To the Ends of the Earth

“Why didn’t they die of TB in Montevideo? It’s just over there, eh? There is another story, equally silly, that they fought the Indians, and the Indians and the Negroes killed each other. That would have been in 1850 or so, but it isn’t true. In 1914, there were still many Negroes in Buenos Aires—they were very common. Perhaps I should say 1910, to be sure.” He laughed suddenly. “They didn’t work very hard. It was considered wonderful to have Indian blood, but black blood is not so good a thing, eh? There are some prominent families in Buenos Aires that have it—a touch of the tar brush, eh? My uncle used to tell me, ‘Jorge, you’re as lazy as a nigger after lunch.’ You see, they didn’t do much work in the afternoon. I don’t know why there are so few here, but in Uruguay or Brazil—in Brazil you might run into a white man now and then, eh? If you’re lucky, eh? Ha!”

Borges was laughing in a pitying, self-amused way. His face lit up.

“They thought they were natives! I overheard a black woman saying to an Argentine woman, ‘Well, at least we didn’t come here on a ship!’ She meant that she considered the Spanish to be immigrants. ‘At least we didn’t come here on a ship!’ ”

“When did you hear this?”

“So many years ago,” said Borges. “But the Negroes were good soldiers. They fought in the War of Independence.”

“So they did in the United States,” I said. “But a lot were on the British side. The British promised them their freedom for serving in the British infantry. One southern regiment was all black—Lord Dunmore’s Ethiopians, it was called. They ended up in Canada.”

“Our blacks won the Battle of Cerrito. They fought in the war against Brazil. They were very good infantrymen. The gauchos fought on horseback, the Negroes didn’t ride. There was a regiment—the Sixth. They called it, not the regiment of Mulattos and Blacks, but in Spanish ‘the Regiment of Brownies and Darkies.’ So as not to offend them. In Martin Fierro, they are called ‘men of humble color.’ … Well, enough, enough. Let’s read Arthur Gordon Pym.”

“Which chapter? How about the one where the ship approaches full of corpses and birds?”

“No, I want the last one. About the dark and the light.”

I read the last chapter, where the canoe drifts into the Antarctic, the water growing warmer and then very hot, the white fall of ashes, the vapor, the appearance of the white giant. Borges interrupted from time to time, saying in Spanish, “That is enchanting”; “That is lovely”; and “How beautiful!”

When I finished, he said, “Read the last chapter but one.”

I read Chapter 24: Pym’s escape from the island, the pursuit of the maddened savages, the vivid description of vertigo. That long terrifying passage delighted Borges, and he clapped his hands at the end.

Borges said, “Now how about some Kipling? Shall we puzzle out ‘Mrs. Bathurst’ and try to see if it is a good story?”

I said, “I must tell you that I don’t like ‘Mrs. Bathurst’ at all.”

“Fine. It must be bad. Plain Tales from the Hills then. Read ‘Beyond the Pale.’ ”

I read “Beyond the Pale,” and when I got to the part where Bisesa sings a love song to Trejago, her English lover, Borges interrupted, reciting,

Alone upon the housetops, to the North

   I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,—

The glamour of thy footsteps in the North,

   Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

“My father used to recite that one,” said Borges. When I had finished the story, he said, “Now you choose one.”

I read him the opium smoker’s story, “The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows.”

“How sad that is,” said Borges. “It is terrible. The man can do nothing. But notice how Kipling repeats the same lines. It has no plot at all, but it is lovely.” He touched his suit jacket. “What time is it?” He drew out his pocket watch and touched the hands. “Nine-thirty—we should eat.”

As I was putting the Kipling book back into its place—Borges insisted that the books must be returned to their exact place—I said, “Do you ever reread your own work?”

“Never. I am not happy with my work. The critics have greatly exaggerated its importance. I would rather read”—he lunged at the bookshelves and made a gathering motion with his hands—“real writers. Ha!” He turned to me and said, “Do you reread my work?”

“Yes. ‘Pierre Menard’ …”

“That was the first story I ever wrote. I was thirty-six or thirty-seven at the time. My father said, ‘Read a lot, write a lot, and don’t rush into print’—those were his exact words. The best story I ever wrote was ‘The Intruder’ and ‘South’ is also good. It’s only a few pages. I’m lazy—a few pages and I’m finished. But ‘Pierre Menard’ is a joke, not a story.”

“I used to give my Chinese students ‘The Wall and the Books’ to read.”

“Chinese students? I suppose they thought it was full of howlers. I think it is. It is an unimportant piece, hardly worth reading. Let’s eat.”