and strokes all my limbs and finally his tail is the penis that penetrates me.”
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that. This ever-good woman (ever good, like the cypress that in Latin is called sempervirens, ever green, ever luxuriant), had such ideas. I hardly knew how to respond, maybe I should have said nothing, just held her hand or stroked her body.
“Women and serpents.”
“Yes,” she smiled again, and like me, dunked her dry croissant into the coffee. “Serpents and their apples.”
“Where do you live?”
“Three blocks from here.” [1]
We started walking, sometimes I would put my hand on her back, but she would only smile. We reached her place, a tiny ground-floor studio with old furniture. We said nothing on the way there. It had all been said. We made love, and I asked her if now, naked, she recognized me, she said no, that it was all new and unknown. I smoked a cigarette. I walked outside. I continued along Madrid’s Calle de Toledo as before, nearing the Plaza Mayor. My phone rang.
It was my wife.
“Aren’t you at the hotel?”
“No, I went out for a walk on the Rue du Temple.”
“Oh, you did!”
Her voice sounded different. I wanted to see what she was feeling.
“Tell me, don’t you sometimes long to have unfamiliar, strange hands stroke your body?”
Silence.
“What? I can't hear you well.”
“I said, don’t you sometimes long to have unfamiliar, strange hands stroke your body?”
“No,” she replied, a bit sleepily. “I didn’t know there was a Temple Street in Madrid.”
“There isn’t. I was in Paris. It’s a long story about a pale-brown scarf. I’ll tell you later. Are you in Paris?”
“No, no, I’m at home.”
“Oh, sure. Tell me another.”
“You’re acting very strange. I'll call you later.”
Like Columbus when he reached America, at that moment, I discovered the sun.
25.
Saying goodbye, on the one hand, to success and fame, but on the other, to the struggling writer whose books don’t sell. Both at once. I’m not a kid, I no longer have the stamina of young, struggling writers who wear themselves out writing twenty hours a day, who don’t know how to talk with the world, who write better than anyone else. I’m not him anymore, I’m not that writer anymore. Though I doubt I’ll become the other one, the one who knows everybody and is respected and recognized by a few people. It’s too late for that now. But I need readers. Maybe I even have them. A thousand in the whole world. What I don’t know is how to put my books where they can buy them. They’re out in different languages, different genres. Some prefer poetry, others prose, some read me in Spanish, others in Hebrew, others in Portuguese, others in English, and others even in Urdu. Who are those readers? Maybe new technologies, like e-books, will simplify things. Maybe the exact opposite.
Also saying goodbye to those who die young. Even if I die today I’m no longer young. I can’t self-destruct in the flush of youth. And maybe I already wrote my best work, when I was trying to self-destruct. In the past.
No, I’m not going to be a Kerouac, much less a Vargas Llosa. And I don’t need to be.
So many people and things to say goodbye to.
26.
I reach the Plaza Mayor, in the middle I see an altar where they’re about to crucify a converso , a Jew whose family converted to Catholicism during the Inquisition. “Repent,” they yell all around him. And then they look at me, “Repent,” “I repent,” I say. “I repent. From now on I’ll start eating squid and ham like a good Christian.” “But that’s not what you’re supposed to repent for.” “Well, I’ll repent for anything.” The converso in the middle of the plaza starts singing a tango, about a stabbing, something about how he stabbed her thirty-seven times, he sings very well, the people are silent and he keeps singing as if it were a Bach cantata, it is a religious, profound chant. And I understand that that’s not
Okay. Wasn’t expecting that. This ever-good woman (ever good, like the cypress that in Latin is called sempervirens, ever green, ever luxuriant), had such ideas. I hardly knew how to respond, maybe I should have said nothing, just held her hand or stroked her body.
“Women and serpents.”
“Yes,” she smiled again, and like me, dunked her dry croissant into the coffee. “Serpents and their apples.”
“Where do you live?”
“Three blocks from here.” [1]
We started walking, sometimes I would put my hand on her back, but she would only smile. We reached her place, a tiny ground-floor studio with old furniture. We said nothing on the way there. It had all been said. We made love, and I asked her if now, naked, she recognized me, she said no, that it was all new and unknown. I smoked a cigarette. I walked outside. I continued along Madrid’s Calle de Toledo as before, nearing the Plaza Mayor. My phone rang.
It was my wife.
“Aren’t you at the hotel?”
“No, I went out for a walk on the Rue du Temple.”
“Oh, you did!”
Her voice sounded different. I wanted to see what she was feeling.
“Tell me, don’t you sometimes long to have unfamiliar, strange hands stroke your body?”
Silence.
“What? I can't hear you well.”
“I said, don’t you sometimes long to have unfamiliar, strange hands stroke your body?”
“No,” she replied, a bit sleepily. “I didn’t know there was a Temple Street in Madrid.”
“There isn’t. I was in Paris. It’s a long story about a pale-brown scarf. I’ll tell you later. Are you in Paris?”
“No, no, I’m at home.”
“Oh, sure. Tell me another.”
“You’re acting very strange. I'll call you later.”
Like Columbus when he reached America, at that moment, I discovered the sun.
25.
Saying goodbye, on the one hand, to success and fame, but on the other, to the struggling writer whose books don’t sell. Both at once. I’m not a kid, I no longer have the stamina of young, struggling writers who wear themselves out writing twenty hours a day, who don’t know how to talk with the world, who write better than anyone else. I’m not him anymore, I’m not that writer anymore. Though I doubt I’ll become the other one, the one who knows everybody and is respected and recognized by a few people. It’s too late for that now. But I need readers. Maybe I even have them. A thousand in the whole world. What I don’t know is how to put my books where they can buy them. They’re out in different languages, different genres. Some prefer poetry, others prose, some read me in Spanish, others in Hebrew, others in Portuguese, others in English, and others even in Urdu. Who are those readers? Maybe new technologies, like e-books, will simplify things. Maybe the exact opposite.
Also saying goodbye to those who die young. Even if I die today I’m no longer young. I can’t self-destruct in the flush of youth. And maybe I already wrote my best work, when I was trying to self-destruct. In the past.
No, I’m not going to be a Kerouac, much less a Vargas Llosa. And I don’t need to be.
So many people and things to say goodbye to.
26.
I reach the Plaza Mayor, in the middle I see an altar where they’re about to crucify a converso , a Jew whose family converted to Catholicism during the Inquisition. “Repent,” they yell all around him. And then they look at me, “Repent,” “I repent,” I say. “I repent. From now on I’ll start eating squid and ham like a good Christian.” “But that’s not what you’re supposed to repent for.” “Well, I’ll repent for anything.” The converso in the middle of the plaza starts singing a tango, about a stabbing, something about how he stabbed her thirty-seven times, he sings very well, the people are silent and he keeps singing as if it were a Bach cantata, it is a religious, profound chant. And I understand that that’s not
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