To the Ends of the Earth

He got his cane from the sofa in the parlor and we went out, down in the narrow elevator, and through the wroughtiron gates. The restaurant was around the corner—I could not see it, but Borges knew the way. So the blind man led me. Walking down this Buenos Aires street with Borges was like being led through Alexandria by Cavafy, or through Lahore by Kipling. The city belonged to him, and he had had a hand in inventing it.

The restaurant was full this Good Friday night, and it was extremely noisy. But as soon as Borges entered, tapping his cane, feeling his way through the tables he obviously knew well, a hush fell upon the diners. Borges was recognized, and at his entrance all talking and eating ceased. It was both a reverential and curious silence, and it was maintained until Borges took his seat and gave the waiter our order.

We had hearts of palm, and fish, and grapes. I drank wine, Borges stuck to water. He cocked his head sideways to eat, trying to spear the sections of palm with his fork. He tried a spoon next, and then despairingly used his fingers.

“Do you know the big mistake that people make when they try to film Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde?” he said. “They use the same actor for both men. They should use two different actors. That is what Stevenson intended. Jekyll was two men. And you don’t find out until the end that it is the same man. You should get that hammer stroke at the end. Another thing. Why do directors always make Hyde a womanizer? He was actually very cruel.”

I said, “Hyde tramples on a child and Stevenson describes the sound of the bones breaking.”

“Yes, Stevenson hated cruelty, but he had nothing against physical passion.”

“Do you read modern authors?”

“I never cease to read them. Anthony Burgess is good—a very generous man, by the way. We are the same—Borges, Burgess. It’s the same name.”

“Any others?”

“Robert Browning,” said Borges, and I wondered if he was pulling my leg. “Now, he should have been a short story writer. If he had, he would have been greater than Henry James, and people would still read him.” Borges had started on his grapes. “The food is good in Buenos Aires, don’t you think?”

“In most ways, it seems a civilized place.”

He looked up. “That may be so, but there are bombs every day.”

“They don’t mention them in the paper.”

“They’re afraid to print the news.”

“How do you know there are bombs?”

“Easy. I hear them,” he said.

Indeed, three days later there was a fire that destroyed much of the new color television studio that had been built for the World Cup broadcasts. This was called “an electrical fault.” Five days later two trains were bombed in Lomas de Zamora and Bernal. A week later a government minister was murdered; his corpse was found in a Buenos Aires street, and pinned to it was a note reading, A gift from the Montoneros.

“But the government is not so bad,” said Borges. “Videla is a well-meaning military man.” Borges smiled and said slowly, “He is not very bright, but at least he is a gentleman.”

“What about Perón?”

“Perón was a scoundrel. My mother was in prison under Perón. My sister was in prison. My cousin. Perón was a bad leader and, also, I suspect, a coward. He looted the country. His wife was a prostitute.”

“Evita?”

“A common prostitute.”

We had coffee. Borges called the waiter and said in Spanish, “Help me to the toilet.” He said to me, “I have to go and shake the bishop’s hand. Ha!”

Walking back through the streets, he stopped at a hotel entrance and gave the metal awning posts two whacks with his cane. Perhaps he was not as blind as he pretended, perhaps it was a familiar landmark. He had not swung timidly. He said, “That’s for luck.”

As we turned the corner into Maipú, he said, “My father used to say, ‘What a rubbish story the Jesus story is. That this man was dying for the sins of the world. Who could believe that?’ Is it nonsense, isn’t it?”

I said, “That’s a timely thought for Good Friday.”

“I hadn’t thought of that! Oh, yes!” He laughed so hard he startled two passersby.

As he fished out his door key, I asked him about Patagonia.

“I have been there,” he said. “But I don’t know it well. I’ll tell you this, though. It’s a dreary place. A very dreary place.”

“I was planning to take the train tomorrow.”

“Don’t go tomorrow. Come and see me. I like your reading.”

“I suppose I can go to Patagonia next week.”

“It’s dreary,” said Borges. He had got the door open, and now he shuffled to the elevator and pulled open the metal gates. “The gate of the hundred sorrows,” he said, and entered chuckling.

In Patagonia

IT HAD BEEN MY INTENTION TO ARRIVE IN ESQUEL ON HOLY Saturday and to wake on Easter Sunday and watch the sunrise. But Easter had passed. This was no special date, and I had overslept. I got up and went outside. It was a sunny breezy day—the sort of weather that occurs every day of the year in that part of Patagonia.