No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series) (19 page)

—Christine Knowles—said Bambi—now calls herself Charmian to seem more distinguished. I knew that sooner or later she’d show her harpy’s claws. I got to know her on the West End—the worst actress I ever saw. Onstage, she looked like a useless piece of furniture, one of those garish ornamental pieces collecting dust in the mansions of impotent inbred aristocrats. Poor woman, she eventually married an American professor [of English Literature] and dedicated her life to her kids …

—What’s wrong with Americans besides the fact they’re all born with a natural incapacity to properly speak
The
language?—said Hope.

—They speak with an accent—said James—that’s their only fault. And, as long as they don’t become fans of some baseball team or other, it will remain their only fault.

As if she wasn’t listening, Bambi continued:

—Now she forced her kids to do horrendous doodles, assuring them they’re enriching contemporary art …

—Not that there’s anything original in that—said Hope—. The task was begun years ago by Sir Herbert Read.

We entered the deserted house, a shed or hangar with a gigantic sofa in the middle. The tip of Bambi’s cigarette was our only source of light, and that was swallowed by the darkness after every drag … until the bearer of the torch managed to find the switch. Dazzled, we glanced in every direction. Hulot began barking. As Bambi anticipated before entering, there were no ashtrays; and, as she foresaw in her earlier comment, the walls were covered in childish doodles resembling those of Dubuffet [genre, realist]. One wall, however, the one we happened to be facing, was the only one depicting something symbolic, a fairy tale. It was a cartoon of the cottage in which Hansel and Gretel lived after they poisoned the original owner with a blowgun they borrowed from Beddoes, and afterwards, burnt her with the help of Giordano Bruno. Then, from the doorway of this Trompe-l’œil, emerged a very tall though fleshy woman in dowdy dress, a fashion victim in every sense, holding an aerosol can in her hand.

—Who are you people and what are you doing in my house?

—You’re ruining our fun, Sophonisba—said Bambi casually, looking straight at her—. Perhaps you don’t recognize me?

—If you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to scream …

—You’re already screaming—observed Hope.

—Get out, you tourists, you gawkers! This is the house of St. Mawr!

—Mary and Joseph didn’t own the manger, heretic.

—Ever since we got married, Woodrow and I wanted to give all English children the opportunity to get to know their favorite literary characters … That’s why St. Mawr had to be born here, because the children deserve to be surrounded by their favorite literary characters.

—If all that’s true, why didn’t you kidnap Bambi?—asked James sensibly, surreptitiously.

—Shut your mouth, I’ll have you know the president of the institution supports us.

—You take a risk at covering up what can be easily uncovered by us.

James rushed the sofa, which no longer faced us but seemed to have us corralled in the corner of the room, provoking a mock chase and a change of position worthy of comic scene in a silent movie. Now Christine Knowles Kinsey stood where we were standing thirty seconds before. Hulot spent the whole time reclining comfortably on the sofa. The second period of the shouting match began when Bambi said brashly:

—Triste, the father of St. Mawr, belongs to us. Malanoche, the daughter of Noctámbula and Padrenuestro, and Nabucodonosor, the son of Casualidad and Monaguillo, together begat Comino; and Comino lay with Aldebarán and begat Úkase, and Úkase lay with Solombra or Sansueña—sister (night)mares—and begat Triste. The sky was indifferent. The clouds were like ash. Or maybe chalk …

—Just because you know his ancestry doesn’t make you his owner, you jumped-up whore!

—Are you going to make a moral issue of it, Mary Poppins? I’m not the one who dedicates every day of her life to corrupting kids.

—Look at yourself. You’re a mess! Haven’t you heard of clothing?

—Haven’t you heard of a mirror? Or do you think looking at yourself means bowing your head whenever you see a reflective surface?

—Fucking Olympian slut among whores!

—Fucking bitch! Dowdy old cheesecloth-wearing Calvinist …

—Whore of Babylon! Fucker of multitudes!

—Miserable nun! So easily found out by a pathetic copyist, and now he’s going to ruin you …

To prevent the duel [between the two] going on [indefinitely], James once more intervened. But when he did, it seemed Christine was no longer our only opponent. Accompanying her was a short man with his fringe combed forward. Like Moe from the Three Stooges.

—Onanist altar boy …

—Let’s resolve this issue once and for all—said James.

—Doing so would require us to be reasonable. Lower the weapon, my dear—said the man with the fringe. Then he turned to address us—: Forgive poor Chrissie’s want of eloquence; she’s rarely well-spoken when she’s nervous … but within a society of which we’re all members …

—I’m sure
he’s
not a member—interrupted Christine, pointing at me—. I’ve never seen him before, Woodrow …

—He must be an invited guest, then—retorted Woodrow, before continuing his explanation. But he was interrupted again [by something unexpected]. Bambi leapt behind the sofa, and

NO. St. Mawr was by no means where she thought. Dragged on longer than expected.

Early

The Referent

Xochimilco Diary

[Her strict sonnet]

Sodomy / allegations

#???

Contre-rejet

A sonnet Nicasio challenged me to write
,

Not about me—a thing completely alien

A concept too remote to penetrate—

But about the things I see
,
the laws that govern

Outer spaces. The first law discourages

Me to love a man who only gives me bitter

Looks. But being full to rupture with desire

I let a trickle fall upon these pages
.

For the small space between the gut and heart

Is like a city state whose frowning prince

Forbids desire’s polluting influence
.

Yet
,
a silent blush [frown] is all he need impart

To silently renounce [confirm] the looks he gave
,

And I’ll write a different sonnet to my love
.

Elena Siesta,
Errands

Then include a proto-prologue / procto-prologue

X
OCHIMILCO
D
IARY

Sunday, March 23, 1100 hours. Solstice, Xochimilco.

We should’ve arrived early for the celebrations, but Luini and Zi Benno didn’t want to. So we’ll have to wait until after one p.m. to witness the (second) Grand entrance of the Great Chihuahua of Xochimilco.

Aída and Hernán were waiting for us at the exit of the metro station. Then we took Hernán’s car (driven by Aída) to our destination. Some cajolery, talk of the festivities. And then: “This is something our rivals would never think of doing (Hernán knew we’d spent the previous evening at Sherman’s, Septimio Mir’s executor) because they’d say it’s … what’s the word they use over there?” We concluded the word they use is “vulgarian” (but we [three] neglect to add that we’d already suggested the same word to “his rivals” the previous night).

11.15. At the pier. Last minute doubts dispelled by Aída or Hernán. Exploring the boat, Luini was delighted to find a large table flanked by long benches. Then he thought he hit the jackpot when he saw that Hernán brought eighteen bottles of beer, five bottles of tequila, two of rum—apt, since we now comprised a naval crew—and [thrown in for good measure] a bottle of sangria.

[11.18.
Rum
,
sodomy
,
and the lash
, we cheered. We threatened.]

11. (20, see below). Beautiful, detailed notation by Aída on pulque and the agave plant. We all cracked open a beer, except Luini, who moved tentatively for the sangria. Once finished, he seized the bottle of tequila, and poured himself a reckless measure.

11. (23, prime numbers). Toast finished. Zi Benno (after yielding to his obsessive compulsion of applying lip balm to prevent his lips from cracking) steered the conversation towards topics of interest to him … “In what language did Traven write?” he asked. “German,” answered the room. Zi took a seat. “How weird,” said Luini, who held that B. Traven and Arthur Cravan were one and the same, and that he decided to remain a célibataire when he was in Mexico (the reason he never traveled to Buenos Aires to meet up with his betrothed, Mina Loy). No doubt Cravan became Traven in Mexico, and that it was Traven’s shadow we see cast over Marcel Duchamp’s journals.

Aída was put at ease by her husband’s comment (a comment she herself should have made): “But then, at some point, the bachelor must’ve emerged from the shadows. He has a legitimate daughter who looks after his estate in Mexico City.”

“Estate?” asked the room. He meant the author’s royalties and copyright.

11.28. After some idle talk by Luini, the day’s first nautical incident. Our boat was almost swept under the hull of a very large, very luxurious yacht (“when describing a boat, should I refer to the draft?” I’ll ask Captain Bonzo once I’m back in Buenos Aires). Its occupants (crew would be an exaggeration) hardly noticed the incident. In fact, they seemed to be getting on with having a good time. We signaled them to pass us by.

“What a bunch of shitheads!” said Luini [with his usual impertinence] after they were gone. “It wasn’t that big, no bigger than the billiards table inside. Speaking of which, let’s have a game.” “It’s a
snooker
table,” said Zi emphatically, the only time I’d heard him speak so emphatically, which caused my admiration for him to grow. “If it wasn’t that big,” interjected Hernán, “you wouldn’t have noticed that it nearly capsized us.”

11.33. Got back on track. Before long, finished first bottle of tequila (thanks mostly to Luini’s animal thirst). Hernán tried to recall last the time he played snooker. “It was in the Hirsute in San Diego, no … the Champlines, no, no … in the Venusón in Guadalajara!” We asked what that was. “Was?
Is
” said Aída, who then proceeded to explain: “the largest and most densely populated brothel from Acapulco to Laredo, I’ll have you know. Tell them Hernán.” So Hernán continued the hyperbole. We seemed to be in Brazil, where I’m from, where everyone’s prone to exaggeration. “Not very often,” Hernán hastened to add [confess]. “But I used to go once in a while.”

11.40. Then Zi remembered that he was supposed to go see it the last time he was in Mexico. Not for pleasure, [he assured us] (none of us suspected otherwise), but because he was invited to the Guadalajara Book Fair and the Venusón wasn’t far from where he was staying. But while in Guadalajara, he also intended to pay a visit to a convent that apparently houses the best preserved mummies in the world, because the previous time he went, way back in 1985, when he was accompanied by a friend, Quatrocchi, a sinologist—whom he introduced to me one morning during their visit in the Colegio de México—he was in a rush and didn’t get a chance to go either to the Venusón or the convent …, so they planned to go last year …, because he thought that would be his last ever time in Mexico …, and once again forgot …, about both! Only when he was on the plane back to Buenos Aires, did he remember …

Prolonged silence. Then tactfully, furtively, with dignified misgiving, Zi added: “Of course being with friends at all those literary conferences, whether in Mexico or River Plate, helps make the time pass by more quickly …” But Aída and Hernán were still suspicious so he finally confessed that everything he said was actually [in reality] just the précis of a story he was writing called “The Motive,” that he intended to publish and distribute in the form of fliers around Buenos Aires. For free, of course. We all demanded copies.

11.48. Initial assertion on the artificiality of memory followed by [simpatico] effusions on said topic. Photos taken, then more toasting.

11.51. The Venusón of Guadalajara, they say, was built at the start of the twentieth century, and is distinguished for having been modeled
a la manière
of the most exquisite houses of ill-repute in New Orleans. For this, they gathered together three architects, two painters of the academic style, and a gringo [Greek] pimp: Milos (afterwards, Eros) Catsaunis, who brought along the first employees—Hungarians, made available by the generous Zwi Migdal Foundation. In 1901, there were already one hundred pupils. As a principle of order, the first madam (ex-principal of a rural public school) decided to give them all new names, using a triadic or tripartite alphabetical criterion (Amanda Albéniz Amadis, Fátima Fajardo Fez, Zenobia Zilphia Zardos), and to group them accordingly within stables, each group’s designation being the first names of each of the five ladies in that group, the designation being pronounced rhythmically after an iambic or amphibrachic pattern, with all groups together, of course, forming part of a single group, that Fourier-inspired phalanstary called the Venusón. In the early days—the
Belle Époque
, specifically, but above all in Mexico—the Venusón was run by a committee, each of whose members was supplied with a catalogue (basically, a large photo album). Aída still has the one she inherited from her grandfather, an eminent hygienist who’d made a memorable contribution (I can’t remember the year, but Aída wrote it down somewhere) in enforcing the use of Venusiline (or Veniciline, as it’s called in old manuals and dated encyclopedias).