THE LAST DROPS OF ARSENIC (ARSENICUM album) dissolve in my mouth, insipidly, comfortingly. To my left, on the desk, I have a copy, a beautiful Bodoni, of Gaius Petronius’ Satyricon. To my right, the fragrant tea tray, with its delicate chinaware and its nutritive jars. Suffice to say that the book’s pages are well worn from innumerable readings; the tea is from China; the toast is crisp and delicate; the honey is from bees that have sipped from acacia flowers and lilacs. And so, in this encapsulated paradise, I shall begin to write the story of the murder at Bosque del Mar.
To my way of thinking, the first chapter begins in a dining car, on the night train to Salinas. Sharing my table were a couple who were friends of mine—dabblers in literature and fortunate with livestock—and a nameless young woman. Bolstered by the consommé, I explained my intentions: in search of a delectable and fruitful solitude—that is to say, in search of myself—I was on my way to the new seaside resort that the most refined nature enthusiasts amongst us had discovered: Bosque del Mar. I had cherished the idea of this trip for some time now, but the demands of the office—I belong, I must admit, to the brotherhood of Hippocrates—had postponed my vacation. The married couple reacted with interest to my frank declaration: although I was a respected physician—I invariably follow in the footsteps of Hahnemann—I also wrote screenplays, with varying degrees of success. Now, Gaucho Films, Inc. had commissioned me to write an adaptation of Petronius’ tumultuous book, set in present-day Argentina. A seclusion at the beach was de rigueur.
We returned to our compartments. A short time later I was enveloped in thick railway blankets, my spirit still singing with the pleasurable sensation of having been understood. A sudden doubt tempered my joy: Had I acted rashly? Had I just handed, to that amateur couple, all the necessary elements to steal my ideas? I knew that it was useless to dwell on it. My spirit, ever malleable, sought refuge in the anticipated contemplation of the trees by the ocean. A pointless effort. I was still a night away from those pine groves … Like Betteredge with Robinson Crusoe, I resorted to my Petronius. With renewed admiration I read this paragraph:
This is the reason, in my opinion, why young men grow up such blockheads in the schools, because they neither see nor hear one single thing connected with the usual circumstances of everyday life, nothing but stuff about pirates lurking on the seashore with fetters in their hands, tyrants issuing edicts to compel sons to cut off their own fathers’ heads, oracles in times of pestilence commanding three virgins or more to be sacrificed to stay the plague …
The advice is still valid today. When will we at last renounce the detective novel, the fantasy novel and the entire prolific, varied, and ambitious literary genre that is fed by unreality? When will we return to the path of the salubrious picaresque and pleasant local color?
The sea air had begun to filter through the window. I closed it. I fell asleep.