window and on one of the tables were the forgeries. Do you like them? Amalfitano nodded.
“Do you know who the artist is?”
“No,” said Amalfitano.
“He’s American,” said Castillo.
“I can tell that much. But I don’t know who he is. I’d rather not know.”
Castillo shrugged.
“Do you want something to drink? I think I have everything.”
“Whiskey,” said Amalfitano, suddenly feeling very sad.
I’ve come here to make love, he thought, I’ve come here to take my pants off and fuck this naïve kid, this art student, this forger of Larry Rivers, early-or mid-career Larry Rivers, what do I know, a forger who brags when he should cringe, I’ve come to do what Padilla predicted I would do and what he surely hasn’t stopped doing for even a moment, even a second.
“He’s Larry Rivers,” said Castillo, “an artist from New York.”
Amalfitano took a desperate gulp of whiskey.
“I know,” he said. “I know Larry Rivers. I know Frank O’Hara, so I know Larry Rivers.”
“Why did you say you didn’t, then? Are they that bad?” asked Castillo, not offended in the least.
“I can’t imagine who buys them, frankly,” said Amalfitano, feeling worse and worse.
“Oh, they sell, believe me.” Castillo’s voice was smooth and persuasive. “There’s a Texan who buys them—short little guy, a real character, you have to meet him—and then he sells them to other filthy rich Texans.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Amalfitano. “Forgive me. We’re here to go to bed, aren’t we? Or maybe not. Again, forgive me.”
Castillo sighed.
“Yes, if you want. If you don’t, I’ll take you home and we’ll pretend nothing happened. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“So do you want to?”
“I want to be with you, in bed or talking, it makes no difference. Or not much, anyway.”
“Forgive me,” murmured Amalfitano and he dropped onto a sofa. “I don’t feel well, I think I’m drunk.”
“No worries,” said Castillo, sitting down beside him, on the floor, on an old Indian rug. “I’ll make you coffee.”
After a while the two of them lit cigarettes. Amalfitano told Castillo that he had a seventeen-year-old daughter. They talked, too, about painting and poetry, about Larry Rivers and Frank O’Hara. Then Castillo drove him home.
The next day, when he got out of his last class, Castillo was waiting for him in the hall. That same afternoon they slept together for the first time.
5
One morning a gardener stopped by Amalfitano’s classroom and handed him a note from Horacio Guerra. Guerra wanted to see him in his office at two. Without fail. Guerra’s office turned out to be hard to find. Guerra’s secretary and another woman drew him a map. It was on the first floor of the department building, at the back, next to the little theater—hardly bigger than a classroom—where college actors put on plays once a month for students, family, teachers, and other Santa Teresa intellectuals. Horacio Guerra was the director, and next to the dressing room, in what must once have been the props room, he had set up his office. It was a space with no natural light, the walls papered with posters for old shows, a shelf of university press books, a big oak table stacked with papers, and three chairs in a semicircle, facing a black leather swivel chair.
When Amalfitano came in, the room was dark. He spied Guerra sunk low in the big chair and for an instant he thought the other man was asleep. When he turned on the light he saw that Guerra was wide awake: his eyes were unnaturally alert and bright, as if he were high, and there was a sly smile on his lips. Despite the manner of their meeting, they greeted each other formally. They talked about the school year, about Amalfitano’s predecessors, and about the university’s need for good professors. In the sciences the best people left for Monterrey or Mexico City, or made the leap to some American university. In the arts it’s a
“Do you know who the artist is?”
“No,” said Amalfitano.
“He’s American,” said Castillo.
“I can tell that much. But I don’t know who he is. I’d rather not know.”
Castillo shrugged.
“Do you want something to drink? I think I have everything.”
“Whiskey,” said Amalfitano, suddenly feeling very sad.
I’ve come here to make love, he thought, I’ve come here to take my pants off and fuck this naïve kid, this art student, this forger of Larry Rivers, early-or mid-career Larry Rivers, what do I know, a forger who brags when he should cringe, I’ve come to do what Padilla predicted I would do and what he surely hasn’t stopped doing for even a moment, even a second.
“He’s Larry Rivers,” said Castillo, “an artist from New York.”
Amalfitano took a desperate gulp of whiskey.
“I know,” he said. “I know Larry Rivers. I know Frank O’Hara, so I know Larry Rivers.”
“Why did you say you didn’t, then? Are they that bad?” asked Castillo, not offended in the least.
“I can’t imagine who buys them, frankly,” said Amalfitano, feeling worse and worse.
“Oh, they sell, believe me.” Castillo’s voice was smooth and persuasive. “There’s a Texan who buys them—short little guy, a real character, you have to meet him—and then he sells them to other filthy rich Texans.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Amalfitano. “Forgive me. We’re here to go to bed, aren’t we? Or maybe not. Again, forgive me.”
Castillo sighed.
“Yes, if you want. If you don’t, I’ll take you home and we’ll pretend nothing happened. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“So do you want to?”
“I want to be with you, in bed or talking, it makes no difference. Or not much, anyway.”
“Forgive me,” murmured Amalfitano and he dropped onto a sofa. “I don’t feel well, I think I’m drunk.”
“No worries,” said Castillo, sitting down beside him, on the floor, on an old Indian rug. “I’ll make you coffee.”
After a while the two of them lit cigarettes. Amalfitano told Castillo that he had a seventeen-year-old daughter. They talked, too, about painting and poetry, about Larry Rivers and Frank O’Hara. Then Castillo drove him home.
The next day, when he got out of his last class, Castillo was waiting for him in the hall. That same afternoon they slept together for the first time.
5
One morning a gardener stopped by Amalfitano’s classroom and handed him a note from Horacio Guerra. Guerra wanted to see him in his office at two. Without fail. Guerra’s office turned out to be hard to find. Guerra’s secretary and another woman drew him a map. It was on the first floor of the department building, at the back, next to the little theater—hardly bigger than a classroom—where college actors put on plays once a month for students, family, teachers, and other Santa Teresa intellectuals. Horacio Guerra was the director, and next to the dressing room, in what must once have been the props room, he had set up his office. It was a space with no natural light, the walls papered with posters for old shows, a shelf of university press books, a big oak table stacked with papers, and three chairs in a semicircle, facing a black leather swivel chair.
When Amalfitano came in, the room was dark. He spied Guerra sunk low in the big chair and for an instant he thought the other man was asleep. When he turned on the light he saw that Guerra was wide awake: his eyes were unnaturally alert and bright, as if he were high, and there was a sly smile on his lips. Despite the manner of their meeting, they greeted each other formally. They talked about the school year, about Amalfitano’s predecessors, and about the university’s need for good professors. In the sciences the best people left for Monterrey or Mexico City, or made the leap to some American university. In the arts it’s a
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