Good Things to Good People

The story of a couple from Uruguay who saved the life of an Argentinian writer and all that was revealed after.

Argentine writer Hernán Casciari (left) and his Airbnb host/guardian angel Javier Artigas (right).

Though I did not set out to become Hernán Casciari’s English translator, it seems that’s what I’m slowly becoming¹. This is the third story I’ve translated by the writer, after Messi, the Man-Hound and Letter to Maradona.

If you’ve ever done good that went unreturned—if you’ve worried about the fate of others you’ve seen do good that went rewarded, take a few minutes to read this. You may find goodness boomeranging in ways even Christopher Nolan couldn’t dream up.

What Happened to the Man Who Saved My Life

Originally published in Revista Orsai and later read on his radio column, Street Dogs.

I suffered a heart attack in December 2015 and, because of it, I stayed for good to live in Argentina. The heart attack was a gut-punch, at the age of 45, and I almost died from it.

I was renting a little house in Montevideo, through Airbnb, and the owners of that house saved my life. Without knowing me from Adam, they carried me to their car, called the police, took me to the hospital, and did a ton of other incredible things so that I would not die. I was their renter: we had seen each other only once, the day before when they gave me the key to the guest house. That was it.

The point is that I survived. I stayed behind to live in Argentina and a year later—exactly a year later: the sixth of December, 2016—with Julieta we said: “Let’s go see those people in Montevideo.”

When we went to see Javier and Alejandra, we also went to tell them something that not even my family had known yet: that we were going to be parents.

We arrived at the house where I nearly died. The hair on my skin rose when we got there. Javier and Alejandra have an enormous house in the Prado neighborhood of Montevideo with an Olympic pool and four dogs, expensive artwork and furniture, and even a guest house at the back of the garden (in that guest house, I suffered my heart attack). Javier is a direct descendent of Uruguayan revolutionary hero José Gervasio Artigas. Despite all this, he and his wife are simple people and easy to get a hold of. That’s the first big difference between Argentina and Uruguay: even if Uruguayans have a ton of money or come from aristocratic families, they are not snobs. It’s not in their DNA.

When we went that night to tell Javier and Alejandra that we were going to be parents, they were happy. They got emotional. They hugged me and touched Julieta’s belly. The conversation flowed between us, as if we had known each other our whole lives.

Outside it was as hot then as it is now. And I realized immediately that we were not their friends. Not then—not even the night of my heart attack. It was only the second time we had ever seen each other in person.

So Javier began to tell us about their lives.

We didn’t know a single thing about them. We only knew that they had saved my life a year earlier. That they had moved heaven and earth so that the public healthcare system would take care of me. And that they were my guardian angels. But nothing else.