and cloak. He took a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of the cloak’s pocket, along with a long, straight pipe.
“Do I look like him?”
Cayetano compared the portrait with Don Pablo. “I’d say it’s he who looks like you.”
“Well said, Cayetano. But without him, I wouldn’t be who I am,” he said pensively as he searched the wardrobe again. “Put these clothes on.”
“Me?”
“Who else?”
“But …”
“But what?”
Cayetano saw no choice but to bare his discomfort and prejudices. “Forgive me, but costumes and disguises make me think, with all due respect, of faggots, Don Pablo, to tell you the truth …”
“So what? It’ll stay between us.” He added, mischievously, “Walt Whitman was a faggot.”
“You see? Better not to dress up. I’m happy simply to be myself.”
“Nonsense! Life is nothing more than a parade of disguises,Cayetano. You yourself have, until now, disguised yourself as a Havanan, an emigrant, a North American soldier, and a husband, and now you’re playing the part of private detective. One more disguise is neither here nor there, and in any case, the habit isn’t what makes the monk. I love throwing costume parties for my friends. It’s the best way of getting to know them. The costume they choose strips them completely, and they don’t even know it. Come on, young man, don’t be shy. Put it on.”
He had no choice but to obey.
“It’s a costume from the Caucasus. It fits you,” the poet affirmed, stroking his false beard when Cayetano had finished dressing. “The cloak is called a
bashlik
, ideal for the winter, and the cap is made of
karakul
wool. I should tell you that the outfit costs a fortune. It was a gift from the Union of Soviet Writers, from Stalin’s time. Better not to remember …”
“I look like a Cossack.”
“And look at this.” He reached back into the wardrobe and took out a lilac tie covered in small green guanacos. “Made on an indigenous loom. A gift from Delia, my second wife, but Matilde doesn’t let me wear it. Women, you know, are like Christopher Columbus: they want your history to begin with their arrival. I’ll give it to you because it brings good luck, and she could throw it in the garbage any day.”
“Are you sure?” It had a coarse texture, though a nice feel. On the lilac background, the guanacos leapt joyfully, grazed placidly, or contemplated the horizon.
“It’s always brought me good luck. It’s almost forty years old. I was wearing it when I met some of the greatest European intellectuals when I lived in Madrid, in the Argüeyes neighborhood. I also wore it when I went underground in the fifties, when the Chilean government was searching for me to throw me into the concentration camp of Pisagua. I wanted to wear it to accept the Nobel Prize in Stockholm, but Matilde and Swedish protocols conspired to force meinto a bow tie, like some waiter at a fine restaurant. All I needed was the tray. So ridiculous. But do you know what I did?”
“No, Don Pablo.”
The poet closed the wardrobe door, and suddenly both of them—Walt Whitman and the man from the Caucasus—stood in front of their reflections in the mirror, motionless, surprised at themselves. Who was disguised as whom? Cayetano asked himself. Whitman as Neruda, or Neruda as Whitman? And who was he, Cayetano, in a life that, according to the poet, boiled down to a never-ending carnival?
“A detective who doesn’t know how to disguise himself is like the poet who doesn’t understand drink, food, or love,” Whitman said, draping the tie around the Caucasian’s neck.
“But you still haven’t told me what you did with this tie in Stockholm.”
“I folded it and kept it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.” Whitman adjusted the knot, smiling through his glasses. “So I still accepted the Nobel Prize with it. I’m giving it to you so it can protect you. It might not help you win the Nobel, but it might at least keep people from talking
“Do I look like him?”
Cayetano compared the portrait with Don Pablo. “I’d say it’s he who looks like you.”
“Well said, Cayetano. But without him, I wouldn’t be who I am,” he said pensively as he searched the wardrobe again. “Put these clothes on.”
“Me?”
“Who else?”
“But …”
“But what?”
Cayetano saw no choice but to bare his discomfort and prejudices. “Forgive me, but costumes and disguises make me think, with all due respect, of faggots, Don Pablo, to tell you the truth …”
“So what? It’ll stay between us.” He added, mischievously, “Walt Whitman was a faggot.”
“You see? Better not to dress up. I’m happy simply to be myself.”
“Nonsense! Life is nothing more than a parade of disguises,Cayetano. You yourself have, until now, disguised yourself as a Havanan, an emigrant, a North American soldier, and a husband, and now you’re playing the part of private detective. One more disguise is neither here nor there, and in any case, the habit isn’t what makes the monk. I love throwing costume parties for my friends. It’s the best way of getting to know them. The costume they choose strips them completely, and they don’t even know it. Come on, young man, don’t be shy. Put it on.”
He had no choice but to obey.
“It’s a costume from the Caucasus. It fits you,” the poet affirmed, stroking his false beard when Cayetano had finished dressing. “The cloak is called a
bashlik
, ideal for the winter, and the cap is made of
karakul
wool. I should tell you that the outfit costs a fortune. It was a gift from the Union of Soviet Writers, from Stalin’s time. Better not to remember …”
“I look like a Cossack.”
“And look at this.” He reached back into the wardrobe and took out a lilac tie covered in small green guanacos. “Made on an indigenous loom. A gift from Delia, my second wife, but Matilde doesn’t let me wear it. Women, you know, are like Christopher Columbus: they want your history to begin with their arrival. I’ll give it to you because it brings good luck, and she could throw it in the garbage any day.”
“Are you sure?” It had a coarse texture, though a nice feel. On the lilac background, the guanacos leapt joyfully, grazed placidly, or contemplated the horizon.
“It’s always brought me good luck. It’s almost forty years old. I was wearing it when I met some of the greatest European intellectuals when I lived in Madrid, in the Argüeyes neighborhood. I also wore it when I went underground in the fifties, when the Chilean government was searching for me to throw me into the concentration camp of Pisagua. I wanted to wear it to accept the Nobel Prize in Stockholm, but Matilde and Swedish protocols conspired to force meinto a bow tie, like some waiter at a fine restaurant. All I needed was the tray. So ridiculous. But do you know what I did?”
“No, Don Pablo.”
The poet closed the wardrobe door, and suddenly both of them—Walt Whitman and the man from the Caucasus—stood in front of their reflections in the mirror, motionless, surprised at themselves. Who was disguised as whom? Cayetano asked himself. Whitman as Neruda, or Neruda as Whitman? And who was he, Cayetano, in a life that, according to the poet, boiled down to a never-ending carnival?
“A detective who doesn’t know how to disguise himself is like the poet who doesn’t understand drink, food, or love,” Whitman said, draping the tie around the Caucasian’s neck.
“But you still haven’t told me what you did with this tie in Stockholm.”
“I folded it and kept it in the inside pocket of my suit jacket.” Whitman adjusted the knot, smiling through his glasses. “So I still accepted the Nobel Prize with it. I’m giving it to you so it can protect you. It might not help you win the Nobel, but it might at least keep people from talking
Similar Books
