A Novel in the Argentine Language

Act I. Corcovado The wind rushed headlong through the open vent — so hastily that, had it possessed even the slightest trace of a body, it would surely have caught in the frame. But the wind, fortunately, has none. In Rosario, it was humid todo el año. A resident of Rosario, who could not yet fully call himself Argentine, saw this humidity everywhere — and it would not release him. The damp spread like mold: along the walls, across the bed, over the ceiling, even along the inner lining of his pajamas, where, one would think, it had no place at all. But even that misfortune was no true disaster. “This is not a city of roses, this is a true ciudad de la humedad,” — the thought knocked each morning at his skull; the skull lifted itself from the pillow. No sooner had it risen — the hands were already making the bed. The passion for order had not been born of diligence, nor of idealism. Perhaps it had been born from nowhere — from that same void out of which, as is well known, arise the most stubborn and proper habits of adult, self-sufficient people. The hands parted the curtains, tied the tasseled cords with care, almost tenderness. The hands silenced the alarm on the phone. It was hot. Heat encourages vice. Not so much of the body — but of the mind. That is more dangerous. Now, at last, the body must be joined to the mind — an enterprise eternally doomed to partial success. He opened the vent in the kitchen as well and, leaning, perched himself upon the countertop, drinking hot mint water from a white mug bearing, in black letters, the word “Boryusik.” The mug had been a parting gift from su cara amiga rusa. Boris did not laugh at the inscription. He did not like it either, but had made it a rule — to drink from it every morning. Anything that reminded him of his homeland, Boris sought to eradicate. A Russian hopelessness gnawed at him — sticky, worse than that same humidity — a lack of love for beauty and an unwillingness… an unwillingness to what? To help one another? To be for one another? The form slipped away, the feeling remained. A vicious, fearless hatred toward Russia lived in him like a worm. Such a thing lives in all of them — those who fled the bitter air of their homeland. After breakfast came that inconspicuous act Boris called “shameful.” A problem with a star. Guess for yourself, my friend, what every man does in the bathroom in the morning. I shall not make it easier for you — certain simple, everyday truths must remain misterio. After the “shame” — plaster. Boris slept well; he even sometimes managed to eat properly — and yet the bruised shadows beneath his eyes had grown larger than the eyes themselves, as though imagining they were the true organs of sight. To melt those shadows, covering them with a layer of concealer, one had to look into the mirror — and endure the sight. In the mirror he never saw anything new: curls tinted hazel; carefully plucked brows lending a certain arrogance to the pale-brown gaze; the nose inherited from his mother — straight (his father, as she put it, had a “beak”); the lips, swollen after sleep, and the whole miserable face slightly puffed. Creams and stones help against swelling. Boris possessed an entire cosmetic bag for his morning toilette. For twenty-eight winters — the face could be called decent. No more — but no less, and that, you must admit, is already something. Boris dressed with a devotion inherited from his mother; from her too came his love of turtlenecks and scarves. El armario was entirely ordinary. Such los armarios… And yet Boris reached toward the desk, adjusted the gramophone (purchased from a neighbor who had moved to Buenos Aires — as had another item, of which later), and set a record spinning. Corcovado. It is both a song and a mountain. A mountain in Rio de Janeiro. Christ the Redeemer. Boris adored that city. And so, in your mind, dear reader, there must inevitably arise a reasonable and well-formed question: why then is he in Argentina, and not in Brazil? A question, incidentally, of the kind whose answers are always somewhat less convincing than the riddle itself. First. These countries are neighbors. Second, he does not care where — so long as it is far from Russia. Third, a fifth language would not fit inside his head. How many languages, then, does Boris command? Russian — does not count. Ukrainian. He grew up on the border; everyone speaks it there — also does not count. English — the whole world speaks it now. Spanish… in Argentina, one must speak it. Eliminated. Total — zero languages. Not much. He dressed for exactly forty minutes — with the concentrated care of those who prepare for a duel, though duels have long since been abolished. Nothing extraordinary — black flared trousers for daily wear, some random scarlet shirt, a white scarf. He had learned to use his wardrobe to the benefit of education — in lectures, the estudiantes listened to him far more readily than to other professors. He locked the door — the key was heavy, with a butterfly charm. Boris adored butterflies. On weekends he drove his car (also bought from that same relocated neighbor for next to nothing) out of the city. If the students were to learn that their professor of Russian literature chased butterflies on weekends, they would likely die of laughter. Or sorrow. Or envy. I confess, I cannot decide which is more probable. The professor walked the same route every day. Yes, he was lazy. Yes, it soothed him — repetition, as is known, is the best morphine for a restless soul. The embankment, the old quarter of mansions with wrought-iron flourishes, the bag over his right shoulder. That was calmer — and, far more importantly, familiar. On the wall of some shabby eatery in an alley, a new and utterly shapeless raspberry-colored graffiti had appeared, vaguely resembling a bird. Youth. In Argentina, Boris understood that youth is the same everywhere — they litter the same, draw the same, speak of cigarettes — only freer, only in Spanish. The university doors were heavy, oak, gleaming with worn brass handles. El profesór pushed the door with his left shoulder and made his way to the desk. “Hello, José!” he tossed to the guard. His name was not José, but he smiled at Boris and waved. The cleaners had finished their ragged parade, and the parquet shone like an ice rink. Boris stepped noiselessly, as in childhood, when he hid from his mother. Perhaps that is why, from afar, he seemed a scarlet poltergeist. The high vaults of the ceiling were still veiled in the warm haze of morning. A white door with a plaque: “Boris. U. — Idioma y Literatura Rusa”. The professor slipped his hand into his bag, searched for half a minute, and pulled out another key — also with a butterfly, but of a different color. He unlocked the door. In the classroom… it is obvious — silence. Boris shuffled to the lectern, placed his bag upon the desk, and sighed ceremoniously. Upon the desk, as if upon a self-setting tablecloth, appeared a laptop, a black gel pen, and a stack of papers. Esta the simple props of a daily vaudeville. Boris wrote in white marker “30 de noviembre,” then once more looked at the empty room. Here, they study. They study because their parents forced them, or because Russian is exotic. Or they will become diplomats. Or simply, one day, they will have to leave for Petrograd or Moscow to earn their living. Oh no, little children, never, under any circumstances, go wandering in Russia. The professor glanced into the mirror, adjusted his hair. Then looked at his hands. Hands like hands. No long slender fingers, no perfect nails — while you are with me, my demanding reader, forget clichés. Hands of a man unfamiliar with hard labor. Hands that have held nothing heavier than a pen. “Why am I here?” flashed through Boris’s mind. He sat at the desk, imagined what and how. He had graduated from a Russian university, from the Spanish department, arrived in Rosario by some program — nearly died of delight — and, having resolved his documents, remained in Argentina, renting an apartment from the most charming Doña Sánchez. Toca el timbre.