Samuel Tesler listened to his visitor’s argument in disdainful silence, his mouth bitter, but his eyes meek and sad.
— Let’s take a closer look at Doña Francisca, persisted Adam in a grave tone. Let’s come down to earth, Eye of Baal! Doña Francisca had a husband — may he rest in peace — who used to get up every morning at five and go to bed every night punctually at ten. Doña Francisca’s spouse’s bowels — and the whole neighbourhood knew this — never failed to move at precisely six-thirty; you could set your watch by it.
— And could such a jewel of a man have died? an incredulous Samuel interrupted.
— He died prematurely, answered Adam sadly. Whom the gods love die young.10
The look the philosopher gave his visitor was half approving, half anxious. In fact, he was regarding him as he would a disciple who was getting a little too big for his britches. Which only encouraged Adam, who continued:
— By her mathematical mate, Doña Francisca conceived two sons, Castor and Pollux, who maintain their father’s noble line. Both keep toothbrushes in the bathroom; Castor has a blue one, Pollux a dark red one. Faithful to the principles of modern hygiene, the two champions purge themselves “religiously” at the change of every season. It’s a known fact that the Company raised Castor’s salary less than two months ago, but it’s equally true that Pollux will be promoted up to Management as soon as his boss kicks the bucket. Unfortunately (and here Adam shook his head in dismay) the intellectual harmony between these two upright young men is not as perfect as their aggrieved mother might wish. They’re both cinephiles, but Castor’s favourite star is Bessie Love, while Pollux prefers Gloria Swanson. Fanatical soccer fans, Castor stands by the famous blue jersey of the Racing team; Pollux roots for the invincible San Lorenzo. Free of the scourge of illiteracy, Castor reads Crítica and Pollux La Razón.”11
His benevolence exhausted, Samuel Tesler was showing signs of a vast discontent.
— But don’t get the idea, Adam advised him, that they’re a pair of innocent duffers. No! They also pay tribute to the night, to frenzy, to dissipation. Every Saturday night Castor and Pollux observe the following program. From nine till half-past midnight, movies at the Rivoli. At one in the morning, homage to Venus at the goddess’s temple on Frías Street. At two in the morning, chocolate y churros at the café Las Rosas. At two-thirty, back to the maternal hearth and home for restorative sleep.
His arduous portrayal of these characters finished, the visitor looked to Samuel for the praise he felt he’d earned. But the philosopher gave no sign of indulgence.
— Nice morality! he scoffed, his brow jutting forward in menace. A bunch of bourgeois slobs insulated in fat and conventionality!
And with all the dignity that his underclothes would allow, he added:
— I know the type! They seize the day by force and stuff it chock-a-block with their schemes and scams, their shouts and their farts. And then they’re surprised if the philosopher, excluded from the day, takes shelter in the sweet beneficence of the night!
He levelled a threatening finger at his visitor:
— Answer me this, since you’ve seen at least the cover of the odd book of metaphysics. What is the bird of the philosophers?
— The owl, Effendi, answered Adam.
— That’s right, the owl. The nocturnal bird par excellence.
And placing his right hand on his breast, he solemnly declared:
— Well, then, I am the owl.
Surprised but polite, Adam Buenosayres held out his hand to the owl who, with minimal fanfare, had just presented himself as such. But the owl was busy with the remainder of a half-smoked cigarette that now drooped from his lower lip, trying to light it and putting his nose in serious jeopardy in the process.
— And what is the most grossly diurnal bird? he asked once he’d achieved combustion. The bird that is fat and graceless like no other?
Adam didn’t answer.
— The hen! exclaimed the philosopher. The perfect symbol for Buenos Aires!
His eyes frolicked in a cruel dance. A deceitful smile crossed his belligerent features. Thus jovial and monstrous, Samuel exhibited a third face, no less formidable than the other two.
— The City of the Owl Against the City of the Hen, he recited cryptically.
— What’s that? Adam wanted to know.
— It’s the title of my work. I pluck the hen and toss it into the boiling pot of my analysis. I add the young cob of melancholic corn and a lively sprig of sarcasm…
— Altogether, a real criollo hash, said Adam scornfully. That’s our literature, all right!
— You mean yours, you bunch of mulattos!12 corrected the philosopher, visibly piqued. In mine, you’ll see a cackling people who busily scratch and peck at the earth, night and day, never remembering sad Psyche, never turning their eyes heavenward, deaf to the music of the spheres.
By the time he’d finished this declamation, the malignant line had reappeared on his forehead.
— To conclude my thesis, I propose that a dun-grey chicken replace the dove of the Holy Spirit on the Buenos Aires coat-of-arms.13 And to top it off, I suggest that Doña Francisca and her Pythagorean crapper of a husband be declared historical monuments, and that they be provided with their own water closet so that visitors won’t piss on them. As author of such a useful work, I ask for only one thing in return: that Irma be immediately banished from Buenos Aires, packed off to her native Catamarca,14 shipping prepaid.
Seated at the foot of the bed and laughing abundantly, Adam Buenosayres warmly applauded the philosopher’s thesis. But Samuel appeared insensible to his guest’s fervour. On the contrary, whether because he hadn’t yet forgiven him for the tirade about Castor and Pollux or because he was having trouble digesting that “criollo hash” so irreverently served up by his visitor, Samuel kept dolefully quiet.
— Poor Irma, exclaimed Adam. To cast out such a defenceless creature!
The philosopher’s jaw tightened, his mouth pursed in a bitter sneer:
— Defenceless? With her damned tangos and her buckets she’s capable of waking up every last reader of Teutonic philosophy, asleep since the days of old Mannie Kant.
As if moved by an ancient rancour, he added:
— That creature must have the devil in her. One of these days I’m going to wring her neck.
— Poor Irma! insisted Adam. What does she know about philosophers? To her, Kant is probably a Jewish pharmacist on Triunvirato Street.
Samuel Tesler was looking at him now with waggish curiosity.
— She’s a flower of nature, Adam concluded. Let us breathe her sylvan fragrance.
A tremendous guffaw shook the philosopher’s rugged bust; the straight line of malice joined the sinuous, sea-voyage line, etching a strange glyph. (“Look out!” Adam cried out in his soul.)
— It seems to me, said Samuel, that you’ve gone a little further than breathing her, O Poetaster!15
Adam made no reply. (It was true, he’d said her eyes were like two mornings together.) But the philosopher, sensing an uncomfortable memory in his guest’s silence, didn’t let up:
— What I just don’t get, is how you can be fooling around with Irma while at the same time claiming to be in love with Solveig Amundsen.
(“Heads up, here it is!”)
He looked at Adam askance:
— So you give Irma your body and Solveig your soul? It’s a case of proportional distribution quite typical among the scoundrels who tote a lute around in this vale of Irmas.