— The lengths bad literature can go to! he said. To the point of turning a couple of harmless thugs into national heroes!
— Harmless, the taita Flores? protested Del Solar, scandalized.
— Sure, just a kid! Pereda laughed loudly. Only twenty-two charges on his police record!
The philosopher looked at him sarcastically.
— Probably a pathetic chicken-thief, he said. I’ve got a mind to come with you tonight just to have it out with this joker Flores, slap him around a bit.
Uncontrollable laughter erupted. Franky Amundsen, perplexed, went up to the philosopher and felt his biceps.
— This is what I call a man! he declared solemnly.
But Samuel Tesler pushed him away, drunk with aggression.
— I’ve had it up to here with criollista nonsense, he said. It started with singing the praises of that gaucho28 who bummed around out there on the pampa — or so you people say, though it cuts no ice with me — out there where nowadays Italian farmers are sweating in their fields. And now you’re picking on those poor sods in the suburbs, mixing them up in a sorry literature of tough guys and dance-hall Romeos!
As the philosopher talked on, Del Solar was turning every colour imaginable. Images of his forebears went filing by in his memory, heroes wearing the tunic of liberation armies or the chiripá of feudal ranchers. Men with tough beards and tender hearts, out there on the native pampas among proud horses. At the same time, Señor Johansen and Mister Chisholm joined the group, attracted by Samuel Tesler’s violent words.
— Devout remembrance of things native, stammered Del Solar, deathly pale, is all we criollos have left, ever since the wave of foreigners invaded the country. And now the same foreigners are making a mockery of our sorrow! It’s enough to make you weep with rage!
— Bravo! applauded Franky. This calls for a guitar!
— I’m serious! Del Solar warned him acridly. It’s true the influx of foreigners put us on the road to progress. On the other hand, it has destroyed our traditions. We’ve been tempted and corrupted!
— Absolutely right! the pipsqueak Bernini corroborated, pawing the ground like a steed anxious to enter the fray.
But Adam Buenosayres intervened unexpectedly:
— I’d say it happened the other way around.
— What do you mean? asked Del Solar.
— That our country is the one that tempts and corrupts, and the foreigner is the one who has been tempted and corrupted.
The utterance of this unheard-of doctrine produced a shock wave throughout the sector.
— That’s preposterous! protested Bernini.
— Let’s hear his reasoning! Pereda demanded. Quiet!
— I speak as a second-generation Argentine and as a close descendant of Europeans, Adam began, already regretting that he’d got himself into this futile controversy. To get some insight into my country and myself, I needed to visit the old country, the land of my parents, and see how those people lived before emigrating. I saw them in their villages, where they scratched out a tough living from their fields. They had a heroic sense of existence; whether happy or resigned, they had discipline, faith in God, the stability of their customs. I’ve seen them: that’s how they were and still are. What did our country do when it dazzled them with the perspective of getting rich? It tempted them.
Franky Amundsen was showing signs of consternation.
— Schultz’s tempting angels! he said mysteriously. Steamboat angels with twin propellers and hides of steel!29
— When they got here, Adam continued, what system of order was on offer in this country that would replace the one they were losing? A system based on a sort of gleeful materialism that mocked their customs and laughed at their beliefs.
The philosopher of Villa Crespo snickered malignantly.
— And why? he said venemously. All because a couple of revolutionary mulattos who’d read Voltaire impressed the hell out of two or three other mulattos and scandalized their nunnish aunts!
This undesirable trait in the philosopher got him into endless trouble: a ferocious racism that rendered literally the entire universe mulatto,30 with the single exception of the philosopher himself. Leaving aside his infinite vanity on this score, and recognizing in him a man obviously favoured by the Muses, his interlocutors wondered: what gave him the right to insult the patriotic feelings of his like-minded colleagues? He, the last offspring of a people that as a result of a theological curse was still wandering the world and had entirely lost its sense of nationhood? Such thoughts perturbed the minds of those who’d heard Samuel’s damnable words. Once the low rumble of protest had quieted down, Franky Amundsen reacted:
— He’s insulted our gigantic forefathers! he roared, threatening the philosopher with his fist.
— A foreigner! shrieked Del Solar. An undesirable!
— He bites the hand that feeds him! insisted Franky, remembering a serendipitous scrap from his sketchy readings.
Here Luis Pereda raised a threatening arm:
— Stop squabbling! We’re listening to a new point of view on our national reality. Would you please shut up!
Silence was immediately restored, and Adam Buenosayres was able to proceed:
— I was saying that what immigrants found in this country was not a system of order but a temptation to disorder. Most of them had no education: they were defenceless. They forgot their scale of values for the easy lifestyle our country showed them. The process of corruption began in the fathers and was completed in the sons. Children learned to laugh at their immigrant parents, to ignore or hide their genealogy. They are the Argentines of today, uprooted and adrift.
Adam Buenosayres had finished; there was a short silence in the metaphysical sector.
— I’d say he’s laying it on a bit thick, Del Solar said at last, turning to the pipsqueak Bernini.
— Real thick, agreed the pipsqueak. He’s talking bull, no doubt about it.
Serious and scholarly, Luis Pereda asked Buenosayres:
— If that’s your point of view, what is your position as an Argentine?
— Very confused, Adam answered. Unable to endorse the reality our country’s currently living, I’m alone and motionless: I’m waiting, I’m an Argentine in hope.31 That’s how I relate to the country. Personally, though, I feel that, since my forebears cut the thread of their tradition and destroyed their scale of values upon arrival here, it’s up to me to retie that thread and rebuild my identity according to the values of my race. That’s where I am now. And I think that when everyone does likewise, the country will have a spiritual form.
For some time now, the pipsqueak Bernini had been chomping at the bit. A man of intellect and passion, his dual nature was threatening to explode.
— Our country doesn’t need to search for her soul abroad, he announced. There’s someone else who will give it to her, and without being asked.
— Who? Adam asked.
— The Spirit of the Earth!
Samuel Tesler’s dangerous laugh was heard once more.
— Naturally! he said. One fine day the pampa will spread her legs and give birth to a metaphysics.