{"id":166933,"date":"2024-02-28T10:27:27","date_gmt":"2024-02-28T15:27:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=166933"},"modified":"2024-02-29T12:49:33","modified_gmt":"2024-02-29T17:49:33","slug":"good-manners","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/02\/28\/good-manners\/","title":{"rendered":"Good Manners"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Hebe Uhart. Photograph by Nora Lezano.<\/p><\/div>\n

Hebe Uhart had a unique way of looking\u2014a power of observation that was streaked with humor, but which above all spoke to her tremendous curiosity. Uhart, a prolific\u00a0Argentine writer of novels, short stories, and travel logs, died in 2018. \u201cIn the last years of her life, Hebe Uhart read as much fiction as nonfiction, but she preferred writing cr\u00f3nicas, she used to say, because she felt that what the world had to offer was more interesting than her own experience or imagination,\u201d writes <\/span>Mariana\u00a0<\/span>Enr\u00edquez in an introduction to a newly translated volume of these <\/em>cr\u00f3nicas<\/span>, which will be published in May by Archipelago Books. At the <\/span><\/em>Review<\/span>, where we published one of Uhart\u2019s short stories<\/a> posthumously in 2019, we will be publishing a series of these <\/span><\/em>cr\u00f3nicas<\/span> in the coming months. Read others in the series here<\/a>.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Yesterday I was riding the 92. The bus was half-empty and a woman of about sixty or seventy caught my eye. It was difficult to get a sense of her age, or her social class. Could she be poor? No, but she didn\u2019t seem rich either, nor did I pick up on any of that visible effort the middle class put into their appearance: dressing neatly, in complementary colors. Her clothes reminded me, more than anything, of someone trying to go incognito. She didn\u2019t come off as a housewife; I decided she had the look of a government inspector. She sat down beside me.<\/p>\n

\u201cSe\u00f1ora, I\u2019m getting off at Pueyrred\u00f3n,\u201d I said, so I wouldn\u2019t have to get up if her stop was before mine.<\/p>\n

\u201cWorks for me,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019m getting off at Laprida.\u201d<\/p>\n

She settled in beside the window as though she owned the seat and was allowing me to sit next to her. The bus driver was a young, pudgy guy, but agile. He drove expertly and very fast, which I noticed when we passed another 92 (they tend to run two or three at a time, the drivers amusing themselves by racing). He changed gears smoothly, as though he\u2019d been born at the steering wheel. \u201cWhoa!\u201d he said suddenly. I asked what happened. My neighbor, looking straight ahead at nothing in particular, said, \u201cShe shouldn\u2019t have passed on the right.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her tone was cold and dry and I felt ignorant. I hadn\u2019t noticed anyone crossing.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe pulled it off,\u201d the driver said. \u201cWhat a brave girl\u2014sometimes girls are brave.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know what to say, because it isn\u2019t every day that a bus driver speaks. I also didn\u2019t understand why the girl had been brave for crossing.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said my neighbor the inspector, \u201cBut she could end up in a tree.\u201d<\/p>\n

This sounded a lot like a prophecy, or a desire that the girl end up in a tree. The driver cracked a smile\u2014he found something funny in the statement. A woman got on the bus; she greeted the driver, he returned the greeting. I wanted to feel worthy of my seat, so I said something about their civility\u2014I wanted the inspector woman to accept me. I referred to their greeting as an old-fashioned custom.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s good manners,\u201d she said, without looking at me.<\/p>\n

It seemed that good manners, to her, were not about doing polite things to make life more pleasant but were things of divine origin. The driver spoke again: \u201cThere\u2019s a traffic jam. Someone double-parked.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not allowed,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

He spoke to her even though he didn\u2019t care much about good manners. I would never have known where and how to park.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere it is. Over there, at Bazterrica Hospital,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

She replied yet again. I felt a growing need to say something to him, partly to appear less ignorant and partly to take advantage of the rare opportunity to talk to a bus driver. So I said something that I immediately regretted: \u201cSir, do you like it when people greet you?\u201d<\/p>\n

I regretted asking because I figured the woman was going to dislike my question.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen it\u2019s one or two of them, have at it, but when it\u2019s about a hundred I start thinking they want something,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s good manners,\u201d the woman insisted.<\/p>\n

I wanted to ask the driver another question so I could join their conversation, but even as the questions formed in my mind, they already seemed trivial. Despite knowing I was headed toward being ostracized, I said, \u201cHow often do you take this route every day?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFour times.\u201d<\/p>\n

He answered me curtly, even though he wasn\u2019t the curt type. Evidently, he was speaking only with her. I had another question up my sleeve: Where did the 92 come from and where was it going? I genuinely would have liked to know. But it seemed so irrelevant (and my seatmate\u2019s silence ever so deafening) that I kept quiet. Her silence made me feel like I was six or seven years old again, playing with a nutty girl I knew back then: every time I went to do something\u2014swing in the hammock or take off running\u2014the girl would stomp her foot angrily and say \u201cNo!\u201d It made me feel like I was perpetually in the wrong. Everything I did or stood for was\u2014to that girl\u2014bad. But things were different now. I no longer felt thrashed, like a wind-beaten plant, by that uncomfortable feeling. I had built up my defenses. When we got to Pueyrred\u00f3n, I avoided every possible show of good manners: I got off the bus without saying goodbye to either of them.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anna Vilner\u2019s translation of<\/span> <\/em>\u201cGood Manners\u201d will appear in a forthcoming collection of Hebe Uhart\u2019s <\/em>cr\u00f3nicas, <\/em>A Question of<\/span> Belonging<\/a>, to be published by\u00a0Archipelago Books in May 2024. The original Spanish version was collected in Uhart<\/span>\u2018s\u00a0<\/em>Cr\u00f3nicas completas,\u00a0published by Adriana Hidalgo.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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