Expelled from Reader’s Square
My forays into Reader’s Square require considerable attention.
Almost every time I go there, I go by bicycle. I usually arrive by Las Heras Avenue, although as I am writing these lines I prefer to say that, in fact, I arrive by Libertador Avenue, because it is not wrong to take advantage of some harmless, almost honest misrepresentations.
There is a pleasant bicycle path next to Libertador Avenue, by which I come from the North. I cross the avenue and enter diagonally by Eva Perón Square. Unfailingly, I look at the statue of Eva as I pass by. At the foot of the somehow extraterrestrial building of the National Library stands a large statue of John Paul II, before which I stop for a few moments. I do so, in fact, only to realize my subsequent misunderstanding of the small, greenish statue of Cortázar that does not look like Cortázar and which, as though that were not enough, is enclosed by a fence that anyone can jump over, that is, a useless fence that only makes the scene even worse. And then, with my already warmed up incomprehension, I yield to the small statue of Borges, located a few meters away, as green and uselessly fenced as that of Cortázar, but also hidden, lonely, looking towards Austria Street or, in the best of cases, towards nothingness that holds dreams, labyrinths, and infinite universes.
Strengthened by impotence, I feel that the possibility of changing those injustices is at stake at Reader’s Square, so I take Aguero Street until I find it. I like Reader’s Square. For a start, it sounds good: Reader’s Square. It is small, with many benches, almost all with their front or back to the sun, depending on the time of day. On the longest of the walls, the one at the back, there is usually an open-air plastic art exhibition, a tradition that may not last over time, just as the statues of the former neighbors, Juan Domingo and Eva Perón, who were once sitting on one of the benches in the square, did not.
The square has three entrances. My favorite is the one on Agüero Street, maybe because it allows me to have an overall view from the comfort of my bicycle. Or maybe because it is the first one I find when I go up from Libertador Avenue, something that, as I said, is not true.
For reasons that I don’t know and I didn’t bother to find out, the square is fenced and has private security. Sometimes I think it is a part of the National Library’s grounds and, therefore, the library security services extend, along with its rules, to the square, as if it were just another room in the main building. Other times it occurs to me it is due to the contiguity of the Paraguayan Embassy, which, like all embassies, requires minimal precautions, if only for a matter of forms. Perhaps the most perfected of my theories is that security fundamentally exists to protect readers of authors like me and writings like mine. In any case, I do not like the fact that the Reader’s Square has fences and private security.
I also like the square because it receives many readers, which, besides being convenient, is also consistent with its name. I don’t think Reader’s Square attracts them by its name, but rather by the inevitable influence produced by the extreme proximity of the National Library, almost by definition full of readers.
Those readers, its small size and its convenient location on my route make Reader’s Square a more than appropriate place to present my books.
I must admit that I no longer venture into the square with the freshness and innocence of the past, when I was unaware that my intentions were at odds with the regulations, as the private security officer informed me the first time I was thrown out of the square. To this day, I can’t help but wonder if those rules really exist.
It was no use explaining to the officer that I was not selling the books, but offering them for free to the readers with my usual kindness, warmth, and charisma, so that they would have the opportunity to read one — hopefully two — of my stories. Therefore, if the commercial transaction took place, it was exclusively upon the readers’ almost supplicant request. Because they needed my literature to extend their raison d’etre in that square with such a clear name and mission. And to avoid the certain pressure of having to move to other squares with less demanding names, such as Mitre Square or Uruguay Square. In short, I tried to explain to him that if the forbidden transaction occurred it was not because I sold the books, but because the readers bought it from me. In other words, in the worst-case scenario, it was them who had to be thrown out and not me, the only victim of that unpleasant misunderstanding.
My clever reasoning was of little use since there was no way to convince the officer of being flexible about his determination to exile me. I must admit, though, that he did listen to me with commendable patience. His argument was not so compelling and he just repeated several times, with a guilty voice, that “he was not authorized to allow me to stay”, shifting the responsibility to some unknown and immaterial authority, while he looked at me with trembling eyes which admitted the injustice and were almost asking for my forgiveness.
No serious and decent rebellion is lowered to manifest itself in front of a private security officer who also guards a small square, a tiny square; a poor man who only tries to do his job well, or even less: to live an honest life and have a salary at the end of the month. I knew that I could sustain and win the debate with my smart reasons, but not with truths, so I declared that, even though we both knew that I was right, I would withdraw peacefully and in a civilized manner, with the mere and noble intention of not complicating his life.
Without effort or resentment, I kept my promise and headed for the next square on my elaborate and secret itinerary, while suspecting that something worthy was hidden behind all this. Kicked out of Reader’s Square, how ironic.
After visiting the square on several occasions, this was the first time that I was thrown out. That meant that there were criteria of permanence and expulsion to be discovered unless that criterion was the patience of the officers which I had already exhausted. In other words, I would go back again and again, until I got to the bottom of this matter, until this minor and original conflict was worthy of entering the world of literature.
My next visit to Reader’s Square was successful. The first positive omen was to identify an officer other than the one who had previously promoted my exile; a new officer, who perhaps had not the slightest idea that we were at odds, or of my relapse. Determined not to make any false moves, I tied my bike outside, instead of bringing it in and getting everyone’s attention, as I had done until then. I discarded the gestural expressiveness, the firm tone of voice, the sumptuous steps. I made my way starkly, quietly, almost like a ghost that only wanted to visit a familiar old place for a few minutes and then leave.
Over time I extended and refined the details of my visits. I added the delicate gesture of not walking on the lawn, which made me aware of the poor design of the paths which didn’t lead easily to all the corners of the square and pushed me to the green shortcut, a pressure that I resisted with remarkable stoicism and humility. I also tried to start my journey in the vicinity of the officers on duty, gradually moving away from their areas of concern while they were perhaps debating whether or not to intercept me. Moreover, I tried not to interact with the officers, without even looking at them, to spare them the always heavy responsibility of being aware. I would propose, and they would generally accept, a tacit agreement that would allow me to fulfill my mission in such a quick, stealthy and polite manner that they “would not even notice it”.
The officers rotated frequently and it was the new ones who were more likely to “kindly ask me to leave the square”. I used these incidents to try out new reactions. Sometimes, I would fake lack of understanding and would hurry to the point of trotting, with the intention of finishing my journey before the expulsion, even if that meant throwing the books to the readers in a rather brutal way, without presentations or explanations, yet with the priceless charm of an officer chasing me. On other occasions, I would answer them in English and claim a Romanian descent. Or I would clarify that I was a writer and that I was only following the unprovable steps of Bertrand Russell, Anton Chekhov, and Lucius Anaeus Seneca while pointing to the National Library building as if that proved the veracity of my words. Almost always, I wondered how I could manage to get readers to intervene in my defense, by rebelling and demanding the officers to let me stay in the square. Maybe I should write a story about Reader’s Square, posing the problem, and give them the book opened on that page…
However, it happens that all problems come to an end. After weeks of work, these conflicts were draining away so gradually that I almost didn’t notice. Little by little, I imposed myself by means of care, patience, and persistence, as stated in the manuals. Most of the officers and many of the readers now know me. Sometimes, they even greet me or comment on a passage in a book that I lent them or they bought from me. I could say that I have succeeded. But I haven’t. Success, if any, came much earlier. Or it is still to come.
Translation by Carolina Quintana, translator and simultaneous interpreter specialized in art and literature
carodetigre[at]hotmail.com
Original version (in spanish)
