The Prankster Goose
As a child, I loved reading a short story by Constancio C. Vigil titled 'The Prankster Goose.' About twenty years later, a series of personal events brought that story back to mind. Because of this, I decided to borrow the same title for the autobiographical episode you are reading now.
My interest in literature was, and still is, much stronger than my interest in education. Consequently, to strike a balance, I studied just enough to get by, managing to graduate as a Language and Literature teacher.
Around that time, to supplement my small teacher's salary, I took a job as a freelance proofreader for Editorial Zahorí. The publishing house, which specialized in the humanities, was located in the San Telmo neighborhood.
I have no modesty when it comes to praising myself. My dedication to work, deep knowledge of the Spanish language, and passion for exploring grammar and style—combined with an obsessive eye for detail—quickly led to my promotion as an independent editor for published works.
Back then, before computers were everywhere, my job was to carefully read through manuscripts typed on Underwoods, Remingtons, or Olivettis. Using a pen or pencil, I cleared away the errors and absurd blunders that authors—including doctors, sociologists, historians, psychoanalysts, and even language and literature teachers—frequently made. I then replaced them with the correct, or at least sensible, terms. I found that task highly enjoyable.
However, the work wasn't steady. There were often long pauses—sometimes lasting months—when my skills weren't needed at all. Even so, my occasional visits to the publishing house gradually helped me get to know the team. As it turned out, they were generally very pleasant and kind people.
Because of my work, I dealt almost exclusively with the editor-in-chief, a young woman slightly older than me. Everyone warmly called her 'Profe Tita,' though her legal name was Josefina Titorelli. Now and then, I also chatted briefly with three or four other young women, whom I would call 'junior editors'—meant with no offense.
My conversations with Tita could easily last over an hour. As anyone in publishing knows, editing is a delicate task that requires treading carefully and leaving nothing to chance.
We fine-tuned text details in a spacious main room. Towards the back, behind a wood-and-glass partition, sat the accounting office headed by Mr. Jeremiasz Schmar. His sharp features, fair skin, and pale blue eyes made it obvious he was from Eastern Europe. He was about forty-five years old and spoke Spanish with a high-pitched voice and a thick foreign accent that made him instantly recognizable.
Sometimes, Don Jeremías (as he was respectfully called) would politely interrupt Tita and me to briefly discuss the company's finances. During these short chats, I got a clear sense of how he spoke.
Once, he complained slightly about the poor public transit he had to take to the publishing house.
'Wait, really?' Tita asked, surprised. 'I thought you walked here...'
'I used to, back when I lived at Tacuarí and Avenida Belgrano,' he replied. 'But I’ve moved far away now—to Pasaje Calíngasta, in Villa Santa Rita."
I became fascinated by the way Don Jeremías spoke Spanish. One day, once he was out of earshot, I leaned in and whispered a few sentences to Tita, perfectly imitating his accent.
To my surprise, Tita completely forgot her usual serious self. Though she was often sarcastic, she rarely lost her composure—but this time, she burst into a loud, roaring laugh. It was a jarring sound in a place usually dedicated to quiet books and culture.
From then on—much to Tita’s delight—I often mimicked Don Jeremías’s eccentric speech. I would mock his harsh s sounds, his habit of mixing up r and l, his strange vowel sounds, his misplaced accents, and his grammar mistakes.
Since I love a good comedic exaggeration, it didn't take long for me to expand my audience. With the help of Brunelda—a rather plump young woman who worked as the cheerful receptionist—I started pretending to be Mr. Jeremías whenever I called the office. Our phone calls always followed the exact same routine:
ME (in a highly exaggerated voice): Good afternoon. Would you do me the favor of putting me through to the lovely teacher, Miss Tita?
BRUNELDA (cracking up): Sure, of course. Who is calling, sir?
ME (polite but firm): It’s Mr. Jeremías. How could you not recognize my voice after all these years?
BRUNELDA (mock-apologetic): Oh, yes, you’re right, Don Jeremías. Please forgive me! I’ll put you through to Teacher Tita right away.
Our little theater routine between Brunelda, Tita, and me continued unchanged. It wasn’t the most thrilling pastime, but it was fun and added an amusing twist to our professional relationship. This went on for at least six or eight months.
Eventually, I noticed that Mr. Jeremías was no longer around the publishing house. I even started to worry that he might have passed away.
Thankfully, my fears were unfounded. Tita told me that Don Jeremías had simply resigned to join another company—apparently for better pay.
Even though he was gone, there was no reason to stop my imitation. You might think a joke like that would eventually get old, but the three of us truly enjoyed these silly, harmless antics.
The routine was interrupted, however, by a long silence. Three or four months passed without a single call from the publishing house.
It was late August, and a cold, gray winter was settling over Buenos Aires. Troubled by the thought that Zahorí Publishing might be unhappy with my work, I finally mustered the courage one afternoon to call them.
ME (in the voice of Mr. Jeremías): Good afternoon. Would you do me the favor of connecting me with the lovely teacher, Miss Tita?
NEW VOICE: Who is calling, sir?
ME (polite but firm): Mr. Jeremías. How could you not recognize my voice after all these years?
NEW VOICE: I don't understand, sir. I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean...
ME (realizing something is wrong): Wait a moment! Am I not speaking with Miss Brunelda?
RECEPTIONIST: No, sir, I'm sorry. Brunelda is no longer with the company. I am the new receptionist.
ME: Good heavens! What a surprise! Tell me, what is your name, my lovely new telephone operator?
RECEPTIONIST: My name is Amalia.
ME: Ah, Amelia! And what is your last name?
RECEPTIONIST: Not Amelia—Amalia. Amalia Sortini.
ME: Oh, Sordini! Does that mean you are deaf? That you cannot hear words, music, or the barking of cats?
RECEPTIONIST: I hear perfectly well, sir. You are the one who isn't hearing me. I didn't say Sordini, I said Sortini.
ME: Ah, Sortini! A lovely Italian name, full of good fortune. When I visited Italy, I discovered such delicious food. In Argentina, I am used to eating nutritious pasta. I always have sorrentinos for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. On Tuesdays and Sundays, however, I prefer soup and boiled radishes!
RECEPTIONIST (in an icy tone): I will transfer you to Ms. Tita right away.
ME: Thank you very much! I’ll speak with Miss Tita right away.
As luck would have it, Tita was just about to call me to edit a new manuscript. She asked me to come pick it up the next day.
That was how I met Amalia in person. With her bristly hair, sharp triangular face, and hooked nose, she looked like a hawk—or at the very least, a fighting rooster. She was very thin, wore glasses, looked to be about forty, and carried a sour expression. She gave off the strict vibe of a veteran postal clerk or a city archivist.
Dropping the Don Jeremías act, I simply told her I was there to see Tita. Amalia buzzed me in over the intercom.
Once inside, Tita told me that Brunelda had graduated law school and was now working at a firm. Proud of my telephone performance from the day before, I told Tita all about my chat with the new receptionist, fully expecting her to laugh. Instead, she looked worried:
"I don't think it's a good idea to involve Amalia in your little sketches. She has less of a sense of humor than King Tut's mummy. Honestly, Fer, she might actually get angry with you."
"Fair enough, I'll take your advice," I said. "But maybe I'll bring back the Don Jeremías persona when I call on the phone sometime."
Tita looked doubtful. "I don't know about that..."
She spread out the manuscript on the desk—the one I had to make readable—and explained the guidelines I needed to follow. The author was more of a media personality than a scholar, widely known for appearing on TV shows that popularized science. Out of politeness, I will keep their identity a secret.
The book was a massive eight hundred pages, and as Tita warned me, it was a total disaster. It was packed with complex charts, data tables, and random quotes in English, French, and German. To make matters worse, names were constantly misspelled throughout.
The project threw every possible hurdle at me. It didn't help that it dealt with subjects I found completely boring—a messy jungle of psychoanalysis, sociology, epistemology, and linguistics.
Taking on this job meant earning a good amount of money, so I headed home with the massive book in my briefcase and a happy heart. Whenever I do intellectual work, I stop at the first sign of mental fatigue. The moment I feel tired, I put the project away and pick it up the next day. This method means I progress slowly, but what I lose in speed, I gain in accuracy.
So, taking my time and resting often, I forced my way into that dark jungle of a text. It was written in a style that was as overly academic as it was annoying.
On the other hand, the truly enjoyable part of my life followed a very different path. I loved reading fiction and getting swept away by stories with strange twists of fate. Like any reader, I have my absolute favorites.
I will declare, for the hundredth time, my endless admiration for the stories of Marco Denevi. I am captivated by his playful plots, his surprises, his smooth prose, his humor, and his wild imagination. He frequently writes about impostors—people who end up pretending to be someone else. This happens in Rosaura a las diez, Ceremonia secreta, and Los asesinos de los días de fiesta. Ah, those ruthless, funny brothers who lived on San Blas Street! What a beautiful novel!
One Sunday morning in September, I decided to go look for San Blas Street. Back then, I was in my thirties and full of energy, living in the Palermo neighborhood on Paraguay Street. I checked a map of Buenos Aires and realized I could easily get there by bicycle.
I rode down Juan B. Justo Avenue and made a few turns. Finding myself on streets like Meneranda, Iluminada, Honorato, Patricio de la Escosura, Anacarsis and Lucrezia… gave me a bit of a thrill.
Then, when I reached the 3300 block of San Blas Street, I crossed a small side street called Pasaje Calingasta. . I froze. I suddenly remembered that this was exactly where Don Jeremías lived!
I decided to ride down the passage. It was just a single, unremarkable block. I wondered which house belonged to the former accountant of Editorial Zahorí, but then caught myself: why on earth should I care? Still, a nagging curiosity buzzed in my mind like an annoying fly.
As soon as I got home, I flipped to the letter S in the phone book. Hallelujah! There it was: Mr. Schmar’s address and phone number on Pasaje Calingasta. . I don’t know why, but this discovery filled me with absolute joy.
First thing Monday morning, for no logical reason at all, I called Editorial Zahorí:
ME (using an increasingly exaggerated voice): Good morning, Miss Amalia. I hope and trust you remember me.
AMALIA (sounding annoyed): I’m not sure, sir. Who is this?
ME: My name is Mr. Jeremías Schmar. Even if you don't recall me, I am well aware of Miss Amalia’s beauty and charm. I have often visited the publishing house and walked past your desk.
AMALIA: (Dead silence).
ME: Did you hang up? Can’t you hear me? Won’t you please answer me?
AMALIA: Yes, I hear you, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. I don’t know who you are. I’ve never seen you, I don’t know you...
ME: But I know you! And I must confess that I am in love with you and want to marry you as soon as possible.
AMALIA (furious): Tell me, are you crazy? What the hell is wrong with you? Stop trying to be funny, you imbecile, and don’t waste my time with your stupid clown jokes!
ME: But, Miss, list—
Amalia slammed down the phone. I have to admit, her rudeness stung.
Defeated, I went back to work. By working methodically for about three hours a day, it took me nearly ninety days to clean up that monstrosity of a manuscript. By the time I finally finished and freed myself from that heavy burden, it was the summer heat of November.
I proudly walked into Editorial Zahorí to turn it in. But when I reached the reception desk, I was shocked to find a completely new employee: a young girl, maybe eighteen, with blonde hair and bright orange freckles.
Once I was inside with Tita, I remarked, 'I see there’s a new receptionist. It seems Amalia didn’t last very long.'
Tita smiled. 'Well, while you were off the map, there were some major developments in our modest little circle.'
There she goes again with her sharp tongue, I thought. Slightly annoyed, I replied, 'Don’t slander me; I didn’t drop off any map. I was busy battling that massive nightmare of a book written by Professor Gobbledygook.'
Tita smiled again, seemingly satisfied with my excuse. She pulled an off-white card from her desk drawer and handed it to me. I read:
Our moment has arrived. We are getting married and would love to share this special day with you. The ceremony will take place at Santa Rita de Casia Church (3443 Camarones Street) on Saturday, October 23rd, at 9:00 PM.
The bride and groom will greet guests at the church entrance.
Warm regards,
Jeremiasz Schmar and Amalia Sortini
I stared at it. 'What a shame,' I said. 'I would have loved to see that. But Saturday the 23rd has already passed. I found out too late.'
'Well,' Tita apologized, 'I thought about calling you, but with all the workplace hustle and bustle, it completely slipped my mind. Besides, I didn’t think you would actually care all that much.'"
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A Note for English Readers:
I believe it is useful to offer a few brief explanations to the English-speaking reader regarding certain "oddities" that are not oddities at all, but stem exclusively from features of the Spanish language that are absolutely untranslatable into English.
1) The *sorrentinos* that "Mr. Jeremías" eats for lunch on Sundays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays do not refer—fortunately—to me or to any of the many Sorrentinos of Italian ancestry living in Argentina. Instead, *sorrentinos* are—like ravioli, gnocchi, etc.—one of the many varieties of pasta that exist. Consequently, it would be unfair to accuse the temperate and harmless Don Jeremías of being a cannibal.
2) In Spanish, the surname Sordini begins with the same morpheme as the common nouns *sordo* ("deaf") and *sordera* ("deafness"). For this reason, Don Jeremías associates that surname with those nouns.
3) A similar phenomenon occurs with the surname Sortini and the idea of the adjective *suertudo* ("lucky").
That's all. I hope and trust I haven't bored anyone.
Fernando Sorrentino
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