Ramon
Seven years ago, almost to the month and day.
It is not hard to pick a sailor up at Retiro Station.
They come in, hot and penniless, from the sex prison of their ships and the time prison of the sea,
ready to sleep anywhere, or do anything,
to the great city, grave city on the silver river
— the city that hides its loneliness in eating.
Even out of uniform, you can pick them out by their air of guilt and expectancy,
as they arrive in pairs at the plaza, eye the prospects, then separate,
loll on the grass, sprawl on benches, prowl the marble station,
circle the British clock tower, round and round, like a ship's deck,
with faintly rolling gait.
Conversation is easy. Sit down beside one on the park bench.
Ask him where he comes from, tell him you once passed through there on a train, offer him a cigarette, offer . . .
Brown country boys, desert sailors most of them, drafted and recruited
from Tucuman, Jujuy, Salta, towns of the mestizo north,
they come to the park because they are sick of the sea and afraid of the city and Retiro at least reminds them of home,
as it vomits out all day the hopeful brown faces arriving from the country
to the dark city, sad city, cold city on the silver river.
Once you have picked one up, the search for a room:
the good hotels have fastidious doormen who look at you unnervingly;
the alojamientos have stereos and mirrors for men with women;
the hospedajes demand many documents and show you sex-perfumed cots in rooms for five.
Finally, success. Inside the room. Alone.
The touching of bodies. The bedding down. Lifebuoyed
clean smell of white-and-blue crinkly uniform, soon cast aside, then of firm young body
trembling cock already rampant, casting its shadow on the hard brown belly,
and a desire for human tenderness.
O all night in that boy's arms I lay after the tumbling,
as he slept with an erection, and in the morning did him again,
for the price of a pack of cigarettes and a hotel room.
Eighteen years old, from Mendoza, in the throes of sex and life.
He had been a naval cadet for just five months.
Soon he would sail away — in a week — for the Antarctic; he was afraid; he had never been there; was it really cold?
And did I want to meet him again Sunday night?
And as we rode back in the subway, returning to Retiro,
morning light hurting our eyes, ill-humoured city faces all around us, we filled with sleep and peacefulness,
the question, almost whispered: " Te guste?" " Did you like me?"
Sunday night I got stupidly drunk, did not go to Retiro;
alcohol ruins the best moments of a manic-depressive, or perhaps instinctively
I didn't want to spoil it. Never saw him again.
Seven years ago that sailor set forth for Antarctica.
It is not hard to pick a sailor up at Retiro Station.
They come in, hot and penniless, from the sex prison of their ships and the time prison of the sea,
ready to sleep anywhere, or do anything,
to the great city, grave city on the silver river
— the city that hides its loneliness in eating.
Even out of uniform, you can pick them out by their air of guilt and expectancy,
as they arrive in pairs at the plaza, eye the prospects, then separate,
loll on the grass, sprawl on benches, prowl the marble station,
circle the British clock tower, round and round, like a ship's deck,
with faintly rolling gait.
Conversation is easy. Sit down beside one on the park bench.
Ask him where he comes from, tell him you once passed through there on a train, offer him a cigarette, offer . . .
Brown country boys, desert sailors most of them, drafted and recruited
from Tucuman, Jujuy, Salta, towns of the mestizo north,
they come to the park because they are sick of the sea and afraid of the city and Retiro at least reminds them of home,
as it vomits out all day the hopeful brown faces arriving from the country
to the dark city, sad city, cold city on the silver river.
Once you have picked one up, the search for a room:
the good hotels have fastidious doormen who look at you unnervingly;
the alojamientos have stereos and mirrors for men with women;
the hospedajes demand many documents and show you sex-perfumed cots in rooms for five.
Finally, success. Inside the room. Alone.
The touching of bodies. The bedding down. Lifebuoyed
clean smell of white-and-blue crinkly uniform, soon cast aside, then of firm young body
trembling cock already rampant, casting its shadow on the hard brown belly,
and a desire for human tenderness.
O all night in that boy's arms I lay after the tumbling,
as he slept with an erection, and in the morning did him again,
for the price of a pack of cigarettes and a hotel room.
Eighteen years old, from Mendoza, in the throes of sex and life.
He had been a naval cadet for just five months.
Soon he would sail away — in a week — for the Antarctic; he was afraid; he had never been there; was it really cold?
And did I want to meet him again Sunday night?
And as we rode back in the subway, returning to Retiro,
morning light hurting our eyes, ill-humoured city faces all around us, we filled with sleep and peacefulness,
the question, almost whispered: " Te guste?" " Did you like me?"
Sunday night I got stupidly drunk, did not go to Retiro;
alcohol ruins the best moments of a manic-depressive, or perhaps instinctively
I didn't want to spoil it. Never saw him again.
Seven years ago that sailor set forth for Antarctica.
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