Chapter 43 Guayaquil

I don't have to look at the reflection of Higrota Mountain in the ocean of Placido Bay, I don't have to go to the West Bank Republic, I don't have to read Bolivar's handwriting in the library, I can figure it out in Buenos Aires Find out its exact shape and its enigma. As I re-read the preceding passage, ready to continue, I was struck by its melancholy and exaggerated tone.It seems impossible to mention that Caribbean republic without thinking of its famous and powerful historian, Jose Korzeniowski, but in my case there was another reason.My secret purpose in writing the first paragraph was to add some sentimentality to a harrowing and insignificant event.I have told the whole story; it may help me to understand the events.Moreover, when an event is told truthfully, the actor becomes a witness, and the observer and narrator are no longer executors.

It happened last Friday, in the same room where I am writing, at this afternoon, but the weather was not as cool as it is now.I know we tend to forget unpleasant things; therefore, I have to jot down my conversation with Dr. Eduardo Zimmerman before it fades away.My impression is still very clear now. To make it easier to understand, I have to review the strange experience of Bolivar's letters.A History of Fifty Years of Chaos by Dr. Avelianos, the original manuscript is said to have been lost under well-known circumstances, but was discovered and published in 1939 by his grandson, Dr. Ricardo Aveanos, Boli Val's letter was unearthed from the old doctor's information.Judging by what I have gathered from various publications, these letters are of little importance, but one, dated August 23, 1822, from Cartagena, in which the "Liberator" speaks of himself and St. Martin Details of the general's meeting.If Bolívar disclosed even a fraction of the Guayaquil meeting in the document, it would not be overestimated.Dr. Ricardo Aveanos, always firmly opposed to clericalism, did not want to give the letter to the Institute of History, but wanted to give it to the Latin American Republic.Our Ambassador, Dr. Melasa, has done an excellent job and the Argentine Government was the first to accept this selfless offer.The two sides agreed that the Argentine government would send representatives to Sulaco, the capital of the West Bank Republic, to transcribe the letter and publish it in China.The president of the university where I was professor of American history recommended me to the minister for that mission; and as I was a fellow of the National Institute of History, I was generally unanimously approved by the institute.A date had been fixed for the minister to see me, but word came that Southern University had proposed Dr. Zimmerman as their candidate, and I can only assume that Southern University had no prior knowledge of our decision.

As the reader may know, Zimmermann was a foreign historian who was expelled from the Third Reich and is now an Argentine citizen.His work is certainly commendable, but I have seen only one article in which he defended the Jewish Republic of Carthage based on later commentaries from Roman historians, and one arguing that the function of government should not be Obvious and painful thesis-like stuff.This argument was rightly and emphatically refuted by Martin Heidegger, who demonstrated with photocopies of newspaper headlines that modern heads of state, far from being obscure figures, are protagonists, patrons and leading dancers who love the people's drama, with flamboyant He doesn't hesitate to use his oratory skills as a backdrop to his stage sets.He also confirmed that Zimmerman had Hebrew (in order not to say Jewish) ancestry.The essays of this venerable existentialist directly prompted our guest to go into exile and travel the world.

There is no doubt that Zimmerman's purpose in coming to Buenos Aires was to meet with the minister; the minister, through his secretary, suggested that I speak to Zimmerman to keep him informed and to avoid any unpleasantness between the two universities.I naturally agree.When I got home, the family said that Dr. Zimmerman had called for a 6:00 p.m. visit.As you know, I live on Chile Street.At six o'clock, the doorbell rang. As a common man, I personally went to open the door and lead him into my study.He stopped in the courtyard and looked around; the black-and-white floor tiles, the two magnolia trees, and the rainwater pool elicited a comment.I think he's a little nervous.There was nothing special about him: he was about forty; his head seemed slightly larger.He wore citrine glasses; they took them off once and put them back on.As we exchanged pleasantries, I was gratified to realize that I was a little taller than him, but I was immediately ashamed of my elation; for after all we were not engaging in physical or intellectual combat, only possibly uncomfortable clarification.I'm not good at observing people or not at all, but I remember his awkward attire, reminding me of the ugly language of some poet when he described ugliness.I still remember his clothes being a blinding blue with too many buttons and pockets.His tie was like a magician's double-button noose.He was carrying a leather briefcase, presumably full of papers.He had a military mustache; he lit a cigar while talking, and I had the impression at the time that there was too much on that face.Too crowded, I thought.

The continuity of language unduly exaggerates the truth of what we are saying, for each word occupies a place on the page, and a moment in the mind of the reader; and apart from the details I enumerated, the impression is given that the person has gone through rough times. In the study there is an oval photograph of my great-grandfather who fought in the Revolutionary War and a glass case with swords, medals and banners.I pointed out those old things with a glorious history to him, and gave some explanations; he glanced quickly as if he had completed a task, and took my words unconsciously and mechanically, sometimes seeming self-righteous.For example, he said:

"Exactly. Battle of Junín. August 6, 1824. Charge of Juárez cavalry." "Suarez's cavalry," I corrected him. I suspect he mispronounced the name on purpose.He spread his arms like an Oriental and exclaimed: "My first mistake, and it won't be the last! My knowledge is from books, which is easy to confuse; you have a vivid memory of history." He can't pronounce correctly, "Le" and "Na" can't be distinguished. Such compliments do not please me.The books in the room aroused his interest.He scanned the titles almost affectionately, and I remember him saying this:

"Ah, Schopenhauer, he always doesn't believe in history... I have an exact copy of the edition printed by Griesebach at home in Prague. I hoped to spend my old age peacefully with those books that I liked, but it was History, history embodied in a madman, drove me out of my home, my city. Now I am with you, in America, at your house..." He spoke quickly but imprecisely; his Spanish pronunciation had a distinct German accent. We're already seated, and I cut to the chase with his words.I told him: "History here is kinder. I was born in this house and intended to die here. This sword was brought here by my great-grandfather when he fought in America; here I meditate on the past and write my book. It could almost be said that I have never left this study, but now I am going out at last, to open my eyes to a country I have only seen on maps."

I smiled slightly, playing down what I might have said just now. "Are you referring to some republic in the Caribbean?" Zimmerman said. "Exactly. I'm leaving soon, and I'm grateful for your visit before I leave," I said. Trinidad brought us coffee.I confidently went on to say slowly: "You probably already know that the minister gave me the task of transcribing the letters of Bolivar, which I found by accident in the Avejanos archives, and of writing an introduction. This task is the culmination of my life's work, with I've been so lucky to have the opportunity to do it, in a sense it's something I was born with, something that runs through my veins."

I said what I had to say and breathed a sigh of relief.Zimmermann didn't seem to be listening; instead of looking at my face, he looked at the books behind me, nodded vaguely, and said emphatically: "Flows in my veins. You are a true historian. Your men galloped across the American soil and fought great battles, while mine were unknown and barely lifted their heads in the ghetto. In your eloquent words , history flows in your veins; you just need to listen to its secret flow. I am different. I must go to Sulaco to identify documents, which may be fake documents. Believe me, doctor, your conditions make I'm jealous."

There was no challenge or mockery in his words; it was a willingness to make the future an irreversible fait accompli.His arguments are not important; what is powerful is his person, his eloquence.Zimmerman continued leisurely as if lecturing: "In terms of Bolivar studies (sorry, Saint Martin), dear teacher, your position is well established. I have not seen the relevant letter from Bolivar, but it is inevitable or reasonable to guess that Bolivar Livar wrote that letter to justify himself. Anyway, what the hyped letter will reveal to us is what we can call Bolivarianism instead of San Martinism. Once it is made public, It must be evaluated, examined, critically screened and, if necessary, refuted. The final judge and the most suitable person will be you who have insight. If you follow the strict requirements of science, you can use a magnifying glass, surgery Knife, scalpel! Permit me to add that the name of the person who circulated the letter will be associated with it. Such an association would not be appropriate for you in any way. The public will not notice the slight difference."

I understand that no matter how much we argue, it will be futile in the end.I may have felt it at the time; in order to avoid confrontation with him, I grabbed a detail and asked him if he really thought the letter was forged. "Even if Bolivar wrote it in his own hand," he replied, "it doesn't mean it's all true. Bolivar may have deceived the other party, or he may have made a mistake. You are a historian, are you?" People who are good at thinking, you know better than me that the mystery lies not in words, but in ourselves." I am tired of the bombast and I point out that at the meeting in Guayaquil, General San Martín abandoned his ambitions and handed over the fate of America to Bolivar. It is also a mystery worth studying. Zimmerman said: "There are various explanations... Some people speculate that St. Martin fell into a trap; others, such as Sarmiento, think that St. Martin was educated in Europe, participated in the war against Napoleon in Europe, and has no understanding of the situation in America. ; and again, mainly Argentines, who say that he is selfless, and that he is due to physical and mental exhaustion. Some people even attribute it to some secret societies of the Masonic nature." In any case, I pointed out, it would always be interesting to know exactly what the protectors of Peru and the liberators of Latin America had said. Zimmermann stated flatly: "It may not matter what they say when they talk. Two men meet in Guayaquil; if one overpowers the other, it is because he has a stronger will, not because he is eloquent. You understand, I have not forgotten My Schopenhauer." He added with a smile: "Language, language, language. Shakespeare, the incomparable master of words, despised language. Whether in Guayaquil, or Buenos Aires, or Prague, language was always less important than human beings." At that moment, I felt that something was happening among us, or rather, had happened.It's as if we're not who we used to be.It was dark in the study, and the lights hadn't been turned on yet.I seem to ask aimlessly: "You are from Prague, Doctor?" "Formerly from Prague," he replied. To sidestep the central question, I say: "It must be a strange city. I haven't been there, but the first German book I read was Gorham by Meylink." Zimmerman said: "Gustav Meylink is the only one worth remembering. The rest are pretty bad as literature, and even worse as theosophy, and best left alone. Anyway, that dream-within-a-dream Prague is really weird in his book. Everything in Prague is weird, you could say nothing is weird. Anything can happen. I felt the same way one evening when I was in London." "You just spoke of will," he said. "There is a story in Mabinochin that two kings were playing chess on top of a hill, and their respective armies were fighting at the foot of the hill. One king won the game; the messenger rode up the hill and reported that the army of the losing king had fought. Losing battles. Human battles are reflected on the chessboard." "You see, magic works," said Zimmermann. I replied: "Or an expression of the will in two different battles. The Celtics also have a story about the contest of two famous bards. A bard played the harp and sang from dawn till dusk. The stars and the moon climbed He handed over the harp to his opponent. The latter laid it aside, and got up. The former surrendered." "How wise, how succinct!" Zimmerman marvels. After calming down, he continued: "I must confess that I know so little about Britain that I am ashamed. You have covered the West and the East like a day, and I am limited to my corner of Carthage, and now I supplement my deficiencies with a little history of America .I can only do it step by step." There was a Hebrew and a Germanic humility in his voice, but I thought he had already won, and it would do him no harm to say a few words of flattery to me. He asked me not to worry about the arrangements for his trip (he said "things about it").Immediately, I took out a long-written letter from my briefcase to the minister, stating in my name the reasons for my resignation and Dr. Zimmerman's recognized qualifications, and stuffed his fountain pen into my hand. Here, let me sign.As he put away the letter, I caught a glimpse of his confirmed plane ticket from Ezeiza to Sulaco. When he left, he stood in front of Xu Benhua's works again and said: "Our teacher, our mutual teacher, had a famous saying: There is no involuntary action in this world. If you stay in this house, this spacious house that you have inherited from your ancestors, it is because your heart wants to stay here. I respect And thank you for your decision." Without a word I accepted his last handout. I walk him to the gate.When he said goodbye, he said: "Great coffee." I looked through the mess and threw it into the stove without hesitation.The meeting was short. I have a hunch that I won't be penning again on the matter.My mind is set.