“Every Argentine knows that the South begins at the other side of Rivadavia. Dahlmann was in the habit of saying that this was no mere convention, that whoever crosses this street enters a more ancient and sterner world.” -El Sur, Jorge Luis Borges
How would my Buenos Aires be without Sábato and without Borges?
I had to settle my debt. Like Paris for so many porteños, Buenos Aires was the city I fantasized through books. I already had nostalgia for its neighborhoods, influenced by the memories of its authors.
This may be why I spent my first day in the city deep inside the halls of the National Library, re-reading books with a map in my hand. In front of me, a massive window showcased a horizon of parks and bell towers I couldn’t recognize. I saw the night come while, for the last time, I walked through the streets of the city by reading a novel.
I left the Library strolling through unknown streets, holding a map full of directions. I would take the routes of the Buenos Aires of my books, following the steps of its characters, and, maybe, breathing in some of the fervour and melancholy of its authors.
***
Lying down on the floor of a mirador, Alejandra and Martín listen to a recording in complete silence. The young man tortures himself ruminating his feelings, while she forgets it all by looking at the cracks on the roof. Alone in this room suspended over an old mansion, they are one of the countless lives that seek refuge in the decadent neighborhood of Barracas. Night falls slowly over old Buenos Aires, in these streets that are no longer in the countryside, but are barely part of the city. A little region of ruinous villas, a land of labourers and students, where one can still listen to the murmurs of the port.
To reach this mythical neighborhood of the novel Sobre héroes y tumbas, one has to pass through the sad centre of Buenos Aires. Under its tall and grey skyscrapers, I felt the damp and foggy breeze of the port, brought by a river that seemed to be hidden behind countless deposits and canals. In this kingdom of colossal towers, the mutilated Dos de Mayo square shyly attempted to give out some warmth.
Only San Telmo seemed able to calm the atmosphere. Its old, half-demolished alleyways reminded me of the Buenos Aires of my books. Its wanderers walked without hurry, among cafes, libraries and churches, almost forgiving themselves for the severity of the Centre.
But I couldn’t spend too much time in lovely San Telmo. There still was a long way to Martín and Alejandra's mirador, in the neighborhood of Barracas. I started a long and confusing walk, searching for streets that no longer existed, displaced by massive viaducts.
***
It is said that Buenos Aires was founded somewhere around Lezama Park.
Today, it is barely a dusty and forgotten city square, covered with battered statues. Looking at the towers of the National Museum and the few ranches that still resisted urbanization, I tried to imagine its appearance when Sábato wrote his novel. Martín must have seated on one of these benches when he met Alejandra. Maybe those very same children were playing on that day, and those very same old people were spending their afternoon in front of chess boards. Despite of its melancholy - or maybe because of it- Lezama Park had kept some of its old serenity.
I continued my walk by descending the slopes of the park, constantly on the lookout for my mirador. Through Hernandarias street, I crossed solitary houses, with courtyards covered with tiles and geraniums. What a strange southern Buenos Aires, firmly remaining in the times of the novelists, patiently falling into ruin.
Any of these homes could be Alejandra's.
Each one of them lived its old age in a different manner: some allowed dust to darken their walls and stained glasses, others decorated themselves with colours and engravings. Families barbecued in the empty avenues, and theater troupes took over the husks of old mansions… I couldn’t make out any mirador among the buildings, and I wondered, bitterly, if that was the only one of Sábato’s inventions.
Barracas ended suddenly, and gave way to a long and pestilential river. I recognized the sad metallic legs of the Avellanada bridge, where Martín thought about ending his life.
The sun was setting on my second day, and I walked next to the Riachuelo on a neighborhood that preferred to stay forgotten.
***
How can one compare the Buenos Aires of Barracas with the cafes of Las Heras Avenue, and the luxurious buildings of La Isla? How can one go from those nostalgic alleys to the solemn mansions and parks of La Recoleta? Nonetheless, both faces of Buenos Aires already existed during Sábato’s times. Now, I walked through these elegant neighborhoods looking for The Blind.
Sábato couldn’t be clearer: The Blind lived in Belgrano. His character, Alejandro Vidal Olmos, explained it perfectly in his Report on the Blind: this wicked brotherhood conspired in a underground world, buried beneath that northern neighborhood.
Belgrano. I knew it from the songs of Spinetta and the descriptions of Oesterheld: a calm region, full of tall trees and teenage poetry. I confess that I slowed my walk towards it, getting lost among the railways and the lakes of Palermo, afraid of getting disappointed by reality.
When I finally reached old Belgrano, I was comforted, noticing that its big houses and its dead leaves could still evoke the Flaco’s melodies. I walked through its alleys for a while, continuing my search for the trail of The Blind.
Finally, on a crossroads, I reached the strange church of the Inmaculada Concepción. I knew that the sordid catacombs of The Blind were hidden somewhere in its belly, and started looking impatiently for the trail of the novel.
I promptly stumbled upon a bronze plaque, surrounded by an iron fence, that seemed to commemorate Sábato’s works.
My myopia had rendered it indecipherable.