The Scent of Buenos Aires

by HEBE UHART

Genres: Humor & Satire; Literary Fiction; Short Stories

Synopsis

From one of Argentina's greatest contemporary storytellers, The Scent of Buenos Aires gathers twenty-five of Hebe Uhart's most remarkable and incandescent short stories in English for the first time.

The Scent of Buenos Aires offers the first book-length English translation of Uhart's work, drawing together her best vignettes of quotidian life: moments at the zoo, the hair salon, or a cacophonous homeowners association meeting. She writes in unconventional, understated syntax, constructing a delightfully specific perspective on life in South America. These stories are marked by sharp humor and wit: discreet and subtle, yet filled with eccentric and insightful characters. Uhart's narrators pose endearing questions about their lives and environments - one asks "Bees - do you know how industrious they are?" while another inquires, "Are we perhaps going to hell in a hand basket?"

Release date: October 15, 2019

Publisher: Archipelago

Print pages: 484

Sample

Guiding the Ivy
HERE I am arranging the plants so they don’t overcrowd one another, pulling off dead leaves, and getting rid of ants. I enjoy watching how they grow with so little. They’re sensible, they adapt to their pots. If the pots are small the plants seem to shrink. If they have more space, they grow bigger. They’re different from people: some people—small-minded people—acquire a stature that masks their true nature, while others—generous and open-hearted—can be trampled and confused by the weight of life. This is what I think about as I water and transplant, this and the different personalities of each plant: I have one that can withstand the sun. It’s tough, like a desert plant, it’s secured only the green it needs to survive. Then there’s a big ivy, pretty and inconsequential, it doesn’t have the slightest claim to originality because it looks like any old ivy you could buy anywhere, with its iridescent green. But I have another plain green ivy that has gotten smaller. It seems to say: Iridescence is not for me. It grows so slowly, shaded and assured by its own restraint. This is the plant I love most. Every now and then I guide it. I sense where it wants to go and it senses where I want to guide it. Sometimes I call the iridescent ivy “stupid” because it forms into pointless arabesques. And the desert plant I respect for its hardiness, but
sometimes I think it’s ugly. It seems ugly when I see it through the eyes of others, when someone comes over for a visit. In general I like them all. For example, there’s a species of small wild daisy known as the red bug flower. I don’t know what makes it any different from a regular daisy. Sometimes I look at my garden as if it were someone else’s and I discover two flaws: one, that few plants hang gracefully, with the right verdure and sinuous movements. My plants are motionless, stumpy, lodged in their pots. The second flaw is that I have a lot of small flowerpots, in different sizes, instead of large solid pots that are well made, well designed. It’s because I keep putting off the task of lightening my load. And there’s something dreadful about the idea of “lightening my load” or tidying up—at least when it comes to my plants. For as long as I can remember I’ve put off using the hatred one needs to survive, ignoring it in myself and in others. I associate hatred with the mundane, with the ability to discern in an instant whether a plant is a red bug flower or a daisy, whether a stone is precious or worthless. I associate (or I used to associate) hatred with choosing to be disrespectful, according to some intentions that no longer surprise me: the way I treat people (lots of people), grudges, the way people and situations seem to repeat themselves. In the end, replacing wonder with an inquisitive temperament has tainted me with hatred, too. But some things still amaze me. About four or five years ago
I prayed to God (or to the gods) not to let me become drastic, scornful. I would say: Dear Lord, don’t let me become like the mother in that play Las de Barranco—that woman’s life was in a perpetual state of disaster. She poked her nose into everyone’s business. She lived her life through them vicariously, to the extent that her real wishes were unclear; shrewdness was her only pleasure. Before I started turning into the Barranco mother I was horrified by that archetype, but once it was part of me I felt more comfortable: the comfort of letting go and forgetting when there’s so much to remember that you don’t want to look back. Nowadays, I think one thing in the morning and something else in the afternoon. My decisions last no longer than an hour and they’re missing the sense of euphoria they used to have. Now I make decisions out of necessity, when there’s no other option. That’s why I rarely even value my thoughts and decisions. I used to love my thoughts; whatever I was thinking about was something I wanted to happen. Now I think about what I want first—but that gets mixed up with my obligations and I can’t cry anymore. I have to forget all about what I want and what I have to do, otherwise I just end up in a state of limbo, feeling distressed: setbacks (it’s easy to foresee how they’ll pan out), or minor frustrations (prone to being analyzed and compensated for). I’ve discovered the hint of fabrication that goes into needs and obligations, but I respect them—period,
without much commitment, because they organize life. If I do cry, it’s most likely against my will. I have to distract myself from what I want and from my obligations. I allow only a few tears to well up. My feelings toward people have changed, too. What used to be hatred—sometimes for very elaborate ideological reasons—is now only a bellyache. Boredom now translates into a headache. I’ve lost the immediacy that makes it easy to interact with children and even though I know I could get it back with some quick games and a couple of funny faces, I don’t want to because I envy everything they do: run, swim, play; they want so many things and ask for them endlessly. Lately, I’ve spent a great deal of time criticizing the manners of young people in Buenos Aires—with whomever, especially with taxi drivers. In general we agree: the kids here are unquestionably rude. But it’s such a sad consensus that no conversations can develop from there.