Adam Buenosayres: A Novel by Marechal Leopoldo

Author:Marechal, Leopoldo [Marechal, Leopoldo]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: MQUP
Published: 2014-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

BOOK SEVEN

(Journey to the Dark City of Cacodelphia)

I

On Saturday April 30, 192–, in the lowlands of Saavedra, at midnight, the astrologer Schultz and I set out on the memorable journey I now propose to recount. Our itinerary was to include, according to the astrologer’s nomenclature, a descent into Cacodelphia, city of torment, and an ascent to Calidelphia, city of glory.1 Needless to say, the mere announcement of that journey had plunged me into doubt, hesitation, and not a few reservations, aware as I was that for some time Schultz had been pondering a trip to hell in order to explore its sinister realms, a descent undertaken by precious few heroes even in antiquity, and by not a one, as far as I know, in the vulgar, prosaic age we live in now. Just a couple of hours earlier, I recall, we were sitting in Schultz’s studio, where I was still grumbling and making last-ditch objections. The astrologer listened in silence, moving with absolute calm amid handwritten manuscripts and volumes lying open, celestial spheres and zodiacs, astrological tables, and other paraphernalia that stuffed his studio.

– Let’s suppose for a moment the two mythological cities might actually exist, I joked. Even if we were crazy enough to follow in the footsteps of Ulysses, Aeneas,2 Alighieri, and other infernal tourists, what merit do we have that would make us worthy of such an adventure?

– I have the merit of my science, and you the merit of your penitence, Schultz answered with much gravity.

I fell silent in surprise and confusion for, although I didn’t exactly know what Schultz’s science entailed, I was well aware of the lugubrious state I’d been floundering in for some time, its chief symptom an indefinable aridity, and I thought I’d kept this a jealously guarded secret. Recovering from my astonishment, I turned to Schultz with a question on my lips; but at that instant the astrologer was examining a ball of twine held between his fingers.

– What do you reckon is the diameter of an ombú? he asked doubtfully.

– Listen, I answered laughing, what the heck have ombú trees got to do with anything?

– You’ll find out, he said. I’m talking about the one we discovered the other night in the outback of Saavedra.

Then, recalling the scene with the magus and the ombú and the bonfire burning amongst the tree’s black spurs, I mentally assessed the thickness of its trunk.

– Five feet or so, I said at last. Maybe a bit more.

Schultz nodded. Scratching with a pencil, he figured out how long a circumference would correspond to that diameter. Then, unravelling a portion of twine, he measured out a length equal to the circumference he’d calculated, marked the spot with a knot, added to the measured-out length three units from who knows what bizarre metrical system, cut it off with his famous black-handled penknife, and finally put both knife and string in his pocket, all with the air of someone performing a liturgical ceremony. The job finished, he let himself fall back into an antediluvian armchair.

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