Petcoff
Emilio was, at the same time, a journalist and scholar. In a profession where we are all experts in general and form a vast ocean of ten inches deep, it was Emilio exotic and wonderful. Do not remember much, but it was one of the great Argentine journalists of all time. Once back on almost everything, Clarín wrote in police reports of the day. Out in the afternoon, police prowled, gangsters, bushings and prostitutes, and then typed in his dark stories that flashed Olivetti genius. One of these chronic losses (I quote from memory) began more or less like this: "Juan Gomez came yesterday to break the old axiom that a man can not be in two places at once. His head was found on the sidewalk, his body in across the street. "
Petcoff seemed to have read the entire library universal and spoke different languages, but preferred the tin to the academy and long nights of whiskey and cafes philosophical quotes from fourth to any party of vanities at the headquarters of an advertising company or a cocktail canapés of Chancery. I met him at his home in barracks, and while we ate a Milanese served with wine and soda gave me many lessons of literature and survival. He told me at that time, he had worked with the best Argentine writer of the twentieth century, a man unknown and illiterate paradoxically getting any information, however difficult it was. Petcoff journalism was an art major, and was not concerned nor immortality your name or the amount from your bank account. He was a bohemian lucid and necessary, and the editor of the newspaper where I worked had to make a collection to buy a new overcoat, because the former was fifteen years old and had become a collection of rags. "For how much ancient history," Emily would say if I hear: he died on May 7, 1994. This ancient history comes to mind in this new Journalist Day to remember what we once were.
Petcoff was one of the last representatives of a generation of journalists that were not intended to be unforgettable rich and not even dreamed of the signature or the fame. Only wanted to stop the pot and make this business of art cursed. Coveted, at most, to link a business trip from time to time and, of course, write that novel you would not write ever. Knew nothing about marketing or the management, never signed an autograph or wants a house with swimming pool. Knew neither of view advertisers and sometimes fell into the sin of fantasy. They were not perfect, not all days were better. But those writers were journalists, they had guts and talent, and humility of those who know do not know. It is paradoxical: they knew much more than us, but not intended to say all, as we do with irregular luck. Those boys before they read all the views were prohibited, modesty and prudence. Some guys now, they know perfect English but have trouble with basic Castilian, are "todólogos" enthusiasts, media heroes, saviors of the country, rich and famous, and preachers of all kinds. That is, preachers of nowhere. 
Those stubborn goldsmiths of the pen were very street and were nomadic by vocation. The young guard, however, is not sedentary but nomadic. It will not look for information, waiting to adorn.
The concern was that he had read Sartre and Camus. Today happens to have a radio or appear on cable to raise publicity. Previously sought informants and hidden roles. Today is seeking "theme and target." Before being killed by a fact, today is killed by a warning.
Those seemed wounded existential lunatic blend of irresponsible artists and public servants, and, like many poets outdated, derived wistfully toward alcohol. These are vulnerable and prone to praise the lobby, playing golf, living in country and appear browned and pasteurized in the windows of the celebrities.
Now for the warning rigor: the profession had before and now has the same number of bastards and mediocre. Many journalists were mythomaniacs then incurable, and now many journalists worry about being noble, rigorous, and to look after the noun and the verb, despite the huge gap of time. But do these caveats, modesty and how much knowledge and much self-criticism we have to cross yet. And how cruel to do so under the rule of abuse, when politicians buy means to manipulate journalists, officials handle advertising to muzzle critics and even the president of the National Public slapping shakes us from the stands.
But
Politeness does not so brave. Journalism is necessary for democracy, and journalists should be defended, but also must constantly review their sins with the simple purpose of amendment, to learn and not to make them again. Assuming that perhaps, at the end of all, the worst sin is not, as Borges said, the misery, but mediocrity.
On Friday 13 April, a journalist of my generation and my daily worship and modest man, a veteran chronicler of a hundred battles you never sought fame, suddenly obtained by the simple method of taking a dip. Mariano Wullich appeared that day in a cover photo of the La Nacion daily: personal curiosity and nothing else was on board the Irizar, and after taking a shower, on the evening of Tuesday 10, found smoke in the cabin. Shortly afterwards he was wearing a lifejacket and was on deck, ready to leave the icebreaker, which was burning in the middle of the ocean. Wullich down a ladder and jumped to address the raft, but suddenly a wave snatched it away and fell into the sea. It was an instant and endless ice cream: Mariano was several feet under the cold water in the middle of the dark and sharks, to 140 nautical miles from the coast and next to a ship that threatened to explode. The first lifeboat and two NCOs then saved him the skin. But six hours was wet, with the anguish of the wreck, terror of the risen and gloomy thoughts until rescued by a fishing group.
The trip home was slow and painful, and when touched Ezeiza, our big boss news, urgently asked to write first-person chronicle. Mariano came to his apartment, cried for a while, bathed, took a drink, got dressed quickly and without further ado came to the newsroom. Here was suddenly in a suit and tie, writing his column with the same professionalism as always. When they saw I had a chill. I went to hug him: he pulse and trembling voice. He was still scared to death, he was physically and mentally exhausted, I could have passed the information to anyone from his bed, but here I was suddenly fulfilling his old job with skill and courage, with his blue shirt and knotted tie with dignity of those journalists who were. The Phantom of Emilio Petcoff dictated paragraphs adjectives and bright. It was so important at the time, Mariano was saving us all. Vacuum was saving us.
Published by Jorge Fernández Díaz Editors of the NATION
http://www.lanacion.com.ar/nota.asp?nota_id=915149 
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