Alone upon the housetops, to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky, -
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North,
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
'My father used to recite that one,' said Borges. When I had finished the story, he said, 'Now you choose one.'
I read him the opium-smoker's story, 'The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows'.
'How sad that is,' said Borges. 'It is terrible. The man can do nothing. But notice how Kipling repeats the same lines. It has no plot at all, but it is lovely.' He touched his suit jacket. 'What time is it?' He drew out his pocket watch and touched the hands. 'Nine-thirty — we should eat.'
As I was putting the Kipling book back into its place — Borges insisted that the books must be returned to their exact place — I said, 'Do you ever re-read your own work?'
'Never. I am not happy with my work. The critics have greatly exaggerated its importance. I would rather read' — he lunged at the bookshelves and made a gathering motion with his hands — ''real writers. Ha!' He turned to me and said, 'Do you re-read my work?'
'Yes. "Pierre Menard"-'
'That was the first story I ever wrote. I was thirty-six or thirty-seven at the time. My father said, "Read a lot, write a lot, and don't rush into print" — those were his exact words. The best story I ever wrote was "The Intruder". And "South" is also good. It's only a few pages. I'm lazy — a few pages and I'm finished. But "Pierre Menard" is a joke, not a story.'
'I used to give my Chinese students "The Wall and the Books" to read.'
'Chinese students? I suppose they thought it was full of howlers. I think it is. It is an unimportant piece, hardly worth reading. Let's eat.'
He got his stick from the sofa in the parlour and we went out, down in the narrow lift, and through the wrought-iron gates. The restaurant was around the corner -1 could not see it, but Borges knew the way. So the blind man led me. Walking down this Buenos Aires street with Borges was like being led through Alexandria by Cavafy, or through Lahore by Kipling. The city belonged to him, and he had had a hand in inventing it.
The restaurant was full this Good Friday night, and it was extremely noisy. But as soon as Borges entered, tapping his stick, feeling his way through the tables he obviously knew well, a hush fell upon the diners. Borges was recognized, and at his entrance all talking and eating ceased. It was both a reverential and curious silence, and it was maintained until Borges took his seat and gave the waiter our order.
We had hearts of palm, and fish, and grapes. I drank wine, Borges stuck to water. He cocked his head sideways to eat, trying to spear the sections of palm with his fork. He tried a spoon next, and then despairingly used his fingers.
'Do you know the big mistake that people make when they try to film Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde?’ he said. 'They use the same actor for both men. They should use two different actors. That is what Stevenson intended. Jekyll was two men. And you don't find out until the end that it is the same man. You should get that hammerstroke at the end. Another thing. Why do directors always make Hyde a womanizer? He was actually very cruel.'
I said, 'Hyde tramples on a child and Stevenson describes the sound of the bones breaking.'
'Yes, Stevenson hated cruelty, but he had nothing against physical passion.'
'Do you read modern authors?'
'I never cease to read them. Anthony Burgess is good — a very generous man, by the way. We are the same — Borges, Burgess. It's the same name.'
'Any others?'
'Robert Browning,' said Borges, and I wondered if he was pulling my leg. 'Now, he should have been a short story writer. If he had, he would have been greater than Henry James, and people would still read him.' Borges had started on his grapes. 'The food is good in Buenos Aires, don't you think?'
'In most ways, it seems a civilized place.'
He looked up. 'That may be so, but there are bombs every day.'
'They don't mention them in the paper.'
'They're afraid to print the news.'
'How do you know there are bombs?'
'Easy. I hear them,' he said.
Indeed, three days later there was a fire which destroyed much of the new colour television studio which had been built for the World Cup broadcasts. This was called 'an electrical fault'. Five days later two trains were bombed in Lomas de Zamora and Bernal. A week later a government minister was murdered; his corpse was found in a Buenos Aires street, and pinned to it was a note reading, A gift from the Montoneros.
'But the government is not so bad,' said Borges. 'Videla is a well-meaning military man.' Borges smiled and said slowly, 'He is not very bright, but at least he is a gentleman.'
'What about Perón?'
'Perón was a scoundrel. My mother was in prison under Perón. My sister was in prison. My cousin. Perón was a bad leader and, also, I suspect, a coward. He looted the country. His wife was a prostitute.'
'Evita?'
'A common prostitute.'
We had coffee. Borges called the waiter and said in Spanish, 'Help me to the toilet.' He said to me, 'I have to go and shake the bishop's hand. Ha!'
Walking back through the streets, he stopped at a hotel entrance and gave the metal awning posts two whacks with his stick. Perhaps he was not as blind as he pretended, perhaps it was a familiar landmark. He had not swung timidly. He said, 'That's for luck.'
As we turned the corner into Maipú he said, 'My father used to say, "What a rubbish story the Jesus story is. That this man was dying for the sins of the world. Who could believe that?" It is nonsense, isn't it?'
I said, 'That's a timely thought for Good Friday.'
'I hadn't thought ofthat! Oh, yes!' He laughed so hard he startled two passers-by.
As he fished out his door-key, I asked him about Patagonia.
'I have been there,' he said. 'But I don't know it well. I'll tell you this, though. It's a dreary place. A very dreary place.'
'I was planning to take the train tomorrow.'
'Don't go tomorrow. Come and see me. I like your reading.'
'I suppose I can go to Patagonia next week.'
'It's dreary,' said Borges. He had got the door open, and now he shuffled to the lift and pulled open its metal gates. The gate of the hundred sorrows,' he said, and entered, chuckling.
Borges was tireless. He urged me to visit him again and again. He stayed up late, eager to talk, eager to be read to; and he was good company. By degrees, he turned me into Boswell. Each morning when I woke I sat down and wrote the conversations that had taken place the night before; then I walked around the city, and at nightfall I boarded the Subterranean. Borges said that he seldom went out. 'I don't go to the embassies, I don't go to parties — I hate to stand around and drink.'
I had been warned that he could be severe or bad tempered. But what I saw was close to angelic. There was something of the charlatan in him — he had a way of speechifying, and I knew he was repeating something he had said a hundred times before. He had the beginnings of a stutter, but he calmed that with his hands. He was occasionally magisterial, but he could be the opposite, a kind of student, his face elfin with attentiveness, his fingers locked together. His face became aristocratic in repose, and when he bared his yellow teeth in the exaggerated grin he used to show pleasure — he laughed hard at his own jokes — his face came alight and he looked like a French actor who has realized that he has successfully stolen the show. ('Stolen the show!' Borges would say. 'You can't say that in Spanish. That's why Spanish literature is so dull.') His was the perfect face for a sage, and yet, working his features a certain way, he could look like a clown, but never a fool. He was the gentlest of men; there was no violence in his talk and none in his gestures.