Driven by hatred, madness-perhaps, who knows, even love-she had slipped out the back door, made her way through one street after another in the night, and come at last to the house. Then, with those big bony hands, she had plunged the dagger into his chest. The dagger wasMurana,it was the dead man that she went on loving.

I'll never know whether she told my mother. She died a short time be- fore we were evicted.

That was the end of the story thatTrapanitold me. I've never seen him again since. In the taleofthatwoman left all alone in the world, the woman who confuses her man, her tiger, with that cruel object he has bequeathed to her, the weapon of his b.l.o.o.d.y deeds, I believe one can make out a sym- bol, or many symbols.Juan Muranawas a man who walked my own famil- iar streets, who knew and did the things that men know and do, who one day tasted death, and who then became a knife. Now he is the memory of a knife. Tomorrow-oblivion, the common oblivion, forgotten.

The Elderly Lady

On January 14, 1941,Maria Justina Rubio de Jaureguiwould celebrate her hundredth birthday. She was the only living child of the soldiers who had fought the wars of independence.*

Colonel MarianoRubio,her father, was what might without irony or disrespect be called a minor national hero. Born the son of provincial landowners in the parish of La Merced,Rubiowas promoted to second lieu- tenant in the Army of the Andes and served at Chacabuco, at the defeat atCancha Rayada,atMaipu,and, two years later, atArequipa.*The story is told that on the eve of that action, he andJose de Olavarriaexchanged swords.* In early April of '23 there took place the famous Battle ofCerroAlto, which, since it was fought in the valley, is also called the Battle ofCerro Bermejo.*Always envious of our Argentine glories, the Venezuelans have attributed that victory to GeneralSimon Bolivar,but the impartial ob- server, theArgentine historian, is not so easily taken in; he knows very well that the laurels won there belong to Colonel MarianoRubio.It wasRubio,at the head of a regiment of Colombian hussars, who turned the tide of the uncertain battle waged with saber and lance, the battle that in turn prepared the way for the no less famous action at Ayacucho,* in whichRubioalso fought, and indeed was wounded. In '27 he acquitted himself with courage at.i.tuzaingo,*where he served under the immediate command of CarlosMaria Alvear.*In spite of his kinship withRosas,* Rubiowasa Lavalleman,* a supporter of the Unitarian party, and he dispersed themontoneroinsurgents* in an action that he always characterized as "taking a swipe at them with our sabers."

When the Unitarians were defeated,Rubioleft Argentina for Uru- guay. There, he married. During the course of the Great War he died in Montevideo, which was under siege by Oribe's White* army. He was just short of his forty-fourth birthday, which at that time was virtually old age. He was a friend ofFlorencio Varela's.It is entirely likely that he would never have got past the professors at the Military College, for he had been in bat- tles but never taken a single course in warfare. He left two daughters; onlyMaria Justina,the younger, concerns us here.

In late '53 the colonel's widow and her daughters took up residence in Buenos Aires. They did not recover the place in the country that the tyrant* had confiscated from them, but the memory of those lost leagues of land, which they had never seen, survived in the family for many years. At the age of seventeenMaria Justinamarried Dr. BernardoJauregui,who, though a civilian, fought atPavonand atCepeda*and died in the exercise of his pro- fession during the yellow fever epidemic.* He left one son and two daugh- ters: Mariano, the firstborn, was a tax inspector whose desire to write the completebiography of the hero (a book he never completed, and perhaps never began to write) led him to frequent the National Library and the Archives. The elder daughter, Maria Elvira, married her cousin, one Saavedra, who was a clerk in the Ministry of Finance*; the second daughter, Julia, married a Sr.

Molinari, who though having an Italian surname was a profes- sor of Latin and a very well-educated man.

I pa.s.s over grandchildren and great-grandchildren; let it suffice that the reader picture an honest and hon - orable family of somewhat fallen fortune, over which there presides an epic shade and the daughter who was born in exile.

They lived modestly in Palermo, not far from theGuadalupeChurch; there, Mariano still recalls having seen, from a trolley car, a lake that was bordered by laborers' and farmers' houses built of unplastered brick rather than sheets of zinc; the poverty of yesterday was less squalid than the poverty we purchase with our industry today. Fortunes were smaller then, as well.

TheRubios'residence was above the neighborhood dry goods store. The stairway at the side of the building was narrow; the railing on the right-hand side continued on to become one side of the dark vestibule, where there were a hall tree and a few chairs. The vestibule opened into the little parlor with its upholstered furnishings, the parlor into the dining room with its mahogany table and chairs and its china cabinet. The iron shutters (never opened, for fear of the glare of the sun) admitted a wan half-light. I recall the odor of things locked away. At the rear lay the bedrooms, the bath, a small patio with a washtub, and the maid's room. In the entire house the only books were a volume ofAndrade,a monograph by the hero (with handwritten additions), andMontanerySimon'sHispano-American Dic- tionary, purchased because it could be paid for in installments and because of the little dictionary stand that came with it. The family lived on a small pension, which always arrived late, and also received rent from a piece of land (the sole remnant of the once-vast cattle ranch) inLomas de Zamora.At the date of my story the elderly lady was living with Julia, who had been widowed, and one of Julia's sons. She still abominatedArtigas,Rosas, and Urquiza.* World War I, which made her detest Germans (about whom she knew very little), was less real to her than the 1890 Revolution and the charge onCerro Alto.Since 1932 her mind had been gradually growing dim- mer; the best metaphors are the common ones, for they are the only true ones. She was, of course, a Catholic, which did not mean that she believed in a G.o.d Who Is Three yet One, or even in the immortality of the soul. She murmured prayers she did not understand and her fingers told her beads. Instead of the Paschal and Three Kings' Day celebrations that were the cus- tom in Argentina, she had come to adopt Christmas, and to drink tea rather thanmate. The wordsProtestant, Jew, Mason, heretic, andatheist were all synonymous to her, and all meaningless.

So long as she was able, she spoke not of Spaniards but of Goths, as her parents had. In 1910 she refused to be- lieve that the Infanta, who after all was a princess, spoke, against all one's expectations, like a common Galician and not like an Argentine lady. It was at her son-in-law's wake that she was told this startling news by a rich rela- tive (who had never set foot in the house though the family eagerly looked for mention of her in the social columns of the newspaper). The names the elderly lady called things by were always out of date: she spoke of theCallede las Artes,theCalle del Temple,theCalle Buen Orden,theCalle de la Piedad,the DosCalles Largas,thePlaza del Parque,and thePlaza de los Portones.What were affectations in other members of the family (who would sayEasterners instead ofUruguayans* for instance) came naturally to the widowJauregui.She never left her house; she may never have sus- pected that with the years Buenos Aires had grown and changed. One's first memories are the most vivid ones; the city that the elderly lady saw in her mind's eye on the other side of the front door was no doubt a much earlier one than the city that existed at the time they'd had to move toward the outskirts; the oxen of the oxcarts must still have stood at rest in Plaza del Once,* and dead violets still have perfumed the country houses...o...b..rra- cas.*All I dream about now is dead menwas one of the last things she was heard to say. She was never stupid, but she had never, so far as I know, en- joyed the pleasures of the intellect; there remained to her the pleasures of memory, and then, forgetfulness. She was always generous. I recall her tran- quil blue eyes and her smile. Who can say what tumult of pa.s.sions (now lost but erstwhile burning brightly) there had been in that old woman who had once been so charming and well favored. Sensitive to plants, whose modest, silent life was so much like her own, she raised begonias in her room and touched the leaves she could not see. Until 1929, when she fell into herreverie, she would tell stories of historical events, but always with the same words and in the same order, as though they were the Paternoster, and I sus- pect that after a while they no longer corresponded to images in her mind. She had no marked preferences in food. She was, in a word, happy.

Sleeping, as we all know, is the most secret thing we do. We devote one third of our lives to sleep, yet we do not understand it. Some believe it is only an eclipse of wakefulness; others, a more complex state which em- braces at once yesterday, the present, and tomorrow; still others see it as an uninterrupted series of dreams. To say that the elderly lady of my story spent ten years in a state of serene chaos is perhaps an error; every moment of those ten years may have been pure present, without past or future.

If so, we should not marvel overmuch at that present (which in our own case we count in days and nights and hundreds of pages torn from many calendars, and in anxieties and events)-we voyage through it every morning before we are fully awake and every night before we fall asleep. Twice every day we are that elderly lady.

TheJaureguislived, as we have seen, in a somewhat equivocal position. They saw themselves as members of the aristocracy, but those who made up that cla.s.s knew nothing of them; they were the descendants of a national hero, but most textbooks omitted hisname. It was true that a street com- memorated Colonel MarianoRubio,but that street, which very few people were familiar with, was lost behind the cemetery on the west side of the city.

The day of her centennial was drawing near. On the tenth, a uniformed soldier appeared with a letter signed by the minister himself, announcing his visit on the fourteenth. TheJaureguisshowed the letter to the entire neighborhood, pointing out the engraved letterhead and the minister's per- sonal signature. The journalists who would be writing the newspaper re- ports then began dropping by. They were given all the facts; it was obvious they'd never in their lives heard of ColonelRubio.Virtual strangers called on the telephone, hoping the family would invite them to the celebration.

The household labored diligently in preparation for the great day. They waxed the floors, washed the windows, removed the muslin covers from the chandeliers, shined the mahogany, polished the silver in the china cabinet, rearranged the furniture, and opened the piano in the parlor in order to show off the velvet keyboard cover. There was much scurrying about. The only person not involved in the bustle of activity was the elderly lady her- self, who appeared not to understand what was going on. She would smile; Julia, with the help of the maid, dressed her smartly and arranged her hair, as though she were already dead. The first thing visitors would see when they came in the door was the oil portrait of the hero, and then, a little lower and to the right, the sword of his many battles. Even in the most penurious times, the family had refused to sell it; they planned to donate it to the Museum of History. A neighbor very thoughtfully lent them a pot of geraniums for the occasion.

The party was to begin at seven. The invitations gave the hour as six-thirty because the family knew everyone would come a little late, so as not to be the first to arrive. At seven-ten not a soul had come; somewhat acri- moniously, the family discussed the advantages and disadvantages of tardi- ness: Elvira, who prided herself on her punctuality, declared it was an unforgivable discourtesy to leave people waiting; Julia, repeating the words of her late husband, replied that visitors who arrived late showed their con- sideration, since if everyone arrives a little late it's more comfortable all around, and no one has to feel rushed. By seven-fifteen not another soul could squeeze into the house. The entire neighborhood could see and envy Sra. Figueroa's car and driver* (orchauffeur, as she was heard to call him); she almost never invited the sisters to her house, but they greeted her effu- sively, so n.o.body would suspect that they saw each other only once in a blue moon. The president sent his aide-de-camp, a very charming gentleman who said it was an honor to shake the hand of the daughter of the hero ofCerro Alto.The minister, who had to leave early, read a most high-sounding speech filled with excellent epigrams, in which, however, he spoke more of San Martin than of ColonelRubio.The elderly lady sat in her chair amid the cushions, and at times her head would nod or she would drop her fan. A group of distinguished females, the Ladies of the Nation, sang the national anthem to her, though she seemed not to hear. Photographers arranged the guests into artistic groupings, and their flashbulbs dazzled the celebrants' eyes. There were not enough little gla.s.ses of port and sherry to go around. Several bottles of champagne were uncorked. The elderly lady spoke not a single word; she may not have known who shewas. From that night onward she was bedridden.

When the strangers had left, the family improvised a little cold supper. The smell of tobacco and coffee had already dissipated the light odor of benzoin.*

The morning and evening newspapers told loyal untruths; they ex- claimed upon the almost miraculous memory of the hero's daughter, who was "an eloquent archive of one hundred years of Argentine history." Julia tried to show her those reports. In the dim light, the elderly lady lay unmoving, her eyes closed. She did not have a fever; the doctor examined her and said everything was all right. In a few days she died. The storming of her house by the mob, the unwonted stir, the flashbulbs, the speech, the uni- forms, the repeated handshakes, and the popping of the champagne corks had hastened her end.

Perhaps she thought it was one of Rosas' posses* that had come.

I think about the men killed atCerro Alto,I think about the forgotten men of our continent and Spain who perished under the horses' hooves, and it occurs to me that the last victim of that chaos of lances in Peru was to be, more than a hundred years afterward, an elderly lady in Buenos Aires.

The Duel

ForJuan Osvaldo Viviano

It is the sort of story that Henry James (whose writings were first revealed to me by Clara Glencairnde Figueroa,*one of the two protagonists of my story) might not have scorned to use. He would have consecrated more than a hundred tender and ironic pages to it, and would have embellished them with complex and scrupulously ambiguous dialogue; he might well have added a touch of melodrama. The essence of the story would not have been altered by its new setting in London or Boston. But the events in fact took place in Buenos Aires, and there I shall leave them. I shall give just a summary of the case, since the slowness of its pace and the worldliness of the circles in which it occurred are foreign to my own literary habits. Dic- tating this story is for me a modest, sideline sort of adventure. I should warn the reader that the episodes of the tale are less important than the situation that led to them, and less important, too, than the characters that figure in them.

Clara Glencairn was tall and proud and had fiery red hair. Less intellec- tual than understanding, she was not clever yet she was able to appreciate the cleverness of others-even of other women. In her soul, there was room for hospitality. She was delighted by differences; perhaps that is why she trav- eled so much. She knew that the locale in which chance set her was a some- times arbitrary conjunction of rites and ceremonies, yet she found those rituals amusing, and she carried them out with grace and dignity.

Her parents, the Glencairns, married her off when she was still quite young to a Dr.IsidroFigueroa-at that time the Argentine amba.s.sador to Canada, though he eventually resigned his post, declaring that in an age of tele- grams and telephones, emba.s.sies were an anachronism and an unnecessary expense to the nation. That decision earned him the resentment of all hiscolleagues; though Clara herself liked Ottawa's climate (she was, after all, of Scottish decent) and did not find the duties of an amba.s.sador's wife distaste - ful, she never dreamed of protesting. Dr. Figueroa died a short time later; Clara, after a few years of indecision and quiet casting about, decided to be- come a painter. She was inspired to this, perhaps, by her friendMarta Pizarra.

It is typical ofMarta Pizarrothat whenever she was mentioned, she was defined as the sister of the brilliant (married and separated)NelidaSara.

Before taking up her brushes,Martahad considered the alternative of literature. She could be witty in French, the language her readings generally were drawn from; Spanish for her was no more than a household utensil, much likeGuaranifor the ladies ofCorrientesprovince. Newspapers had put the pages of Argentina's own Lugones and the Spaniard OrtegayGa.s.setinto her hands; the style of those masters confirmed her suspicions that the language to which she had been fated was suited less to the expression of thought (or pa.s.sion) than to prattling vanity. Of music she knew only what any person might knowwho dutifully attended concerts. She was from the province of San Luis; she began her career with meticulous portraits of JuanCrisstomo Lafinur*and ColonelPascual Pringles,*and these were pre- dictably acquired by the Provincial Museum. From the portraiture of local worthies she progressed to that of the old houses of Buenos Aires, whose modest patios she limned with modest colors rather than the stagy garish-ness that others gave them. Someone (most certainly not Clara Figueroa) remarked thatMartaPizarro'soeuvretook for its models the solid works of certain nineteenth-century Genoese bricklayers.* Between Clara Glencairn andNelidaSara (who was said to have fancied Dr. Figueroa at one point) there was always a certain rivalry; perhaps the duel was between those two women, andMartabut an instrument.

Everything, as we all know, happens first in other countries and then af- ter a time in Argentina. The sect of painters, today so unfairly forgotten, that was called "concrete" or "abstract" (as though to indicate its contempt for logic and for language) is one of many examples of this phenomenon. The movement argued, I believe, that just as music is allowed to create a world made entirely of sound, so painting, music's sister art, might essay colors and forms that do not reproduce the forms and colors of the objects our eyes see. Lee Kaplan wrote that his canvases, which outraged thebour- geoisie, obeyed the biblical stricture, shared with Islam, against human hands' creating images (Gr.eidolon) of living creatures. The iconoclasts, then, he argued, as breakers of the idols, were returning to the true traditionofpictorial art, a tradition which had been perverted by such heretics asDurerand Rembrandt; Kaplan's detractors accused him of invoking a tradi- tion exemplified by rugs, kaleidoscopes, and neckties. Aesthetic revolutions hold out the temptation of the irresponsible and the easy; Clara Glencairn decided to become an abstract artist. She had always worshiped Turner; she set out to enrich abstract art with her own vague splendors. She labored without haste. She reworked or destroyed several compositions, and in the winter of 1954 she exhibited a series of temperas in a gallery onCalleSuipacha -agallery whose speciality was art that might be called, as the military metaphor then in fashion had it, "avant-garde." The result was paradoxical: general opinion was kind, but the sect's official organ took a dim view of the paintings' anomalous forms-forms which, while not pre- cisely figurative, nonetheless seemed not content to be austere lines and curves, but instead suggested the tumult of a sunset, a jungle, or the sea. The first to smile, perhaps, was Clara Glencairn. She had set out to be modern, and the moderns rejected her. But painting itself-the act of painting-was much more important to her than any success that might come of it, and so she continued to paint. Far removed from this episode, Painting followed its own course.

The secret duel had now begun.Marta Pizarrawas not simply an artist; she was pa.s.sionately interested in what might not unfairly be called the ad- ministrative aspect of art, and she was undersecretary of a group called the Giotto Circle. In mid-1955 she managed things so that Clara, already admit- ted as a member, was elected to the group's new board of directors. This ap- parently trivial fact deserves some comment.Martahad supported her friend, yet the unquestionable if mysterious truth is that the person who be- stows a favor is somehow superior to the person who receives it.

Then, in 1960 or thereabout, two "world-renowned artists" (if we may be pardoned thecliche)were competing for a single first prize. One of the candidates, the older of the two, had filled solemn canvases with portraits of bloodcurdlinggauchosas tall as Nors.e.m.e.n; his rival, the merest youngster, had earned applause and scandal through studied and unwavering incoher- ence. The jurors, all past the half century mark, feared being thought to be old-fashioned, and so they were inclined to vote for the younger man, whose work, in their heart of hearts, they disliked. After stubborn debate (carried on at first out of courtesy and toward the end out of tedium), they could not come to an agreement. In the course of the third discussion, someone ventured the following: "I do not thinkBis a good painter; I honestly don't think he's as good as Mrs. Figueroa."*

"Would you vote for her?" another asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

"I would," replied the first, now irritated.

That same afternoon, the jury voted unanimously to give the prize to Clara GlencairndeFigueroa. She was distinguished, lovable, of impeccable morality, and she tended to give parties, photographed by the most costly magazines, at her country house inPilar.The celebratory dinner was given (and its costsa.s.sumed) byMarta.Clara thanked her with a few well-chosen words; she observed that there was no conflict between the traditional and the new, between order and adventure. Tradition, she said, is itself a centuries-long chain of adventures. The show was attended by numerous luminaries of society, almost all the members of the jury, and one or two painters.

We all think that fate has dealt us a wretched sort of lot in life, and that others must be better. The cult ofgauchosand theBeatus ilk ... are urban nostalgias; Clara Glencairn andMarta Pizarra,weary of the routines of idleness, yearned for the world of artists-men and women who devoted their lives to the creation of beautiful things. I presume that in the heaven of the Blessed there are those who believe that the advantagesofthatlocale are much exaggerated by theologists, who have never been there themselves.

And perhaps in h.e.l.l the d.a.m.ned are not always happy.

Two or three years later the First International Congress of Latin Ameri- can Art took place in the city of Cartagena. Each Latin American republic sent one representative. The theme of the congress was (if we may be par- doned thecliche)of burning interest: Can the artist put aside, ignore, fail to include the autochthonous elements of culture-can the artist leave out the fauna and flora, be insensitive to social issues, not join his or her voice to those who are struggling against U.S. and British imperialism,etcetera,etcetera? Before being amba.s.sador to Canada, Dr. Figueroa had held a diplo- matic post in Cartagena; Clara, made more than a little vain by the award that had been granted her, would have liked to return to that city, now as a recognized artist in her own right. But that hope was dashed- the govern- ment appointedMarta Pizarrato be the country's representative. Her performance, according to the impartial testimony of the Buenos Aires cor- respondents, was often brilliant, though not always persuasive.

Life must have its consuming pa.s.sion. The two women found that pas- sion in painting-or rather, in the relationship that painting forced them into. Clara Glencairn painted against, and in some sense for,Marta Pizarro;each was her rival's judge and solitary audience. In their canvases, which no one any longer looked at, I believe I see (as there inevitably had to be) a re- ciprocal influence. And we must not forget that the two women loved each other, that in the course of that private duel they acted with perfect loyaltyto one another.

It was around this same time thatMarta,now no longer so young as be- fore, rejected an offer of marriage; only her battle interested her.

On February 2, 1964, Clara Figueroa suffered a stroke and died. The newspapers printed long obituaries of the sort that are stillde rigueurin Argentina, wherein the woman is a representative of the species, not an in- dividual. With the exception of an occasional brief mention of her enthusi- asm for art and her refined taste, it was her faith, her goodness, her constant and virtually anonymous philanthropy, her patrician lineage (her father, General Glencairn, had fought in the Brazil campaign), and her distin- guished place in the highest social circles that were praised.Martarealized that her own life now had no meaning. She had never felt so useless. She re- called the first tentative paintings she had done, now so long ago, and she exhibited in the National Gallery a somber portrait of Clara in the style of the English masters they had both so much admired. Someone said it was her best work. She never painted again.

In that delicate duel (perceived only by those few of us who were inti- mate friends) there were no defeats or victories, nor even so much as an open clash-no visible circ.u.mstances at all, save those I have attempted to record with my respectful pen. Only G.o.d (whosestheticpreferences are unknown to us) can bestow the final palm. The story that moved in dark- ness ends in darkness.

The Other Duel

One summer evening inAdrogue*many years ago, this story was told to me by Carlos Reyles, the son of the Uruguayan novelist. In my memory this chronicle of a long-held hatred and its tragic end still calls up the medicinal fragrance of the eucalyptus trees and the singing of the birds.We were talking, as we always did, about the interwoven history of our two countries. At one point he said I'd surely heard ofJuan PatricioNolan, who had earned a reputation as a brave man, a telleroftalltales, and a prac- tical joker. Lying myself, I said I had. Nolan had died in '90 or thereabout, but people still thought of him as a friend. He had his detractors, too, of course, as we all do. Carlos told me one of the many little pranks that Nolan was said to have played. The incident had taken place a short while before the Battle ofManantiales*;its protagonists were Manuel Cardoso and Car- menSilveira,twogauchosfromCerro Largo.*

How and why had the hatred between those two men begun? How, a century or more later, can we recover the shadowy story of those two men whose only fame was earned in their final duel? There was a man named Laderecha-an overseer at Reyles' father's ranch, "with a mustache like a tiger's"-who had gleaned from "oral tradition" certain details that I shall recount; I set them down here for what they are worth and with no further a.s.surances as to their veracity, since both forgetfulness and recollection are creative.

Manuel Cardoso's and Carmen Silveira's small ranches bordered one another. As with the origins of other pa.s.sions, the origins of a hatred are al- ways obscure, but there was talk of a dispute over some unmarked animals, or, alternately, of a bareback horse race during whichSilveira,who was the stronger, had b.u.mped Cardoso's horse off the track. Months later, in thetown's general store, there had been a long game of two-handedtruco;Sil- veiracongratulated his opponent on his play to virtually every trick, but he left hun at the end without a penny. As he was raking the money into his purse, he thanked Cardoso for the lesson he had given him. It was then, I think, that they almost came to blows. The game had been hard fought; the onlookers (there had been many) had to separate them. On that frontier and at that time, man stood up to man and blade to blade; an unusual feature of this story is, as we will see, that Manuel Cardoso and CarmenSilveiracrossed paths up in the mountains twice a day, morning and evening, though they never actually fought until the end. Perhaps their only possession in their coa.r.s.e primitive lives was their hatred, and therefore they saved it and stored it up. Without suspecting, each of the two became the other's slave.

I have no way of knowing whether the events I am about to narrate are effects or causes.

Cardoso, less out of love than for something to do, took a fancy to a girl who lived nearby, a girl everyone called La Serviliana, and he began to court her; no sooner hadSilveiradiscovered this than he began to court the girl in his own way, and carried her off to his ranch. After a few months he threw her out; she got on his nerves. Indignant, the woman sought refuge at Car- doso's place; Cardoso spent one night with her and sent her off at noon. He didn't want the other man's leftovers.

It was at about the same time - a little before or after La Serviliana - that the incident with the sheepdog took place.Silveirawas very fond of the dog, and had named it Thirty-three.* It was found dead in a ditch;Silveiraalways thought he knew who'd poisoned the dog.

In the winter of '70, Aparicio's revolution* caught Cardoso andSilveiradrinking in that same general-store-and-bar where they'd played their game oftruco.A Brazilian soldier with mulatto features, heading up a small band ofmontoneros*came through the door. He gave the men gathered there a rousing speech; their country needed them, he said - the government's op- pression was intolerable. He pa.s.sed out white badges* to pin on, and at the end of that exordium which they had not understood, he and his platoon impressed them into service - they were not even allowed to say good-bye to their families. Manuel Cardoso and CarmenSilveiraaccepted their fate; a soldier's life was no harder than a gaucho's. They were used to sleeping in the open with a horse blanket as a mattress and a saddle as a pillow, and for the hand accustomed to killing animals, killing a man was not a great deal different. Their lack of imagination freed them from fear and pity alike, though fear did touch them sometimes, just as the cavalry charged them.

(The rattle of stirrups and weapons is one of the things you can always hear when the cavalry rides into the action.) But if a man isn't wounded right away, he thinks himself invulnerable. They did not miss the places they'd been born and raised in. The concept of patriotism was foreign to them; in spite of the insignia worn on the hats, one side was much the same as the other to them. They learned what can be done with the lance. In the course of advances and retreats, they at last came to feel that being comradesal- lowed them to go on being rivals. They fought shoulder to shoulder yet they never, so far as is known, exchanged a single word.

In the fall of '71, which was a hard time, the end came to the two men.

The engagement, which lasted less than an hour, occurred at a place whose name they never learned- historians a.s.sign the names later. On the eve of the battle, Cardoso crawled into the captain's tent and asked him, in a whisper, to save one of the Reds for him if they won the next day-he had never cut anybody's throat,* he said, and he wanted to know what it was like. The captain promised that if he conducted himself like a man, he'd grant him that favor.

The Whites outnumbered the Reds, but the Reds had better weaponry. From the top of a hill they commanded, they rained devastation on the Whites. After two charges that failed to reach the peak, the White captain, gravely wounded, surrendered. There on the field, at his request, his men ended his life.

Then they laid down their arms. CaptainJuan PatricioNolan, com- mander of the Reds, gave a long-winded and flowery order that all the cap- tives' throats be cut. But he was fromCerroLargo, and not unfamiliar withSilveiraand Cardoso's long-standing grudge, so he had them brought to him.

"I know you two can't bear the sight of each other," he said, "and that you've been waiting a long time for the chance to settle scores. So I've got good news for you. Before the sun goes down, you're going to get the chance to show which one of you is the toughest. I'm going to have your throats cut, and then you're going to run a race. Like they say-may the best man win."

The soldier who had brought them took them away.

The news spread quickly through the camp. Nolan had wanted the race to crown that evening's performance, but the prisoners sent a committee to ask him if they couldn't watch it, too, and make bets on the winner. Nolan, a reasonable man, let himself be convinced. The men bet money, riding gear, knives, and horses; their winnings would be turned over to their widows and next of kin when the time came. The day was hot; so everyone could have a siesta, the event was put off till four. (They had a hard time wakingSilveiraup.) Nolan, typically, kept them all waiting for an hour. He had no doubt been reliving the victory with the other officers; the orderly made the rounds with themate.

On each side of the dusty road, against the tents, the ranks of prisoners sat on the ground and waited, hands tied behind their backs so they'd give n.o.body any trouble. One would occasionally unburden himself with an oath, another murmur the beginning of the Lord's Prayer; almost all were in a state verging on stupefaction. Naturally, they couldn't smoke. They no longer cared about the race, but they all watched.

"When they slit my throat, they're going to grab me by the hair and pull my head back, too," said one man, as though to ally himself with the centers of attention.

"Yeah, but you'll be along with the herd," replied another.

"Along with you," the first man spit.

A sergeant drew the line across the road with a saber. Silveira's and Car- doso's hands had been untied so they wouldn't have to run off-balance. They stood more than five yards apart. They put their toes against the line; some of the officers called out for them not to let them down-they were counting on them. A great deal of money was riding on each man.

Silveiradrew n.i.g.g.e.r Nolan, whose grandparents had doubtlessly been slaves of the captain's family, and so bore his name; Cardoso drew the regu- lar executioner, an older man fromCorrienteswho always patted the con- demned man on the back and told him: "Buck up, friend; women suffer more than this when they have a baby."

Their torsos straining forward, the two anxious men did not look at each other.

Nolan gave the signal.

The part n.i.g.g.e.r Nolan had been given to play went to his head, and he overacted-he slashed Silveira's throat from ear to ear. The man fromCor- rientesmade do with a neat slice. The blood gushed, though, from both men's throats; they stumbled a few steps and then fell headlong. As he fell, Cardoso stretched out his arms. He had won, but he likely never knew that.

Guayaquil*

Now I shall never see the peak ofHigueretamirrored in the waters of theGolfo Placido,never make my journey to the Western State, never visit that library (which I, here in Buenos Aires, picture in so many different ways, though it must have its own precise existence, contain its own lengthening shadows) where I was to unriddle the handwriting of Bolivar.

As I reread the foregoing paragraph in order to compose the next one, I am surprised by its tone at once melancholy and pompous. It may be that one cannot speak about that Caribbean republic without echoing, however remotely, the monumental style of its most famous historiographer, Capt.JozefKorzeniowski; but in my case there is another reason-that first para- graph was dictated by the intention, deep within me, to imbue a mildly painful and altogether trivial incident with a tone of pathos. But I will relate what happened with absolute honesty; that, perhaps, will help me under- stand it.

After all, when one confesses to an act, one ceases to be an actor in it and becomes its witness, becomes a man that observes and narrates it and no longer the man that performed it.

The incident happened to me last Friday in this same room I am writ- ing in now, at this same hour of the afternoon (though today is somewhat cooler). I know that we tend to forget unpleasant things; I want to record my conversation with Dr.EduardoZimmermann(of our sister university to the south) before it is blurred by forgetfulness. My memory of it now is still quite vivid.

The story can be better understood, perhaps, with a brief recounting of the curious drama surrounding certain letters written bySimon Bolivar,"the Liberator of the Americas." These letters were recently exhumed from the files of the distinguished historiandon Jose Avellanos,whoseHistoriade cincuenta anos de desgobierno["A History of Fifty Years of Misrule"] was itself initially believed lost (under circ.u.mstances which no one can fail to be familiar with), then discovered and published in 1939 by his grandson, Dr.Ricardo Avellanos.To judge by references I have gathered from various publications, most of these letters are of no great interest, but there is one, dated from Cartagena on August 13,1822, in which Bolivar is said to give the details of his famous meeting in Guayaquil withGen. Jose de San Martin.*One cannot overstress the value of a doc.u.ment in which Bolivar reveals, even if only partially, what took place at that encounter.Ricardo Avellanos,a staunch opponent of his country's current government, refused to surren- der the correspondence to the Academy of History; he offered it, instead, to several Latin American republics. Thanks to the admirable zeal of our am- ba.s.sador, Dr.Melaza,the government of the Argentine was the first to ac- ceptAvellanos'disinterested offer. It was decided that a delegate would be sent to Sulaco, the capital of our neighbor country, to make copies of the letters and publish them here. The chancellor of our university, where I am professor of Latin American history, was so kind as to recommend my name to the minister of education as the person to carry out that mission; I also obtained the more or less unanimous support of the National Academy of History, of which I am a member. Just as the date was set for my inter- view with the minister, we learned that the University of the South (which I prefer to think was unaware of these decisions) had proposed the name of Dr.Zimmermann.

Dr.EduardoZimmermann,as the reader perhaps may know, is a foreign-born historian driven from his homeland by the Third Reich and now an Argentine citizen. Of his professional work (doubtlessly estimable), I know at first hand only an article in vindication of the Semitic republic of Carthage (which posterity has judged through the writings of Roman histo- rians, its enemies) and an essay of sorts which contends that government should function neither visibly nor by appeal to emotion. This hypothesis was thought worthy of refutation by Martin Heidegger, who proved deci- sively (using photocopies of newspaper headlines) that the modern head of state, far from being anonymous, is in fact the protagonistes,thekhoragos, the David whose dancing (a.s.sisted by the pageantry of the stage, and with un-apologetic recourse to the hyperboles of the art of rhetoric) enacts the drama of his people.

Heidegger likewise proved thatZimmermann wasof Hebrew, not to say Jewish, descent. That article by the venerable existentialist was the immediate cause of our guest's exodus and subsequent nomadism.

Zimmermannhad no doubt come to Buenos Aires in order to meet theminister; the minister's personalsuggestion, made to me through the inter- mediary of a secretary, was that, in order to forestall the unpleasant specta- cle of our country's two universities disputing for the one prize, it be myself who spoke toZimmermann,to apprise him of where the matter stood. Naturally, I agreed. When I returned home, I was informed that Dr. Zimmermann had phoned to tell me he was coming that evening at six. I live, as most people know, onCalleChile.* It was exactly six o'clock when the doorbell rang.

With republican simplicity, I opened the door to Dr.Zimmermannmy- self and led him toward my private study. He paused to look at the patio; the black and white tiles, the two magnolia trees, and the wellhead drew his admiration. He was, I think, a bit nervous. There was nothing particularly striking about him; he was a man in his forties with a rather large head. His eyes were hidden by dark gla.s.ses, which he would occasionally lay on the ta- ble and then put back on again. When we shook hands, I noted with some satisfaction that I was the taller, but I was immediately ashamed of my smugness, since this was not to be a physical or even spiritual duel, but simplyamise aupoint,a "getting down to bra.s.s tacks," as some might say, though perhaps a rather uncomfortable one. I am a poor observer, but I do recall what a certain poet once called, with ugliness befitting the thing de- scribed, his "inelegant sartorial arrangements."

I can still see his bright blue suit, much enc.u.mbered with b.u.t.tons and pockets. His necktie, I noticed, was one of those stage magician's bow ties attached with two plastic clips. He was carrying a leather briefcase that I a.s.sumed was full of doc.u.ments. He wore a well-trimmed, military-style mustache; during the course of our conversation he lighted a cigar, and at that, I felt there were too many things on that face.Trop meuble,I said to myself.

The linear nature of language, wherein each word occupies its own place on the page and its own instant in the reader's mind, unduly distorts the things we would make reference to; in addition to the visual trivialities that I have listed, the man gave one the impression of a past dogged by adversity.

On the wall in my office hangs an oval portrait of my great-grandfather, who fought in the wars of independence, and there are one or two gla.s.s cases around the room, containing swords, medals, and flags. I showed Zimmer-mann those oldobjets de la gloireand explained where some of them had come from; he would look at them quickly, like a man performing his duty, and (not without some impertinence, though I believe it was an involuntary and mechanical tic) complete my information. He would say, for example: "Correct. Battle of Junin. August 6, 1824. Cavalry charge underJuarez."

"Suarez,"I corrected.

I suspect that the error was deliberate.

"My first error," he exclaimed, opening his arms in an Oriental gesture, "and a.s.suredly not my last! I live upon texts, and I get hopelessly muddled; in you, however, the fascinating past quite literally lives."

He p.r.o.nounced thevalmost as if it were anf.

Such fawning did not endear the man to me.

Zimmermannfound my books more interesting. His eyes wandered over the t.i.tles almost lovingly, and I recall that he said: "Ah, Schopenhauer, who never believed in history.... In Prague I had that same edition, Grisebach's, and I believed that I would grow old in the company of those volumes that were so comfortable in one's hand -but it was History itself, embodied in one senseless man, that drove me from that house and that city.