— No! he blurted out and put a fraternal hand on Adam Buenosayres’s shoulder. If I were you, I’d put the boots to him.
— Who? asked Adam Buenosayres, completely in the dark, yet not at all surprised.
— He’s a damned beast! insisted Samuel. You should have seen him, strutting like a peacock in front of the brat.
— What brat? Adam asked again.
— Solveig.
“The sweet name profaned,” Adam said to himself. That was why gods and creatures concealed their true names: they jealously hid them from profanation and insult. And that’s why “the sweet name profaned” would never be read in his Blue-Bound Notebook.
— Fine, he grumbled. What’s it to me?
Samuel Tesler gave him a good shake:
— Brother! he cried. Love has to be defended!
Having said which, he drew himself up to his full stature, as though a helmet, a shield, and a lance were just being bestowed upon him so that he might defend love. Abruptly, without so much as a “here goes,” he danced away from his friend in a series of ornate hops. Flapping his arms in mimed flight, he shouted out the Latin conjugation:
— Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant!
Hop by hop, he made it to the corner of Canning and Warnes. There, under a streetlight, the philosopher of Villa Crespo produced a wallet of uncertain shape, leather-type, and age, and stuffed with grimy bits of paper; out of the wallet he fished a dog-eared card and began to contemplate it with a great show of reverent devotion. He was still gazing at it when Adam Buenosayres caught up with him. With an effort, the philosopher pried himself out of his ecstatic delight and handed the card to his friend.
— That’s her! he murmured in a sigh that seemed to well up from the depths of his soul.
Adam glanced at the card: it was a snapshot of Haydée Amundsen. She was wearing the requisite bathing suit, showing off her natural endowments, and appeared determined — oh, yes! — to face the waves rolling in from a sea of adulation and already lapping at her feet. As he looked at the photo of Haydée Amundsen, Adam wondered what act of theft, guile, or imprudent generosity had deposited the photo in the philosopher’s wallet. When he turned again to Samuel, he saw him hugging a paradise tree and kissing it with great tenderness.
— Are you crazy? he asked.
— I love and am loved, explained Samuel devoutly.
And seeing the photo still in Adam’s hand, Samuel snatched it away, pressed it against his breast, and finally replaced it among the mysteries of his wallet.
— Have you spoken to her formally? Adam asked in a grave tone.
Samuel didn’t answer. He remained silent as the two of them crossed the intersection of the two arteries of Villa Crespo. Then they turned onto Warnes Street in the direction of Monte Egmont. Only then did the philosopher speak up; evidently, his soul had clouded over.
— Speak to her, sure, he grumbled. But what could I offer her? That’s the problem!
— Love doesn’t seek gain, said Adam sententiously. Or at least it shouldn’t.
— With her? Samuel laughed bitterly.
He took his friend by the arm.
— In the first place, began Samuel, you’ll admit that, physically, I’m no Adonis.
— No, indeed! Adam agreed fervently.
— I’m not a monster either! squawked Samuel, smarting at Adam’s enthusiastic corroboration.
— Who said you were?
— Fine. What I mean is, I don’t have the kind of movie-star good looks I’d need to conquer as frivolous a heart as Haydée Amundsen’s.
— Not exactly high praise for the girl, Adam pointed out to him.
— Hmm! Samuel said acridly. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know what the score is.
— On the other hand, Adam suggested, physical beauty isn’t everything.
— I was coming to that, said Samuel. Let’s admit that I’m somewhat intelligent.
— True.
— Very intelligent!
— Absolutely!
— What the heck! cried the philosopher. In this country of mulattos, a guy like me is a genius!
Far from contradicting him, Adam Buenosayres warned that such an obvious truth need not be broadcast at full volume in the street. And so the philosopher lowered his voice.
— Yes, yes, he said. So where was I?
— You were talking about your enormous intelligence.
— That’s right. But what good does it do me? Haydée Amundsen couldn’t care less about intellectual matters. As I have found out to my delight.
— What? laughed Adam.
— A splendid animal de luxe! exclaimed Samuel, grinding his teeth. Then he added with venomous pleasure:
— Intellectual women, like that crazy Ethel, make me laugh my head off. An intellectual woman is against nature. Like a seal on a bicycle, or a gorilla demonstrating how to square the circle.
Adam laughed again, and the philosopher joined in with gusto.
— Am I right? he shouted. Do I reason well?
— Like a perfect piss-tank, Adam answered.
— I’m not pissed! protested Samuel. Right here and now I’ll do “the four” so you can see.
Stopping where he was, he balanced on one leg and prepared to cross it with the calf of his other leg to form the probatory numeral “4.” But Adam Buenosayres gave him neither time nor space to complete the manoeuvre and yanked him along.
— I believe you, he assured him. Let’s get back on topic.
— What conclusions did we come to? asked Samuel.
— I can see only one conclusion. Haydée Amundsen is impervious to both your physical charms and amazing intelligence. Dunque, all that’s left for you is the consolation of philosophy, like your buddy Boethius.
The philosopher gave a sinister little chuckle:
— There’s another possibility.
— What is it?
— The great temptation!
His voice grew harsh, as though filtered through a clenched jaw.
— There’s another way, he said. Dazzle her with wealth. Suppose I wrap a necklace of the finest pearls around her goddess-like neck. And dangle sparkling diamonds before her eyes, and emeralds, and rubies.
— Faust, mused Adam Buenosayres.
— Yes, Samuel admitted. But he forgot about the furs, the big fool. Haven’t you ever seen how women surrender unconditionally when they’re at the furrier’s shop, looking at ermines, martens, foxes, astrakhans? Jewels and furs: two instruments of domination. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most of the world’s great jewellers and furriers are men of my race. And then there’s the automobile! It’s incredible how cars fascinate females so. Put a gorilla at the wheel of a Rolls-Royce, and women will see the Apollo of Belvedere.
By the time he finished this quasi-monologue, the initial harshness in Samuel’s voice had become vitriolic, his tone seeming to translate all his turbid imaginings, ancient resentments, and flaming despair. Adam couldn’t see his face, but he sensed the eloquence of its diabolical grimaces and how it moulded itself according to the infamy of each of the words he uttered. When he came to the end, Samuel squeezed his friend’s arm till it hurt: