El Campo, Ciudad de Junín, Buenos Aires: photo by Spender, 2007
El Campo, Ciudad de Junín, Buenos Aires: photo by Spender, 2007
El Campo, Ciudad de Junín, Buenos Aires: photo by Spender, 2007
These
events took place on the Los Álamos cattle ranch, towards the south of
the township of Junín, over the last days of March, 1928. The
protagonist was a medical student, Baltasar Espinosa. We may describe
him for now as no different to any of the many young men of Buenos
Aires, with no particular traits worthy of note other than an almost
unlimited kindness and an oratorical faculty that had earned him several
prizes from the English school in Ramos Mejía. He did not like to
argue; he preferred it when his interlocutor was right and not he.
Although the vagaries of chance in any game fascinated him, he was a
poor player because it did not please him to win. His wide intelligence
was undirected; at thirty-three years of age, the completion of one
last subject stood in the way of his graduation, despite its being his
favourite. His father, who like all gentlemen of his day was a
freethinker, had instructed him in the doctrines of Herbert Spencer, but
his mother, before setting out on a trip to Montevideo, requested of
him that every night he say the Lord’s Prayer and make the sign of the
cross. Over the years, not once had he broken this promise.
He
did not lack in courage; one morning he had traded, more out of
indifference rather than wrath, two or three blows with a group of
fellow students who were trying to force him into taking part in a
university demonstration. He abounded in questionable opinions, or
habits of mind, from a spirit of acquiescence: his country mattered less
to him than the risk that in other parts they might believe that we
continue to wear feathers like the Indians; he venerated France but
despised the French; he had little respect for Americans, but he
approved of there being skyscrapers in Buenos Aires; he thought that the
gauchos of the plains were better horsemen than those of the hills or
mountain ranges. When his cousin Daniel invited him to summer in Los
Álamos, he accepted immediately, not so much because he liked the
country, but more out of his natural geniality and his not having found a
valid reason for saying no.
The
ranch’s main house was large and somewhat run-down; the foreman, who
was known as Gutre, had his quarters close by. The Gutres were three:
the father, the son (who was particularly uncouth) and a girl of
uncertain paternity. They were tall, strong and bony, with Indian facial
features and hair that tinged red. They hardly spoke. The foreman’s
wife had died years ago.
In
the country, Espinosa was learning things that he had not known, nor
suspected. For example, that one need not gallop when approaching a
house, and that no one goes out riding a horse unless there is a job to
be done. In time, he would come to distinguish the birds by their
calls.
Early
on, Daniel had to absent himself and leave for the capital in order to
close a deal involving some livestock. In all, the business would take
him about a week. Espinosa, who was already a little tired of hearing
about his cousin’s good fortune with women and his tireless interest in
the variations of men’s fashion, preferred to remain on the ranch with
his textbooks. The heat was suffocating and not even the night brought
relief. One morning at daybreak, thunder woke him. The wind was
rocking the casuarinas. Espinosa heard the first drops of rain and gave
thanks to God. All of a sudden, the cold air rolled in. That
afternoon, the Salado overflowed.
The
next day, as he was looking over the flooded fields from his porch,
Baltasar Espinosa thought that the standard metaphor which compared the
pampas with the sea was not, at least that morning, completely false,
even though Hudson had noted that the sea appears to us much wider
because we see it from a ship’s deck and not from horseback or eye
level. The rain did not let up; the Gutres, helped or hindered by the
city dweller, saved a good part of the livestock, though many animals
drowned. The paths that led to the station were four: all were covered
in water. On the third day, a leaking roof threatened the foreman’s
house and Espinosa gave them a room out back by the toolshed. The move
had brought them closer; they ate together in the large dining room.
Conversation was difficult; the Gutres, who knew so much about the
country, did not know how to explain any of it. One night, Espinosa
asked them if people still retained some memory of the Indian raids from
when the frontier’s military command was in Junín. They told him that
they did, but they would have answered in a similar fashion had the
question been about Charles the First’s beheading. Espinosa recalled his
father’s saying that almost all the cases of longevity cited from the
country are a result of poor memory or a vague notion of dates. The
gauchos tended to forget in equal measure the year of their birth and
the name of who fathered them.
No reading material was to be found in the entire house other than some issues of the magazine The Farm, a veterinary manual, a deluxe edition of the Uruguayan epic Tabaré, a History of Shorthorn Cattle in Argentina, the odd erotic or detective story and a recent novel, Don Segundo Sombra.
In order to liven up in some way the inevitable after-dinner
conversation, Espinosa read a couple of the novel’s chapters to the
Gutres, who were all illiterate. Unfortunately, like the book’s hero,
the foreman had been a cattle drover himself and was not interested in
the happenings of another. He said the work was easy, that they took
with them a pack mule which carried all that they needed, and that if he
had not been a cattle drover, he would never have seen Lake Gómez, he
would never have gotten to the town of Bragado, nor would he have
visited the Núñez ranch in Chabachuco. In the kitchen was a guitar;
before the events I am narrating happened, the labourers would sit in a
circle and someone would tune the instrument without ever getting
around to playing it. This they called a guitar jam.
Espinosa,
who had left his beard to grow, had begun to pause before the mirror
to study his changed face, and he smiled at the thought of boring the
boys in Buenos Aires with his tale of the Salado’s overflowing.
Curiously, he was missing places to which he had never been and would
never go: a street corner on Cabrera where a mailbox stood; some cement
lions on a porch a few blocks from the Plaza del Once on Jujuy; a
barroom with a tiled floor whose exact whereabouts he was not sure of.
As for his brothers and his father, through Daniel they would have
learnt already that he was isolated -- the word, etymologically, was
accurate -- by the floodwaters.
Looking
through the house whilst still hemmed in by the waters, he came across
a Bible in English. In its last pages, the Guthries -- such was their
original name -- had left a record of their family history. They were
originally from Inverness, had come to the New World, no doubt as
labourers, in the early days of the nineteenth century and had
intermarried with Indians. The chronicle broke off sometime during the
eighteen-seventies when they no longer knew how to write. Within only a
few generations, they had forgotten their English; by the time Espinosa
met them, even Spanish was troubling them. They had no faith, but in
their blood there endured, like a dim current, the harsh fanaticism of
the Calvinists and the superstitions of the pampas. Espinosa told them
of his find and they barely acknowledged it.
Leafing
through the volume, his fingers opened it at the start of the Gospel
according to Mark. As an exercise in translation and perhaps to see if
the Gutres would understand any of it, he decided to read to them the
text after dinner. Their attentive listening and their mute interest
surprised him. Maybe the gold letters on the the cover lent the book
more authority. "It’s in their blood," Espinosa thought. It also
occurred to him that man has throughout history told and retold two
stories: that of a lost ship that searches the seas of the Mediterranean
for a dearly loved island, and that of a god who allows himself to be
crucified in Golgotha. Remembering his elocution classes in Ramos
Mejía, Espinosa rose to his feet to preach the parables.
In the days that followed, the Gutres wolfed down the barbecued meat and sardines so as to arrive sooner at the Gospel.
A
little pet lamb that the girl had adorned with a sky-blue ribbon had
injured itself on some barbed wire. To staunch the bleeding, the Gutres
were wanting to apply cobwebs; Espinosa treated it with some pills
instead. The gratitude that this treatment inspired took him aback. At
first, he distrusted the Gutres and had hidden in one of his books the
two hundred and forty pesos that he had with him; now, with the owner
away, he had taken on Daniel’s role and was giving timid orders that
were being followed immediately. The Gutres would trail him through the
rooms and along the porch as if they were lost without him. Whilst
reading to them, he noticed that they would take away with them the
crumbs that he had left on the table. One evening, he caught them
unawares as they were, in few words, speaking of him respectfully.
Upon
finishing the Gospel according to Mark, he wanted to read one of the
three remaining gospels; the father, though, asked him to repeat the
one he had already read to them so that they could understand it
better. Espinosa felt that they were like children, who prefer
repetition over variety or novelty. That night he dreamt, not altogether
surprisingly, of the Flood and was awoken by the hammering that went
into the Ark’s construction, which he supposed he had confused with the
thunder. In fact, the rain, after having abated, was getting heavier.
The cold was bitter. The Gutres had told him that the storm had damaged
the toolshed’s roof and that, once they had repaired the beams, they
would show him where. No longer a stranger, they treated him with
special attention, almost spoiling him. Not one of them liked coffee,
but they always had a little cup for him that they heaped with sugar.
The
storm hit on a Tuesday. Thursday night he was awoken by a light knock
on the door, which, because of his misgivings, he always kept locked.
He got up and opened it: it was the girl. In the darkness he could not
make her out, but he could tell from her footsteps that she was
barefoot, and later in bed, that she had come naked from the back of
the house. She did not embrace him, nor did she speak a single word;
she lay beside him and shivered. It was the first time she had lain with
a man. When she left, she did not kiss him; Espinosa realised he did
not even know her name. For some sentimental reason that he did not
attempt to understand, he swore never to tell anyone in Buenos Aires
about the incident.
The
next day began like the others before, except for the father’s
speaking to Espinosa and asking him if Christ had allowed Himself to be
killed in order to save all mankind. Espinosa, who was a freethinker
but felt obliged to justify what he had read to them, replied, “Yes. To
save us all from hell.”
Gutre then asked, “What’s hell?”
“A place underground where souls burn and burn.”
“And those that drove in the nails were also saved?”
“Yes,” replied Espinosa, whose theology was a little shaky.
He
had feared that the foreman would demand an account of what had
happened the night before with his daughter. After lunch, they asked him
to read the last chapters again.
Espinosa
took a long siesta, though his light sleep was interrupted by
persistent hammering and vague premonitions. Toward evening he got up
and went out to the porch. He said, as if thinking out loud, “The
waters are low. It won’t be long now.”
“It won’t be long now,” repeated Gutre like an echo.
The
three Gutres had been following him. Kneeling on the floor, they asked
for his blessing. Then they cursed him, spat on him and shoved him to
the back of the house. The girl was crying. Espinosa knew what to
expect on the other side of the door. When they opened it, he saw the
heavens. A bird shrieked. ‘A goldfinch,’ he thought. The shed was
without a roof; they had torn out the beams to build the cross.
El Campo II, Ciudad be Junín, Buenos Aires, Argentina: photo by Spender, 2007
El Campo II, Ciudad be Junín, Buenos Aires, Argentina: photo by Spender, 2007
El hecho sucedió en la estancia Los Álamos, en el partido de Junín,
hacia el sur, en los últimos días del mes de marzo de 1928. Su
protagonista fue un estudiante de medicina, Baltasar Espinosa. Podemos
definirlo por ahora como uno de tantos muchachos porteños, sin otros
rasgos dignos de nota que esa facultad oratoria que le había hecho
merecer más de un premio en el colegio inglés de Ramos Mejía y que una
casi ilimitada bondad. No le gustaba discutir; prefería que el
interlocutor tuviera razón y no él. Aunque los azares del juego le
interesaban, era un mal jugador, porque le desagradaba ganar. Su abierta
inteligencia era perezosa; a los treinta y tres años le faltaba rendir
una materia para graduarse, la que más lo atraía. Su padre, que era
librepensador, como todos los señores de su época, lo había instruido en
la doctrina de Herbert Spencer, pero su madre, antes de un viaje a
Montevideo, le pidió que todas las noches rezara el Padrenuestro e
hiciera la señal de la cruz.
A lo largo de los años no había quebrado
nunca esa promesa. No carecía de coraje; una mañana había cambiado, con
más indiferencia que ira, dos o tres puñetazos con un grupo de
compañeros que querían forzarlo a participar en una huelga
universitaria. Abundaba, por espíritu de aquiescencia, en opiniones o
hábitos discutibles: el país le importaba menos que el riesgo de que en
otras partes creyeran que usamos plumas; veneraba a Francia pero
menospreciaba a los franceses; tenía en poco a los americanos, pero
aprobaba el hecho de que hubiera rascacielos en Buenos Aires; creía que
los gauchos de la llanura son mejores jinetes que los de las cuchillas o
los cerros. Cuando Daniel, su primo, le propuso veranear en Los
Álamos, dijo inmediatamente que sí, no porque le gustara el campo sino
por natural complacencia y porque no buscó razones válidas para decir
que no.
El
casco de la estancia era grande y un poco abandonado; las dependencias
del capataz, que se llamaba Gutre, estaban muy cerca. Los Gutres eran
tres: el padre, el hijo, que era singularmente tosco, y una muchacha de
incierta paternidad. Eran altos, fuertes, huesudos, de pelo que tiraba
a rojizo y de caras aindiadas. Casi no hablaban. La mujer del capataz
había muerto hace años.
Espinosa,
en el campo, fue aprendiendo cosas que no sabía y que no sospechaba.
Por ejemplo, que no hay que galopar cuando uno se está acercando a las
casas y que nadie sale a andar a caballo sino para cumplir con una
tarea. Con el tiempo llegaría a distinguir los pájaros por el grito.
A los pocos días, Daniel tuvo que ausentarse a la capital para cerrar una operación de animales. A lo sumo, el negocio le tomaría una semana. Espinosa, que ya estaba un poco harto de las bonnes fortunes de su primo y de su infatigable interés por las variaciones de la sastrería, prefirió quedarse en la estancia, con sus libros de texto. El calor apretaba y ni siquiera la noche traía un alivio. En el alba, los truenos lo despertaron. El viento zamarreaba las casuarinas. Espinosa oyó las primeras gotas y dio gracias a Dios. El aire frío vino de golpe. Esa tarde, el Salado se desbordó.
Al
otro día, Baltasar Espinosa, mirando desde la galería los campos
anegados, pensó que la metáfora que equipara la pampa con el mar no era,
por lo menos esa mañana, del todo falsa, aunque Hudson había dejado
escrito que el mar nos parece más grande, porque lo vemos desde la
cubierta del barco y no desde el caballo o desde nuestra altura. La
lluvia no cejaba; los Gutres, ayudados o incomodados por el pueblero,
salvaron buena parte de la hacienda, aunque hubo muchos animales
ahogados. Los caminos para llegar a la estancia eran cuatro: a todos los
cubrieron las aguas. Al tercer día, una gotera amenazó la casa del
capataz; Espinosa les dio una habitación que quedaba en el fondo, al
lado del galpón de las herramientas. La mudanza los fue acercando;
comían juntos en el gran comedor. El diálogo resultaba difícil; los
Gutres, que sabían tantas cosas en materia de campo, no sabían
explicarlas. Una noche, Espinosa les preguntó si la gente guardaba algún
recuerdo de los malones, cuando la comandancia estaba en Junín. Le
dijeron que sí, pero lo mismo hubieran contestado a una pregunta sobre
la ejecución de Carlos Primero. Espinosa recordó que su padre solía
decir que casi todos los casos de longevidad que se dan en el campo son
casos de mala memoria o de un concepto vago de las fechas. Los gauchos
suelen ignorar por igual el año en que nacieron y el nombre de quien
los engendró.
En
toda la casa no había otros libros que una serie de la revista La
Chacra, un manual de veterinaria, un ejemplar de lujo del Tabaré, una
Historia del Shorthorn en la Argentina, unos cuantos relatos eróticos o
policiales y una novela reciente: Don Segundo Sombra. Espinosa, para
distraer de algún modo la sobremesa inevitable, leyó un par de capítulos
a los Gutres, que eran analfabetos. Desgraciadamente, el capataz había
sido tropero y no le podían importar las andanzas de otro. Dijo que
ese trabajo era liviano, que llevaban siempre un carguero con todo lo
que se precisa y que, de no haber sido tropero, no habría llegado nunca
hasta la Laguna de Gómez, hasta el Bragado y hasta los campos de los
Núñez, en Chacabuco. En la cocina había una guitarra; los peones, antes
de los hechos que narro, se sentaban en rueda; alguien la templaba y
no llegaba nunca a tocar. Esto se llamaba una guitarreada.
Espinosa,
que se había dejado crecer la barba, solía demorarse ante el espejo
para mirar su cara cambiada y sonreía al pensar que en Buenos Aires
aburriría a los muchachos con el relato de la inundación del Salado.
Curiosamente, extrañaba lugares a los que no iba nunca y no iría: una
esquina de la calle Cabrera en la que hay un buzón, unos leones de
mampostería en un portón de la calle Jujuy, a unas cuadras del Once, un
almacén con piso de baldosa que no sabía muy bien dónde estaba. En
cuanto a sus hermanos y a su padre, ya sabrían por Daniel que estaba
aislado -- la palabra, etimológicamente, era justa -- por la
creciente.
Explorando
la casa, siempre cercada por las aguas, dio con una Biblia en inglés.
En las páginas finales los Guthrie -- tal era su nombre genuino --
habían dejado escrita su historia. Eran oriundos de Inverness, habían
arribado a este continente, sin duda como peones, a principios del
siglo diecinueve, y se habían cruzado con indios. La crónica cesaba
hacia mil ochocientos setenta y tantos; ya no sabían escribir. Al cabo
de unas pocas generaciones habían olvidado el inglés; el castellano,
cuando Espinosa los conoció, les daba trabajo. Carecían de fe, pero en
su sangre perduraban, como rastros oscuros, el duro fanatismo del
calvinista y las supersticiones del pampa. Espinosa les habló de su
hallazgo y casi no escucharon.
Hojeó
el volumen y sus dedos lo abrieron en el comienzo del Evangelio según
Marcos. Para ejercitarse en la traducción y acaso para ver si entendían
algo, decidió leerles ese texto después de la comida. Le sorprendió
que lo escucharan con atención y luego con callado interés. Acaso la
presencia de las letras de oro en la tapa le diera más autoridad. Lo
llevan en la sangre, pensó. También se le ocurrió que los hombres, a lo
largo del tiempo, han repetido siempre dos historias: la de un bajel
perdido que busca por los mares mediterráneos una isla querida, y la de
un dios que se hace crucificar en el Gólgota. Recordó las clases de
elocución en Ramos Mejía y se ponía de pie para predicar las parábolas.
Los Gutres despachaban la carne asada y las sardinas para no demorar el Evangelio.
Una
corderita que la muchacha mimaba y adornaba con una cintita celeste se
lastimó con un alambrado de púa. Para parar la sangre, querían ponerle
una telaraña; Espinosa la curó con unas pastillas. La gratitud que esa
curación despertó no dejó de asombrarlo. Al principio, había
desconfiado de los Gutres y había escondido en uno de sus libros los
doscientos cuarenta pesos que llevaba consigo; ahora, ausente el
patrón, él había tomado su lugar y daba órdenes tímidas, que eran
inmediatamente acatadas. Los Gutres lo seguían por las piezas y por el
corredor, como si anduvieran perdidos. Mientras leía, notó que le
retiraban las migas que él había dejado sobre la mesa. Una tarde los
sorprendió hablando de él con respeto y pocas palabras. Concluido el
Evangelio según Marcos, quiso leer otro de los tres que faltaban; el
padre le pidió que repitiera el que ya había leído, para entenderlo
bien. Espinosa sintió que eran como niños, a quienes la repetición les
agrada más que la variación o la novedad. Una noche soñó con el Diluvio,
lo cual no es de extrañar; los martillazos de la fabricación del arca
lo despertaron y pensó que acaso eran truenos. En efecto, la lluvia,
que había amainado, volvió a recrudecer. El frío era intenso. Le
dijeron que el temporal había roto el techo del galpón de las
herramientas y que iban a mostrárselo cuando estuvieran arregladas las
vigas. Ya no era un forastero y todos lo trataban con atención y casi
lo mimaban. A ninguno le gustaba el café, pero había siempre un tacita
para él, que colmaban de azúcar.
El
temporal ocurrió un martes. El jueves a la noche lo recordó un
golpecito suave en la puerta que, por las dudas, él siempre cerraba con
llave. Se levantó y abrió: era la muchacha. En la oscuridad no la vio,
pero por los pasos notó que estaba descalza y después, en el lecho, que
había venido desde el fondo, desnuda. No lo abrazó, no dijo una sola
palabra; se tendió junto a él y estaba temblando. Era la primera vez que
conocía a un hombre. Cuando se fue, no le dio un beso; Espinosa pensó
que ni siquiera sabía cómo se llamaba. Urgido por una íntima razón que
no trató de averiguar, juró que en Buenos Aires no le contaría a nadie
esa historia.
El
día siguiente comenzó como los anteriores, salvo que el padre habló
con Espinosa y le preguntó si Cristo se dejó matar para salvar a todos
los hombres. Espinosa, que era librepensador pero que se vio obligado a
justificar lo que les había leído, le contestó:
-- Sí. Para salvar a todos del infierno.
Gutre le dijo entonces:
-- ¿Qué es el infierno?
-- Un lugar bajo tierra donde las ánimas arderán y arderán.
-- ¿Y también se salvaron los que le clavaron los clavos?
-- Sí -- replicó Espinosa, cuya teología era incierta.
Había temido que el capataz le exigiera cuentas de lo ocurrido anoche con su hija. Después del almuerzo, le pidieron que releyera los últimos capítulos. Espinosa durmió una siesta larga, un leve sueño interrumpido por persistentes martillos y por vagas premoniciones. Hacia el atardecer se levantó y salió al corredor. Dijo como si pensara en voz alta:
-- Las aguas están bajas. Ya falta poco.
-- Ya falta poco -- repitió Gutrel, como un eco.
Los
tres lo habían seguido. Hincados en el piso de piedra le pidieron la
bendición. Después lo maldijeron, lo escupieron y lo empujaron hasta el
fondo. La muchacha lloraba. Espinosa entendió lo que le esperaba del
otro lado de la puerta. Cuando la abrieron, vio el firmamento. Un
pájaro gritó; pensó: es un jilguero. El galpón estaba sin techo; habían
arrancado las vigas para construir la Cruz.
Atardecer en el campo, Junín, Argentina: photo by Germanramos, 2007
Cuento Borges: El evangelio según Marcos. "Lejania": photo by Inés Christophersen, 28 October 2012
Las lluvias provocaron serios daños a cultivos en la zona #junin: image via Miguel Chiarantano @machiarontano, 27 December 2017
#JUJUY Un tremendo temporal azotó a #Libertador: image via El Tribuno de Jujuy @ElTribunoJujuy, 28 December 2016
#JUJUY El #pronóstico estima que el tiempo seguirá #inestable: image via El Tribuno de Jujuy @ElTribunoJujuy, 28 December 2016
Firemen fight a wildfire near La Adela in La Pampa Province. Firefighters in Argentina said
on Thursday they were bringing under control three wildfires that have
devastated nearly a million hectares of the country’s famous pampas, or
plains.: photo by Eitan Abramovich/AFP, 6 January 2017
Firemen fight a wildfire near La Adela in La Pampa Province. Firefighters in Argentina said on Thursday they were bringing under control three wildfires that have devastated nearly a million hectares of the country’s famous pampas, or plains.: photo by Eitan Abramovich/AFP, 6 January 2017
ARGENTINA - Firemen fight a wildfire near La Adela in La Pampa Province. By @chatoeitan #AFP: image via Frédérique Geffard @fgeffardAFP, 6 January 2017
Frenan el avance de incendios en llanuras de la Pampa argentina #AFP: image via Agence France-Presse @AFPespanol, 5 January 2017
Workers gather ducks to be culled in Latrille, France, after authorities ordered a massive cull of ducks in three regions most affected by a severe outbreak of bird flu: photo by Regis Duvignau/Reuters, 6 January 2017
Workers gather ducks to be culled in Latrille, France, after authorities ordered a massive cull of ducks in three regions most affected by a severe outbreak of bird flu: photo by Regis Duvignau/Reuters, 6 January 2017
Jorge Luis Borges with Maria Kodama Schweizer (b. 1937), his literary secretary, widow, executor and heir. "Espinosa realised he did
not even know her name.": photographer unknown, between 1975 and 1986, via Alchetron
Jorge Luis Borges: El Evangelio según Marcos / The Gospel according to Mark, from El informe de Brodie (Doctor Brodie's Report), 1970; English version by Antonios
El evangelio según marcos: una película de Miguel Ángel Entrenas y José Antonio Entrenas (1991)
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