and a three-day beard on his flaccid cheeks and the sad expression of an abandoned dog in his unfocused eyes.
‘Don Miguel.’
‘Yes, Don Gaetano.’
‘Go and buy me an Avanti.’
The old man set off.
‘Miguel.’
‘Señora.’
‘Bring a half kilo of sugar cubes, and make sure they weigh them right.’
A door opened, and Don Gaetano came out, holding his trousers up with both hands and with a broken-off piece of comb suspended in his curly hair over his forehead.
‘What’s the time?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked out at the patio.
‘Bloody weather,’ he muttered, and started to comb his hair.
When Don Miguel came back with the sugar and the cigars, Don Gaetano said:
‘Bring me the basket, then you take the coffee to the shop,’ and, putting on a greasy felt hat, he took the basket the old man brought him and then passed it on to me, saying:
‘Let’s go to the market.’
‘The market?’
He picked up on what I said.
‘A piece of advice,
che
Silvio. I don’t like saying things twice. Anyway, buying in the market you know what you eat.’
I came sadly after him with the basket, a ridiculously large basket, which chittered as it banged against my knees and made the disgrace of being poor all the deeper, all the more grotesque.
‘Is the market far away?’
‘No, kid, here in Carlos Pellegrini,’ and then seeing me down in the mouth he said:
‘It’s like you were ashamed to carry the basket. An honest man shouldn’t be ashamed of nothing, as long as it’s work.’
A dandy whom I nudged with the basket gave me a furious glare, a rubicund porter who had been wearing his uniform with its magnificent livery and gold trim all morning looked at me ironically, and a little urchin who was passing by, as if by accident, gave the bottom of the basket a kick, and the radish-red basket, ridiculously large, made me the focus of all the world’s ridicule.
‘Oh the irony! I, who had dreamed of being a bandit as great as Rocambole, and a poet with the genius of Baudelaire!’
I was thinking:
‘Do you need to suffer this much to live…? All of this… to walk with a basket in front of splendid shopfronts…’
We spent almost the entire morning walking through the Mercado del Plata.
Truly, Don Gaetano was a great man!
To buy a cabbage, or a slice of pumpkin or a handful of lettuce, he would go through all the stalls arguing, having intense and bitter arguments with the grocers over five centavos, trading insults in a dialect I did not understand.
What a man! He behaved like a cunning peasant, a con-artist who pretends to be dumb and who makes a joke of it when he realises that he can’t cheat someone.
As he sniffed out bargains he would mingle with the cleaners and the servants to get involved in things that should have held no interest for him, he behaved like a mountebank, a barker, andwhen he got close to the tin counters of the fish stalls he would examine the gills on the hake and the pejerreys, 17 he would eat prawns, and all this without even buying a single shrimp, he’d go on to the tripe sellers, then the chicken sellers, and before buying anything he would smell the merchandise and smell it mistrustfully . If the stallholders got annoyed, he’d shout at them that he didn’t want to be cheated, that he knew very well that they were thieves, but that they were much mistaken if they thought that he was a fool just because he was such a simple person.
His simplicity was an act, his stupidity hid a really active cunning.
This is how it went:
He would choose a cabbage or a cauliflower with a truly exasperating patience. He would be ready to pay the price that was asked him, but suddenly would discover another one that looked larger or tastier, and this was enough for an argument to brew between Don Gaetano and the stallholder, each of them trying to rob the other, to cheat their fellow man, even if it was only of as much as a single centavo.
His bad faith was astonishing. He
‘Don Miguel.’
‘Yes, Don Gaetano.’
‘Go and buy me an Avanti.’
The old man set off.
‘Miguel.’
‘Señora.’
‘Bring a half kilo of sugar cubes, and make sure they weigh them right.’
A door opened, and Don Gaetano came out, holding his trousers up with both hands and with a broken-off piece of comb suspended in his curly hair over his forehead.
‘What’s the time?’
‘I don’t know.’
He looked out at the patio.
‘Bloody weather,’ he muttered, and started to comb his hair.
When Don Miguel came back with the sugar and the cigars, Don Gaetano said:
‘Bring me the basket, then you take the coffee to the shop,’ and, putting on a greasy felt hat, he took the basket the old man brought him and then passed it on to me, saying:
‘Let’s go to the market.’
‘The market?’
He picked up on what I said.
‘A piece of advice,
che
Silvio. I don’t like saying things twice. Anyway, buying in the market you know what you eat.’
I came sadly after him with the basket, a ridiculously large basket, which chittered as it banged against my knees and made the disgrace of being poor all the deeper, all the more grotesque.
‘Is the market far away?’
‘No, kid, here in Carlos Pellegrini,’ and then seeing me down in the mouth he said:
‘It’s like you were ashamed to carry the basket. An honest man shouldn’t be ashamed of nothing, as long as it’s work.’
A dandy whom I nudged with the basket gave me a furious glare, a rubicund porter who had been wearing his uniform with its magnificent livery and gold trim all morning looked at me ironically, and a little urchin who was passing by, as if by accident, gave the bottom of the basket a kick, and the radish-red basket, ridiculously large, made me the focus of all the world’s ridicule.
‘Oh the irony! I, who had dreamed of being a bandit as great as Rocambole, and a poet with the genius of Baudelaire!’
I was thinking:
‘Do you need to suffer this much to live…? All of this… to walk with a basket in front of splendid shopfronts…’
We spent almost the entire morning walking through the Mercado del Plata.
Truly, Don Gaetano was a great man!
To buy a cabbage, or a slice of pumpkin or a handful of lettuce, he would go through all the stalls arguing, having intense and bitter arguments with the grocers over five centavos, trading insults in a dialect I did not understand.
What a man! He behaved like a cunning peasant, a con-artist who pretends to be dumb and who makes a joke of it when he realises that he can’t cheat someone.
As he sniffed out bargains he would mingle with the cleaners and the servants to get involved in things that should have held no interest for him, he behaved like a mountebank, a barker, andwhen he got close to the tin counters of the fish stalls he would examine the gills on the hake and the pejerreys, 17 he would eat prawns, and all this without even buying a single shrimp, he’d go on to the tripe sellers, then the chicken sellers, and before buying anything he would smell the merchandise and smell it mistrustfully . If the stallholders got annoyed, he’d shout at them that he didn’t want to be cheated, that he knew very well that they were thieves, but that they were much mistaken if they thought that he was a fool just because he was such a simple person.
His simplicity was an act, his stupidity hid a really active cunning.
This is how it went:
He would choose a cabbage or a cauliflower with a truly exasperating patience. He would be ready to pay the price that was asked him, but suddenly would discover another one that looked larger or tastier, and this was enough for an argument to brew between Don Gaetano and the stallholder, each of them trying to rob the other, to cheat their fellow man, even if it was only of as much as a single centavo.
His bad faith was astonishing. He
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