“Good horse, that old nag,” reflected the lad from the Hayloft. Then he noticed the taciturn assistant was shaving the hairs on the back of his neck.
— Watch the mole, eh! he threatened.
Meanwhile, Don Jaime was shaking the hair out of a none-too-clean apron and Adam was slicking back his hair with a generous dollop of hair cream. Just then, the first rumblings of war were heard in the barber shop. Don Jaime, Adam, and the Carter from the Hayloft all looked at each other. The din of the mob was growing louder. They rushed out into the sunny street.
Adam Buenosayres immediately took refuge in a false doorway beside the barbershop to avoid the riotous first wave of combatants. From this strategic post, he could survey the area that would soon be a raging battlefield. The sector of Gurruchaga Street running from Camargo to Triunvirato was already a-boil, and the clamorous multitude poured out through doors, windows, and skylights. The men were running with long strides, shoving and shouting and egging each other on. The women trotted along heavily in their clogs, children in tow. The kids were laughing and looking for trees to climb so as to get the best view. The old folks stood around exchanging eloquent gestures of excitement.
Adam assessed the human wave and quickly realized they were heading for the vicinity of a grocery store called La Buena Fortuna. Trying to guess what could have started it all, he joined the throng and let the flow carry him along toward the battle. But only at the grocery store did he realize how serious things were. For there, Mars had just thrown his torch and set ablaze the hearts of Trojans and Tyrians alike; and now, his cheeks puffed out, he was blowing on the flames for all he was worth.
When he arrived at La Buena Fortuna, the fight was just getting underway. Doña Filomena, drawn up to her full majestic height, her cheeks red as a rooster’s crest, stood at the centre of a vast circle of men and women. Holding her son Yuyito by the suspenders as he thrashed in vain against her iron grip, she ferociously faced an implacable enemy. Opposite her, pale as the angel of death, Doña Gertrudis took the heat of that gaze, with her son Juancho’s head locked tight against her gut. Between the two champions stood the tano Luigi, owner of La Buena Fortuna. Staring at the shattered glass of his display window, the Italian broke into grand lamentations. The arena was fenced in by rows of menacing faces, and still the multitudes came pouring in from the four quarters of the globe. But before singing of that grievous battle, let the Muse tell the origin of the war that sent so many illustrious heroes down to the underworld of Tartarus.
It so happened that Juancho and Yuyito, after a long morning of banditry, had finally called a halt. Renouncing action, they got to chatting as friends about various subjects, both sacred and profane. Pretty soon Juancho started talking up the Racing soccer team and their famous line of strikers. Yuyito’s brow clouded over. In return, he exalted the eleven players of San Lorenzo de Almagro, burning the finest incense in their homage. Well, one thing led to another, and the next thing you know, they’re no longer singing praises but sliding down the slippery slope of invective. Juancho goes as far as to assert that San Lorenzo are a fumble-footed bunch and recalls how Racing ran circles around them just a while back. Upon hearing such blasphemy, Yuyo feels a knot rising in his throat, but contains himself, then brings up the happy memory of the three goals San Lorenzo shoved down Racing’s throat at the Boca Juniors’ stadium. Ye gods! Who can describe the indignation that overtakes Juancho at the mention of that hateful hat-trick? His right fist flies to Yuyo’s jaw, then he beats a retreat as shameful as it is nimble. Unfortunately, Yuyo has a good throwing arm. His keen eye has calculated his aggressor’s head start. Seeing that chase is out of the question, he picks up a rock and hurls it with such violence that, had it hit the mark, it would surely have knocked Juancho headlong down into dark Hades. But Juno, of the bovine eyes, has for some time now been nursing a divine grievance against Racing, and she steers the rock toward the window of La Buena Fortuna. Result: the glass is smashed to smithereens and the tano Luigi runs out into the street screaming blue murder.
We left Doña Filomena and Doña Gertrudis facing off, still silent, but with razor tongues at the ready. The first to speak was Doña Gertrudis:
— This is the kind of thing that’s been going on, she declared, ever since you and your ragamuffin son moved into the neighbourhood. Just ask the neighbours, they’ll tell you! That little snot-nose is Judas reincarnate!
Doña Filomena turned even redder. Yet she didn’t answer, rage having surely tied her tongue. Taking advantage of her opponent’s silence, Doña Gertrudis pointed at Yuyo with an aggressive index finger:
— Ever since that little bastard took over the street, he’s got us all with our hearts in our mouths. Boys will be boys, they say. No! He goes way over the line. He even steals, so help me God! Just ask the neighbours if it isn’t so!
An approving chorus murmured behind her. Muted voices, stirrings of a hurricane. But behind Doña Filomena, too, silent faces were glowering. She moistened her lips and spoke:
– “So help me God,” you said. I don’t know if God will forgive your serpent’s tongue. In the first place, my son is no bastard. He has a father and a mother.
— Father? questioned Doña Gertrudis, sarcastic.
— Yes, a father — may he rest in peace! I can show you my marriage certificate, I really doubt you could do the same. You talk to me about thievery? It’s the pot calling the kettle black! Because stealing coal from honest households, that’s what your son’s up to. And you look the other way. And spend your whole day spreading gossip from door to door.
Ah, what cries of enthusiasm from Doña Filomena’s tribe greeted so cogent, so folkloric a rejoinder! And how grim the faces of their enemies! Meanwhile, Discord hovered over both Tyrians and Trojans, offering them a bright red apple from Río Negro.16 But no one in either faction saw Her. All were waiting on tenterhooks for Doña Gertrudis’s next sally.
Trembling like a leaf — certainly not out of fear! — Doña Gertrudis pondered in her soul whether or not to pounce and rip from her rival’s forehead the four errant, crazy wisps of hair dangling there. But Minerva, the goddess of owlish eyes, at that moment spoke in her ear and, touching the mortal woman with invisible fingers, imbued her with a radiance not at all human. And Doña Gertrudis stepped right up and let fly at her enemy with the full force of her lungs.
— Me, gossiping? she cried. Everybody knows I’m at my Singer sewing machine seven days a week. But look who’s talking! As if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth! If she had even a shred of decency, maybe she’d look after her son, instead of running around and carrying on with…
Doña Gertrudis hesitated, given pause by the gravity of what she was about to say. For her part, Doña Filomena started trembling so hard that she’d have fainted away, had not Juno, of bovine eyes, intervened and upheld her by the armpits. But Doña Filomena recovered, and in the midst of a terrible hush:
— Carrying on with who? she asked, torn between anguish and rage. Go ahead, I dare you to say it!
— With the Carter from the Hayloft! trumpeted Doña Gertrudis. The whole neighbourhood knows!
Heavens, what a rumpus was raised throughout the street at the utterance of such savage words! Laughs on one side were met by insults from the other. Everywhere jaws tightened, eyes glinted. Owl-eyed Minerva exhorted Doña Gertrudis’s partisans, while Doña Filomena’s band was led by Juno, her hair wild and dishevelled, her mouth grim.