The Rest is Jungle




“Friends. No one else. The rest is jungle.”

—Jorge Guillén

1

From a top floor, something that might have been hot coals or feces fell on his head. He didn’t want to know. He just cleaned himself the best he could with a page from the Herald Tribune and at that moment decided to delay his baptismal meeting with the white night of Times Square. It was now imperative that he return to his hotel and have his third shower of the day.

The day after arriving in New York, Orlando Farías had been engulfed by damp and grimy heat. His nylon shirt had turned into a rubber cylinder, permanently soaked and barely allowing him to breathe.

On Fifth Avenue and 34th Street, people slowed their very frantic pace for no other reason than the traffic light was momentarily red. Farías also experienced this contagion and restrained his Montevidean tendency to do the opposite. While he waited, he became aware of a drop that was forming a slippery area of sweat on his left nipple. He cursed in a loud voice, and a blond, freckled woman who was standing next to him loaded down with packages smiled pleasantly at him, as if he had merely made a comment about the weather.

He was about to feel embarrassed when suddenly the crowd surged forward and overtook him. The traffic light was green. Farías thought that such momentum was out of place, or at least unseasonal. A surge like that was consistent with a temperature of fifteen degrees below zero, and not with this oven. Solely out of resentment, he walked slowly, much slower than in any other city in the world. On two occasions he stopped in front of store windows which were selling miniature gray metallic radios shaped like missiles. They were the first storefronts in the city to have them on display.

When he arrived at his hotel there was a message waiting for him. It said that Mr. Clayton had called; actually, Mr. T. H. Clayton. Farías had known Clayton since 1956. That year, the American critic had spent fifteen hours in Montevideo and two days in Punta del Este in a worthy attempt to educate himself in the local folklore and literature. Farías remembered Clayton’s obsessive interest in the merengue (he called it “miringo”). Someone had led him to believe that it was the most popular dance in the Southern Cone. Afterwards, he had placed three chairs in a row and had laid down across them, all the while looking up at the ceiling and asking about call girls.

Until now, Farías had done quite well with the English he read. Sometimes he realized that he spoke in the style of The New Yorker, but he was understood just the same. But talking on the telephone was another matter. Mr. Clayton spoke in a deep and monotonous voice, and Farías was able to understand a few loose words like “American Council,” “very glad,” and “dinner.” Was Clayton inviting him to dinner? Just in case, he said he would be delighted and, with amazing smoothness, wrote down an already familiar address.

He didn’t have much time. He went up to room 407 and enjoyed the air conditioning for five minutes. He then turned on the television and started to undress.

There was something wrong with the television. A man wearing glasses, who spoke with his mouth practically closed and the edges of his lips in perfect conjunction, started to descend unceasingly. There was no vertical hold button. Later, while he was in the middle of enjoying his shower, he was able to figure out that the pitiful man in perpetual descent was repeating some kind of refrain: “And this is our reality.”


2

“Please, call me Ted,” said Clayton, in a very pleasant tone. His face, on the other hand, had the monolithic seriousness of a man who becomes bored, but is proud of his boredom. In comparing his present appearance with how he looked years ago, Farías found him to be less thin and essentially more near-sighted.

“My biggest problem is saying your name.” For the twentieth time, Clayton tried to say “Orlando,” and only a kind of guttural, uninteresting honk came out. “I think it’ll be better if I call you Orlie.”

They were in a basement room in Greenwich Village, surrounded by books, records, and bottles. Filing past the window were legs with pants, legs that were bare, legs that were filthy. Farías looked at the bookcase and saw that the colors of the book spines were much more lively and bright than those on some River Plate bookshelf.

“A few of the new writers are coming today; Bradley, Cook, Blumenthal, and Alippi, and I wanted you to meet them. They’re not all exactly beatniks. . . .”

“Larry Alippi,” asked Farías, “from San Francisco?”

“Yes. Do you know something of his?”

“A while ago I read More or Less.”

“Do you like him?”

“No.”

“It’s interesting. Latinos don’t like Larry’s poetry. But on the other hand, I think that we Americans like it precisely because. . . .”

“North Americans, you mean.”

“Yes, yes. I think we North Americans like it because it sounds Latino.”

“Or could it be because Alippi is a Latino name?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“I don’t know any of Cook’s work.”

“He’s terribly influenced by Mailer. Have you bought Advertisements for Myself?”

“Not yet.”

“Buy it. Cook, I suppose, has an original voice,” said Clayton.

A pair of feminine and filthy legs had stationed themselves outside the window. Somehow, a not too recent stream of grime had singled out a coarse ankle. Sometimes one of the feet would drop back and step on the other one. If one were to forget that one was observing something so commonplace, one could even temporarily convince oneself that they were two timid monsters, alive and with their own moving parts.

“Have you seen this?” Clayton handed him a copy of The New York Times. It had been folded over to an inside page where there was a red circle around a paragraph of a short article. The paragraph said that a definition of beat generation would be included in the new edition of the American College Dictionary. Farías read the definition out loud: “Beat generation: members of the generation who came of age after World War II and the Korean War, were united in the common aim of easing social and sexual tensions, and advocated anti-government, mystical disassociation, and the value of material simplicity, implying that it was all a result of the disillusion brought on by the cold war.”

Clayton’s face remained expressionless. A few seconds later, he allowed himself a smile that contained a little bit of mockery and a bit of satisfaction.

“This is almost like entering the Academy,” said Farías, in a tentative tone.

“Do you know what mystical disassociation means?” asked Clayton, affecting ignorance of all probable irony.

“Not exactly,” said Farías, who was completely unaware of the meaning of the term.

“It’s one of the many forms of conceptual dialect used by the beatniks and which is only understood by those who are part of that circle.”

“Ah.”

“Disassociation is a term that was used by Lawrence Lipton in various articles written in The Nation about this attitude of the new intellectuals. Lipton appropriated an epigraph by John L. Lewis, which merely said: ‘We disassociate ourselves.’”

“And . . . what do they disassociate themselves from?” Farías asked, feeling terribly provincial.

Before Clayton could answer, the doorbell rang and he had to go to the door. When he opened it, there were two women and three men standing there. Before he had a chance to make the introductions, one of the women took off her shoes. After he made the introductions, the other woman (who was more serious) also took off her shoes.

“Ann, Joe, Tom Bradley, Mary, Jim Blumenthal,” said Clayton, naming the guests one by one. Farías noticed that those guests who were noteworthy were introduced with their first and last name. He liked Blumenthal’s face. He was very young — no more than twenty-five years old — and wore glasses and a beard. No mustache. In addition, he had strangely bright eyes, the kind from which it was impossible to easily separate oneself. It was hard to know if he was really naive, or someone who was capable of strangling a child with a blessed smile.

All the other guests arrived at the same time, exactly at the appointed hour. “Disgustingly punctual,” Farías thought. Eddie, a tall negro with a narrow strand of whiskers marking his chin, looked at the other guests as if from behind a burnished piece of glass. Everyone, except Eddie and a couple who were standing in the corner, next to the non-Japanese bookcase, had taken off their shoes. In the meantime, Farías was mechanically moving his toes inside his own shoes. If he was eventually asked to take them off, he would simply say no. He didn’t know why, but at that moment he felt that taking off his shoes and remaining in his socks would be more indecent than standing around in his underwear, or even being naked. “This is the pornography of smell,” Farías thought, and could do no less than smile, imagining how much his diagnosis would have been enjoyed by his circle of friends at Sportsman.

Suddenly, Farías saw a box of Chesterfield cigarettes in front of him, one of them protruding outwards amongst the others, enticingly. “No thanks, I don’t smoke,” he said, as he came out of his trance. Blumenthal, who had offered the cigarette, lowered his hand and smiled understandingly. “Sorry,” he murmured, “unfortunately, I don’t have any marijuana today.”

Farías didn’t say anything. Actually, now he didn’t know whether he felt provincial or happy. He couldn’t determine the truth, that’s all. It was the same as if tomorrow or the next day, someone were to convince him that Americans didn’t chew gum.

Larry Alippi, from San Francisco, had arrived alone. He was anything but Italian. Could the name be a pseudonym? His hands trembled a little bit, and he did have marijuana. Such was the trademark of anti-celebrity, that Farías recognized him by the affected indifference of those others who were nonetheless his admirers.

Meanwhile, someone had put on an old, almost inaudible, Bessie Smith record. Only the sound of the needle scratching the record was heard perfectly. Every now and then, three couples would dance. Farías had never been to such a dreary party. There was a comradeship of typical names floating in the air. Hello, Jack. Hello, Mary. Hello, Orlie. Farías felt ridiculous having that airport name, and felt it was impossible to communicate perfectly without being on a first name basis.

“Attention, please,” someone said, from a dark and deep armchair. It was the universal announcement of transatlantic luxury liners. But here it was just a thin, stringy voice. The someone was a thin and bony young boy, who was like a rough sketch of a person, with pointy ears like little wings, and fidgety hands.

“Who has experienced natural ecstasy this week?” said a barefoot fat woman, as she slowly rubbed her hairy and varicose ankle.

“Me!” said the ethereal Someone from the armchair. Farías surmised that that topic should be part of a prepared dialogue, some kind of libretto for foreign visitors. “I felt natural ecstasy” the Sketch continued, saying, “last Wednesday, for fifteen minutes.”

Now Farías could decide. No. He didn’t feel happy. Only provincial. Without being able to avoid it, he experimented with the indifferent shame of never having felt natural ecstasy. After all, what could it be? A new way of tickling, a cough, a new allergy? He thought about his drinking spree in the Aguada a long time ago, but quickly decided it couldn’t be that.

It couldn’t be that the wet contact he was feeling on the back of his neck was a tongue. He turned around slowly, not so much to avoid spilling the disgusting bourbon in his glass, but as if to become accustomed to what he was going to find. In the end, it was a tongue. And its owner: a tall, skinny woman, with intermittent traces of pockmarks or something similar. She must have been on her tenth bourbon, and Farías didn’t mind supplying her with her eleventh. A small electric fan that was now behind him caused him to feel an unpleasant chill on the area of his neck that had remained wet with saliva.

“Orlie,” said the skinny woman, “after Dag Hjalmar Agne Carl Hammarskjöld, must be the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard. Can I kiss you?”

Without really knowing why, Farías smiled mechanically, but didn’t say anything.

“No, not on the mouth. That’s very square. Behind the ear. This way.” Once again he had that wet feeling on the back of his neck and once again the fan made him shiver. The woman drew back and contracted her body, as if she wanted to take shelter underneath his ear, and remained there, motionless. The hand that was holding the glass slowly loosened its grip and a few drops of bourbon spilled onto an Egyptian ashtray. Clayton was no longer paying him any attention, but Larry Alippi, who was sitting in front of him in a Windsor chair, was smiling at him with his eyes half-closed. It was then Farías realized that the woman had fallen asleep. He placed the glass next to the ashtray and felt compelled to assume responsibility for her. He placed one arm across her shoulder blades, the other under her thighs, and lifted her up in the finest style of a Hollywood wedding night. Then, suddenly, he decided to take revenge on Alippi for having smiled at him. He walked toward him and placed the woman across his knees. He had the sensation that he was disassociating himself from that woman and that tongue. But Alippi simply continued smiling alongside his cigarette and started to sing “ninnananna” in a voice that sounded like Anthony Franciosa.

Farías felt apprehensive. He backed away as much as he could and dropped into an armchair. He closed his eyes. Then, without opening them, he pulled out his handkerchief and first wiped his neck and then his ear. Now that he couldn’t see, he could hear a mix of voices, jazz, glasses breaking, snores, and Alippi’s stuttering melody. For ten or fifteen minutes he had the pleasant feeling that no one was looking at him. No one, with one exception. He felt that the exception was in front of him and he opened his eyes. It was Blumenthal.

“Are you tired?”

“A little bit. Today must be the day in which I’ve spoken and heard more English than ever before in my life. It can be exhausting if you’re not used to it.”

“Yes,” said Blumenthal, staring. “While you were nodding off, I was studying your mustache closely.”

“Really?”

“Do you only write stories? Or do you also write poetry?”

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“No. I only write stories.”

“What a pity!”

“Do you prefer poetry?”

“I said it was a pity because you should have written a poem inspired by your mustache.”

Farías laughed, but he wasn’t sure why. Blumenthal remained serious.

“Would you allow me to touch your moustache?” said Blumenthal, as he extended his thumb and index finger.

Farías grabbed his wrist strongly and Blumenthal made a submissive gesture and lowered his hand.

It was two-fifteen. As an inauguration, it had already gone on long enough. Farías saw that Clayton, who was staggering around, was in no condition to miss him. When he approached the door he noticed that Alippi had fallen asleep on top of the skinny woman whom he had placed on his knees earlier in the evening. Just then, Blumenthal, one of the few guests who wasn’t drunk or high on drugs, made a gesture to him with his hand, completely devoid of any resentment. He went outside and breathed; even more, he enjoyed it.

He started walking towards the Avenue of the Americas and suddenly realized that someone was walking alongside him. It was Eddie, the tall Negro; one of the three guests who hadn’t taken off their shoes, and perhaps the only one who had told him something intelligent: “You Latin Americans are always concerned about the Negro problem in the U.S., and you also sympathize with us. I’ve asked myself why and I’ve arrived at the conclusion that it must be because the State Department treats you Latin Americans the same way they treat Negroes.”

“What do you think about all this?” Eddie now asked.

Eddie had the calm expression of someone who has already experienced amazement. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his head held high.

“Why do they do it?” Farías asked in turn.

“Oh, it’s difficult to explain.”

“Is it really that hard?”

“They refuse to see it, that’s all. They run away.”

“But . . . from what?”

They had arrived at Sixth Avenue. Eddie motioned to Farías that the bus was approaching. Farías shook his hand and then boarded the bus in a single leap.

From the sidewalk, Farías heard Eddie’s voice, more serious than usual, and it said: “Call it reality, if you want to . . . .”


3

The flight from Phoenix to Albuquerque was ninety minutes long. Farías spent the first thirty minutes speaking in English with a fellow passenger. He was a short, fat, semi-bald, flat-nosed man who sweated profusely every time the plane went through an air pocket. While they were talking, Farías suddenly realized how well they understood each other. Finally, here was someone who was using an English which didn’t contain any new turns of phrases or idiomatic innovations. But then all of a sudden, Farías became suspicious. He counted how many times the fat man used the verb to get. Only once in three minutes. He wasn’t American. “Where are you from?” Farías asked, suspiciously. “Ar-yen-ti-na,” the fat man syllabicated. “Aryentina? Since when?” Farías protested, in explosive Spanish. “And for the last thirty minutes we’ve been fucking around with this biographer’s English!” The fat man laughed and extended his hand: “Montevideo?” “Montevideo,” Farías confirmed. “I could tell because of the fucking. You people use it much more than we do.”

From then on the fat man started behaving oddly. He told Farías about his life, his education, and his plans. No, he would not be staying in Albuquerque (Farías took a breath). He had a thirty minute layover before he could catch a connecting flight to Dallas. His sentences always began via his Buenos Aires origins: “You’re luck enough to be a small country, almost insignificant, but us, who, etc.,” or also: “How happy you must be to have all the wool, and not have to bargain for it; while us, on the other hand, who have the misfortune of being one of the richest countries in the world, etc.,” or, finally: “And, well, like they say here, fifty-fifty; we play the best soccer in the world and you people win the championships.” “Used to win,” Farías mumbled, with his head turned toward the aisle.

As far as the fat man was concerned, the U.S. was just a cliff. With the exception of the bridges (“and just how important are they, anyway?”), everything in Argentina was better. “Please, don’t talk to me about the food. The dessert you eat in Wyoming has the same plastic taste as the one you eat in Washington D.C.” It was obvious that he had only recently discovered that another Washington existed, the “Evergreen State.” “And don’t talk to me about baseball, either. Do you understand that garbage? When I tell you that I prefer golf! How can you compare that to soccer from the River Plate Basin!” Farías understood perfectly that the words River Plate Basin were a concession, a form of courtesy extended by the Central Office to their most popular league.

Suddenly, another air pocket was felt and the Argentine stuttered: “With-your-per-miss-ion,” and then violently bent over the little TWA airsick bag. Afterwards, he became quiet and closed his eyes. But it was only for fifteen minutes because it wasn’t long before the wheels of the DC-6 touched down on the Albuquerque landing strip.


“Paging Mr. Olendou Feriesss, paging Mr. Olendou Feriesss, please report to the TWA counter.” It was always difficult for Farías to understand the words that came out of speakers, even when the words he heard were being shouted in a Spanish voice. This was so much so, that he ended up being paged four or five times. “Farías, they’re paging you,” said the fat Argentinian, who had also disembarked to wait for his connection. Next to the TWA counter there was a very thin woman, about sixty or sixty-five years old, wearing glasses with a metallic frame and an ugly hat filled with hatpins that were sticking out to their utmost degree. “Mr. Farías?” she asked. “I’m Miss Agnes Paine. I’ve come to welcome you on behalf of the Albuquerque poets.” Farías squeezed the bones of the woman’s hand and got the impression that they might break during the handshake. “We’ll wait a moment,” Miss Paine added. “Miss Rose Folwell is also on her way.” Farías asked if she, Miss Paine, wrote poems. “Yes, of course,” she replied, and pulled a thin hardcover book out of her black bag. “This is my latest book—I have three—there are thirty-nine poems.” With a quick glance, Farías read the surprising title: Annihilation of Moon and Carnival. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you very much.” But Miss Paine was already adding: “Actually, it’s Miss Folwell who’s really important.” “Ah....” “Yes, she’s been published in The Saturday Evening Post no less.” Just then, it occurred to Farías that everything was relative; print runs and beautiful typography aside, being published in The Saturday Evening Post must be like getting published in Uruguayan World.

“There she comes,” exclaimed Miss Paine, suddenly excited. On the stairs leading to the lobby, Farías could see the figure of a very old woman (she could be eighty years old, or a hundred and fifteen; it didn’t make any difference), trembling slightly, but not stooping at all. Miss Paine and Farías approached her. “Mr. Farías,” said Miss Paine, “I present Miss Rose Folwell, distinguished Albuquerque poet and contributor to The Saturday Evening Post.” Miss Folwell stopped trembling for a moment and showed Farías her best smile of the 19th century. “Miss Paine, let’s have him try Mexican food,” said Miss Folwell. “Yes, certainly,” replied her acquiescent colleague.

Farías slowly walked towards the exit, with his two suitcases and his two old ladies in tow. From the lobby, the Argentinian acknowledged him with grand gestures and excessive winking. Farías already knew what the fat man’s final report would say at the end of his fellowship: “These Uruguayans are a hopeless case. While I was in the U.S. I met one who had the unreasonable desire to go partying with two beautiful old rags.”

They left their suitcases at the hotel, allowed him five minutes to wash his hands and comb his hair, and then took off again in Miss Paine’s car headed toward the Mexican restaurant. It was they (Miss Folwell, actually) who ordered the dishes. The tables were attended by several little Indian girls who spoke Spanish with an English accent, and English with a Spanish accent.

Miss Paine said: “Rose, why don’t you read Mr. Farías one of your poems?” “Oh, perhaps this isn’t the right time,” said Miss Folwell. “But yes, why not?” Farías felt compelled to add. “Which one do you think is the most appropriate, Agnes?” asked Miss Folwell. “They’re all beautiful,” Miss Paine replied, and directing herself at Farías, added, in the tone of someone who is saying it for the first time: “Miss Folwell is a contributor to The Saturday Evening Post.” “What do you think about ‘Divine Serenade of the Navajo’?” “Magnificent,” Miss Paine approved, so that before the first dish arrived, Miss Folwell read the twenty-five stanzas of the divine serenade in her unsteady but unyielding voice. Farías said the poem was interesting and noticed that Miss Folwell’s wrinkled face maintained the same impassiveness with which she had listened to the final stanza. Farías felt an impulse to add: “Very interesting, really interesting.” It was obvious that Miss Folwell was beyond Good and Bad. Farías noticed that her sentences weren’t very original, but was pleased to see that Miss Folwell was gracious enough to smile.

“Let’s have Mr. Farías try some tequila,” said the contributor to The Saturday Evening Post. Miss Paine motioned for the little Indian girl and ordered tequila. Then Miss Folwell said to Miss Paine: “Agnes, you too have written beautiful poems. Please recite for Mr. Farías the one that The Albuquerque Chronicle published.” Farías understood that this last reference was intended for him, so that he could appreciate the enormous difference between a poet who was published in The Saturday Evening Post and a poet who was published in The Albuquerque Chronicle. “Are you referring to “Waiting for the Best Pest’?” asked Miss Paine innocently. “Of course, that’s the one.” “Perhaps this isn’t the right time,” she said, the younger of the two old ladies, blushing. “But yes, why not,” Farías intervened, becoming aware that his intervention was forming part of a cyclical dialogue.

Miss Paine started to recite her poem at the precise instant during which Farías was bringing a kind of Mexican meat pie up to his mouth and felt the hot sauce infringe upon his throat, his esophagus, his brain, his nose, his heart, his entire being. “Have a drink of tequila,” mumbled Miss Folwell, sympathetic, while Miss Paine rhymed muzzle with puzzle, and troubles with bubbles. Then, with very expressive gestures and without saying a word, Miss Folwell showed Farías that tequila was accompanied by salt; namely, by placing a few grains on the back of the left hand, between the top knuckles of the index finger and thumb, and then picking up the salt with the tip of the tongue. “I was shown how to do this in Oaxaca,” Miss Folwell mumbled again, while for the fourth time Miss Paine was ending a stanza with the refrain: “Bits of pseudo here and there.” To Farías it seemed that the tequila, on top of the hot sauce, was pure fire. Miss Paine recited the refrain for the seventh and last time. Farías wanted to say “Interesting,” but could only utter intermittent groans. Forty-five minutes later, he realized that the two poets from Albuquerque were reading their complete works to him.

Only then could he begin to enjoy the episode. Between the hot sauce and the alcohol, his head and heart had become flexible and indefinite substances, prepared for everything. He felt he was being invaded by an irrepressible wave of affection for the two old ladies, who, between tequilas and hot peppers, were treating him to their odes and serenades, their responses and emotions. He was living a story, a story which didn’t need to be rewritten, because the old ladies were giving it to him already completed, polished, finished. He felt overcome by a kind of love, generous and splendid, in the midst of these two examples of lucid senility who had unshakably survived the extensive succession of tequilas. He, on the other hand, was quite shaken, and, as always when he became flushed with alcohol, he realized he was going to begin stuttering. “And wh-which of those po-poems was pu-published by The Saturday?” he asked, in the middle of his own dizziness, without enough strength to add Evening Post. “Oh, none of these,” replied Miss Folwell, admirably serene and without any hint of stuttering. “I-I want you to re-recite the ones that were published by The Satur. . . .” For the first time, Miss Folwell blushed slightly. “It was just one,” she said, with unexpected humility. “Recite it, Rose,” Miss Paine insisted. “Perhaps this isn’t the right time,” said Miss Folwell. “Bu-but yessss...,” Farías automatically stuttered, and added with sincere emphasis: “Go ahead, Rose!”

Miss Folwell wet her lips with her last tequila, cleared her throat, smiled, and blinked. Then she said: “Now clever, or never.” Nothing else. Farías carefully expressed his bewilderment by expelling a slightly disrespectful puff through his tightened lips. But Miss Folwell added: “That’s all.” Another puff. Then Miss Paine, discrete and obliging, was complementary: “A real feat, Mr. Farías. Notice the tremendous feeling in just four words: ‘Now clever or never.’ The Saturday Evening Post published it on August 15th, 1949.” “Tre-tremendous,” Farías agreed, as Miss Folwell began to stand up in three stages and head towards LADIES.

“Te-tell me, Agnes,” said Farías, as he began to say what he thought was going to be a longer sentence, “wh-why do you like ho-hot sauce and po-poetry so much?” “How interesting that you would mention those two things in a single question, Orlando,” said Miss Paine, responding to his new rapport and trust, “but perhaps you’re right. Do you think they’re two forms of evasion?” “Wh-why not?” said Farías, “but, eva-evasion from what?” “Sordidness, responsibility,” said Miss Paine. To Farías it seemed that Miss Paine was selecting her words at random, like someone who picks cards from a deck. Then she emitted a sigh before adding: “From reality, in short.”


4

“We have to pick up Nereida Pintos in Georgetown,” said the Guatemalan, “and then afterwards, we can go on to Harry’s house. You’re going to see what a funny gringo he is.” “And who is this Nereida?” asked the Chilean. “Look, she was born in Tegucigalpa, but she’s been here in Washington for about a thousand years. They say that she cooks very pastoral poems and terrific meatballs. Furthermore, she’s a lesbian, poor . . . .”

From the back seat of the Volkswagen, Farías was listening to what they were saying and letting himself be won over. He had met Montes, the Chilean, and Ortega, the Guatemalan, at a PEN Club party in New York. Montes taught Spanish-American literature at the University of Notre Dame (the yankees pronounced it Notredeim) and was now in Washington doing some research at the Library of Congress. Ortega wasn’t a professor, or a poet, or even a journalist; he was just a repugnant supporter of President Juan José Arévalo, the policies of Lieutenant Colonel Castillo-Armas, and the end result named Ydígoras. For the last two years, he had been making a living the best way he could in the U.S., particularly in Washington, where he had a small apartment and would find all kinds of discounts and opportunities for members of the Latin American community. In addition, young American women, neglected by their husbands, would often present themselves at his apartment. Ortega had an explanation for that sexual unhappiness: “You know, guys, these gringos need many martinis to become aroused, but they always fall asleep before they become aroused.”

Farías was listening to them talk, laugh, and curse, and thought that those two, born so many thousands of kilometers away from each other, were certainly more similar to one another than either of them was to him. One of them came from Cuajiniquilapa and the other from Valdivia, but they had something in common: the Guatemalan fruit and the Chilean copper that the Americans would exploit. That was the only language, Latin American, in which they understood each other. In New York, the Chilean had told him, “You Uruguayans have both the luck and the misfortune that the U.S. doesn’t need wool. It doesn’t buy it from you. It doesn’t exploit you. It doesn’t cause you indignation.”

“And as you know, Farías,” Ortega was suggesting, “if you need transistor radios, tape recorders, irons, stockings, ball point pens, or cameras, don’t end up in those racketeer discount stores. Let me know, and I’ll find you the best merchandise, and better still, I’ll give you half my commission. I’m not telling you to take a refrigerator with you, because you’ll probably come across an uncomprehending guard and it’ll be taken away from you by your customs agency. You people from the Southern Cone are so finicky . . . .”


Nereida was just about to leave her house when the doorbell rang. When he saw her glasses (wide, thick, and tinted purple), Farías experienced a kind of shock which wasn’t vertigo or repugnance, but contained both sensations. She was about fifty years old and weighed about two hundred pounds, although they were stoically squeezed into who knows how many girdles or some substitute. She sat in the back seat with Farías, who, just to make conversation, started praising Georgetown.

“Ah, I love Georgetown,” she said. “I love Washington, the U.S. I don’t think I can ever go back to Central America.” “Why, Nereida? Are we savages?” asked Ortega from the front seat. “It’s a feudal society, that’s what it is, with those husbands who think they’re Thundering Jupiters and those women who think they’re Jupiters’ doormats. Here it’s a matriarchy—what a beautiful thing. Orlando, I’m sure that you’ve been invited to dinner in a typical American Home. Don’t you think those splendid looking little Americans wearing aprons and watching the cake they put in the oven are just delightful? Did you notice that here it’s the women who uncork the bottles?” She laughed so hard that Ortega told her to be quiet. “They’re wonderful,” Nereida continued. “I’m here because of the matriarchy. That’s why this country has gotten as far as it has.” “How far has it gotten?” Montes asked. Nereida didn’t say anything. Strictly speaking, no one bothered to respond.

Harry and his wife were waiting for them in Riverdale. Farías got into the couple’s car. It was a privilege that deserved his broken English. Harry spoke a little bit of Spanish, but Flora only knew how to say “Hasssta la visssta.” She would look at Farías, wave goodbye, say “Hasssta la visssta,” and burst out laughing. Without major conviction, Farías joined her in a few of these outbursts, but fifteen minutes later his jaw started to hurt a bit and from that moment on he limited himself to smiling with elaborate solidarity.

“I’m going to take you to a marvelous place,” Harry said, happy to employ his vocation as a leader, and quickly added: “What did you think of New York?” “Fascinating, for many reasons,” Farías replied. “How many of those reasons wore skirts?” Flora inquired. Farías smiled again and shook his head. “I know, I know,” Flora said, “now you’ve left New York and have said: ‘Hasssta la visssta.’” For the first time, Harry joined his wife in her outburst of laughter. “Did you go to Radio City?” Harry asked. “Sure I did. It’s one of the things that fascinated me. That eagerness to do everything in a big way, that lack of originality to be original. Tell me something, Harry, why does that enormous orchestra, which rises and descends, turns on that gigantic platform, and has to play a concerto for violin and orchestra, elect to have the soloist play a cornet instead of a violin and wear shorts instead of long pants? I think it’s great that American nuns go to hear rock and stamp their feet next to the fans, but I can’t tolerate that conglomerate of Sibelius and pretty calves.” “Take it easy, Orlando,” Harry interrupted, “I think you’re influenced by Fidel Castro.” It was a general diversion. “Now I’ll be serious,” said Harry. “Don’t think that one can be musically anti-imperialistic. After all, that program at Radio City isn’t bad. Thanks to the pretty calves, the public is exposed to Sibelius. Cultural diffusion, okay? In any case, what you’re describing is much better than last year’s Christmas program, which had Santa Claus flying around the inside of the hall in a helicopter.”

The marvelous place was Great Falls, Maryland. Farías realized that the spectacle of the waterfalls was worth it. “To see that formidable organization of picnics,” said the Guatemalan, referring to Harry. “Harry is the specialist,” Nereida concluded.

Harry extracted a suitcase—not very large—from the car, and pulled out the small cooler—a virtual toy—where the meat was stored. Then he pulled out some kind of aerodynamic and collapsible gridiron, which was assembled a minute later; synthetic fuel (like pieces of charcoal); and finally, a small bottle containing flammable liquid used especially for charcoal, and especially for special picnics. Farías realized that the matchstick and hunger were the only focal points of a Southern Cone barbecue. Flora inflated some nylon cushions and everyone sat down around that fire which was civilized and without problems, and excessively determined and prepared. If it had not been for the natural touch of the waterfalls, the picnic could have been held on the 92nd floor of the Empire State Building.

After lunch, they watched TV on a portable set used especially for picnics, but Nereida said she didn’t like westerns. Then, Harry pulled out his Polaroid, assembled the group next to the round charcoal ashes, and insisted that Flora take a photograph of him next to the four Latin Americans. She made a joke about the difference between his height, 6’4”, and the height of the tallest of the others, 5’10”. “And they’re capable of believing that they’re not underdeveloped,” he said. The photograph she took was ready four minutes later. “This is civilization,” said Harry, responding to Nereida’s applause. Farías wasn’t sure whether or not the Yankee was proud of or making fun of national habits. Perhaps a little bit of both. Farías thought Harry was sincere and pleasant. Flora he liked a bit less, but didn’t really know why. At that moment, Flora was showing Farías a bottle of whiskey, which had a pair of hideously inflated plastic breasts attached to it. “Harry brought this back from New Orleans.” Nereida looked at the object in a nervous, almost masculine manner. The Chilean became bored and went off to look at the little waterfalls, one particular Reader’s Digest description of Niagara Falls.

Ortega discretely took Farías to the edge of the road. “Harry is a good guy, don’t you think? At least he isn’t part of the status quo.” “Yes, I like him very much.” “You know, he admits to the American Way of Life, but he admits to it with a certain sarcasm and that is definitely saving him. I’m not going to tell you he understands us—that is very difficult here—but we can talk to him about Guatemala, Bolivia, or Cuba, all without him becoming hysterical. And that’s an accomplishment. At least he doesn’t think Roosevelt was a communist.” “And Flora?” “Well, Flora considers herself a frustrated person, because at home Harry is the one who gives the orders. In accordance with Nereida’s scheme, Harry is the one who uncorks the bottles and Flora is the one who cooks. Of course, don’t forget he lived in Mexico for two years. Perhaps that’s where he became accustomed. . . .”

Flora and Montes were jumping from rock to rock, Harry was happily smoking next to the Volkswagen, and Nereida was leaning against a tree reading an Esquire magazine. Eventually, Ortega decided to join Flora and Montes, while Farías laid down on the grass with his head resting on his jacket, which he had rolled into a pillow. He remembered that in Uruguay he had always shunned picnics. But now he didn’t have time to draw any conclusions. He fell asleep.

Two hours later, Farías was sitting next to Harry and Flora in the 1960 Chrysler. The others had left in Ortega’s Volkswagen, and the couple had offered to drive him to Washington. He was content. “Nice people,” he thought. Flora crossed her legs. “Nice legs,” he thought. Obviously, this afternoon would be a fine memory.

“Why do all of you live outside of Washington?” he asked, for no particular reason. “I think it’s a very pleasant city.” Harry’s profile became transformed. “How do you expect us human beings to live in Washington if no less than 65% of the population is Negro.” Farías swallowed. “And what about it?” Flora looked at him affectionately, without becoming agitated and certainly sympathizing with his lack of understanding. “What! Didn’t you understand, Orlando? 65% Negro!” Farías kept quiet, but felt horrible about doing so. Finally, he had to say: “Forgive me, but I can’t understand you.” Harry had an increasingly furious look on his face.

At the intersection of Massachusetts Avenue and 4th Street, the Chrysler stopped for a red light. While they were waiting, an entire Negro family stepped into the crosswalk reserved for pedestrians and proceeded to cross the street. The two children at the back of the group waved at Harry and laughed. They laughed the way they always laughed, with their mouths wide open, even showing their uvulas. Harry had had enough. He punched the steering wheel tremendously hard and screamed at Farías, saying; “And you ask why we don’t live in Washington! Look, look, this is our reality! Our reality! Do you understand now?” “Take it easy, Harry,” said Flora. “Yes, now I understand,” Farías murmured, and thought about the party in Greenwich Village and the invincible old ladies from Albuquerque.

The dropped him off in front of the National. Farías had to compose a long sentence of thanks for the ride, the picnic, the food, the Polaroid snapshot, and the return to the hotel. Harry extended his hand and, now much calmer, said: “It was a great pleasure to meet you, Orlando, really a great pleasure.” Flora kissed him on the cheek.

For a moment Farías remained standing at the door of the hotel, waiting for the car to pull away. The instant the 1960 Chrysler started to move, Flora waved goodbye and delightfully said: “Hasssta la visssta!”