Life and Works of Berta Singerman
Backstage all the characters of The Intimate Diary of Solitude are getting dressed. The TV is on, and Mariquita Samper is dressed up as Berta Singerman. New York. New York. It’s the year 2000, when Berta Singerman forfeited her American citizenship and went to live in Moscow out of love for Uriberto Eisensweig. In this show, Uriberto Eisensweig is exactly 30 years old, 20 years younger than Berta Singerman, which makes this the toughest role that Mariquita has ever played in her entire life. Mariquita had to gain 30 pounds and age considerably. She had to draw crow’s feet around her eyes. In reality, Mariquita is 30 years old, the same age as Uriberto. In reality, Uriberto and Mariquita have been in love all of their lives. Judging from the looks of both protagonists, they’re in the prime of their lives. One is Capricorn and the other, Aquarius. December 30th and February 5th. A fortune-teller had already predicted it: “You’ll marry five times without having married at all”—she told Mariquita in New York. “You’ll forfeit your American citizenship. You’ll fall in love five times with the same man, and you’ll think five times that he is a different man. You’ll understand that the same man also fell in love with five different women who were the same woman. But while making love the fifth time with the same man who was a different man, you’ll reach the peak of your artistic career. And the fame of your myth and your story will make you shine as the greatest artist produced in the brief history of humanity.” We are in the year 2000, when Berta Singerman turned 50. My name is really Mariquita Samper, and I’m from Puerto Rico. I live in New York City. My name is really Uriberto Singerman, and I’m playing the role of Uriberto Eisensweig. Mariquita also goes by the name of Berta Eisensweig, usurping my name, or taking Mariquita Singerman’s or Berta Samper’s. Name games are all the same. After all, every name is a usurpation of a fragment of my life and works. Every name is a different name in another history of humanity. I was just telling Uriberto Eisensweig that it’s not easy being Mariquita Singerman and playing Berta Samper because it’s not easy being in two different versions of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. In spite of what the writer of this diary thinks, I am very far away from Uriberto Eisensweig and New York City. In spite of what might be or is, I’m simultaneously in New York and Moscow. It’s exactly midnight on a winter night in New York. Here I am in perfect sync with the time and date of New York and Moscow. And here I am, in the year 1985, recording these pages of history. How many lies are told in the name of art and literature! I was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I grew up near the waves of the sea. They showed me that lies are true. And that I should come and go as I please. Like ships or waves, I’m constantly moving from place to place. I don’t know how to stay still for a single instant. I’m an unbalanced woman by nature. And like the waves of the sea, I’m always resisting attacks and insults. I’m vulnerable in love affairs. I’m always, or almost always, something different, and I’ll never figure it out. Today for instance, I got a Christmas present. I opened it and there was a snowball inside. Sometimes I cry just to cry, and sometimes I laugh just to laugh. I’m fickle with my affections. I rejected the sea a thousand times. I repeat that I left Puerto Rico at 18 never to return. I crossed all of Europe in two years. I returned to the sea and wound up in Manhattan. I’ve lived longer here than anywhere else. I’m an artisan of life by nature. Now I understand what I used to understand a long time ago, although I’m not sure I remember what it was. I’ll never forget what I remembered as a child, and I entered its secret secretly. Now that I have this snowball, I ask myself if life is a snowball. I was 23 exactly 23 years ago. The truth is, I landed in Moscow yesterday, and today I’m 50 years old. Wasn’t that what the Narrator wanted me to say? I’m sorry, but I’m only 30 even though you make me look like I’m 50. I doubt that the readers are as stupid as you. I’m also sorry that I believed that I fell in love with Uriberto. You wanted me to fall in love with him. Didn’t you, Narrator? Too bad Uriberto doesn’t exist. I’m sorry to deceive you, reader. On the other hand, I’m also Uriberto Eisensweig. I’m sorry to be simultaneously what I write. The Narrator is also a product of my imagination. What I write seems unreal, but it’s true. I want to lie, but I don’t. And sometimes I cry just to cry. I am a man who has had many loves in his life—said Uriberto Samper. But he immediately corrects himself and says, “Sadly, a single love so confused is more than enough. Don’t you think so, Mariquita?” As soon as I came to New York, I fell in love with a book. After I wrote Assault on Time, I immediately wrote Profane Comedy. I left for Puerto Rico. Returned to Europe. Changed my name more than twenty times. And grew rich with lies. I pretended you were Uriberto and I was Mariquita. I walked around New York City dreaming of making that great trip to Moscow. I renounced my American citizenship. I landed in Moscow. I gave more than 100 poetry readings. I read “This is the Child Mother of the circus.” I read “Eggs are months and days too.” I acquired the wisdom of Poems of the World. I became a fortune-teller, a magician, and then, Shepherd Giannina. I defended memory. I preached of poetic eggs. Everyone thought I was mad, and the masses adored me. I turned poetry into a circus of lies. I’ve lied all my life. I’m a liar by vocation and history. I made up this story as I was walking alone in New York one day. It was easy. I burst out laughing at life. I’m such an idiot! And I started to cry. In reality, I’m 30. In reality, Uriberto is Uriberto and I’m Berta Singerman. In reality, he is 30 and I’m 50. In reality, we haven’t seen each other in five years. I met Uriberto on a street in New York this year. The truth is that I haven’t spoken with him and he hasn’t spoken with me in five years. In reality, it was the Narrator who insisted that I tell the truth. But the truth is: I always lie. I’m so much happier since I broke up with Uriberto. I’m glad you left me. Sometimes I’d like to see you. I’m not always happy you left. Sometimes I still write about Uriberto and Mariquita when I should be writing about Uriberto and Berta. It’s not easy to tell the truth when you’re writing lies. But this is just another angle of the diary narrating my solitude. Uriberto is alone. So is Mariquita. Berta is the only one who dreams of companionship. Berta fell in love with the same man five times. She changed his personality. She made each man live in a different place. They all believed Berta was the woman of their lives. They all believed Berta Singerman’s lies. But Berta didn’t know how to love anyone but herself. Berta was another lie. But sometimes I dream of living her life. Berta died the day she discovered that all of this was a way of telling solitude that she was still accompanied, when in truth, she was alone writing another lie in The Intimate Diary of Solitude.
The Things That Happen to Men in New York!
The things that happen to men in New York! This is written as an exclamation. It is, of course, an exaggeration—says the Narrator. These things don’t only happen in New York. They happen in Havana and Berlin. They happen in Madrid and Moscow. And they don’t only happen to men. They happen to women too. I thought it was strange that I couldn’t find the men’s room—said Mariquita Samper. I asked where the ladies’ room was—said Uriberto Eisensweig, dressed up as Berta Singerman. After I left the restroom—said the Narrator—I sat down to watch The Things That Happen to Men in New York. Maybe this is why I’m always changing my name. I don’t like being called Mariquita Samper when I’m really playing Berta Singerman, and I’m a lesbian. Mariquita, the fairy drag queen! Backstage, Mariquita Samper dresses up as Uriberto Eisensweig. And Uriberto Eisensweig dresses up as Berta Samper. Don’t you know that I’m Uriberto Singerman? And that Uriberto Samper is none other than Berta Eisensweig? Listen, sir, to the things that happen to men in New York! Mariquita: “It is I, Uriberto Eisensweig!” Suddenly, the curtain falls. Apparently, the public likes The Things That Happen to Men in New York—says the Narrator. Why else would they applaud so much? Deep down, they’re asking for an encore. Uriberto gets a bigger hand when he plays Mariquita Samper. Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Listen, lady, to the things that happen to women in New York! They think that they’re women, but they’r
e men. They think that they’re men, but they’re women. Backstage is Mariquita Samper’s mother. I don’t want you dressing up as Uriberto. What thrill do you get from scandalizing people? Mama, don’t you see them laughing? Don’t you see them having fun? Deep down in every man there is a woman. Deep down in every woman there is a man. Things are men and women. Apples look for pears. And pears love peaches. Listen, sir, to the things that happen to pears in New York! Nothing new. We already knew that men like pears. And that peaches like oranges. We also knew that an orange is an orange. And that an apple is a peach. I didn’t know that—says the apple’s mother. I thought my daughter liked peaches. But pears? Gentlemen, ladies—she says, placing her hand on her head. I didn’t know that happened to women in New York. Ladies, gentlemen—says the pear’s father solemnly—I didn’t know that it would happen to my son. But the things that happen to men and women!—sing the pear and the peach. The apple and the orange join in the chorus:
Oh, the things that happen to men in New York! Oh, the things that happen to women in New York! Bravo! Bravo!
THE END of this scene.
And THE END of another daily episode that I live in New York.
Signed: The Narrator
Everyone says that truths are lies. Everyone says that lies are true. But I’m the only one who knows that I’m alone writing another cheap illusion. And with a tear in my eye, with a tear that gives me away, I laugh at the irony—writing The Intimate Diary of Solitude really takes its toll on me.
The Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry
Her name was Anna Mayo. It took her a while to figure out how to become a part of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. But she seized the perfect opportunity. An ad appeared in The Intimate Diary of Solitude’s newspaper. WANTED: journalist to write a column on the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry. Anna Mayo immediately called Uriberto Eisensweig and told him that she’d apply for the position. Uriberto Eisensweig owned the newspaper and wanted his favorite girlfriend, Mariquita, to be crowned the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry. I admit it’s true, but I wouldn’t put it in writing—says Uriberto. It must be painstakingly planned so that no one knows that she is our pick. Mariquita Samper had to lose 20 pounds. She developed a sweet tooth after having played Berta Singerman. The newspaper and magazine photos, as well as Anna Mayo’s chronicles detailing her incredible beauty and extraordinary grace, all pointed out that Mariquita was a bit chubby. To improve her looks, she dyed her hair red and had fake freckles surgically implanted on her cheeks. Mariquita definitely looks like a charm queen with that red hair and those wonderful freckles—wrote Anna Mayo over and over again. Burning the candle at both ends, Anna Mayo spent day and night publicizing Mariquita’s beauty, and day and night Mariquita radiated coquetry. She laughed all day and all night long. Men stopped to stare. But she kept her distance. In order to become the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry, she had to be alone. That’s what the reign of beauty’s solitude was all about. It wasn’t hard to seduce the readers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Anna Mayo and Uriberto took care of that. Reviews appeared on Mariquita’s remarkable versatility. You have to overlook her little defects. After all, she can afford the few extra pounds. Besides, you can’t blame Mariquita’s beauty for the weight of Berta’s solitude. Suddenly, everyone bowed to her in reverence. She was proclaimed—Her Majesty, the Queen. Anna Mayo was also proclaimed—Journalist of the Year. The Intimate Diary of Solitude was the most widely read newspaper. And Uriberto, in his role as the owner, made millions. They met at the Narrator’s house to celebrate their triumph. It was sensational. Overnight, Berta Singerman and Uriberto Samper’s beauty and popularity flourished. But an enormous burden of solitude followed their fame. They were worried. They were accomplices. Backstage they reconsidered everything. They bounced it around. They didn’t like it. It looked too much like reality. There is no queen in this story. Mariquita stepped down from her throne. Uriberto confessed he wasn’t in love with her. Anna lost her job at the newspaper. Something is missing here—said the Narrator. You don’t know how to pretend. What’s wrong with Mariquita being proclaimed the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry? Nothing’s wrong, Narrator, but I don’t want to be the Queen of Solitude. The Narrator dropped the curtain on this episode, stamped it cancelled, and scribbled out this fragment of The Intimate Diary of Solitude in black ink.
Gossip
It was all a fraud—declared other newspapers, as they slung the mud at Mariquita and Uriberto. Everybody knows how rumors get around. You don’t have to search the world over to know that it’s all cheap talk, but it really takes its toll—said Anna Mayo in one of her chronicles. Mariquita had to pay a steep price to become a beauty queen. Let’s not talk about Berta Singerman’s forfeiting her American citizenship. Not to mention the truth about The Things That Happen to Men in New York! What a scandal it was to find out that Uriberto was Mariquita! Even poor Berta Singerman, who had loved him so much, though that she gave him too much love and too much passion only for him to become Mariquita. True, Mariquita won the prize for beauty, charm, and coquetry. But it cost her a fortune. She had to pay in freckles, and now she can’t dye her hair black. That was just another piece of gossip that rained on Mariquita’s glory. Even now, a while later, people still talk of Uriberto and Berta’s daughter. They wonder if she is anything like Mariquita Samper. That’s another story in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. That’s another theatrical scene. Now they’re saying that Mariquita is the love child of Uriberto and Berta’s scandalous affair. She had to lose her innocence. She dresses like a goody-goody. She dresses like a sweet-sixteen. But a playboy seduces her. And Mariquita, lily of the valley, has lost her virginity—again! It was Uriberto, Uriberto the playboy—wrote Anna Mayo in one of her gossip columns. In no time, gossip was rolling like a snowball. Uriberto first took Berta as his lover, and then he took his own daughter, who is also named Mariquita Samper! But I thought Uriberto was Mariquita. But it turns out Uriberto is Mariquita’s father and that Mariquita is not Mariquita. It’s just another piece of gossip running around New York. Even history repeats itself. Berta had a daughter named Mariquita. And Mariquita had a son named Uriberto, who was a professor before he became Mariquita. Then Mariquita became Berta Singerman. Then she forfeited her American citizenship and went to live in Russia. Then two Mariquitas and two Uribertos fell in love. There were generations and generations of gossip. Other fragments of The Intimate Diary of Solitude were written. Other articles were written too. But gossip became fantasy. But gossip became reality. The gossip about Uriberto and Mariquita bore Mariquita Singerman and Mariquita Eisensweig. As well as Uriberto Samper and Uriberto Singerman. The race of gossip reproduced, and Anna Mayo was born. Generations of gossip reproduced, and solitude was born. I used to think that gossip made up the race of solitude—wrote the Narrator in Anna Mayo’s intimate diary. I also thought that Mariquita’s solitude is just gossip. Even Uriberto’s solitude is gossip. And so is Anna Mayo. The newspaper, The Intimate Diary of Solitude, is gossip too. After all, it went bankrupt because Anna Mayo ran out of gossip to tell. Even though my gossiping hand writes alone, I’ll never run out of solitude’s gossip, even if I’m stripped of meaning. I mean life. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Empire of Dreams Page 9
