Chapter 48 Congress

They walked towards a tall castle, and saw these lines of writing on the wall: "I belong to no one, I belong to the whole world. You pass here when you come in, and you have to pass here when you go out." Diderot: Jacques the Fatalist and His Master (1769) My name is Alexander Ferry.The author of The Marbles, whom I had the honor to be acquainted with, said that my name bears both the glorious metal and the legacy of the great Macedonians.But this powerful and powerful name bears no resemblance to the dingy man who wrote this.I'm upstairs in a hotel on Calle del Estero in Santiago, which is Southside, but not Southside anymore.I am over seventy years old; I am still teaching English with a small number of students.Because of indecision, carelessness, or other reasons, I was not married and am still single.I don't struggle with being alone; it takes a lot of work to tolerate myself and my quirks.I find myself getting old; the unmistakable symptom is a lack of interest in new things, a lack of surprise, perhaps because I notice that new things are not particularly new, only slight variations.When I was young, I was filled with evenings, suburbs, and unhappiness; now it is mornings and quiet in the inner city.I no longer imagine myself after Hamlet.I belonged to the Conservative Party and a chess club, and often watched it absent-mindedly as a bystander.Curious minds may find my "A Brief Analysis of John Wilkins" somewhere on a dim shelf in the National Library on Mexico Street, a work best reprinted to correct its many omissions.The new director of the library was said to be a man of letters, working with ancient scripts, as if modern scripts were not simple enough, and devoted himself to the celebration of an imaginary quack Buenos Aires.I never wanted to know about it.I came to this city in 1899, and only once did I come across a quack, or someone who was said to be a quack.If I get a chance in the future, I might as well write about that incident.

As I said above, I was single; a neighbor who had heard me speak of Fermin Eguren the other day told me that Eguren had died in Punta del Este. That man was never my friend, but the news of his death made me very sad.I knew I was alone; I was the only person in the world who knew about the events of the Congress, and I had no one to share the memory of that event with.Now I am the last congress delegate.Of course, all people are representatives, and there is no one in the world who is not, but my situation is different from others.I know that; it sets me apart from countless current and future partners.Of course, we swore on February 7, 1904, in the most holy of honors (is there a sacred or unholy thing in the world?) that we would never reveal anything about the Congress, but it is equally true that I am now a perjurer. The people are also part of the Congress.This sentence sounds incomprehensible, but it can arouse the reader's curiosity.

In any case, the task I have asked for is not easy.I have never tried the narrative genre, not even an epistolary narrative essay, and what is more serious, the stories I record are unbelievable.It would be most appropriate for this essay to be written by that poet who should not be forgotten, author of The Marbles, José Fernández Ilara, but it is too late.By no means will I distort the facts, but I have a presentiment that laziness and clumsiness will lead me more than once to err. The exact date is irrelevant.Let's just remember that I came from my native province of Santa Fe in 1899.I've never been back; although Buenos Aires has no attraction for me, I've gotten used to the city as one gets used to one's body or an old ailment.I foresaw, with little concern, that I was about to die; so I restrained my digression, and hastened to tell what happened.

Years cannot change our essence, if we have one; and the impulse that drove me to the World Congress one night was the same impulse that first set foot on the editorial board of The Last Hour.To a poor young man in the provinces, a journalist's career is as romantic as it is to a poor young man in the capital to be a gaucho or a servant of a small estate.I wasn't ashamed to want to be a journalist, but now it's tedious.I remember my colleague Fernández Ilara saying that what a journalist writes is quickly forgotten, and that his desire was to write something that lasts.He had already carved (this is the common verb) some perfect sonnets, which were later slightly polished and published in the volume of "Marble Sculptures".

I can't remember exactly how I first heard about the Congress.Maybe it was the afternoon the cashier paid my first month's salary, and I celebrated Buenos Aires' acceptance of me by inviting Ilara to dinner.He declined, saying that he had to attend the Congress.I understood at once that he was not speaking of a handsome vaulted building at the end of a Spanish street, but of something more secret and important.Some spoke of the Congress with obvious sarcasm, with lowered voices, with horror or curiosity; but I am sure no one knew.After a few Saturdays, Ilala asked me to come with me.He told me that the necessary procedures have been completed.

It was about ten o'clock at night.Irara told me in the tram that preparatory meetings are usually held on Saturdays, and Don Alejandro Glencoe, perhaps impressed by my name, approved the application.We walked into Gas Café.There were about fifteen or twenty delegates, sitting around a long table; I can’t remember if there was a rostrum, but I think there was one later.Anyway I immediately recognized the chairman I had never met before.Don Alejandro was an elderly, sanctimonious man, with a broad forehead, gray eyes, and a red beard laced with silver.He always wore a dark frock coat and often had his hands folded on the handle of his cane.He is tall and strong.On the left was a man much younger than himself, also with red hair; fiery red, while Mr. Glencoe's beard reminded one of autumn maple leaves.On the right was a long-faced lad with a curiously low forehead, dressed like a dandy.Everyone ordered coffee, and a few ordered mulled wine.The first thing that caught my attention was the presence of a woman, who stood out among the many men.At the other end of the long table was a teenage boy in a sailor suit who fell asleep after a while.There was also a Protestant priest, two visibly Jews, and a Negro (who, like the idlers who gather on street corners, had a silk scarf around his neck and his clothes tightly wrapped around his body).In front of the black man and the child are two glasses of milk cocoa.The rest of the people did not impress me very much, but I only remembered one Mr. Marcelo Delmaso, who was very polite and elegant, but I never saw him again.I keep photographs of a meeting, taken in blurry form, which I am not going to publish, because the costumes, long hair and beards gave the attendees a playful, even shabby look, making the scene seem artificial.Any body has a tendency to invent its own dialect and rules; the Congress (which has always given me a certain dreamy feeling) seems to wish that the delegates need not be eager to learn the purpose of the Congress, or even to know the names of their colleagues.I soon realized that it was my duty not to ask questions, and I avoided asking Fernández Ilara because he would not answer.I attended every Saturday, and after a month or two I learned the rules.From the second meeting, sitting next to me was a Southern Railroad engineer named Donald Wren, who later taught me English.

Don Alejandro was taciturn; the delegates did not turn their faces towards him when they spoke, but I thought they were addressed to him and hoped to gain his approval.He only needs to make a slow gesture, and the topic of discussion changes instantly.I gradually realized that the red-haired man on his left had a strange name, Tweel.I also remember his frail look, which is characteristic of some very tall people, stooped as if their height made them dizzy.I remember that he often played with a copper compass in his hand, and sometimes put it on the table. In late 1914 he was killed in action with an Irish regiment of infantry.The man with the low forehead who always sat on the right was Fermin Eguren, nephew of the chairman.I no longer believe in realist devices, if any, in false genres; I like to shake out what I've come to understand in a snap.First of all, I would like to give the reader a sense of my past: I was a poor lad from Casilda, the son of a farmhand on a small estate, who came to Buenos Aires and suddenly (so I felt) Buenos Aires, and perhaps the heart of the world.Half a century later, I still have the dazzled feeling I had at the time, and I'm sure I will still have it in the future.

The facts are there; I'll try to keep it as simple as possible.Chairman Don Alexander Glencoe is a Uruguayan manor owner whose farm borders Brazil.His father was from Arbor, and he settled in America in the middle of last century.He brought with him a hundred or so books, and I am sure they were the only books Don Alejandro had read in his life. (I mention these miscellaneous books that I currently have because one of them has the root of my story.) The first Glencoe died with a son of each, the son who later became our Chairman .The daughter is married to a member of the Eguren family and is Fermin's mother.Don Alejandro aspires to one day become a member of parliament, but political leaders have turned him away from Uruguay's congress.He was so annoyed that he decided to create another congress with a wider scope.He thought of Anachasis Klutz, whom he had read in the pages of Carlyle's Passion, adoring divine ideas, who represented thirty-six different nationalities under the name "Speaker of Mankind." Speak at a rally in Paris.Inspired by his example, Don Alejandro planned to organize a world congress representing all nations and all people.The preparatory meeting center was set up at Café Garth; the opening ceremony took four years to prepare and was held at the estate of Don Alexander.Don Alejandro, like many Uruguayans, did not support Artigas, but loved Buenos Aires, and decided that the Congress should be held in his native country.Strangely enough, the original plan was carried out with incomparable precision.

At first we all received a fixed stipend, but the enthusiasm was great, and Fernández Ilara, who was as poor as I was, gave up his stipend, and so did everyone.This measure is very good, and helps to distinguish between good and bad; the number of representatives is reduced, and we are left with the faithful.The only paid position was that of secretary, and Nora Erfjord had no other income, and her work was extremely heavy.Organizing a global organization is no easy task.A large number of letters and telegrams came and went.Letters of support were sent from Peru, Denmark, and Hindustan.A letter from a Bolivian said that his country had no ports of entry to the sea, and that the deplorable situation should be one of the first topics discussed by the General Assembly.

Tweel was clever and wise, pointing out that the conference involved philosophical issues.Preparing a congress to represent all of humanity is like determining the number of Platonic archetypes, a mystery that has puzzled thinkers for centuries.He suggested that without looking too far away, Don Alejandro Glencoe could represent the owner of the estate, but also the Uruguayans, the great pioneers, the man of red silk, and the man who sat in a large armchair.Nora Erfjord is Norwegian.Does she represent secretaries, Norwegian women, or all beautiful women?Is one engineer enough to represent all engineers, including those in New Zealand?

I remember that's when Fermin interrupted. "Ferry can represent gringos," he said with a laugh. Don Alejandro gave him a serious look, and said calmly: "Mr. Ferry represents immigrants whose labor contributes to nation-building." Fermín Eguren has always had a hard time with me.He is several haughty identities in one man: Uruguayan, native, man who attracts all women, well-dressed man, man of Basque blood, Basques are outside history, and there is nothing but milking cows. None. An insignificant incident deepened our enmity.After a meeting, Eguren suggested a stroll on Rue Junin.I wasn't interested in the idea, but lest he make fun of it, I agreed anyway.Also going is Fernandez Ilara.As we were leaving the cafe, a burly man approached us.Eguren, probably a little tipsy, pushed him.The man blocked our way and said: "Whoever wants to go there must first ask about the dagger in my hand." I still remember the cold light of the dagger in the dark hall.Eguren took a few steps back in fright.I was overwhelmed, too, but my resentment overwhelmed my shock.I reached out to touch my belt, as if drawing out a weapon, and said in a firm voice: "We'll go out and do this sort of thing." The stranger's tone changed: "That's the kind of man I like. I just want to weigh you in, my friend." At this time he smiled very kindly. "It costs you money to make friends," I told him, and we left the café together. The man who drew his sword went to a brothel.I later heard his name was Tabia, or Paredes, or something like that, and he was a troublemaker.Irala kept her expression on the sidewalk, and when he reached the sidewalk, he patted my shoulder and said approvingly; "There's a musketeer among the three. Well done, Dartaian!" Fermín Eguren has always hated me for the cowardice I had witnessed. I feel like the body of the story is only now beginning.The preceding chapters have only recorded the conditions required by chance or fate, in order to illustrate an incredible event, perhaps the strangest event that has ever happened to me.Don Alexandre Glencoe was always at the center of the plot, but we gradually, not without surprise, discovered that the real chairman was Tweel.The red-bearded eccentric flattered Glencoe, and even Fermin Eguren, but in such an exaggerated way that it seemed mocking, without detracting from his dignity.Glencoe was proud of his vast fortune; Tweel read his temper enough to know that when he asked him to approve a plan, he only had to hint that it was expensive and it would pass.It seemed to me that the Congress was at first a mere skeleton; Tweel suggested that it should be expanded, and Don Alejandro agreed with it.He seemed to be in the center of an ever-expanding circle, and the periphery expanded infinitely, getting farther and farther away.For example, he declared that the Congress could not do without a number of reference books; Nirenstein, who worked in a bookstore, often purchased for us maps of Justus Pases and various extensive encyclopedias, from Pliny From the "Natural History" of Bouvet and Bouvet's "General Mirror" to those pleasant labyrinths (this is what Fernandez Hirara said), including the French Encyclopaedia, Britannica, Pierre Larousse [? , Great book by Larson, Montana and Simon.I remember touching a set of silk-covered Chinese encyclopedias with reverence. Those boldly printed characters were more mysterious than the pattern of leopard skin.I didn't know what happened to them at the time, so naturally I had no regrets. Don Alejandro was particularly affectionate with Fernández Hirara and me, perhaps because we were the only two who did not want to flatter him.He invited us to spend a few days at the Caledonian estate, where the plasterers were already at work. After a long voyage upriver and a change of raft, we reached the other side of the river at dawn.Then we spent the night in shabby grocery stores and passed many fences in the Montenegro region.As we traveled, the fields here were vaster and wilder than the little estate on which I was born. I still have two impressions of the manor: one is my pre-imagination, and the other is what I finally saw with my own eyes.As if in a dream, I imagined the impossible combination of the plains of Santa Fe and the palace of Aguas Corrientes; promenade.The building is very strong and can withstand long-term wind and sun.The walls were almost a barra thick, and the doors were wide.It never occurred to anyone to plant trees around.There was no shadow from morning to night.The cattle are built of stone; there are many cows, but they are all skinny;My first taste of freshly butchered beef.The staple food on the estate was hard biscuits brought in from the city; a few days later I heard from the foreman that he had never had fresh bread in his life.Irara asked where the toilets were; Don Alejandro waved his hand and pointed to the wide open fields.The moonlight was like water at night; I walked outside and saw Ilala relieved, and an ostrich was peeping curiously nearby. The temperature did not drop at night, it was unbearably hot, and everyone was looking forward to cool off.There were many rooms, but low, empty and unfurnished; we had a south-facing room, with two cots, a chest, wash-basin and jug of silver.The dirt floor has no paving or planks. The next day I found Carlyle's book in the library and looked for the article devoted to the spokesman of mankind, Anachasis Klutz, who had led me to that morning and that desolate place .Breakfast was the same as dinner, and after eating, Don Alejandro led us to see the work of the manor.We rode a league across the open plain.Ilala rode recklessly and had a little accident; the foreman commented without a smile: "That Buenos Aires guy didn't dismount very well." We saw the project from afar.Twenty or so men had built what looked like a half-assed amphitheater.Between the porch and the scaffolding there was still a blank sky. More than once I tried to strike up a conversation with the gauchos, but in vain.They seem to know that they are different from others.When they talked to themselves, in a nasalized, Brazilian Spanish, they spoke very little.They evidently had Indian and Negro blood in their veins.They were short and strong; at Caledonian I was taller than I had ever been before.Almost all of them wear loincloths, and one or two people wear knickerbockers.They are very different from, or have nothing in common with, the melancholy characters of Hernandez or Rafael Obrigado.Under the stimulation of alcohol on Saturday, they were prone to violence.There were no women in the estate, and I never heard a guitar playing. What interested me more than the people of this neighborhood was the complete transformation of Don Alessandro.In Buenos Aires he was a kind and discreet old gentleman; in Caledonia he became a stern patriarch, like the elder of all.On Sunday mornings he read the Bible aloud to his hired hands, though they understood nothing.One night the foreman (a young man who had taken over from his father) came to report to us that there was a laborer fighting with the hireling.Don Alejandro stood up without haste.When he reached the circle surrounded by many people watching, he took out the dagger he always carried with him and handed it to the trembling foreman, and stood between the two gleaming knives.Then I heard him order: "Put the knife down, boys." Then, in the same calm tone, he added: "Now you two shake hands, be respectful. I don't allow nonsense here." The two obeyed.The next day I heard that Don Alejandro had dismissed the foreman. I feel loneliness closing in on me.I'm afraid I'll never go back to Buenos Aires.I don't know if Fernández Ilara has the same fear, but we often talk about Argentina and what we want to do when we go back.I miss the lion statue at the entrance of a building on Jujuy Street near Eleventh Square, and the lights of a grocery store I don’t go to often.I'm a pretty good rider; I've often ridden out, and done a great deal.I still remember the black and white horse I used to ride, most of which are dead now.Some afternoon or one night, I may have been to Brazil, because the border is just a line with boundary stones. I learned not to count the days, and one evening Don Alejandro informed us suddenly: "Let's go to bed early. Let's start tomorrow morning while it's cool." When I got back downriver, I was glad to remember that the Caledonian estate was kind of sweet. We resumed our Saturday meetings.At a meeting in the spring, Tweel asked to speak.He said with his usual gorgeous rhetoric that the library of the World Congress should not be limited to collecting tools and reference books. The classical works of all countries and languages ​​in the world are real historical witnesses, and it would be too dangerous for us to ignore them.His speech was approved on the spot; Fernández Ilara and Dr. Cruz, professor of Latin, took up the task of selecting the necessary bibliography.Tweel had already spoken to Nirenstein about it. At that time, the city of Paris was every Argentine's utopia.Perhaps the one among us who most wanted to go to Paris was Fermin Eguren; the next was Fernández Ilara, but their motives were different.For the author of The Marbles, Paris was Verlaine and Lecomte de Lisle; for Eguren, Paris was the upscale extension of Rue Junin.I think Egrun and Tweel had a tacit understanding.At another meeting, Tweel proposed which working language the delegates should use, and suggested sending two delegates to London and Paris to learn the background.In order to pretend to be unbiased, he mentioned me first, and after a little hesitation, he mentioned his friend Eguren.Don Alejandro agreed, as always. I think it has been said above that Ryan started teaching me a great deal of English in exchange for my teaching him Italian.He omits grammar and sentence structures for beginners as much as possible, and directly enters poetry that requires concise form.My first encounters with the texts that have since enriched my life were Stevenson's wonderful little poem "Epitaph," and then the eighteenth-century ballads with which Passy reveals solemnity.I read Swinburne's glorious poems not long before I went to London, and they made me erroneously doubted the excellence of Ilara's heroics. I came to London at the beginning of January, 1902; I remember the caressing feeling of snow falling on my face, which I had never seen before, and was so delighted with.It's a good thing I didn't travel with Eguren.I lived in a cheap inn behind the British Museum, and spent every morning and afternoon in the library attached to the museum, looking for languages ​​suitable for the World Congress.I didn't ignore the languages ​​of the world; I dabbled in Esperanto, which "Emotional Calendar" magazine called "equal, simple, economical" languages, and Vlapuk, which tried to explore the possibilities of language, and the verbs all changed. Cases, nouns are all inflected.I weighed the pros and cons of reintroducing Latin, a language that has remained unabated for centuries.I also studied John Wilkins's analytic language, a language that deciphers the meaning of each word from the letters that make it up.It was under the bright dome of the reading room that I met Beatrice. This is a brief history of the World Congress, not my Alexander Ferri story, but it includes what happened to me and everyone else. Ba Yatris is slim, with fine features, and the orange hair that often comes to mind in my memory, no Like Crooked Tweel's red hair will never remind me of it.Beatrice was not yet twenty years old.She came from a northern county to study liberal arts at the University of London.She came from as humble a family as I.In Buenos Aires, Italian blood seems to be not very honorable; I found that many people in London think that Italian blood has romantic connotations.Within a few afternoons we were lovers; I proposed to her, but Beatrice Frost, like Nora Erfjord, was a devoted believer in Ibsen and would not marry anyone. bound together.There was a word that came out of her mouth that I was afraid to say.Oh, night, the warm dimness of sharing, love that flows quietly like a secret river; Oh, the happy moment of two being one, the pure and true happiness; Oh, the union of dying and falling into sleep; The morning light is faint, and I gaze at her moment. On the bleak frontier of Brazil, I sometimes feel homesick; London's red maze has given me many things, but I don't feel that way.I had to go back at the end of the year, despite all the excuses I made to delay the date of my return; I spent Christmas with Beatrice.I promised her that Don Alexander would invite her to the Congress; she replied vaguely that she would like to visit the southern hemisphere, and that she had a cousin who was a dentist and had settled in Tasmania, Australia.Beatrice didn't want to see the ship; she thought parting was an emphasis, an unwise celebration of misfortune, and she hated emphasis.We bid farewell to the library where we met last winter.I am a coward; I did not leave her my correspondence address, to avoid the anxiety of waiting for a letter. I always thought the journey back was shorter than it had been, but the transatlantic voyage, full of memories and worries, seemed long, long.It hurts me to think of the minutes, days and nights of Beatrice's life going hand in hand with my life.I wrote a thick letter and tore it up when I left Montevideo.I returned to my home country on Thursday: Illala was greeted on the pier.I went back to my old place on Chile Street; on Thursdays and Fridays we walked and talked.I want to reacquaint myself with Buenos Aires after a year.I was relieved to hear that Fermin Eguren was still in Paris; my return earlier than he did relieved me somewhat of the guilt of my long stay abroad. Ilala was depressed.Fermin spent a lot of money in Europe, and on more than one occasion defied orders to return immediately.This is also expected.What made me even more disturbed was other news; Tweel, despite the objections of Ilara and Crews, brought up Pliny the Younger's famous saying that "it is good to read a book", saying that there are merits in even the worst books, He suggested the indiscriminate acquisition of the bound volumes of La Notida, and bought 3,400 volumes of Don Quixote in various editions, letters of Balmes, university papers, account books, bulletins, and theater programs. one.He said earlier that everything is a witness to history.Nirenstein supported him; after three Saturdays of "enthusiastic discussions", Don Alejandro approved the proposal.Nora Erfjord resigned as secretary; she was replaced by a newcomer, Kalinski, who was also Tweel's tool.The back rooms and cellars of Don Alejandro's mansion are now full of books and lists, without catalogues.And no cards. In early July, Ilala went to Caledonia for a week; the plasterers had stopped working.When asked, the foreman explained that this was the master's order, and now the days are too busy to pass. I had written a report in London, which is not worth mentioning now; on Friday I called on Don Alexandre, and gave him the report.Fernandez Ilara accompanied me.It was very windy in the afternoon, pouring water into the house.A troika stood before the gates in the Rue Alsina.Men stooped to carry their bags, unloading into the deepest yard; Tweel directed them.Also present were Nora Erfjord, Nierenstein, Cruise, Donald Lane, and one or two other representatives, as if with a premonition that something was about to happen.Nora and I hugged and kissed, reminding me of other hugs and kisses.The black representative was cheerful and kissed my hand. In one room the square floor door was open; adobe steps led to the dark cellar. Suddenly we heard footsteps. I knew it was Don Alexandre without seeing anyone.He came almost by running. His voice was very different from usual; it was not the unhurried old gentleman who presided over the Saturday meetings, nor the feudal planter who stopped the knife duel and preached the words and deeds of God to the gauchos, but it was the voice of God. Without looking at anyone, he commanded: "Get out everything that's piled up under the grounds. Not a single book." This thing took almost an hour to complete.We made a very high hill in the dirt yard.Everyone moved to and fro; the only one who didn't move was Don Alejandro. He then gave another order. "Now set these bags on fire." Tweel paled.Nirenstein managed to coo and utter a word. "I did my best to purchase these valuable reference books, and the World Congress cannot live without them." "Congress of the World?" said Don Alejandro.He laughed mockingly, and I never heard him laugh. There was a mysterious thrill in the destruction; the flames crackled and blinded, and we all stood against walls, or hid in houses.At night, the yard was left with a pile of ash and a burning smell.Some of the unburned pages were white on the mud.Nora Erfjord felt the same kind of affection for old men that young women have for old men, and she said incomprehensibly: "Don Alejandro knew what he was doing." The well-mannered Ilara found a sentence: "The library of Alexandria has to be burned every few centuries." At this moment Don Alejandro confided in his thoughts: "What I'm going to say to you now is something I've learned after four years. I understand now that we're running a gigantic business that includes the whole world. It's not a few shacks on a remote estate talking nonsense The big talker. The World Congress has started from the first moment the world existed, and it will continue after we are reduced to dust. It is everywhere. The Congress is the books we just burned. Delegates The Congress is the Caledonians who defeated Caesar's legions. The Congress is Job on the muck heap, Christ on the Cross. The Congress is the worthless brat who squandered my fortune on whores." At this point I couldn't help but interjected: "Don Alejandro, I am also at fault. I have already written this report, but I am still spending your money in England for the love of a woman." Don Alejandro went on to say: "I've figured it out, Ferry. The Congress is my cattle. The Congress is the cattle I've sold and the land that's no longer mine." A startled voice sounded from the crowd, it was Tweel: "You're saying you've sold the Caledonian estate" Don Alejandro replied without haste: "Yes, I sold. Now I don't have an inch of land left, but I don't mourn my bankruptcy because I figured out one thing. We may never meet again, because the Congress doesn't need us , but on this last night, let's go out and see the Congress." He reveled in victory.His firmness and faith infected us.No one thought he was insane. We rode in an open carriage in the square.I took my place next to the coachman, and Don Alejandro ordered: "Master, let's go for a walk in the city. Take us wherever you want." The Negro sat on the footboard and kept smiling.I don't know if he understands. Words are symbols that call for a common memory.It is only my personal recollections that I wish to relate now; those with whom I have shared them are all dead.Mystics often resort to a rose, a kiss, a bird of all birds, a sun of all stars and suns, a jar of wine, a garden, or a sex act.None of these metaphors can help me describe the long night of joy when we quarreled until the east turned pale, weary but happy.Wheels and horseshoes echoed on the gravel, and we hardly talked.Before dawn we came to a dark little river, maybe the Maldonado, maybe the Riachuvenlo, and Nora Erfjord sang the ballad of Patrick Spence in a high voice, Don Alexander Then he sang a few lines out of tune in a deep voice.The English words did not remind me of Beatrice.Tweel murmured behind my back: "I tried to do something bad, but I did something good." What we vaguely saw sticks in my memory—the whitewashed walls of Recoleta, the yellow walls of the prison, two men dancing on a street corner, the checkerboard foyer with its iron bars, the railings of the train, my a dwelling, a marketplace, the unfathomable wet night—but these ephemeral things might be something else, and it doesn't matter.What matters is that we feel that our plan (which we have made the subject of jokes on more than one occasion) does secretly exist, and that plan is the universe, which is us.For years, I searched hopelessly for the flavor of that evening; sometimes I thought I caught it in music, in love, in vague memories, but it never came back, except in a dream one morning.It was Saturday morning when we all swore we would never tell anyone about it. I never saw them again except Ilala.We will never comment on this past; our language will be profanity. Don Alejandro Grencoe died in 1914 and was buried in Montevideo.Ilara passed away last year. I met Nirenstein once on Lima Street, and we pretended not to see him. Buenos Aires, 1955