by Unknown
‘How do you know he was an artist?’
‘Because it said so on his documents. He had the same name as Uncle. Bastian. It’s a strange story. I was looking at his papers with Stringer, which said the voyage, the voyage he was making, was an art performance called In Search of the Miraculous.’
‘You’re talking very well, son,’ said Samos, beaming.
Chelo, with a look, warned her husband to be prudent. Changed subject.
‘You’ll go to that academy, Gabriel. It’s a fantastic idea. And we’ll get out the immortal machine that hasn’t been touched yet. Your father’s dormant Hispano-Olivetti, on which he was going to continue Cicero’s work.’
‘I’ve decided to do it by hand,’ said Samos, playing along. ‘The way classical authors did. What’s the name of that academy, Gabriel?’
‘The Tachygraphic Rose. There’s only one teacher.’
‘Only one teacher?’
‘Yes. I had a go with Stringer. And she positioned my fingers on the keys to teach me how to start. Her name’s Catia. Catia’s the one who positions your fingers on the keys so you can start. Each finger has its own keys. And the thumbs are for using the space-bar.’
He could hear Catia whispering instructions from behind him, close to his neck, like a breeze, ‘Head and back straight. Elbows next to your body, like this. Try and keep your arms at right angles.’
‘I’ve been practising,’ he said, smiling, his eyes closed, his fingers pressing down on imaginary keys. ‘I can find all the letters in the air from memory.’
The iron Hispano-Olivetti on its trolley occupied a central position in the alcove. The typewriter, its actions and constructive sound, implicated the whole area. It was the closest thing to making books. Now was not the time for calligraphy, imitating styles, English or Italian, decorating capital letters in the green light of the lamp, though, when his father had visitors and Gabriel couldn’t move, he’d go back to handwriting. Almost always, he’d write a postcard dated 1913 to Santiago Casares c/o Durtol Sanatorium, telling him how he was solving his problems using an infallible technique, that of combining writing and speech.
His cabinet of curiosities, however, was relegated to a second level. Now, despite their value and meaning, they were more archaeological remains than anything. The typewriter was too big, too out of scale, and pulled him away from childhood, quickly through adolescence, to the doors of another age. That of secret, personal writing.
Eventually Neves, who was worried, decided to bring it up with Chelo. Gabriel had balls of paper in the pockets of his coat, jacket, trousers. He used to keep his notebooks tidy. Now he filled notebooks not only from school, but of different sizes. This may not have mattered. But sometimes, in the morning, his room would be full of loose sheets of paper covered in strange signs, as well as balls of paper, spherical forms that overflowed the wastepaper basket. Gabriel would rush out in the morning. If she’d come to have a word with Chelo, it wasn’t to stick her nose into other people’s business. She wasn’t a meddler. Besides, she wouldn’t have been able to understand anything even if she’d wanted to. They were scrawls. Unintelligible. She’d come because it seemed to her that Gabriel often didn’t sleep at night. When she got up early, she noticed a crack of light under his door. All night with scrawls, shorthand or whatever they called it, couldn’t be good.
‘What are you writing?’ his mother asked him that evening. With a smile, as if by chance. Without wanting to disturb him, without a hint of suspicion. (He’s little; the door opens and it’s her in a black felt hat with a white tulle veil almost covering her eyes; she bends down with open arms and he doesn’t know whether to stay still or run towards her, crouching down with open arms: doucement, doucement; now he’s the one wearing an invisible veil.)
He’s momentarily taken aback. Why’s she asking him this now precisely? He can’t read her what he’s writing.
My father entered the house in a rage. As he arrived, Medusa was leaving through the front door with a large fish, a bluefin tuna, on top of her head.
‘I don’t understand you, Chelo. Inviting her into the house. That meretrix!’
Meretrix. Look it up in the dictionary. Prostitute, a woman who engages in sexual activity in return for payment.
‘Do me a favour. Tell your models to use the service entrance. That’s what it’s there for. I’m a judge. I have to keep up appearances.’
‘She’s a woman. A human being.’
‘I can see what she is. Did you know she was in prison for having an abortion? The stupid girl almost killed herself with a knitting needle. They left her outside the first-aid post. Blood was pouring down Palloza.’
‘I see. There was a lot of blood. And, on top of that, she had to go to prison for it.’
‘Not as long as she should have. She was lucky. The doctor who saw her used vague language in his report. You know what I think. It’s possible to pity a criminal, but never a woman who aborts.’
‘Do you know why half her face is covered?’
‘What are you writing, Gabriel?’
‘Everything.’
The Lighthouse’s Novel
‘Mr Montevideo . . .’
‘Forget what I said. That joke about an inexperienced writer was a bit cruel. I’m always doing that. It’s like a tic.’
In fact, Tito Balboa or Stringer wasn’t worried about the joke. He’d heard it before. Santos, the one who turned out to be a policeman, may have been worried. Whatever the doctor might think, that policeman revered him. Catia as well, who didn’t? But he also had great admiration for Dr Montevideo. Either that or he was very good at pretending. He’d listen to him with rapt attention. Take down all his notes. Do all the exercises. The doctor was convinced he was trying to catch him out, was accumulating evidence, investigating, so that he could then report him. Most of the time, he held himself in check. Other times, however, he started dictating excitedly, improvising a seemingly delirious text that left him exhausted: The concentric circles leave the empty hand, go down a path with glow-worms, are the drops of rain in the blackbird’s stave, quavers that catch on Virginia Woolf’s cobweb covering Malevich’s black square where all the colours await their day. Full stop.
The result was a graphic hotchpotch in his pupils’ notebooks. The nonsense of lines.
‘Tell me, Balboa, what have you written?’
‘I only had time to jot down, Concentric circles await their day.’
‘Perfect. That’s pure Dadaism. Gabriel?’
‘Nothing, Mr Montevideo.’
‘You’re just beginning. Don’t try to understand it all. Leave your ears free, let your hand do the work. Till you reach ‘irreproachable traceability’, as Don Alfredo Nadal de Mariezcurrena used to say. And you, lawyer?’
‘Drops of rain in a black square.’
Having calmed down a little, Dr Montevideo sought out simple, self-contained sentences in among the sheets of material covering his bed. Fragments of humanistic stenography.
‘Write down this by Éluard: There are other worlds but all are in this one. By Jules Renard: Truth is of small dimensions. Let’s see if anyone can tell me who wrote the next one: Therein no fairy’s arm can transcend the Leviathan’s tail.’
‘That’s by Melville!’
‘Well done, Balboa.’
On another sheet, he found something that made him thoughtful and he decided not to read. Then:
‘Farewell, my book. A single passenger, as I suppose you know, must not keep a vessel waiting.’
‘That’s by Marcus Valerius Martialis,’ said Santos immediately. ‘The poet’s about to return to Bilbilis in Hispania, his native city, after decades of absence.’
Dr Montevideo stared at him with the satirical astonishment of bulging eyes.
‘Very good, lawyer, very good.’
A few days later, after class, Santos said to him, ‘Doctor, I made so bold as to bring you some poems.’
‘Who wrote them?’
‘Wh
o wrote them? I did, Mr Montevideo.’
‘Why?’
What had been irony, a historical joke between poets, at that point became an implacable question, of the sort legal terminology defines as ‘preliminary proceedings’. One of Dr Montevideo’s commandments: Every literary work should have a purpose in mind, like preliminary proceedings.
‘Why? Tell me why you wrote those poems.’
It was an embarrassing situation. His bulging eyes on the verge of firing off like gaucho bullets in search of an ostrich.
Santos had gone bright red. You could see the marks left by those whys like lashes on his cheeks.
‘Reply. You write poems. Poems at such a time. Can you not tell me why?’
‘Well, I suppose they’re a kind of exercise.’
‘An exercise? Respiratory? Typewritten?’
‘To tell the truth, they’re not mine. They’re anonymous copies that fell into my hands. Why? I don’t know why.’
Montevideo’s eyes nestled back into their sockets. He had these outbursts, which he tried to lend a certain style to, but he wasn’t organically equipped to abuse, sustain malicious pressure on somebody, ‘Then forgive me. I’m actually very interested in those poems. You say they’re anonymous? Leave them over there. They might even be fragments of dramatic history.’
Tito Balboa found it very difficult to admit to Dr Montevideo that he was going to abandon his project of writing a novel about the life of Hercules Lighthouse. Somehow it was he who’d helped give birth to the idea of A Lighthouse’s Autobiography. They had certain set days when Balboa went on his own to note down stenographically (sorry about the -ly, Mr Montevideo), to note down in shorthand information about the city’s hidden history: what the lighthouse could see at night. But he was leaving his literary dreams behind in order to devote himself to journalism. Who would have any interest in the story of a lighthouse told by itself, that theory about landscape’s subjectivity, the scars of history on territory, bodies and words? Such a novel would be buried in this world’s end. Maybe later. He had a stock of arguments. A horizon of professional opportunities was opening up before him. He had to mount the horse that was in front of him, not let the sun go past the door, etc., etc. In the cabin, when the two of them were alone, he got entangled in proverbs about the sun and horse.
‘Festive supplements, eh?’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘Interviews with beauty queens?’
‘Yes, I think that’s one of the things.’
‘And with the mayor. And with the president of housewives. And with the chair of the commerce of agriculture. The parish priest, blah, blah, blah.’
‘That’s right. That’s supplements for you.’
‘And with advertisers.’
‘Yes, I think it’s normal to interview those who place an advertisement.’
‘Do you get paid for that?’
‘I do, Mr Montevideo. I get a tip for each supplement.’
‘A scruple? You get a scruple?’
‘What do you mean, a scruple?’
‘Are you the one who gets paid for the advertisements?’
‘No. That’s left to people with more experience.’
‘You should get paid for publicity.’
Stringer wasn’t sure if he was being serious, but decided to answer him with sincerity.
‘That’s something I aspire to, Mr Montevideo.’
‘Good, my boy. Well, go ahead. You may meet a beauty queen who’s also the mayor’s daughter and your biggest advertiser’s niece. Have a wedding list with Barros or Pote department stores. I’ll send you a copy of Uruguayan divorce law.’
‘I’m also planning to write a purely literary column, Mr Montevideo.’
‘Purely? Pass me the back scratcher.’
Adverbs in -ly made his back itch. Asking for the boxwood scratcher was his most radical way of correcting, expressing the hurt, stylistic misdemeanours caused him. He was offended and sad.
‘I’m sorry. A free-ranging column.’
‘Just try not to use Espasa too much.’
‘I’ll bring you what I’ve written in case you want to bless it.’
‘No. If you show your face around here again, bring tobacco and imported whisky.’
Balboa remembers the first time he demonstrated his trust and sent him on an errand. ‘Go to Santa Lucía Market and perform the miracle of Cana, but with whisky.’ He gave him a blue banknote. It was so strange, so valuable, it seemed to have come from another country.
As he was leaving, with his head down, dragging his heels, ‘Don’t let them trick you! Obituaries are much more profitable. They have to be paid for in cash. The rafters of the sky can come crashing down, only a good death notice will stop a rotary press from going around. If you have to weed festivals, weed festivals. But the first chance you get, boy, step into Charon’s printing boat. Do obituaries. That’s the future.’
‘We don’t have obituaries, Dr Montevideo. It’s a market we can’t get into.’
‘Then your Expreso hasn’t long to live. With no death notices abaft the beam, a newspaper’s going nowhere fast.’
O and Animals
Hairs fall, fall separately, one by one, but then have a tendency to come together, they form an undulating skein on the water, they alight and are sometimes the warp that blocks the pipes. Mother Olympia told me one day that, in ancient stories, loose hairs turn into water snakes. She let it out: ‘I once heard that . . .’ And perhaps never returned to the story, which was left floating downstream like a fallen leaf. That’s another one. Leaves look bigger when they’re floating on the water, they’re the rafts sometimes used by small, itinerant frogs or ladybirds, the ones they call God’s bugs. How serene, how attentive they are on their makeshift boats! It’s the same with large animals. They don’t get restless. The horse carried off by the River Mandeo, as the tide was going out, which reached the sea and was fished out by some people from Malpica, who then exclaimed with reason, ‘The things the sea comes up with, Blessed Mary, without the need for a shovelful of manure!’ They brought the piebald horse to Coruña Docks, looking all formal in the bows. How pretty is a horse’s mane. Like Grumpy’s. How pretty are animals. I’d say there’s not a single ugly animal. ‘You’re bewitched,’ Ana tells me. And when she says that, I do the thing she likes that makes her laugh so much, I imitate Polka’s voice in Latin: ‘Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas.’ They’re all pretty. Come on then, think of an animal, tell me an animal that isn’t pretty. A rat? Take a good look. Look at the other side of the river. Don’t let yourself be influenced by the word. What you don’t like is the word. Besides, Polka said it was thanks to river rats we discovered aspirin. When other animals died in plagues, rats got off scot-free, looking all shiny, because they gnawed at willow roots. The eye doctor, Dr Abril, once said invisible animals, bacteria and the like, are even more beautiful. Like modern paintings. That’s because bacteria are modern as well, I thought to myself. The Colorado beetle’s also modern. And pretty. But, being modern, it can’t be killed by hand. Modern armament is needed. Polka says they’ll end up killing everything, the cure is worse than the disease. The poison also kills off snails and slugs. He won’t go where there are dying snails. We must seem very strange to other animals. You can tell by the way they look at us. When I was little, I told Polka I was afraid of the wolf and he laughed, ‘Well, imagine how afraid the wolf would be if he bumped into me. Wolves are terribly afraid of lame people!’ He says that as a joke. Polka’s not that bad. You can tell ancient animals are ancient because they’ve been around time and seem to have come from the future. Like octopuses and razor-shells. Snails and slugs. Lampreys. Or eels. Maybe hairs turn into eels. That wouldn’t surprise me. Eels are a bit like us. The way they live in the mud, are desperate to eat, slip away when there’s trouble. They can move by land as well. At night, you find eels in the meadows, travelling inland. I’m not surprised. It’s so damp there’s sometimes not much difference between being in the water and out. You could stuff th
e mist in sacks like stive. People go slowly through the atmosphere not just because it gets in your bones and makes your body stiff, but because they have to clear a way through the mist, like divers in their suits, you have to pass through curtain after curtain. It all takes time and occasionally words, sentences, are imprinted on the air as when you write with your finger in condensation. That way, you find out things that weren’t meant for you. As happened with the letters left in the pocket of trousers that were for washing.
The Portuguese Architect
Reading them was like looking through a keyhole of noble ancestry. The look didn’t ask if it was good or bad. The look was greedy. An enigmatic character appeared first of all. Who was this Most Worthy?
Most Worthy Judge
My dear Dr Azevedo da Acosta,
That’s how well they know how to address each other, the heights they reach. Imagine Polka receiving a letter like that: Most Worthy Gravedigger. He’d think it had come from another world. If that’s the way you start, you’re not going to write just anything. You’ve something important to say.
I would be greatly interested to know your opinion concerning the work of the Portuguese architect António Soares, based in the city of Porto. I have the impression he is considered a bright hope on account of his boat-houses and is held in high regard in foreign countries, in particular France and Holland. I would ask for the greatest discretion in the likely event that you should have to request additional information. People of importance to me in the field of construction are studying the possibility of hiring his services, but I wish this initial exploration to be confidential and not to come to the said architect’s notice. Before contacting him and taking a false step, my friends wish to count on the opinion of someone of sound judgement and exceptional meticulousness, knowing that he will be duly rewarded for his efforts. At your service as always.
