His, too, is an act of love, but not free.
SCHULTZ
A forced act of love?
PEREDA
Bah!
CIRO
Diavolo!
ADAM
Here’s how I see it. Every creature has received some perfection and must communicate it in some way to lesser creatures. It’s the economic law of charity. If I were to explain the mechanism of the angel…
PEREDA
(Scandalized.)
Hey! Only Schultz can talk about angels.
CIRO
Angels. Cripes!
SCHULTZ
(Severe.)
This is no joking matter!
ADAM
… you would see in the angel two distinct movements. One is circular; the angel revolves around the eternal light to become fully illuminated. The other movement is downward; the angel communicates a part of that light to the next angel below in the hierarchy. Since there are three hierarchies of angels, the first and highest communicates to the second, the second to the third, and the third to humankind. And since there are hierarchies among humans, each receives and gives (or ought to give) in proportion to what is received. Now, the poet receives something at the moment of inspiration and must communicate this to those who have received nothing. His is a loving act. But, as in the case of the rest of the creatures who offer something, the poet is only an instrument of the First Love.
PEREDA
(Skeptical.)
Hmm! And if the poet were to work only out of ambition?
ADAM
Ambition for what? Generally he reaps more thorns than flowers in this world!
PEREDA
Let’s say the ambition for glory.
ADAM
Maybe. Dante speaks of the glory his work will earn him. And he talks about it so seriously, one can guess it isn’t a human prize but a divine reward he hopes for.
PEREDA
Reward for what?
ADAM
(He hesitates, then suddenly blurts out.)
Let’s say for his “fidelity” as an imitator of the Word and as an agent of First Love.
SCHULTZ
Are you sure the poet’s fidelity is so great?
ADAM
The true poet will sacrifice all for his vocation. (Dramatic.) Listen welclass="underline" even his soul!
SCHULTZ
(Point blank.)
Would you write if there was no one left on earth to read you?
PEREDA
Bravo, Schultz!
CIRO
Ecco! Ecco!
ADAM
(At the height of exultation.)
Look, Schultz. Imagine a rosebush on the verge of producing a rose, and just then the angel’s trumpet announces the end of the world. Would the rosebush stop?
SCHULTZ
(Surprised.)
I don’t think so.
ADAM
(Sublime.)
Thus is the poet!
(There is an eloquent silence. Ciro Rossini, who has been savouring those grand words without understanding them, shows symptoms of suffering a fit of lyricism, for he is feverishly assailing his hair dyed with La Carmela. Very worried, Luis Pereda turns his attention to the other group, where the three Bohemians are now singing and gesticulating amid a hurricane of Homeric laughter. The astrologer Schultz is a statue.)
PEREDA
Baudelaire had the same excessive idea. Didn’t he say that God reserves a place among his angels for the poet?
ADAM
(Somber.)
I wouldn’t count on it.
PEREDA
And yet, you were just saying…
ADAM
(Now locked in an internal struggle that later will cause him to break down. The drums of the night are beating in his soul, but they are still far away.)
I’m referring to something else. The poet is an imitator of the Word in the order of Creation, but not in the order of Redemption.
SCHULTZ
(Fixing him with cold eyes.)
What do you mean?
ADAM
(The nocturnal drums are beating louder and louder in his soul.)
I mean, if it’s easy for me to imitate the Word in the order of Creation, it’s difficult to do it in the order of Redemption. (Stammering, increasingly distressed.) On that level, only the saint perfectly imitates the Word. Do you know what a saint is? Read the life of Saint Rose of Lima, for example. Something terrible, monstrous, repugnant…13
PEREDA
(Getting worried.)
Che! Che!
CIRO
Cripes!
SCHULTZ
I’ve suspected something was up. For some time now.
ADAM
(Doesn’t hear them. Continues talking as if to himself.)
It’s absurd! One is swimming along in murky waters, and suddenly one realizes one has swallowed an invisible hook. Do you understand? (The drums beat in a deafening crescendo.) One resists, thrashes around, tries to cling to the bottom. It’s no use! The invisible Fisherman is tugging from up above! (The drums have beaten themselves out. Adam Buenosayres lets his head fall forward on the table, noisily toppling the only glass.)
CIRO
(Frightened, addresses Pereda.)
Santa Madonna! What’s wrong with him?
PEREDA
(Picking up the fallen glass.)
He’s pissed as a newt!
(With extraordinary gentleness, Ciro Rossini pats Adam on the shoulders. The bard of Villa Crespo, responding to this wordless solicitude, lifts his head and executes the following motions: he puts his right hand into his pocket and pulls out the Blue-Bound Notebook, then quickly puts it back as though in alarm; he reaches into the other pocket, pulls out a faded handkerchief, and dabs his eyes with it; he puts the handkerchief back in his pocket and accepts a glass of wine that Luis Pereda holds out to him in the attitude of the Good Samaritan; finally he smiles, shy and embarrassed.)
ADAM
Absurd night! (Sighing.) It’s nothing.
CIRO
Ecco! That’s the spirit.
PEREDA
Brother, I thought you were having an attack.
ADAM
It’s over now. (Recovering.) Let’s go on to the third point.
SCHULTZ
The work of art?
ADAM
That’s right, the work of art. (Still sighing.) Do you know what a “homologue” is?
(Schultz prepares to answer, but loud voices coming from the other sector cut him off.)
BERNINI
(Shouting at the top of his lungs from the other table.)
Hey, you guys! Come here, all of you!
PEREDA
(Shouts back.)
What’s up?
BERNINI
They’re gonna have it out!
PEREDA
Who?
BERNINI
The payador Tissone and Franky!
The incident had occurred when The Bohemians had finished their number. In the silence following the applause, the payador Amundsen, eyes sparkling, fiendishly challenged the payador Tissone. Tissone blanched under the pressure of everyone staring at him and waiting for his response. A wave of courage rushed through him, and he cried in a sublime tone:
— I’m called to my game!
The conditions of the contest were set out forthwith. The payador Amundsen was to put a difficult question to the payador Tissone, who then had to answer to the best of his ability. Tissone would accompany himself on his own guitar, whereas the payador Amundsen, whose fingers weren’t in shape that night, would be accompanied by one of the three Bohemians. Those listening were duly constituted into a Jury that would decide who was the champion. No betting was allowed; as Franky pointed out with dignity, this was no cockfight or boxing match; it was a first-class criollo competition.