— The Spirit of the Earth will speak, insisted the Pipsqueak, overcome by the mystery of it. The Spirit will speak, you can be sure of it!32
— And cut a sorry figure, said Franky. It’ll moo like a cow.33
But Del Solar was in no mood for compromises.
— With or without the Spirit of the Earth, the foreigners should leave us in peace. This is no longer a country: it’s a colonial trading post!
The line was drawn, positions had hardened, and civil war seemed imminent. And belligerent ardour was already glinting in all eyes, when Mister Chisholm saw fit to put aside his reserve, which hadn’t fooled anyone anyway, and let all the chill of his native English fog fall down hard upon Del Solar.
— That’s sheer ingratitude, he said. Ingratitude and savagery. What on earth would have become of this nation, for example, without the aid of England? That’s what I’d like to know. Upon my word!
The keenest astonishment flashed across everyone’s face. Del Solar, Buenosayres, Pereda, Bernini, Franky — all of them looked at each other in petrified silence. Then, instintively, those men of such diverse origin, humour, and mindset moved closer together, as if closing ranks before a common threat. A wave of heroic zeal blazed in their faces; the hair on the back of their necks rose in anticipation of the impending clash. The first to sally forth was Bernini, a famously intrepid warrior in this sort of international battle.34
— I don’t think Mister Chisholm has quite understood, he began. For us, England isn’t foreign.
— Aha! smiled a pleased Mister Chishom. So what it is it, then?
— England is the Enemy! trumpeted Bernini.
It was the signal to launch the attack. Samuel Tesler suddenly advanced toward Mister Chisholm, performed a deep bow, and solemnly announced:
— Delenda est Britannia!35
— Twice England has invaded us and twice we have repulsed her, thundered Del Solar. But a third invasion has defeated us: the invasion of the pound sterling!36
Flushed red as a fighting cock, Mister Chisholm shook his fist at the insurgents.
— No one can deny England’s civilizing mission, he rasped. Who dares to deny it?
— I do! said the philosopher. Historically speaking, England hasn’t changed since Roman times. It has never been completely civilized, refractory as it is to eternal tradition and order. And these barbarians wrapped in elegant tweeds claim to be civilizing a people with forty centuries of metaphysics in their veins!
— There he goes again with his forty centuries! muttered Señor Johansen bitterly.
— Indians! scolded Mister Chishom. Worse than Indians!
At this point, Bernini sounded the famous charge that was to win him so many future laurels. Turning to his peers, he exclaimed:
— Enough pussyfooting around! Give us back the Malvinas, or else!37
From that moment on, confusion reigned supreme. The pipsqueak’s charge was met by shouts, laughs, and threats. Wielding his garbled Spanish like a broken sword, Mister Chisholm tried to respond to his numerous enemies, but his voice was buried beneath the weight of the many voices beleaguering him. Franky went to the sky-blue divan and plunked himself down between his sister Ethel and Ruty Johansen, his carrot top shaking with laughter. Meanwhile, Samuel Tesler was now standing on the piano stool, shaking an aggressive fist at Mister Chisholm and bellowing:
— Give us back the Malvinas!
The whole room, startled, turned its eyes to the combatants in the metaphysical sector.
— What’s going on? asked Señora Johansen in alarm.
— Nothing, answered Señora Amundsen. I think they’re beating up on my Englishman.
Not masking her displeasure, Señora Ruiz looked at the upstarts.
— Frivolous fellows, she said at last, turning to Señora Amundsen. Frankly, I don’t know why you let such people into your house.
— They’re Ethel’s intellectual friends, explained Señora Amundsen with a benevolent smile.
At the same time, Lucio Negri, installed between Marta and Solveig, was painting the blackest possible portrait of the philosopher of Villa Crespo, who meanwhile continued fanning the flames among the belligerents.
— His case is very simple, he was saying. Simulation of genius, megalomania raised to the third power, and a truly remarkable dose of schizophrenia.
— You call that a simple case? said Marta Ruiz on the theshold of laughter.
— And that’s not all, Lucio went on. The man suffers from mystical delusions. A while back he tried to make me believe that, when he enters a state of heightened awareness, his head emits sparks and his skin exudes exquisite odours. They say he’s spent some time in the loony bin. He went around calling himself the Black Christ and slapping the faces of the wardkeepers.38
But Haydée Amundsen wasn’t going to accept this.
— Slander! she protested, gracefully covering her ears. He’s a misunderstood genius.
— Come on, Haydée, implored Marta. The Black Christ! A man letting off sparks and aromas!
— I haven’t seen the sparks, Haydée declared very seriously, but I’m quite certain about his scent. It’s a cheap aftershave he puts on every Thursday and it’s called Nuit d’amour.
— What? cried Marta. It’s aftershave lotion?
Marta’s and Haydée’s laughter intertwined like twin braids. Even Solveig condescended to smile, distracted perhaps from her own mystery.
Meanwhile, Ethel Amundsen’s group, which had not yet intervened in the incidents of the tertulia, had just launched a discussion about an apparently harmless subject, but one that was to produce extraordinary events in the very near future. Valdez the engineer was developing an implacable thesis which scrapped, just like that, the eternal doctrine of free will; his thesis encountered quite contradictory reactions. Ethel Amundsen repeatedly interrupted the orator, alternately voicing firm objections and shaking her beautiful head in disagreement. Schultz, for his part, half-closed his eyes and smiled benignly, like an initiate listening to a novice expound the most rudimentary truths of occult science. As for Ruty Johansen, her astonishment turned to disbelief, and disbelief weakened to vacillation.
Weighty, no doubt, were the concluding words of Valdez’s allegation. What was certain was that Ethel ardently sprang up from the sky-blue divan and demanded the attention of the whole room.
— Listen, listen! she exclaimed. The engineer claims he can hypnotize anyone here.
A hush fell over the Amundsen salon as eighteen gazes interrogated Valdez, the engineer nonchalantly resisting the weight of so many eyes.
— It’s the commonest thing in the world, grumbled Schultz. Absolutely pompier.
— Hypnotism, Samuel Tesler declared with repugnance, doesn’t rise above the order of the natural. A parlour trick any minimally trained shopclerk can perform on anemic young women.
Affable as usual, Valdez the engineer agreed with a nod of his bald head.
— Exactly, he said. I was trying to explain as much to Ethel.
— When Charcot was conducting research at Salpêtrière… Lucio began to say.39
But Ethel cut him off and challenged the engineer:
— Prove it! You’ve promised to hypnotize one of us in this very room.
— At your service, responded the engineer, studying those present with cold, cobra-like eyes. Who would like to volunteer for the experiment?
There was a general movement of aversion in the room. Obviously, no one wanted to be hypnotized. Even Samuel Tesler, who didn’t give an inch on any terrain, let it be known that he disapproved of this type of experiment, informing his already alarmed listeners about how dangerous it was to fool around with certain energies which, though of the natural order of phenomena, could sometimes breach the ramparts and leave one’s being exposed to a possible invasion by “errant influences.” But Marta Ruiz had a passion for the dark forces and craved all that was violent and unleashed. Disengaging herself from her frightened female companions, she took one step, two steps, three steps toward Valdez, as the engineer beckoned her with the most deceptively benign smile.