3 p.m. — Sexual discomfort and fleeting sublimation of the quo usque tandem6 (preventive reading of Plato).
3:30 p.m. — Is Plato’s Demiurge a poor Italian construction worker or the hypostasis of the Divinity manifesting itself as the efficient cause of Creation?
4 p.m. — Melancholy for unknown reasons, maybe hunger (must keep a couple of chocolate bars on hand).
4:45 p.m. — If I take the yod out of the word Avir, it becomes Aor. (How the greasy beards in the Synagogue would tremble if they knew!)7
There was nothing more on the blackboard, so Adam Buenosayres turned his eyes to the master of so much wisdom and studied him with renewed interest. It must be said that Samuel Tesler slept without visible signs of pride, but without undue modesty either. His face was expressionless, like that of an extinguished streetlamp or a dead man, its entire expanse shiny with an oily sweat produced, no doubt, by the exertion of sleep. Two clear lines were sketched across a forehead as broad as a hemisphere. One was sinuous, denoting a sea voyage. The other was the straight line of benign malice. The arcs of his eyebrows pointed menacingly at his enormous nose (custom-built, according to Samuel, for breathing the divine pneuma); the proboscis, as if intimidated, looked like wanting to take leave of its face, perhaps for a landscape more accommodating of its sierra-like grandeur. From his half-open mouth, snorting and musical, the dragon’s breath coursed like an invisible torrent between twin rows of gold-filled teeth.
“Koriskos snores,” said Adam to himself. “But he must perforce awaken. He is summoned by the day, by reality, by the blackboard.”
Putting hesitation behind him, he shook Samuel by the shoulders:
— Wake up!
Samuel Tesler blinked with the dazed air of a fish hauled up from great depths.
— Eh? he sputtered between sighs. What?
— Get up, illustrious professor of sleep!
Samuel Tesler struggled to sit up, still not quite awake, and clamped foggy eyes on his interpellator. Upon recognizing Adam, he fell back against the gutted cushions.
— Quit messing around, he begged. I’m dog tired!
Without insisting further, Adam Buenosayres waited for Samuel to come around. And he didn’t have to wait long, for the dragon, yawning noisily, gave himself a good stretch until his bones achieved a euphonious crack.
— What time is it? he finally asked in resignation.
— Twelve o’clock on the nose, Effendi, replied a ceremonious Adam.
— It can’t be!
— Eye of Baal, that’s the exact time!
— Hmm! What day is it?
— Thursday, Sahib.
As Adam Buenosayres, laughing, flung open the two window panes, the philosopher sat up again, flattered by the Oriental honorifics, music to his ears, no doubt. The bedcovers receded like the waters of the sea, at once revealing the dragon’s incredible torso, which in turn was swaddled by an even more unbelievable Chinese kimono, and released a whiff of rank jungle beast.
(“Twice only does the just man bathe: at birth and at death.” Thus, the rigorous doctrine professed by Samuel Tesler on the subject of hygiene. Concerning his own case, he claimed to live in perfect peace with his conscience, for he did not in the least doubt that his pious progenitors had complied with the first ritual bath, nor that his kith and kin would perform the second one, lest they annoy Elohim. As for prenuptial washing, the philosopher made no objection, even though in his opinion the just man ought to be content, in vexatious matters of this sort, with the abstract odour of decency. It once happened that a few of Samuel’s adepts visited his cubicle and saw there a green-, yellow-, and blue-striped bathrobe. Shocked and alarmed, they suspected apostasy. But the philosopher set their minds at ease, telling them that just as the ascetics of old used to contemplate a skull to disabuse themselves of worldly illusions, so he put before his eyes that useless garment as a reminder of the dishonour incurred when ablutions are performed in adulation of the human body. He felt a religious dread for water and kept himself at a reverential distance, for he considered it divine, the third offspring of impalpable Ether. Hence, its use for menial purposes he found painfully profanatory. Asked if it was permissible to drink water, Samuel Tesler held that only the gods could rightfully imbibe that venerable liquid, and that man, lowly insect of the earth, ought to limit himself to wine, beer, mead, and other humble products of human industry.)
As I was saying, Samuel Tesler righted his huge torso, crossed his arms, fixed his calm gaze on Adam, and apparently savoured the silence that sprang up between him and his visitor.
— Okay, he said finally. Why are you here bothering me in the wee hours of the morning?
Samuel’s serene face, his placid gesture, his mild voice, were not enough to put Adam at ease. He knew only too well the Protean virtues of that face, its wondrous capacity for metamorphosis, and how terribly quickly the dragon could rearrange his facial muscles to compose one face, then destroy it in a single breath to compose another, according to the changing circumstances of the battle. Knowing this, Adam Buenosayres decided to play along and humour him.
— The wee hours of the morning? he replied, feigning astonishment. The San Bernardo clock is striking noon!
— And what do your damned clocks have to do with me? Samuel protested sweetly.
Adam hesitated a moment. How to suggest to the dragon the subtle motive for his visit, without pronouncing the “name under reserve” or exposing his secret to the curiosity of another?
— The day is claiming you! he said at last in a solemn tone. The new day, too, wants to be on your blackboard!
— The day is claiming me? asked Samuel with dreadful innocence.
His dead eyes suddenly brightened: the straight line of benign malice deepened on his forehead, and a dangerous smile curved his lips. (“Watch out!” thought Adam.)
— Thursday, mused the philosopher. Of course, of course! It has to be Thursday. If anyone should be called Thursday, it’s the man who woke me up with no consideration whatsoever.8
“Look out, look out!” said Adam to himself again. Samuel’s playing so much on the word Thursday had him on tenterhooks. Could he have guessed? He couldn’t have, he was still half asleep! Nevertheless, without letting his concern show, Adam put himself on alert. But now he watched as Samuel’s features were radically transformed. The fire in his eyes went out; the malicious line faded on his brow; his lips were expressionless. Now the philosopher showed him a different face, the sad and noble bust of the martyr.
— Yes, yes, he sighed. It’s God’s will that you can’t get any sleep in this bloody house.
Sprawled over the pillows, remorseful, easy of word, severe in mimicry, he continued:
— Do you think it’s right that just because I owe the Fat Lady a lousy three months’ rent, I shouldn’t be allowed to sleep in peace, as did all my ancestors from Pythagoras down to our friend Macedonio Fernández?9
The eyes of the dragon — his docile, melancholy eyes — pleaded for a response. Adam was still uneasy, but determined to stick with him through all his transmutations, even if they outnumbered those of Ovid and Apuleius put together. So he answered:
— Bah! I don’t think it’s because you’re behind with the rent. Beneath the abundant boobs of Doña Francisca there beats a heart of gold, believe me. It’s her housewife morality that’s offended by your unholy habits.