The Novices of Lerna

THE NOVICES OF LERNA

THE MONTH I GRADUATED from university (and not exactly with flying colors), the editor of the alumni magazine asked if I would do him a big gauchada. He wanted me to write him an article. Since I didn’t know how to say no, I delivered a few modest pages, mostly class notes mixed with an abundance of quotes. That was my entire academic record: a degree I had barely obtained and an article of dubious originality.

With such a meager résumé, I couldn’t help but be surprised when, a few weeks after my article was published, I received a proposal from the University of Lerna: they were offering me a six-month fellowship. What was even more astonishing was that they required (along with my confirmation) a frankly disconcerting report of my physical characteristics.

Yes, the fellowship was tempting in and of itself: lots of money, the unilateral ability (on my part) to rescind the agreement at any time, paid travel, paid clothing, life insurance, the possibility of taking classes in my field as well as others, not a single subsequent obligation (publications or reports); a true sinecure that would also give me the opportunity to see the world.

But in addition to the unexpected offer and unusual requests, there was something else I found unnerving: the tone in which the letter from Lerna was written. The syntax was generally unobjectionable, but the tone aroused my suspicion due to how cloying, cautious, and bland it was. An example: Illustrious Doctor Beltra: The humble and traditional University of Lerna, dedicated, as your Eminence is not unaware, to legal studies and the social sciences for more than two centuries, contacts you, the Eminent Doctor, by way of this humble servant (the letter was from the rector) so that you might have the generosity to … As you can see, the university was extremely humble, the rector a servant, and I was illustrious and eminent. My porteño nature could not help but suspect that this was a joke orchestrated by some maula who fancied himself a humorist. I went to the Swiss embassy, where I was put in contact with someone named Curelli who, mysteriously, already knew who I was. What’s more, he had copies of the letters they had sent me from Lerna, which formed part of a voluminous dossier labeled with my name. Intrigued, I tried to find out what the hell was in this monstrous compendium, but the attaché Curelli—the fourth or fifth in the embassy vaguely dedicated to cultural information and affairs—categorically refused to let me see it (and he was not very polite about it, either). My experience at the embassy, although briefly disturbed by this promptly forgotten incident, achieved its goal: it dispelled my suspicion that the invitation was the work of some jokester.

And so, I wrote to Lerna to communicate my acceptance in principle and to announce that I would send them their copious forms as soon as I had them ready. To this letter, I received a reply dripping with syrup, written so mawkishly that it wasn’t just cloying but actually repugnant.

I knew at once I would need help filling out my physical information on the questionnaire. It was impossible to take the requested measurements without someone’s aid, and it would be difficult to convince anyone that I wasn’t filling out the application for an insane asylum. For example, I had to provide the measurements of my biceps when they were hanging by my side as well as completely flexed. When we were younger, I had struck the same pose in front of my cousin Lisandro to prove that I was stronger than him. Therefore, it was Lisandro himself to whom I turned for help. The measurements were so detailed and varied that someone could have easily reproduced my body down to the millimeter. The form was seven pages long, each one brimming with checkboxes.

The photographs (the cost of which was covered by the university) demanded a greater exercise of patience and will. Believe me when I say that the sacrifice they entailed nearly dissuaded me from the trip. They required such an exhaustive survey, so to speak, of my poor body that by the end I was stripping off more than decorum permits. It was my sense of humor and Lisandro that got me through it. My cousin photographed me partially and totally and from every angle imaginable. The delivery of these materials to Europe was handled by the fourth (or fifth) attaché at the embassy, who had also provided us with cameras, film, lenses, lights, and many other gadgets.

A few days after I finished the mountain of paperwork, I received another letter, this one markedly unpleasant. It seemed I was Lerna’s ideal candidate. The rector, deans, department heads, and a whole string of authorities affirmed and signed and stamped a declaration that congratulated themselves and me for a happy end to the negotiations. In the same envelope was a check that somewhat alleviated the stupidity of the letter. My flight was scheduled for the first Monday of December.

Lisandro, kindhearted as ever, strove to dissipate my growing concerns. How could I pass up this opportunity? My abnegation had to do with the humiliating nature of their requests. But to Lisandro they were just examples of the watchmaker’s spirit so typical of the Swiss. Watchmakers or not, they had managed with their gloved and affected means—to which I am so hostile—to put me between a rock and a hard place.

The end of October came, and I had to resign my position at the court (or ask for a leave of absence) if I wanted to travel on the date set by Lerna. Resigning was out of the question. I knew my leave would be granted automatically for a fellowship like this, but I asked with the secret hope that it would be denied. Judge Riera, who has known me since I was a child, was so moved when he read my request that he almost cried.

I felt like I was being ambushed. As a rule, a porteño is reluctant to abandon his neck of the woods. I spoke with Lisandro about Lerna until he was bored out of his mind. I went over the facts. The Swiss are Swiss and there was no reason to be surprised by their strangeness. Accepting the invitation would bring me the following benefits: a guaranteed promotion when I got back, the chance to disentangle myself from a few women who were beginning to complicate my life, an economic solution for the next few years if I reconciled myself to saving a little bit of the large quantity of money provided by the fellowship, a visit to Europe, and, as Judge Riera put it, the incredible opportunity to move away from one’s country and see it with the double perspective of time and distance. Personally, I couldn’t care less about the latter, but considering the scarcity of favorable elements to tip the scales toward accepting, I opted to consider it. The prospect of being promoted didn’t move me either: I know full well that it’s best to limit oneself to a tiny position in order to live in peace. To become the registrar, the manager, the chief, is to make the same deal as the toad who traded his eyes for a tail: goodbye to drinking two glasses too many, goodbye to staying up late reading, goodbye to friends, goodbye to women. The part about the women had its advantages, but I couldn’t help being upset by this imposed separation and, perhaps most importantly, having to abandon the conflicts that dating more than one woman simultaneously implied. Visiting Europe is something that every Argentine keeps in reserve as an unquestionable inheritance; going there is almost a disappointment. The economic solution was a bit questionable; there was no need to solve something that wasn’t a problem for me. I always felt saving money was useless. I don’t have the capacity or the need to save. I spend what I earn and, no matter how little it is, it’s always enough.

In addition to all this, as I already mentioned, I didn’t deserve a fellowship. I hadn’t asked for one. The application process made me suspicious. The tone of the negotiations was highly disagreeable, and, in an imprecise but unavoidable way, the entire thing inspired in me a sharp annoyance, an uncontrollable distrust.

However, as if a foreign will were exercising itself over my decisions, I embarked (to be precise, I took a plane) on the date indicated by Lerna. At that point, my experience in the air had not exceeded four hundred miles: a one-way trip to Córdoba. (On the return trip, I traded the flight for a bus ride.)

I must confess that my flight to Europe was very enjoyable. I fell in love with a flight attendant (Sandra), and we had the good fortune that certain mechanical breakdowns delayed the flight for thirty-eight hours in Lisbon. My ticket gave me the choice of taking another flight to Geneva or waiting in Portugal. I stayed. Sandra would fly out of Portugal, but we now had one day and two nights ahead of us.

Oh, how I was later nursed by the memories of that young lady during my solitude at Lerna! I had no idea of the importance these few Portuguese hours would have in my future. We spent almost the entire time in a small hotel whose railings and windows were reminiscent of the decor that amateur theaters use to portray the peninsula. Sandra was very warm. She was very sweet. For my own part, I knew that I had to act economically, that is to say, to capitalize on that skin, those eyes, that voice, because it would be a while before I encountered them again. I’ll admit it was with a utilitarian sense that I looked at her teeth and smile, as I tried to fix in my mind her ordinary gestures and casual remarks. I wasn’t going to see her again for six months and so I let her enter my memory like an army of details whose aim was to invade and occupy me, but in which I would find my nourishment. I thought to myself, I’m falling in love voluntarily. Later, in Lerna, I would make a daily, meticulous consumption of that premeditated stockpile. On occasion, I had to attend to that abundance of health and beauty just to restore my sanity.

I arrived in Geneva the afternoon of December 7. Separating myself from Sandra was hard. I found the city horrible: a sort of public relations office where what’s on the surface just barely disguises the hidden truth.

On Sandra’s recommendation, I took a room in the Hotel Krasnopolsky, which she had visited during her travels. The idea that she had been there—in perhaps the same room I was staying in—made me happy. I imagined her moving around from one side of the room to the other. Lying on the bed, not thinking about Lerna at all, I retrieved every moment I spent in Lisbon and, in some cases, corrected past situations in my mind to improve the memories.

At noon the following day, I had to take a train to Umsk, the nearest town to the university. I went out that night to eat and afterward slipped into a movie theater that was showing a western. My memories of Sandra were weighing too heavily upon me. I slept poorly my first night in Switzerland. I ate breakfast late and left directly for the train station. During the trip, overcome by fatigue, worked up by the plane, by Sandra, by our goodbye, and by Geneva, and facing the prospect of having to meet new people, I navigated extravagant half dreams with the foggy image of Sandra in the ever-present background.

I got off at the dark and deserted platform in Umsk. My only luggage was a suitcase. Once the train had left, I tried to make my way with the insufficient help of a few pale streetlights. The area was mountainous and heavily wooded, surely a typical one-horse mountain town, and at that hour of the wintry afternoon the people tucked themselves into their houses. I thought it would be unobjectionably clean, the gardens cared for to a depressing degree. There would be traffic lights even though drivers were respectful of transit laws to the point of religiosity.

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