Friday 12
I feel so light that I could be a cat. The sky went dark at ten in the morning. A ferocious storm: it rains buckets, as they say.
At the theater: On the Waterfront by E. Kazan. Brando tells the girl that he was the one who killed her brother, and at the same time a siren sounds from a ship. Close up of a face and then the rooftops.
Saturday 13
I went to Adrogué, spent the afternoon with Grandfather Emilio. He remains absorbed in his project of organizing the papers that he brought back from the war. A meeting in the old bar. My cousin Horacio, Tagliani, López. They leave for the club. I let them go and I took the train and went to Buenos Aires. A sense of difficulty in “entering” the city.
Sunday
Quickly I began to write a letter to Elena to say that I am not coming to see her. We really no longer have anything to do with each other. I do not say it as directly as that, but that is the theme. Telling her what we have told each other during those months. We are friends, but we live in different worlds. I wrote to her all at once, without thinking. I asked Nono for an envelope, closed it and then tore into several pieces and threw out the remains in the bathroom. You cannot write a letter to say goodbye or break up without making a fool of yourself. From then on I entered the void. I think of nothing; I cannot say anything. Grandfather comes looking for me and takes me to the room where he keeps the letters that were never sent. They keep him awake, never leave him in peace.
Tuesday 16
Zunino, the head of practical work in philosophy, a bit intimidated in the class full of only women (except for me). An analysis of moral impulse in Scheler. Relationships between philosophy and “vulgar consciousness.” The distinction lies in the object toward which the judgment is directed. Common sense generalizes; thought is always concrete and directed toward a fact. There is no science of the singular.
Friday 19
Professor Campos once again praises my monograph on Martínez Estrada. “Intensity, refinement, and style.” I can barely stop from burying myself under the desks.
I realize that in my discussion of Marxism with Luis I support myself with Camus. And in the anarchist tradition: morally, the reductionism of Marxism is unacceptable, as is its reduction of everything to material interests. The whole argument in Camus consists of reducing Marxism to what is experienced in the USSR.
Thursday, August 25
At the College, they put on a show of New Theater. A performance for the students who can dedicate themselves to the study of theater. Alejandra Boero and Pedro Asquini, The Farce of the Cashier Who Went to the Corner by Ferreti. A kind of Kafka mixed with Roberto Mariani.
Saturday, August 27
An assembly at the College yesterday. The anarchist association contended that religious symbols must be removed, especially that of the crucified Christ in the Great Hall. A great discussion, and an appearance at around ten at night by Pacheco, a very well-known anarchist leader who has just arrived by plane from Córdoba. “Down with Christ,” he says, “we came to study, not to pray.” The humanists whistle and stomp on the floor.
Sunday 28
I feel heavy, distant; I slept fitfully through a siesta. I drank too much alcohol. My mouth is dry, my legs cramped. And what now? The whole day ahead; several options, none very attractive.
I escape to the cinema, watch Kanał by A. Wajda. I leave at nine at night, rather lost. I go to the theater: Time and the Conways. Interesting—distortions caused by temporality and chronological leaps. The work duplicates the abrupt cuts and switches from the novel; Virginia Woolf is very much present. Killing time—death would be better. As an aside, I wonder: Will I, like the Conways, be a failure in twenty years? 1980, two decades from now: After having lived through those years, will they seem few? Will I think, as I do now, that my life stretches before me? Maybe it does, still, but there can be no doubt that everything will be different. This I know, or believe, but what will it be like? I won’t know then either, because in that moment I will want, as I do now, to know my future. (Or will I be dead?)
Wednesday, August 31
Several unexpected meetings with Vicky: I found her in the theater the other night, then, the next day, I saw her on Calle 7 and we went to have a coffee. Tuesday at the College. She is eighteen. Red hair (like all the women I love), subtle, “living”—in every sense. I am blown away; she is blown away as well. In the woods, nothing common. Number 13. The bazaar.
Friday, September 2
Last night, in Plaza Moreno, I thought I had seen Elena. I thought, She came looking for me. I started running because the girl was crossing the street toward the tram stop. I reached her at the corner; under the light, I saw that it was not her, and she looked at me, surprised. “Sorry,” I said, “you look just like a friend of mine.” Then she smiled. “Oh, really?” she said, “it happens a lot… but I’ve seen you somewhere before.” It turns out that she studies law and so has seen me at the College. I made an impression on her because I kept looking at her as though I knew her. Maybe we each have a double, someone the same as us, and also someone who is a replica of one of our friends.
Tuesday 6
The acts and the conflicts continue. The Tacuaras bombarded the University, painted swastikas, ruined the painting of Alfredo Palacios, and wrote, “Jews go to Moscow.” Because of this, there was an act of condemnation toward the Catholic right. To this is added the conflict in Medicine. We were marching down Calle 7 when the police attacked us. Gas, Molotov cocktails. “Governments pass and the police remain,” as Martínez Estrada says.
A critical situation at the College. An assembly to elect the first-year delegates to the University Federation. Vicky nominates me as a candidate, wants to politicize me, is half a Trotskyist. She makes a little speech about me, praising my oratory ability. In the first vote, a tie. Fifty-two votes for each. My adversary is a girl in Pedagogy with a pizza face, supported by the CP (90 percent of the activists from the CP at the College are in Pedagogy). We move on to the tiebreaker, and when it is my turn I abstain from voting for myself. The other girl votes for herself and wins by one vote. Everyone wanted to kill me. Luis almost curses me out: “Are you crazy?” “I have my principles,” I tell him. “You’re hopeless.”
Vicky comes to console me. We have coffee at Don Julio, the College bar. The students were coming and going; it felt like they were all looking at me and recognizing me as the anarchist who would not vote for himself. A moron, they all think (and so do I, sometimes). Vicky stifling her laughter. “What happened?” she said, and kept looking at me as though I were a Martian. “He was embarrassed to vote for himself,” she laughed. I defended myself, saying that I did not want to play their game. To top it all, a girl from the CP said, “He voted first, so you had to see that she made the choice herself.” The funny thing was that they all embraced her afterward as though she had won by a mile. “You sure are a gentleman,” Vicky laughed.
Why didn’t I vote for myself? Though it may seem incredible, I did it to impress Vicky, so that she would say the things she said to me. You’re an idealist. It’s also true that I didn’t vote because I didn’t want to get wrapped up in university politics. I have only recently arrived; I don’t want to waste my time in meetings. Then why did you agree to be a candidate? Vicky’s question, that relentless girl.
Wednesday 7
I received a letter from José Antonio, from New York. Doesn’t like the food, is fascinated by the library. The country is at war, or wants to be at war, with whatever it can get its hands on. I would like, he says, to be Robin Hood, but it won’t turn out well for me. The Americans demand “force” from their future leaders. The sick demand health as they are dying. Never, he advises me, stop seeing the seven faces of the world, because we can envy lunatics for living in incoherence.
When the class is let out I go to the bar with Vicky. Sentimental confessions. She has a boyfriend in her hometown (in General Belgrano) though she no longer loves him, but if she tells
him so, he will suffer. She doesn’t want to see him suffer, etc. I calmed her down, told her that keeping up the lie is worse. And I started to move toward her. Emilio, she said, I talk to you like one of my girlfriends and you answer by coming on to me. Of course you already know everything about me, I said; you read my journal, so I don’t have to tell you my history, this way is better and much faster. She laughs with a laughter that fills me with happiness. And she has red hair! I tell her the story about the girl I fell in love with in primary school, then I tell her about the first time I was with a woman, at fourteen years old; she had red hair, a neighbor, a married woman, a friend of my mother’s. I went after her without really knowing why. I spied on her; if I got up on the roof of my house, I had a perfect view through the transom when she was in bed with her husband and the bedside lamp was turned on. I was above her in this way, with these images, like a lone wolf. Until one afternoon, during siesta, I was sitting on the sidewalk and she called for me, made me come in, and when I crossed the hall I saw her: she was naked in the bathroom with the door open, just having bathed. I told her the story in that way, more or less, and she laughed. She has an unforgettable laugh. So, she said, you want to add me to the series of redheaded women in your life. Come, she said; I’ll show you the apartment where I live.
Thursday 8
I spent the morning in the University library; it is the place where I feel best, taking cover. They have everything that I look for, and, even better, José Sazbón works half-days in the periodicals section and gets me whatever I want. Today, for example, La Torre magazine, from the University of Puerto Rico. Inside, in the silence, with all of those books at hand, life outside matters little to me. I am reading Jaspers; there are four limit situations: 1. No one can live without struggling against contingency. 2. We are going to die. 3. Our empirical experience is deceptive. 4. Life is a permanent choice. Determination. I felt I must construct a system to evade these four truths. They resist consciousness, and we can only perceive them existentially. To live under limit situations and to exist are the same. Or, to say it another way: I, in existing, do not reach my potential being any more than by confronting—past reason—the limit situations. The consequence: tragic-heroism.
Something strange just happened to me. I see someone signaling to me from the door of the reading room. The sun is glaring at me and it takes a while before I realize it is Vicky. When I get closer, she seems almost distraught and holds out a small package to me. Inside is a Buddha carved from bone (I don’t think it could be ivory). At first I think she was pulling my leg and giving me the Buddha because I refused to vote for myself. But no. It’s for me, she says, because I need protection and luck. Surprised, I don’t really know what to do or say, and when I try to respond, she leaves. I cannot follow her because I have books from the library with me and my notebook is on the table. Now it’s been a half hour since I’ve done anything but think of things I should have said to her. She said, “This is to bring you luck.” Could she be a Buddhist?
Friday
I got an A on the philosophy midterm. When we were let out, Vicky was waiting for me. Vicky said, “The Buddha brought you luck.” I invited her to the movies, but she said she couldn’t go. She had barely seen me and left immediately, as though there was nothing between us.
Saturday 10
In the library once again. I read an article by Martínez Estrada in Sur magazine. He speaks of historical invariants. Situations that are repeated through time. For example, he considers the rape of the Indian, the native girl, by the Spaniard, the illiterate conquistador. He finds the recurring image of the rape to be of enduring importance. Could historical invariants be discovered inside one’s personal life? For example, I think that I came to the library today in order to see whether Vicky would appear in the entrance and wave and gesture to me. Every that the door to the room opens, I raise my head.
Monday 11
Women. Yesterday morning, I went to the cinema to see Smiles of a Summer Night by Bergman, part of a series the film students put together to make a bit of money and publish a magazine. On the sidewalk I see Vicky with Jorge Becerra standing in a line. Hellos, a slight tension, stray sentences. Jorge is surprised. I thought you had gone to Adrogué. I changed my mind, I said. And Vicky looked straight at me, devious; I knew you were in the city, she said. We go on talking, but the conversation does not prosper. Strangely, I feel euphoric (from being with her, I suppose), with the same euphoria as someone who has discovered the murderer before the end of a police novel. She looks at me steadily, I talk to Becerra, he seems to be off in the clouds. Finally, we enter and sit down in the darkness, with her in the middle. The movie is a hilarious situational comedy. Someone describes someone who is in love with love. Then the lights come back on and we leave and go for a coffee. Vicky gets up and goes to the bathroom. Time passes, and she does not reappear. She left, says Jorge. What do you mean, she left? I say. It turns out that Becerra comes from the same town as Vicky, and soon he is telling me the story of her engagement to a rich guy in the country.
At the College, as I am leaving, Vicky catches up to me in the hallway that leads to the patio over Calle 6. You’re leaving? she says, and before I can answer, she adds: When are we going to talk, you and I? We are talking, I say. When will you get here tomorrow? she persists. I’ll wait for you at the bar, she says. Okay, I say. The silence stretches on as it does in a poker game. You’re changing, I tell her. She smiles. Before, you would turn red when someone spoke to you, I say. I am red, she said. See you tomorrow.
Tuesday
When I arrive at the bar, Vicky is waiting for me, sitting at the table by the window. It is very loud at this hour; everyone is talking at the same time and you can’t hear anything. So, a bit later, I say: We should get out of here. She follows me, docile, playing the good girl. Out on the street the air clears my head, I supposed Vicky’s, too, because before we make it to the corner she returns to the confusing story about the boyfriend waiting in her town. I am bad, she said suddenly. I was always bad. I tried to explain that she didn’t need to worry if it was because of me, but she went on, talking in general, reprimanding herself but also laughing at herself in sharp bursts, laughing at the idiot waiting in her town (and laughing at me, too, I suppose).
Wednesday
I woke up at two in the morning yesterday, an effect of my meeting with Vicky. I went out onto the patio, into the darkness, and sat down in the wicker chair, barefoot, my feet touching the ocher flagstones. I sat there for an hour, thinking about Vicky and our rendezvous in the hotel where we went that afternoon. Now I am caught up in another story, yet still I remain alone, always maintaining two or three sparks to fuel my doubts.
Thursday, October 13
I read what I have written in those notebooks, a disorder of feelings. I search for a personal poetics that is (still) not visible here. A diary records events as they are taking place. It does not recall them, only records them in the present. When I read what I wrote in the past, I find blocks of experience, and only reading allows the reconstruction of a history displaced over the course of time. What takes place is understood afterward. One must not narrate the present as though it has already passed.
Sunday, November 6, 1960
I listen to the soccer game on the radio (Independiente 2 – Boca 0), a narration that, like a distant music, accompanied the Sundays of my childhood. There is a verbal unreality in the telling of actions that we cannot see but must imagine. I am fascinated by the fact that this narration is accompanied by “commentary”—that is to say, the theoretical explanation of what takes place in the game. The story and the concept defining it come together.
7
In El Rayo Bar
I spent all of Saturday reading The Idiot because I was writing a story about a jeweler who I liked to imagine as a kind of Prince Myshkin, but after a while I had forgotten all of that and was buried in Dostoevsky’s novel. The destructive nature of goodness made the story move wit
h the metallic violence of a train that has gone off the rails. Compassion destroys the Prince and Nastasya Filippovna, who confront each other in scenes of incredible intensity. I remained trapped by the intrigue, and by the time I remembered myself it was after midnight and I had forgotten all about my friends and in particular Vicky, a beautiful redhead I was going out with at the time.
It was Saturday; I was alone and too tired to call anyone. I went out to the street and walked to El Rayo, the bar opposite the train station, and set to watching the world. The city seemed to be a different one altogether, darker and more obscene, with desperate people who left the racetrack and wandered around like cats. In a private booth were the alternators, girls a man would pay with a drink—or two drinks—to talk to until, in the end, he could leave with them and head for the hotels that abounded near the station. At any hour there are men looking for women, crossing furtively toward dance clubs that let a soft music fall over the city at night. In the entrance, a young man, tall, emaciated, dressed in a long black overcoat, had paused with a spectral air and signaled to one of the girls off to the side, who was listening to a bolero by Agustín Lara on the Victrola. He seemed to be a perpetual student who, like me, had come out of his hellhole and was wandering about with the air of a solitary wolf.
The Diaries of Emilio Renzi- Formative Years Page 11
