upheld a theory of vanity that he continued to perfect throughout his career. For him, the only true antidote to vanity was pride. When someone was said to be “a man without vanity,” he was most likely an individual with a strong sense of pride. According to Max, because the proud were so confident, they “didn’t need others’ stamp of approval.” It was as if they were immune to some lesser evil.
Despite the unsavoriness associated with the sin of pride, for Max it implied greatness. And since this trait was becoming scarce at the ministry, he was left with the more prosaic alternative of dealing with the vain.
He moved well on this fertile ground, however, whatever shape it took — and there were many, which in turn required good judgment and a certain selectivity. In order to set himself apart from other colleagues also competing for favors, Max had chosen a single course: literature.
In this particular field he had no rivals. He worked with the precision of a surgeon, able to wend his way with a scalpel through the most twisted and delicate passages. “One doesn’t praise a poem the way one does a necktie,” he would declare.
He earned the trust of his superiors, who submitted their manuscripts to him. He would eloquently extol the virtues of texts that deserved eternal damnation. Or he would comment on poems with tears welling in his eyes — and then later reread these to me while howling with laughter. As such, he encouraged mediocre authors, within and outside Itamaraty, to publish their works in books or offprints, assuring them that they didn’t deserve the obscurity to which they’d been relegated.
Even though his victims didn’t rank among people I particularly respected, I felt sorry for them without exception. In the more modest pantheon of lesser evils, it seems to me, there is no greater sin than taking advantage of others’ weaknesses to further one’s own cause. And Max proved to be a pro at this, great pretender that he was. When the targets of these maneuvershappened to be the bosses’ wives, when the poems (or canvases, or embroidery, or pottery, or whatever else they may have created in a moment of inspiration) were theirs, the cruelty was even worse — for it often affected the innocent and the naïve. “Secretary Xavier said that my poems are
intriguing
,” a major’s wife once shared with me, twisting the white scarf she held in her hands.
“
Who?
” I asked in surprise.
“Your colleague. The secretary …”
“Oh,
Max
. And what was it he said?”
“He said” — and here she lowered her voice, sensing that certain things aren’t to be repeated with impunity — “that my poems are intriguing.”
The major was traveling on business to Montevideo, accompanied by his wife. Max and I were also a part of the mission. The proximity of our airplane seats had provided for a certain intimacy among our foursome during the flight. We had chatted about beaches, barbecues, sports, and TV shows. After lunch, the major and Max had fallen asleep, each in his aisle seat, leaving us trapped in the middle of the row.
“You don’t say,” I replied cautiously. “
Intriguing
…”
She took a deep breath and, slightly embarrassed, glanced at her husband as if making sure he was still asleep. Quietly, she recited the poem for me. It was long and mostly unintelligible, as it competed with the noise of the engines and her companion’s snoring. But the last stanza was perfectly audible. In it the hero returns home at dawn, his olive green uniform stained with blood: “
From where would he be coming
,
my holy warrior
,
at the break of dawn?
”
Her reverent tone made me realize she was totally unaware of her husband’s activities, and yet it seemed eerily prescient. Where indeed were they coming from, these holy warriors? Where were they headed? And what deeds were they performing on their nightly raids that might give rise to a romantic poem in one home — and such grief
Despite the unsavoriness associated with the sin of pride, for Max it implied greatness. And since this trait was becoming scarce at the ministry, he was left with the more prosaic alternative of dealing with the vain.
He moved well on this fertile ground, however, whatever shape it took — and there were many, which in turn required good judgment and a certain selectivity. In order to set himself apart from other colleagues also competing for favors, Max had chosen a single course: literature.
In this particular field he had no rivals. He worked with the precision of a surgeon, able to wend his way with a scalpel through the most twisted and delicate passages. “One doesn’t praise a poem the way one does a necktie,” he would declare.
He earned the trust of his superiors, who submitted their manuscripts to him. He would eloquently extol the virtues of texts that deserved eternal damnation. Or he would comment on poems with tears welling in his eyes — and then later reread these to me while howling with laughter. As such, he encouraged mediocre authors, within and outside Itamaraty, to publish their works in books or offprints, assuring them that they didn’t deserve the obscurity to which they’d been relegated.
Even though his victims didn’t rank among people I particularly respected, I felt sorry for them without exception. In the more modest pantheon of lesser evils, it seems to me, there is no greater sin than taking advantage of others’ weaknesses to further one’s own cause. And Max proved to be a pro at this, great pretender that he was. When the targets of these maneuvershappened to be the bosses’ wives, when the poems (or canvases, or embroidery, or pottery, or whatever else they may have created in a moment of inspiration) were theirs, the cruelty was even worse — for it often affected the innocent and the naïve. “Secretary Xavier said that my poems are
intriguing
,” a major’s wife once shared with me, twisting the white scarf she held in her hands.
“
Who?
” I asked in surprise.
“Your colleague. The secretary …”
“Oh,
Max
. And what was it he said?”
“He said” — and here she lowered her voice, sensing that certain things aren’t to be repeated with impunity — “that my poems are intriguing.”
The major was traveling on business to Montevideo, accompanied by his wife. Max and I were also a part of the mission. The proximity of our airplane seats had provided for a certain intimacy among our foursome during the flight. We had chatted about beaches, barbecues, sports, and TV shows. After lunch, the major and Max had fallen asleep, each in his aisle seat, leaving us trapped in the middle of the row.
“You don’t say,” I replied cautiously. “
Intriguing
…”
She took a deep breath and, slightly embarrassed, glanced at her husband as if making sure he was still asleep. Quietly, she recited the poem for me. It was long and mostly unintelligible, as it competed with the noise of the engines and her companion’s snoring. But the last stanza was perfectly audible. In it the hero returns home at dawn, his olive green uniform stained with blood: “
From where would he be coming
,
my holy warrior
,
at the break of dawn?
”
Her reverent tone made me realize she was totally unaware of her husband’s activities, and yet it seemed eerily prescient. Where indeed were they coming from, these holy warriors? Where were they headed? And what deeds were they performing on their nightly raids that might give rise to a romantic poem in one home — and such grief
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