it’s only a blind item when it’s about borges

by (l)a autora

Now that the end is in sight, I’m starting to feel twinges of nostalgia for Buenos Aires. Not so much as to counterbalance the enormous glee I feel as I start to pack my bags and ponder arriving in Rio in two weeks, of course, but enough to guarantee that I’ll be back. I’ll go so far as to say that I prefer empanadas to pastéis (more variety, better made), the wine is scandalously cheap, and the company isn’t half bad either. I went out with a group of journalists and photographers last week (my personal celebration for having finished all my final papers) and the flood of literary gossip was spectacular. The Internet doesn’t exactly back this one up, but one journalist alleged that Silvina was romantically involved with Bioy Casares’ mother and that she was paired off with him to avoid further scandal. “Wouldn’t that be more scandalous?” someone pointed out, reasonably.

Debates as to which Ocampo sister was more attractive; debates as to which volume of Victoria’s autobiography is best (clearly El archipiélago, not La rama de Salzburgo); impressions of the ancient Spanish maid who tremulously denied the “coshash terriblesh” being said about Silvina and Alejandra Pizarnik, that they were lovers. “La Srta. Pizarnik venía y ellas tomaban el té nomás.” Heated argument as to whether foreign books were or were not being held at Customs — the Hungarian said that they weren’t, but the Brazilian swore that she couldn’t get any books into the country. Argument over the moon landing, surprisingly enough, which I personally chalked up to Communist envy while proclaiming that the moon is American territory. In the cab on the way back I said I was Brazilian, which the taxi driver took with somewhat surprising nonchalance and proceeded to tell me about his dreams the night before.