— So what’s the point of this dissertation? I asked in displeasure.
— The point will be crystal clear, Schultz told me, when you see how today’s Adams move.
We followed the curved hallway that surely led to the seventh Inferno, and before long we heard muffled explosions, their sound apparently arising from below. The detonations shook the ground we walked upon, cracked the side walls, and dislodged chunks of masonry from the ceiling. Then, associating recollections from literature with Schultz’s recent dissertation, I understood the curve was taking us into the infernal circle of Wrath. But I had no time to dwell on my fears, because we were already coming out in front of a vast boxing ring, lit from above by spotlights whose glare blinded me. When I could see clearly again, the entire ring came into view; a group of characters was stationed at intervals throughout its area. At the back, in the right and left corners, were two pulpits or rostrums; a lookout holding a megaphone was posted on each of them. Between one pulpit and the other, against the wall, loomed the circular door of a gigantic boiler that put me in mind of the engine-room of a battleship.
No sooner had I concluded my inspection than the lookout on the left, who must have noticed us, raised the megaphone to his lips and shouted in alarm:
— Two fops in sight! Have an eye, you guys in the ring!
— Ahoy, mates! exclaimed the other lookout. Gunners to your stations!
Greatly astonished, I recognized the voice of Franky Amundsen, especially in that shout straight out of pirate novels. Turning back to the first lookout, I also recognized Del Solar; he was lowering the megaphone so he could take a puff on his mile-long, glass cigarette holder. The characters in the ring suddenly sprang into action, strategically aligning themselves like soccer players on the pitch. In the front line, I saw the Carter from the Hayloft, the malevo Di Pasquo, the taita Flores, and the pesado Rivera. At right mid-ring, the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law were already assaulting us with dirty looks, while on the left La Chacharola was brandishing her terrible broomstick. Juancho and Yuyo had climbed onto the pulpit covers and were belligerently surveying the scene.
— A cardboard Dante and a vaudeville Virgil! Franky Amundsen shouted again. Don’t let them through, mates!
— La putta de tua mamma! La Chacharola shouted at us, hurling her broomstick in our direction.
The tough guys in the front line were now bobbing and feinting, jabbing at the air with knife-thrusts and punches.
— Leave ’em to me! thundered the Carter. I’ll show those fops!
— Sock ’em in the eye! Juancho shouted down at him.
— Stuck-up twits! spat the taita Flores. Come on over, if you’ve got the balls!
— They ain’t guys from the barrio! cried Yuyo, egging him on. Plough him one in the gut!
The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law clenched their fists.
— Poking their noses into other people’s business, clucked Matilde. And they call that literature?
— They can tell that to my tea-kettle! scolded Dolores, patting her derrière.
The pesado Rivera took off a shoe:
— Gentlemen, he said, don’t waste ammunition on seagulls. Leave them to me!
— Not like that! protested Di Pasquo, the malevo. It’s gotta be a clean fist fight!
Having become quite familiar with Schultz’s technique, I was sure the circular door of the boiler would be the portal to the sector of the irascibles; to get there we were going to have to cross the boxing ring and somehow find our way past all those menacing lunatics. How to accomplish this miracle? I was at a loss until the astrologer spoke to them insidiously:
— Wimps! he said. You’re not up to fighting mano a mano. That’s why you have to gang up!
When the Carter heard this, he turned every hue imaginable:
— You lie, if you’re talkin’ about me! he howled right away. There’s three slaughtermen in Liniers can tell you whether I fight mano a mano!
— Bah! Schultz shot back. According to the taita Flores, who’s right here with us, it was only one slaughterman you fought. He says the fellow gave you a nice shiner.
— You said that? the Carter roared at the taita. I had a sneakin’ suspicion you were goin’ around trashin’ my name.
And without another word he felled Flores with an epic punch.
— Careful, you guys in the ring! cried Franky through the megaphone. Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s trying to sow discord!
But the taita Flores was already back up and having at the Carter in a hailstorm of blows. And because Di Pasquo and Rivera tried to mediate between the two, it wasn’t long before they were catching stray punches and conscientiously repaying them in kind. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law then moved forward into position.
— Would you take a look at these three honourable women! sneered Schultz. Anyone would say they’ve already got their husbands’ funerals paid for!
— And who dares deny it? Dolores asked him, her eyes glinting.
— Your husband’s funeral was paid for in easy monthly instalments, the astrologer reminded her. Too easy! Leonor and Matilde know it full well.
— What gossip have you been spreading about me? squawked Dolores, already attacking her two companions.
— Don’t listen to him! yelled Del Solar and Franky from their pulpits.
In vain. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law were already in the thick of a shoe-fight, creating a melee of black skirts and great sinister shawls. Seeing this, Schultz turned next to La Chacharola:
— Hey, old woman! he cried. Ask Flores what happened to your four linen sheets from Italy!
— Briganti! howled the old woman, and then took her broomstick to the tough guys, who were already knocking each other out.
The ring having become another King Agramante’s Camp,119 the astrologer and I, despite the lookouts’ shrieks, slipped among the groups of combatants and arrived at the door of the boiler. Opening it, we plunged through into what must have been the very homeland of violence. For, at first glance, that sector of hell gave the impression of the most frightful disorder; it was as if a championship soccer game between Argentina and Uruguay, a pugilists’ match in Luna Park, a movie featuring gun-slinging Yankees, and a Buenos Aires gang fight were all going on at the same time. But what really caught my attention was how the atmosphere was charged with a strange electricity or malignant fluid. The air itself, when I took it into my lungs, seemed to revive a ferment of angry skirmishes from the distant past, reigniting in my liver flames of anger that had long ago abated.