaker.

  Before they had time to form a lynch mob, I shouted into the microphone, ‘The reason why we’re not having the conference is . . .’ but I was drowned out. ‘I said, the reason why we’re not having a conference today is because it would be a waste of money . . . because we all know nothing would come of it!’

  Puzzled by this explanation, most of the crowd settled down immediately, although one or two people shouted, ‘You’re crazy!’

  Yes, I thought, I was crazy . . . for what I was about to say.

  ‘As I said, we all know this conference wouldn’t come to anything. If we gated the parks, it wouldn’t stop the homeless from entering at night. They’d just find a way over (or under) the fences, if they get desperate enough . . . and they are desperate enough. And for those of you who are against gating the parks . . . well, none of you’ve figured out how to solve this matter of the broken statues and, more importantly, you haven’t got a clue as to how to solve the underlying problems—poverty, joblessness, despair. You just tinker around with the law here and there, filing motions, holding plebiscites. And, in the end, no matter what you decide to do here today, the government isn’t going to listen to you anyway. It was a no-win situation from the start, so, instead . . . we just gave the money for the conference away.’

  The mood of the crowd changed from puzzled to shocked. A large-jowelled man wearing a tight sweater-vest near the front whimpered, ‘What do you mean, you gave it away?’

  My mouth suddenly went dry, and I quickly gulped down a glass of water from the podium. Then I held up a sheet of paper and said, ‘Here, I hold in my hands a memo signed by the Minister himself.’ Well, it was true, it was signed by the Minister, although I don’t think he’s ever read anything in his entire life before signing it. In his rush to screw me over, Gutierrez had pushed through the signature without thinking what I was going to do with it.

  I continued, ‘It authorises my Department to make cash payments relating, and I quote, “in any way you deem fit to promote the dual ends of this conference, which is to improve the welfare of the homeless living in the parks and to preserve our artistic heritage.” Well, I tallied how much repairing the damages caused to the statues would cost—which turned out to be less than a third of what it would cost to hold this conference—so I paid a group of local artisans to fix them. And then, well, I decided to give away the balance to the homeless.’

  I thought back to the previous weekend, when Julieta, Miguelito and I ran and played in the parks all over Buenos Aires—the two lakes in Palermo, Plaza Francia, Plaza Lavalle—kicking up big bunches of dried leaves like we used to do and chasing after pigeons. In the crisp, autumn air, I swung Miguelito around my head, watched the light and shadows play about his hair, a beautiful outline against the sun. Then we pulled out peso notes from the bag—20s, 100s, 1000s—and handed them out to as many homeless women, children and elderly we could find.

  When we’d run out of people to give the money to, we just grabbed large fistfuls of cash and threw them up in the air, and they flew and blew and mixed with the leaves on the footpaths, and we hoped that the money would get to someone who deserved it. We laughed and laughed and laughed, and, when the bag was empty, Miguelito and Julieta and I fell down on the grass together.

  I realised, lying there, looking up at the naked tree branches and the clouds passing quickly by, that it’d been such a long time since I’d heard any of us laugh.

  Trying to stare past the spotlight into the crowd, I said, ‘This, you will say, is not a permanent solution. In fact, it’s not a solution at all. And you’re right. The homeless will spend the money quickly, and they’ll have nothing to show in return, except, maybe, a new coat, or a blanket, or a full belly for a night or two. And then their problems will go on, just like they’ve always done. But, at least we showed them, at least they knew—for one, brief moment—that someone cared.’

  It was hard to sense which way the crowd was leaning, whether they were pausing to consi
der what I was saying or getting up the energy to rush me.

  I made my move. ‘Now, as much . . . as much as I would like to take responsibility for this bold initiative, I cannot, in all honesty, do that. It was completely—and without doubt—the brainchild of my late Assistant to the Assistant Director, Mr Rodolfo Horacio Constantinople Gutierrez who, it pains me to say, is also unable to be with us today, because he died in a tragic subway accident a month ago.’

  I could feel a wave of sympathy welling in the darkened conference room. As someone once suggested, I rode upon it. ‘It’s hard to find the words to describe Mr Gutierrez. His bold leadership. His companionship. His caring for the individual that went beyond what is normally required of a civil servant. Yes, he is unable to be here physically, but I am sure he is with us here in spirit.’

  I pulled out from the dark nook of the podium a worn book with a brown cover. ‘In cleaning out his desk, I came across a book that I think may interest you. Here, I hold in my hands, a copy of Samuel Butler’s Lives of the Saints, a devotional prayer book Mr Gutierrez always kept with him. I had no idea he was such a spiritual person, but people can surprise you, can’t they? Well, there was a book mark, and when I opened it, I saw how worn the passage was, and I gathered it must have been very dear to him.’

  I was blinded momentarily, as a series of flashbulbs went off in my face, the cameramen suddenly interested in the book. Recovering a bit, I said, ‘It was the entry for Saint Perpetuus, and I am sure that Mr Gutierrez—my friend and mentor, gazing dimly at us from the other world—would want me to read to you the reflection for the day. The author writes:

  ‘ “The smart of poverty . . . is allayed even more by one word of true sympathy than by the alms we give. Alms coldly and harshly given irritate rather than soothe. Even when we cannot give, words of kindness are as a precious balm; and when we can give, they are the salt and seasoning of our alms.”

  ‘ “The salt and seasoning of our alms.” Such was what Mr Gutierrez sprinkled on all the lives he touched, and I’m sure he’s won his just reward on the other side for everything he’s done. He was the first one in our Department who remarked we would never find a solution to this vexing problem unless we appealed to a Divine solution.’

  (In fact, his exact words had been, ‘You’re screwed, Ibañez, you’re totally screwed. It’ll be a miracle if you can wriggle your way out of this one.’)

  I ended by saying, ‘As Mr Gutierrez once told me, the best we can do today is to show, by our actions and by our words, some small amount of solidarity, some sympathy. If, by giving up your meal today, if, by not holding this conference, we’ve done just that, then I think we’ve achieved quite a lot. That is all I have to say. Thank you very much.’

  There was a dead silence that seemed to stretch on for hours. My bruise was throbbing, my ribs were aching. I could feel my pulse beating a voodoo drum beat up and down the veins of my temples. And then the most amazing thing happened, perhaps the most amazing thing since I stepped into Bernardo’s bookstore that fateful day . . .

  The whole crowd burst into applause! They applauded and stood on chairs and cheered and shouted out praises to our Ministry. A few people shrieked here and there, ‘Brilliant’, ‘Masterful’. Then they began to chant as a group, ‘Viva, Gutierrez! Viva, Gutierrez! Viva, Gutierrez!’

  Greatly relieved they hadn’t decided to tear me to pieces, I took the opportunity to grab my cane, and quietly limp from the stage and exit through the fire door.

  ***

  When our various Ministers, Directors and what-not returned from hiding, they found, overnight, that the Ministry of Parks, Public Monuments and Green Areas had become the most-respected and well-known in the entire city. Newspapers lauded the ‘Gutierrez Approach of Public Service’. People volunteered en masse to ladle soup and hand out bread at kitchens for the homeless. This sparked countless symposia on ‘Truth and Justice in Politics’, (all of which donated the proceeds to the Catholic Church). And, in a recent poll, most students graduating from the University of Buenos Aires said they’re hoping for a career at our Ministry.

  Or, rather, I should say their Ministry. Just before I made my speech, I’d typed out my resignation and left it on the Minister’s desk. After all the subsequent publicity, they asked me back (a number of times), because I was the one most familiar with the development of the ‘Gutierrez Approach’.

  Of course, I declined, although I can’t deny feeling some small amount of satisfaction when they offered me the Assistant to the Assistant Director’s position. Of course, I didn’t tell Julieta that, because she would have killed me.

  Without me, the Minister didn’t know how to proceed . . . until Esteban, my former cubicle mate, stepped up, claiming to be Gutierrez’s protégé! Leave it to that smart-ass to invent a whole history of apocryphal insights made by our hated ex-boss, and then quote them with a straight face to the press. You’ve probably seen the sticker of his most famous saying plastered all over Buenos Aires, ‘Life is the sum of the people you’ve helped, not the number of forms you’ve processed.’

  Esteban later quit the Ministry and became a bit of a celebrity on the local lecture circuit. He even wrote a best-seller entitled The Gutierrez Approach: Giving is Only the Beginning.

  I don’t begrudge Esteban the fame or the money. I’m just happy enough to have left the Ministry with my soul intact and to have sunk into obscurity at a university post with absolutely no hope of tenure. It turns out, with the departure of my dear friend, Dr Pendleton, the university desperately needed professors, with or without dissertations. Of course, it doesn’t pay much, but at least the hours are long.

  I never did come up with that brilliant, new idea, the one that would change the face of politics forever. But, then again, every time I mention Hobbes or Plato or even Machiavelli to an incoming freshman class, I see that spark in their eyes. It’s like, through me, those masterful ideas are invented all over again. So maybe I did get what I wanted after all.

  The funny thing is, even with my work at the university—my long nights preparing lectures and grading papers—I’m spending more time than ever with Julieta and Miguelito. I guess, now that I’m back teaching, doing what I always wanted to do, I don’t have to waste time, running around like a lunatic, trying to fill in the cracks.

  Julieta’s gone back to school to finish up her last accounting credits, and she should graduate next year, just a few months before our next baby’s due. We’re still quarrelling over a name, but, if it’s a boy, I want to call him Amadeo.

  Bernardo’s Bookstore and Antiquary burned down the night Edgardo saved me in the subway. According to the newspapers, all those priceless books were destroyed, except for, inexplicably, a charred copy of À la recherche du temps perdu. No bodies were recovered, and Bernardo and his family were never seen again.

  Perhaps that night Bernardina had set fire to the store out of desperation, thinking it was the only way to release her father. Or perhaps Edgardo did find a way to break the spell, and they burned the shop behind them to cover their tracks, so that the Saint Perpetuus Club could never find them. I like to think that’s the case, and that Edgardo’s turned back time to become seven years old again, and they’ve moved to a small town in the provinces where they can start over, and he’s gone back to school. Anything’s possible, I guess.

  The day of my presentation at the conference that never happened, the one thing I said about Gutierrez that was true was that I had found a copy of Lives of the Saints when I was cleaning out his desk. As it turns out, his book contained the last entry of the diary I’d been scouring all of Buenos Aires for. My account just wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t copy down that last entry below.

  Book XX

  (Final entry, Lives of the Saints)

  News of my appointment soon appeared in the monthly office circular. You might think I’d be enraptured, but I was already beyond the ways of this world, having passed over to the other side. Ezequiel was by now all b
ut a memory. The new receptionist was unremarkable (except for the slight scar on her upper lip, almost indistinguishable amongst the many pencil-lead-thin ruby-red folds). The smoking hag on the other side of my divider continued sitting there, and, as I packed up my stapler and my letter-opener, I gave her a smile, secretly glad now of never having murdered her, because she was part of the furniture I had grown to love.

  My one regret was leaving Mr Engineer Smaevich’s direct supervision. Once you have been in the service of a man like that, it is a hard thing to give up, even for a Saint.

  I remember with such clarity the day I installed myself in the archives below our building. I was taking down the last cardboard box of transcripts from that year’s meeting of the Task Force. As I got into the elevator, the Engineer followed me out into the hallway. There was no handshake, no final words. Just a simple nod of his head—full of meaning, full of wisdom—silent recognition for all I had done for the Institute and of the further contribution I would be making in my new role.

  Standing outside the elevator, he reached out his hand and gently closed the inner grate of the cage and then, slowly, the outer grate. With my one, free finger (the others were wrapped around the cardboard box) I pressed the knob for the basement, and I descended down, down. I never saw Mr Engineer Smaevich again.

  I am writing the final pages of this journal, seated at my desk amongst the archives. No one has been down here for years, and things are in a beautiful disarray. Stacks of files, fact-finding reports, a haphazard pile at the mouth of the chute where the receptionist drops the latest pack of memos tied with butcher’s string.

  As I wrote previously, my task is to unfasten the most ancient files and rearrange the papers in the new filing system. I’m supposed to continue doing this until all the files are done. But no one ever comes down here to check my progress, and, after all, I took the assignment just to gain access to this place. Now that I’m here, there’s so much to study, to learn and to experiment, and I can take all the Time I like.