The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Read online

  I shall repeat: the shopping mall side goes towards ‘Catedral’; the non-shopping mall side goes towards ‘Congreso de Tucumán’. Why can’t they fathom this?

  Now, I don’t ask much from the subway staff, because I know how difficult it is dealing with the public. But wouldn’t it be nice, just once, if the guard pulled out his service revolver and shot the first, octogenarian in the head who asked such a stupid, fucking question? Then hang his body from the subway sign above as a warning to the rest? Then we’d see how many people go down the shopping mall side if they truly want to go towards ‘Congreso de Tucumán’.

  So, once you’re down those twenty-four little steps on the shopping mall side, turn right and insert your token into the turnstile.

  But before we go any further, let’s back up a bit.

  Up until I reached the pavement, I’ve placed a great emphasis on Time. And why not? Time is the One, Great Master. In the bedroom—and especially playing with yourself in the shower—I’ve coached you how to manage it precisely.

  But out on the sidewalks, it’s like crossing the wide, Sargasso sea. There are just so many people you can’t control. By this, I don’t mean ‘free will’ or any other of that mumbo-jumbo about our Fall from Paradise that was stuffed into you during Catechism class and still remains wedged in your religious duodenum like some accidentally-swallowed apricot seed.

  I simply mean mortals do stupid, unpredictable things.

  Take the example of Psyche. We all know the story: poor, virtuous virgin has angered Venus with her beauty. Logically enough, her family decides to sacrifice her to a Monster. They dress her in a bridal gown and leave her by the side of a mountain. Alone, weeping, she waits for the Creature to devour her.

  Blah-blah-blah . . . The Dark Thing appears, masked. But, instead of eating her, it sweeps her off by massive wings to a mountain fortress. There, she is his guest and can eat all the fresh dates she wants, drink all the sweet wines, spend her life trying on ruby brooches and black pearl ornaments from amongst the treasury. Ethiopian eunuchs anoint her with perfumed oils. Egyptian slave girls massage and kiss her tender nipples.

  The only price she has to pay is that, every night, on an ornate, mahogany bed, she must spread her legs for the Beast. But she can never see the Monster’s face; the heavy curtains are drawn so tight as to even shut out the moonlight.

  The ‘payment’ goes on, night after night . . . but don’t feel too sorry for poor, little Psyche. Compared to the life of chores and spankings her family had in store for her, this treatment is paradise.

  One day, at the first rays of daylight, she awakes alone in the damp sheets. The castle all to herself: dates, perfumes, tiaras. But who could explain why—Curiosity?, Vanity?, Depravity?—she gets it into her head she must see the Beast’s face.

  That night, still trembling from her last orgasm, she strikes a piece of flint to steel and lights the oil lamp she has stashed under the bed. Glowing against the palm of her hand to shield the short, flickering wick, she brings it close to the face of her sleeping lover.

  Who is the ‘beast’ after all, but Eros, the carnal god supreme! Beautiful, powerful, angelic, he’s son of Venus, the very goddess she has wronged.

  And what does little Psyche do? How does she thank the erotic mercy of her god? In her surprise, she lets the lamp slip—Crash!—spilling the hot, sputtering oil all over him. Wounding him. Deforming perfection.

  Eros cries out—Betrayed, Enraged, Unforgiving—and flies through the window never to return again.

  Now, that’s a clear example of how mortals—and, by this, I mean mostly women—fumble their way through life, cobbling us at every turn.

  That’s why I tell you, you can prepare as much as you like before getting down to the pavement. But anywhere there’s a crowd the place is fraught with danger and intrigue.

  For example, one day I’m poised to cross Coronel Díaz, when, suddenly, an old woman twists her knee and crashes down in front of me like a broken-down cart horse. And everyone, I mean absolutely everyone around me, stops to gawk. And worse—some even try to help. Before I can push my way through the Herd, the light turns red! (It threw my whole routine off by thirty-two seconds that day!)

  That’s why I say, gain time where you can and take advantage of gaps in the crowd. But there will be many, many places where you lose control. And beware of crosswalks most of all! It’s enough to make a Saint go mad.

  But if you find yourself getting flustered, pretend the portfolio you’re swinging in your hand is Abraham’s knife, pressed tight against his son Isaac’s throat. (Call it a sort of transcendental meditation that’s helped me through many a daily commute.) Yes, Abraham! Unlike flighty Psyche, he followed God’s orders without question.

  If only the goat hadn’t come along, he would have gutted, stewed and eaten young Isaac with joy in his heart and a sprig of fennel on his plate. If only the goat . . .

  Anyway . . . you’ll notice He didn’t ask Sarah to kill their son. (No, it’s the Psyche factor all over again.) Once they’d gotten to the sacrificial stone, she probably would have had ‘pity’ on her son and dropped the butcher’s knife. She would have cowered in front of the Great Booming Voice whimpering ‘Oh, my loving God, why, why?’

  Is compliance such a difficult thing for a woman? You cross the street because the little man in the crosswalk box flashes green. You kill your son because God orders you to. It can’t get any simpler than that.

  But if you’re not the Old Testament type, Nietzsche’s as good a model as Abraham. Adopt his ‘will to power’, I say. Destroy—and rebuild—yourself! That’s the key.

  You see, Nietzsche makes explicit truths that Saints understand intuitively. Now, admit it . . . How many times have you repeated at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn, ‘Where there is neither love nor hatred in the game, woman’s play is mediocre’? Or, my favourite Nietzscheism, ‘When a woman has scholarly inclinations there is generally something wrong with her sexual nature’?

  Don’t you see? Nietzsche explains why the Sarahs of the world bedevil us so. We’re running forward to embrace excellence at the other side of the crosswalk, while they plod along in mediocrity . . . and they trip us up in the process!

  Now, I’m not saying to just blame all our failures on women and accept the fact we’ll arrive late to work! No! As I said, there’s no excuse for tardiness.

  What I’m saying is that even a Saint must be prepared to suffer slight setbacks. Remember that, and you won’t be crushed the next time Psyche appears out of nowhere and burns you with her oil lamp.

  Armed with the knowledge that life can be unpredictable, you’re ready to face the challenges of the Bulnes subway stop . . .

  Book V

  Inaugurated in 1937, the ‘D’ line has sixteen stops: Congreso de Tucumán, Juramento, José Hernandez, Olleros, Ministro Carranza, Palermo, Plaza Italia, Scalabrini Ortiz, Bulnes, Agüero, Pueyrredón, Facultad de Medicina, Callao, Tribunales, 9 de Julio and Catedral.

  Each stop has something to teach us, but I’m particularly interested in six of them—from Bulnes to Tribunales. The Bulnes stop is named, of course, for Bulnes street that intersects with Santa Fe just above the vaulted ceiling of the tunnel. The street, in turn, is named for Manuel Eduardo Pérez de Bulnes, soldier, policeman and legislator, born in the northern province of Córdoba on October 12, 1785. (For some reason lost to Time, Bulnes street used to be known, quite ominously, as ‘40N’.)

  Of course, ‘D’ implies there are three other preceding lines, ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’. (Plus, there’s an ‘E’ that comes after it.)

  Mark my words. The decisions you make in the subway will determine whether you get off at Tribunales a simple mortal like all the rest . . . or ascend from it a God.

  First, you must choose a place to stand. But don’t think you’re going to find ‘the’ space where the subway doors open right in front of you. Not even down the leftward stretch past the newsstand, beyond the huge, rotating
fans bolted to the ceiling. That’s where so many commuters go wrong. They think they’ve unlocked the secrets of the subway, like some ancient, rummy-eyed gambler divining patterns in the worn-out spindle of a roulette wheel: red-black-black-black-black, red-red-black-red, red-black-black-black-red, repeating. They think, ‘The door must open in this exact spot. Why, only last Wednesday . . .’

  Forget last Wednesday. Only think about today . . . Now, don’t get me wrong. There are patterns in the subway. But there are also tricks, willow-o’-the-wisps waiting there, to lead you to your death.

  Every time the train comes in, it’s a different experience. The doors may open in front of you. They may open behind. In fact, I once even saw the train stop mid-way down the tunnel (because the engineer was drunk). What’s important is consistency. Pick one spot along the platform and stick to it every day.

  Moi, I choose one point along the mural. Ah, those colourful tiles by Cattaneo and Co. set into the walls of the ‘D’ line’s stations back in 1938! In Bulnes, the mural ends just before that grey, metal door recessed into the wall. (I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s always sealed with a rusty padlock and chain.) On the other side of the tracks, there’s the door’s twin, also always locked. I’ve often mused there might be a secret passage linking the two doors underneath the tracks, like an escape tunnel from a monastery during a siege. But have patience, my little one, and I’ll return to this point later on . . .

  Within the mural, look for the zafra scene, a nondescript arrangement of sugarcane cutters, machetes held high. Within the scene, there’s a picture of a large, brown pulley from which extends a cable going down to a spar and a series of hooks.

  I put my back against the pulley, and I stand still, waiting for the train.

  While waiting, don’t glance obliquely at the Catholic schoolgirls in their chequered skirts—like the salesmen do, slipping off their wedding rings into sweaty palms. And don’t you dare shoot a furtive glance at your watch like the accountants do. (You fool! Do you think you can speed up Time that way?) Just stand and focus and wait.

  Sooner or later, you’ll twig to why I chose the pulley scene. Come on, think of the origins of mathematics . . . Still nothing? As I suspected, you’re a dolt. But don’t be so hard on yourself. After all, I am like a sparrow, and you are a tiny waterbug.

  Take a deep breath, and think of a little work called ‘On Spirals’ . . . whose author describes how a spiral connects radius lengths with angles? If I say ‘Eureka’, I’m giving it away.

  Yes, I’m thinking of Archimedes of Syracuse! And what did he invent? The screw . . . yes. The lever . . . yes. And . . . ? He invented the pulley!

  So now you see why I chose the picture of the pulley to stand up against? Archimedes is the Discoverer of the 13 semi-circular polyhedral, each face of which is a regular polygon! He is the Master, the Seer of all patterns behind patterns. If anyone can guide you through the dark and twisting labyrinths of the subway, it’s he.

  And I’ll give you an example to prove what I say. One morning, I put my back to the pulley and looked across the tracks. The train came roaring in, and still I waited. Suddenly, in front of me, I saw something flash in the spaces between the wagons . . . fragments of the mural on the other side of the tracks.

  An explosion of colours and forms. Fire spitting out of the earth. Snakes twisting. An alligator thrashing and gone mad. A coven of demonic creatures, an orgy of condemned flesh.

  All of this in an instant. And then I was boarding, finding my niche amongst the Herd. I tried to concentrate on my commute, but the image of the ‘Salamanca’ haunted me. And though it was probably the cheap perfume of an even cheaper-looking secretary pressing her breasts against me in the crowd, I could have sworn I smelled sulphur, and tasted the copper tang of blood in my mouth.

  Have patience, and all shall be revealed to you. For now, you must continue your indentured servitude with me and read on, if you want to learn the ways of the subway car.

  Book VI

  Push your way into the wagon, and the first thing you’ll see is the sticker for the ‘Pregnant and Disabled’. How I hate Municipal Ordinances 40.689 and 45.859 that reserve the seat closest to the door for them!

  Then, like cankers spreading through the wagon, there are the other stickers with such niceties as:

  For your security,

  Pay attention

  When you hear the

  sonorous sound

  neither get on nor get off the train.

  The doors

  will close immediately.

  Then there’s ‘Please do not lean on the doors.’ And, ‘In case of accident, break glass, turn handle, exit the wagon and make your way to the next station.’

  But this goes against all the laws of Nature!

  Why, you’ve just weaved around an obese woman with thick veins running up and down her legs like swollen bits of blue fettuccini. You’ve pushed ahead of the squat, Paraguayan maid, heavy in the belly with her employer’s child. You should be able to stand on top of that orange, plastic chair and scream for all the wagon to hear: ‘10,000 years of struggle from the jungle to the asphalt have given me the right to sit here, and I defy your damnable conventions!’

  Oh, how I long to recompose those warnings for the doors:

  When you hear

  the sonorous sound,

  it will already be too late:

  the sharp-edged door

  will have closed,

  severing any members

  you might have left outside,

  small strips of flesh left

  dangling.

  Or, better yet, I’d love to hang a sign above a glass-encased axe:

  In case of emergency,

  be the first one,

  the selfish one,

  to break this glass.

  Take the axe

  before anyone else dares.

  With it,

  split the skull

  of the invalid sitting next to you.

  Remember, Machiavelli teaches

  it is better to be hated than loved.

  Learn the Italian Master’s example well,

  that Cesare Borgia’s ‘cruelty

  reconciled the Romagna,

  unified it,

  and restored it to peace and loyalty.’

  Sow fear in the subway car.

  Strike down everyone you see.

  Show no mercy.

  If you do this,

  and if you can make it to the next station,

  through the dark tunnel,

  over the bodies of all the rest,

  for your recompense,

  you shall be crowned

  HOLY EMPEROR of Buenos Aires!

  But, no, I can’t do that . . . It’s far too long for a sticker.

  Sadly, the doors do not decapitate. And you can’t find an axe in any of the cars no matter how hard you look.

  And, what’s worse, the pity engendered by these stickers spreads like a rash. Soon, a blind man—the most insignificant of gnats—comes tapping through the car. He pleads, ‘Oh, woe is me, it is my stop.’

  Before him, the wall of wagon flesh recedes. Not just social workers and film students give way to weakness. But also grammar teachers and mathematicians—in other words, people who should know better! They contort their bodies to let old grandpa off. Some even lose their spaces by the door. And there’s always one idiot who steps out onto the platform to make way . . . and he can’t get back into the train before the doors close!

  But you don’t see civil servants making such mistakes! No. We’re the city’s most intuitive subway-riders. Although it’s often been said of the Jews, bureaucrats are truly God’s chosen people. Or how else do you explain the fact we’ve achieved so much?

  We’ve a proud tradition of redrawing armistice maps to benefit the aggressor, of isolating defenceless ethnic groups within hostile territory.

  And yet, just look at the denigration we’ve suffered at the hands of ‘schola
rs’ like Hannah Arendt. (That bitch!) But I say, for all our ‘banality’, we’re exceptional in our acts of evil. Perhaps, to our critics, we’re only the lapdogs of mass murderers, but I tell you we grind the points of our pencils as sharp as knives. This has been the case even since Ancient times.

  Take my sainted predecessor (though not nearly as powerful as me), William de Longchamp, Chancellor to Richard the Lionhearted! Revisionists have called him an evil, twisted dwarf. And yet he was the Genius responsible for financing the Third Crusade. Yes, one of the most spectacular acts of religious butchery paid in full by selling royal titles to the highest bidder. And we owe it all to a ‘dwarfish’ bureaucrat!

  So, when you see us hunched over, collating stacks of A-4 memos or meticulously revising those little boxes on your G-29/Q forms, or forever answering the telephone with, ‘No, this is Procurement. It was Purchasing until last Wednesday. Purchasing’s new extension is 112 . . . No, this is Procurement. It was Purchasing until last Wednesday. Purchasing’s new extension is 112 . . .’ remember that we hold the Keys to True Knowledge.

  And we express our connaissance by the way we ride to work. Why, once I saw a bureaucrat from the Civil Registry keep an old Indian woman—with a huge bag of potatoes spread across her shoulders—from getting off for two stops . . . just so he wouldn’t lose his place by the door. Like any sensible person, he ignored her pleas, pretending to be absorbed in reading his Ámbito Financiero. But he did so with such panache that I was truly impressed.

  Just when the woman was about to make a break for it, he did something I’d never seen before. As the train pulled up to Facultad de Medicina, he pretended to catch the clasp of his wristwatch on those vinyl hand straps hanging from the ceiling. The woman pleaded again, but the poor soul just couldn’t release himself. Finally, in the midst of an hysterical attack, she pushed past him, screaming, scattering potatoes everywhere . . . and he pretended that she’d knocked him down.