Physically, they were unlike the toughs that gave CostaBrava*its repu- tation for lawlessness. That, and things we have no certain knowledge of, may help us understand how close they were. Having a falling-out with one of them was earning yourself two enemies.

The Nilsens were men who sought the pleasures of the flesh, but their romantic episodes had so far been on porches or in entryways or houses of ill repute. There was a good deal of talk, therefore, whenCristiancarried Ju- liana Burgos home to live with him. The truth was, in doing so he had gained a servant, but it was also true that he lavished ghastly trinkets upon her and showed her off at parties- those shabby little tenement house par- ties where certain tango steps (thequebradaand thecorte,for example) were considered indecent and weren't allowed, and where couples still danced "with a good bit of daylight between them," as the saying went. Ju- liana had almond eyes and dark skin; whenever someone looked at her she smiled. In a humble neighborhood, where work and neglect make women old before their time, she was not bad-looking.

At first,Eduardolived with them. Then he went off toArrecifeson some business, and on his return he brought a girl home with him, too; he had picked her up on the road. Within a few days he threw her out. He grew ever more sullen and bad-tempered; he would get drunk by himself in the corner general-store-and-bar and would not answer when someone spoke to him. He was in love with Cristian's woman. The neighborhood (which probably knew that before he himself did) sensed with secret and perfidious delight the latent rivalry that throbbed between the brothers.

One night, coming home late from a bout of drinking,Eduardosaw Cristian's black horse tied to the post at the front of the house.Cristianwas sitting waiting for him in the patio; he was wearing his best clothes.

The woman was walking about the house with hermate in her hand.

"I'm going off to that bust over at Farias' place. There's Juliana-if you want her, use her."

His tone was half-peremptory, half-cordial.Eduardostood for a mo- ment looking at him; he didn't know what to do.Cristianstood up, said good-bye toEduardo-not to Juliana, who was a mere thing- mounted his horse, and rode off at an unhurried trot.

From that night onward, they shared her. No one will ever know the de- tailsofthatsordidmenage,which outraged the neighborhood's sense of de- cency. The arrangement went well for a few weeks, but it couldn't last. Never, when the three of them were in the house, did the brothers speak Ju- liana's name, even to call her, but they looked for-and found-reasons to disagree. They bickered over the sale price of a load of skins, but it was something else they were really arguing about.Cristian'stendency was to raise his voice; Eduardo's, to fall silent. Without knowing it, they were jeal- ous of each other. In those hard-bitten outskirts of the city, a man didn't say, nor was it said about him, that a woman mattered to him (beyond de- sire and ownership), but the two brothers were in fact in love. They felt hu- miliated by that, somehow.

One afternoon in theLomastown plaza,Eduardoran into Juan Iberra, who congratulated him on that beauty he'd found himself. It was then, I think, thatEduardogave him a tongue-lashing. n.o.body, in Eduardo's pres- ence, was going to makeCristianthe b.u.t.t of such jokes.

The woman saw to the needs of both brothers with beastlike submissiveness, although she couldn't hide some preference for the younger, who had not refused to take part in the arrangement but hadn't initiated it, either.

One day, the brothers ordered Juliana to take two chairs out into the first patio and then make herself scarce; the two of them needed to talk. She was expecting a long talk, so she lay down for her siesta,but soon they called her back. They had her put everything she owned, even the rosary of gla.s.s beads and the little crucifix her mother had left her, in a sack. Without a word of explanation, they loaded her onto the oxcart and set off on a te- dious and silent journey. It had rained; the roads were heavy, and it was sometime around five in the morning when they finally reachedMoron.There, they woke up the madam of a wh.o.r.ehouse and offered to sell her Ju- liana. The deal was struck;Cristiantook the money, and divided it later withEduardo.

Back in t.u.r.dera, the Nilsens, who had been entangled in the thicket (which was also the routine) of that monstrous love, tried to take up their old life as men among men. They returned to their games oftruco, their c.o.c.kfights, their casual binges. They thought, once in a while, perhaps, that they were saved, but then, separately, they began to take unexplained (or overexplained) absences. Shortly before the end of the year,Eduardoan- nounced that he had business in the capital, and he rode away. When he had gone,Cristiantook the road toMoron;there, tied to the hitching post of the house which the story would lead us to expect, was Eduardo's pinto.Cristianwent in;Eduardowas inside, waiting his turn.

Cristian,it seems, said to him. "If we keep on this way much longer, we're going to wear out the horses.

Maybe we ought to have her where we can get at her."

He spoke to the madam, pulled some coins out of his purse, and they took Juliana away with them. She rode withCristian; Eduardoput spurs to his palomino so he wouldn't have to see them.

They went back to the old arrangement. Their abominable solution had failed; both of them had given in to the temptation to cheat. Cain lurked about, but the love between the Nilsens was great (who can say what hard- ships and dangers they had shared!) and they chose to take their exaspera- tion out on others: a stranger-the dogs-Juliana, who had introduced the seed of discord.

The month of March was nearing its close but the heat dragged on re- lentlessly. One Sunday (on Sunday people tended to call it a day early),Ed- uardo,who was coming home from the bar, saw thatCristianwas yoking up the oxen.

"Come on,"Cristiansaid, "we've got to take some skins over to the Nig- ger's place. I've already loaded them up-we can go in the cool of the evening."

The n.i.g.g.e.r's store lay a little south of the Nilsens' place, I believe: they took the Troop Road, then turned off onto a road that was not so heavily traveled. The countryside grew larger and larger as the night came on.

They were driving along beside a field covered in dried-out straw;Cristianthrew out the cigar he had lighted and stopped the oxcart.

"Let's go to work, brother. The buzzards'll come in to clean up after us. I killed'ertoday. We'll leave'erhere, her and her fancy clothes. She won't cause any more hurt."

Almost weeping, they embraced. Now they were linked by yet another bond: the woman grievously sacrificed, and the obligation to forget her.

Unworthy

The picture of the city that we carry in our mind is always slightly out of date. Thecafehas degenerated into a bar; the vestibule that allowed us a glimpse of patio and grapevine is now a blurred hallway with an elevator down at the far end. Thus, for years I thought that a certain bookstore, theLibreriaBuenos Aires, would be awaiting me at a certain point alongCalleTalcahuano, but then one morning I discovered that an antiques shop had taken the bookstore's place, and I was told that don SantiagoFischbein,the owner of the bookstore, had died.Fischbeinhad tended toward the obese; his features are not as clear in my memory as our long conversations are. Firmly yet coolly he would condemn Zionism-it would make the Jew an ordinary man, he said, tied like all other men to a single tradition and a sin- gle country, and bereft of the complexities and discords that now enrich him. I recall that he once told me that a new edition of the works of Baruch Spinoza was being prepared, which would banish all that Euclidean appara- tus that makes Spinoza's work so difficult to read yet at the same time im- parts an illusory sense ofrigor to the fantastic theory.Fischbeinshowed me (though he refused to sell me) a curious copy of Rosenroth'sKabbalaDe- nudata,but my library does contain some books byGinsburgand Waite that bear Fischbein's seal.

One afternoon when the two of us were alone, he confided to me an episode of his life, and today I can tell it. I will change the occasional detail-as is only to be expected.

I am going to tell you about something(Fischbeinbegan) that I have never told anyone before. My wife Ana doesn't know about this, nor do my closest friends. It happened so many years ago that it no longer feels like my own experience. Maybe you can use it for a story-no doubt you'll endow it with a knife fight or two. I don't know whether I've ever mentioned that I'm fromEntre Rios.I won't tell you that we were Jewishgauchos-there were never any Jewishgauchos.We were merchants and small farmers. I was born in Urdinarrain, which I only barely remember; when my parents came to Buenos Aires, to open a shop, I was just a little boy. The Maldonado* was a few blocks from us, and then came the empty lots.

Carlyle wrote that men need heroes. Grosso'sHistory suggested that San Martin might be a fit object of worship, but all I ever saw in San Martin was a soldier who'd waged war in Chile and who'd now become a bronze statue and given his name to a plaza. Chance dealt me a very different hero, to the misfortune of us both: Francisco Ferrari. This is probably the first time you've ever heard of him.

Our neighborhood was not a bad one, the wayLos Corralesand FJBajowere said to be, but every corner grocery-store-and-bar had its gang of toughs. Ferrari hung out in the one atTriunviratoand Thames. That was where the incident happened that led me to be one of his followers. I'd gone in to buy someyerbafor themate. A stranger with long hair and a mustache came in and ordered a gin.

"Say"-Ferrari's voice was as smooth as silk-"didn't I see you last night at the dance at Juliana's?

Where're you from?"

"San Cristobal," the other man replied.

"Well, I'll tell you for your own good," Ferrari said to him, "you ought to stay up there. There are people in this neighborhood that are liable to give you a hard time."

The man fromSan Cristoballeft, mustache and all. He may have been no less a man than Ferrari, but he knew he was up against the whole gang.

From that afternoon on, Francisco Ferrari was the hero that my fifteen-year-old heart yearned for. He had black hair and was rather tall, good-looking-handsome in the style of those days. He always wore black. It was a second episode that actually brought us together. I was walking along with my mother and my aunt when we came upon some street toughs, and one of them said loudly to the others: "Let the old hens through. Meat's too gristly to eat."

I didn't know what to do. But Ferrari, who was just coming out of his house, stepped in. He stood face to face with one who'd spoken, and he said: "If you boys feel like picking a fight with somebody, why don't you pick a fight with me?"

He walked down the line, slowly, one by one, but n.o.body said a word.

They knew him. He shrugged his shoulders, waved at us, and walked away. But before he left, he said to me: "If you're not doing anything later on, stop by the joint." I stood there unnerved and shaken. Sarah, my aunt, issued her verdict: "A gentleman that demands respect for ladies."

To save me from the spot that put me in, my mother corrected her: "I would say, rather, a ruffian who won't allow compet.i.tion." I don't know how to explain it to you. Today I've carved out a place for myself. I have this bookstore that I enjoy and whose books I read; I have friendships, like ours; I have my wife and children; I've joined the Socialist Party-I'm a good Argentine and a good Jew. I am respected and re- spectable. The man you see now is almost bald; at that time I was a poor Jewish kid with red hair in a tough neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. People looked askance at me. I tried, as all young fellows do, to be like everyone else. I had started calling myself Santiago* to make the Jacob go away, but there was nothing I could do about theFischbein.We all come to resemble the image others have of us; I sensed people's contempt for me, and I felt contempt for myself as well. At that time, and especially in that setting, it was important to be brave; I knew myself to be a coward. Womenintimidated me; deep down, I was ashamed of my fainthearted chast.i.ty. I had no friends my own age.

I didn't go to the corner bar that night. I wish I'd never gone. But little by little I became convinced that the invitation was an order. One Sat.u.r.day after dinner, I went in.

Ferrari was presiding over one of the tables. I knew the others' faces; there were probablyseven, all told. Ferrari was the oldest one there, except for one old man of few words, and weary ones, whose name is the only one that from my memory has not faded:don EliseoAmaro. Aknife scar crossed his face, which was very broad and slack. I learned sometime later that he'd once been in prison for something....

Ferrari had me sit at his left;don Eliseohad to change seats. I was ner- vous. I was afraid Ferrari would make some allusion to the unfortunate in- cident of a few days before, you see. But nothing of the sort happened; they talked about women, cards, elections, an itinerant singer that was supposed to come but never did-the things going on in the neighborhood. At first it was hard for them to swallow the little red-haired Jewish kid; they finally did, though, because Ferrari wanted it that way. In spite of their names, which were mostly Italian, they all felt themselves (and were felt to be) na- tive Argentines, evengauchos.Some were teamsters or cart drivers, and there may even have been a butcher; their work with animals gave them a bond with the countrypeople. I suspect that they wished more than any- thing that they had been born JuanMoreira.*They wound up calling me Little Sheeny,* but there was no contempt in the nickname. I learned from those men how to smoke, and other things.

One night in one of the houses onCalle Junin,*someone asked me if I wasn't a friend of Francisco Ferrari's. I shook my head-I felt I would be al- most bragging if I said yes.

The police came into the bar one night and frisked everyone. Several of us were taken to the police station-but they didn't mess with Ferrari. Two weeks later the scene was repeated; this second time, they arrested Ferrari too. He had a dagger in his belt. He may have fallen out of favor with the ward boss.

Today I see Ferrari as a poor kid misguided and betrayed; at the time, in my eyes, a G.o.d he was.

Friendship, you know, is as mysterious as love or any other state of this confusion we call life. In fact, I have sometimes suspected that the only thing that holds no mystery is happiness, because it is its own justification. However that may be, the fact was that Francisco Ferrari, the daring, strong Ferrari, felt a sense of friendship for me, contemptible me. I felt he was mis- taken, that I was not worthy of that friendship. I tried to avoid him, but he wouldn't let me. My anxiety was made worse by my mother's disapproval; she could not resign herself to my a.s.sociating with what she called "the riffraff," nor to the fact that I'd begun to ape them. The essential element in the story I am telling you, though, is my relationship with Ferrari, not the sordid events themselves, which I do not now regret. "So long as regret lasts, guilt lasts."

One night I came into the bar to find the old man, don Eliseo, who had taken his place again beside Ferrari, in whispered conversation with him. They were plotting something. From the other end of the table, I thought I heard the nameWeidemann-Weidemann's weaving mill stood on the out- skirts of the neighborhood. In a few minutes Ferrari and don Eliseo sent me off to have a look around the factory. I was given no explanation, but I was told to pay special attention to the doors. Night was falling when I crossed the Maldonado and the railroad tracks. I recall a few scattered houses, a stand of willow trees,and vacant lots. The factory was new, but it had a soli- tary, seedy look about it; in my memory now, its reddish color mingles with the sunset. There was a fence around it. Besides the main door, there were two doors in back, facing south, that opened directly into the workshops.

I confess it took me some time to grasp what I imagine you've already grasped. I made my report, which one of the other kids corroborated-his sister worked in the factory. If the gang had missed a Sat.u.r.day night at the bar, everyone would have remembered, so Ferrari decided the robbery would take place the next Friday. I was to be the lookout. Meanwhile, it was best that no one see us together.

When we were alone together in the street outside, I asked Ferrari whether he really trusted me with this mission.

"Yes," he said. "I know you'll comport yourself like a man."

I slept well that night, and the nights that followed as well. On Wednes- day I told my mother I was goingdowntown to see a new cowboy movie. I put on the best clothes I owned and set off forCalleMoreno.

The trip on the streetcar was a long one. At the police station they made me wait, but fi- nally one of the clerks, a man named Eald or Alt, would see me. I told him I had come to discuss a confidential matter.

He told me I could speak freely. I told him what Ferrari was planning to do. I was astounded that the name was unknown to him; it was another thing when I mentioneddon Eliseo.

"Ah!" he said, "he was one of the Uruguayan's gang."

Eald or Alt sent for another officer, one a.s.signed to my precinct, and the two of them consulted. One of them asked me, not with sarcasm: "Are you making this accusation because you think you're a good citi- zen? Is that it?"

I didn't feel he'd understand, so I answered.

"Yes, sir. I am a good Argentine."

They told me to carry out the orders the leader of my gang had given me, all except the part about whistling when I saw the police coming. As I was leaving, one of them warned me: "Be careful. You know what happens to squealers."

Police officers love to show off theirLunfardo,*like fourth graders.

"I hope they kill me," I answered. "It's the best thing that could happen to me."

Beginning early Friday morning and all throughout that day, I was filled with a sense of relief that the day had come at last, and of remorse at feeling no remorse whatever. The hours seemed endless. I barely touched my food. At ten that night we began gathering, less than a block from the factory. There was one of us that didn't come; don Eliseo said there was al- ways one washout. It occurred to me that the blame for what was to happen would fall on the absent man. It was about to rain. I was afraid that one of the others might stay behind with me, but I was left by myself at one of the back doors. Pretty soon the police came, an officer and several patrolmen. They came on foot, for stealth; they had left their horses in a field. Ferrari had forced the factory door, so the police were able to slip inside without a sound. Then I was stunned to hear four shots. There inside, in the darkness, I thought, they were killing each other. Then I saw the police come out with the men in handcuffs. Then two more policemen emerged, dragging the bodies of Francisco Ferrari and don EliseoAmaro,who'd been shot at point-blank range. In their report the police said the robbers had failed to halt when they were ordered, and that Ferrari and don Eliseo had fired the first shots. I knew that was a lie, because I had never seen either of them with a revolver. The police had taken advantage of the occasion to settle an old score. Days later, I was told that Ferrari tried to get away, but one shot was all it took. The newspapers, of course, made him the hero that perhaps he never was, but that I had dreamed of.

I was arrested with the others, but a short while later they let me go.

The Story fromRosendo Juarez

It was about eleven o'clock one night; I had gone into the old-fashioned general-store-and-bar, which is now simply a bar, on the corner of Bolivar and Venezuela.* As I went in, I noticed that over in a corner, sitting at one of the little tables, was a man I had never seen before. He hissed to catch my eye and motioned me to come over. He must have looked like a man that one didn't want to cross, because I went at once toward his table. I felt, inex- plicably, that he had been sitting there for some time, in that chair, before that empty gla.s.s. He was neither tall nor short; he looked like an honest craftsman, or perhaps an old-fashioned country fellow. His spa.r.s.e mus- tache was grizzled. A bit stiff, asPortenostend to be, he had not taken off his neck scarf.* He offered to buy me a drink; I sat down and we chatted.

All this happened in nineteen-thirty-something.

"You've heard of me, sir, though we've never met," the man began, "but I know you. My name isRosendo Juarez.It wasNicolas Paredes,no doubt, G.o.d rest his soul, that told you about me. That old man was something. I'll tell you-the stories he'd tell.... Not so as to fool anyone, of course-just to be entertaining. But since you and I are here with nothing else on our hands just now, I'd like to tell youwhat really happened that night... the night theYardmasterwas murdered. You've put the story in a novel,* sir- and I'm hardly qualified to judge that novel-but I want you to know the truth behind the lies you wrote."

He paused, as though to put his recollections in order, and then he began....

Things happen to a man, you see, and a man only understands them as the years go by. What happened to me that night had been waiting to happenfor a long time. I was brought up in the neighborhood of the Maldonado,* out beyondFloresta.It was one big open sewageditch back then, if you know what I mean, but fortunately they've run sewer lines in there now. I've always been of the opinion that n.o.body has the right to stand in the way of progress. You just do the best you can with the hand you're dealt....

It never occurred to me to find out the name of the father that begot me. ClementinaJuarez,my mother, was a good honest woman that earned her living with her iron. If you were to ask me, I'd say she was fromEntreRiosor theBandaOriental, what people now call Uruguay; be that as it may, she would always talk about her relatives over in Uruguay, inConcep- cion.For myself, I grew up the best I could. I learned to knife fight with the other boys, using a charred piece of stick. That was before we were all taken over by soccer, which back at that time was still just something the English did.

Anyway, while I was sitting in the bar one night, this fellow named Garmendia started trying to pick a fight with me. I ignored him for a while- playing deaf, you might say-but this Garmendia, who was feeling his liquor, kept egging me on. We finally took it outside; out on the sidewalk, Garmendia turned back a second, pushed the door open again a little, and announced-"Not to worry, boys, I'll be right back."

I had borrowed a knife. We walked down toward the Maldonado, slow, watching each other. He was a few years older than I was; he and I had prac- ticed knife fighting together lots of times, and I had a feeling I was going to get positively gutted. I was walking downthe right-hand side of the alley, and him down the left. Suddenly, he tripped over some big chunks of ce- ment that were lying there. The second he tripped, I jumped him, almost without thinking about it. I cut his cheek open with one slash, then we locked together-there was a second when anything could've happened- and then I stabbed him once, which was all it took.... It was only some- time later that I realized he'd left his mark on me, too- scratches, though, that was about it. I learned that night that it isn't hard to kill a man, or get killed yourself. The creek was down; to keep the body from being found too soon, I half-hid it behind a brick kiln. I was so stunned I suppose I just stopped thinking, because I slipped off the ring Garmendia always wore and put it on. Then I straightened my hat and went back to the bar. I walked in as easy as you please.

"Looks like it's me that's come back," I said.

I ordered a shot of brandy, and the truth is, I needed it. That was when somebody pointed out the bloodstain.

That night I tossed and turned on my bunk all night; I didn't fall asleep till nearly dawn. About the time of early ma.s.s, two cops came looking for me. You should have seen the way my mother carried on, may she rest in peace, poor thing. I was dragged off like a criminal. Two days and two nights I sat in that stinking cell. n.o.body came to visit me-except for Luis Irala, a true friend if ever there was one. But they wouldn't let him see me. Then one morning the captain sent for me. He was sitting there in his chair; he didn't evenlook at me at first, but he did speak.

"So you put Garmendia out of his misery?" he said.

"If you say so," I answered.

"It's 'sir' to you. And we'll have no ducking or dodging, now. Here are the statements from the witnesses, and here's the ring that was found in your house. Just sign the confession and get this over with."

He dipped the pen in the inkwell and handed it to me.

"Let me think about this, captain. -Sir," I added.

"I'll give you twenty-four hours to think about it real good, in your very own cell. I won't rush you. But if you decide not to see things in a rea- sonable way, you'd best start getting used to the idea of a vacation down onCalle LasHeras."As you might imagine, I didn't understand that right away.

"If you decide to come around, you'll just be in for a few days. I'll let you go-don Nicolas Paredeshas promised me he'll fix it for you."

But it wasten days. I'd almost given up hope when they finally remem- bered me. I signed what they put in front of me to sign and one of the cops took me over toCalleCabrera....*

There were horses tied to the hitching post, and standing out on the porch and all inside the place there were more people than a Sat.u.r.day night at the wh.o.r.ehouse. It looked like a party committee headquarters. DonNicolas,who was sipping at amate, finally called me over. As calm as you please, he told me he was going to send me out toMoron,where they were setting up for the elections. He told me to look up a certain Sr. Laferrer; he'd try me out, he said. The letter I was to take was written by a kid in black that wrote poems* about tenement houses and riffraff-or anyway, that's what I was told. I can't imagine that educated people would be much interested in that sort of thing, much less if it's told in poetry. Anyway, I thankedParedesfor the favor, and I left. The cop didn't stay so infernally glued to me on the way back.

So it all turned out for the best. Providence knows what it's doing. Garmendia's killing, which at first had got me in such hot water, was now starting to open doors for me. Of course the cops had me over a barrel-if I didn't work out, if I didn't toe the line for the party, I'd be hauled in again. But I'd got some heart back, and I had faith in myself.

Laferrer warned me right off that I was going to have to walk the straight and narrow with him, but if I did, he said, he might make me his bodyguard. The work I did for 'em was all anyone could ask.

InMoron,and later on in the neighborhood too, I gradually won my bosses' trust. The po- lice and the party gradually spread the word that I was a man to be reck-^ oned with; I was an important cog in the wheels of the elections in Buenos Aires, and out in the province too. Elections were fierce back then; I won't bore you,senor,with stories about the blood that would be shed. I did all I could to make life hard on the radicals, though to this day they're still riding on Alem's coattails. But as I say, there was no man that didn't show me re- spect. I got myself a woman, La Lujanera we called her, and a handsome copper sorrel. For years I pretended to be some kind ofMoreira*-who in his day was probably imitating some other stage showgaucho.I played a lot of cards and drank a lot of absinthe....

We old folks talk and talk and talk, I know, but I'm coming to what I wanted to tell you. I don't know if I mentioned Luis Irala. A true friend, the likes of which you'll not often find.... He was getting on in years when I knew him, and he'd never been afraid of hard work; for some reason he took a liking to me.

He'd never set foot in a committee room-he earned his living carpentering. He didn't stick his nose in anybody else's business, and he didn't let anybody stick their nose in his. One morning he came to see me.

"I guess you've heardCasildaleft me," he said."Rufino Aguilerais the man that took her away from me."

I'd had dealings with that particular individual inMoron.

"I knowRufino,"I told him. "I'd have to say that of all theAguileras,*he's the least disgusting."

"Disgusting or not, I've got a bone to pick with him."

I thought for a minute.

"Listen," I finally told him, "n.o.body takes anything away from anybody. IfCasildaleft you, it's because it'sRufinoshe wants, and she's not interested in you."

"But what'll people say? That I'm yellow? That I don't stand up to a man that wrongs me?"