As he spoke, Supervielle observed Lottmann out of the corner of his eye to see his reactions, but the publisher, who was apparently used to having his face scrutinized like that, did not move a single muscle. Then Kosztolányi said, of course, a conference of this kind, with international delegates and in a city like this, with all that it symbolizes, has enough going for it to sustain such a blow, and that’s what will happen, I don’t have the slightest doubt, in fact your talk, my dear Edgar, was an example of how the public’s interest did not fade at all, don’t you all agree?
Rashid and I nodded, but Lottmann still sat there, motionless and hieratic, until he raised his hand, moved it to his glass of mineral water, and said, what I think about the subject has more to do with my work as a publisher, I believe that if Maturana’s story can be well written, it would make for a very good book; anyone, however poor his instinct, would be able to recognize that and it’s a pity that the protagonist did away with himself so early, although his own final suicide is excellent, it gives the story an incomparable romantic aura, a perfect ending for a narrative on modern violence and the role of faith in social redemption, something very shocking and very contemporary, a strong, hard-edged urban narrative, almost a piece of narrative journalism tracing the lives of each of the characters up until the conference starts, and then, bang, the suicide, the mystery of why he took his own life and the endless questions this creates in the others, in those who remain on the side of life, and of course the different interpretations, and what if, instead of being a suicide, and this is just for the sake of argument, it turns out to have been a murder, then we would get into the territory of the noir novel, an extraordinary noir novel in which the same sociological elements would become the natural theater for a tragedy, the story of a solitary man who is redeemed by God and who in the end takes a secret to the grave to him, because somebody, who? has eliminated him to stop him divulging it, who could be the killer?
I found myself interrupting him: it wasn’t a murder, Mr. Lottmann, I thought that too, at first, but now I’m sure Maturana committed suicide. He was very sick, and he also felt guilty for a whole series of things he did in the past and his relationship with the Ministry. It was a suicide, believe me.
Lottmann looked at me in surprise, and said, ah, my friend, obviously as a writer you weren’t going to let such a story get away . . . I see you’ve been doing some research, am I wrong in thinking you’ve been making notes on the subject with a view to a future book? I was not sure what to say, but I nodded: yes, it’s possible I will do one, I don’t know yet, but I have been making notes and thinking a lot about the subject.
They all looked at me, waiting for me to say more. Fortunately, Ebenezer Lottmann spoke again: well, if you write the book, I’ll be more than happy to read it, my friend. I thanked him. Then he added: it would also be interesting to find that book Maturana mentioned, what was it called again? I told him the title, Encounters with Amazingly Normal People. Lottmann took out a notebook and asked me to repeat it; thank you, my friend, I’ll ask my office to find a copy so we can get some idea of it, now that the author has died it could be a real hit, I can see it now, I think I’ll buy the rights anyway, you never know.
I had a copy of the book in my room, and knew details of the story that nobody else at that table knew, but I kept quiet. Supervielle spoke again, and said, the world is full of good subjects through which we can gain a deeper understanding of the human soul, just look at our old continent, filled with anonymous gestures and heroic lives that are not always recognized but nevertheless form the true profile of the century; that’s what comes to my mind when I think of my two chess players, Oslovski and Flø, characters who may appear insignificant in the light of History, with a capital H, but in whom a profound truth is lodged.
Deeply moved, Kosztolányi said, you’re right, my dear Edgar, it’s in that kind of simple adventure that we find the small print of history. Rashid and I nodded again without saying anything, and Lottmann remained silent. Then he said, excuse me, gentlemen, took out his cell phone and called his office; in front of us, he asked his assistant to look for Encounters with Amazingly Normal People by Walter de la Salle, and to make an offer for the translation rights. Supervielle’s lip started trembling, as if he were holding back a fit of anger, but all he said was, it’s nearly eleven, gentlemen, Sabina Vedovelli will be starting soon.
2.
STORMS
After Sabina Vedovelli’s talk, Eve Studios invited those present to a cocktail party in the third-floor bar—the most exclusive—at which clips from her films would be shown, along with an exhibit of photographs and videos of important prize ceremonies, and a documentary on her tours around the different film festivals of the world, from Cannes to San Francisco, from Tokyo to New York, with the title Sexocalypse Now!
On the invitation poster for the cocktail party was a picture of a very young Sabina in the position known as “the mountain range”—or “looking at Constantinople”—about to stick a carrot inside her. It was the front cover of her first feature-length film. To tell the truth, her story had left us all both surprised and captivated. To my mind, the way that young woman had found her way out of her many difficulties and transformed herself made Sabina Vedovelli, in spite of her eccentric costumes and her body pumped full of Botox and silicone, seem like one of the most fragile people at the conference. Unlike some of the others, I did not have a moment’s doubt as I entered the Heroes of Masada room on the third floor of the hotel, to see some images of her work, have a drink with her, and congratulate her on her lecture.
I was one of the first to arrive, which might have been why I found her at the door. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, thank you, my dear colleague, thank you for coming to this modest reception, which we are holding as mark of affection; I have to tell you that my husband and I would like to talk with you later, if that’s possible, there’s a subject we’d like to discuss with you. This greatly surprised me. I confessed my admiration and said, whatever you like, Sabina, after hearing your talk I admire you and have even grown quite fond of you, so of course I’m at your disposal to talk about anything you want.
Next up was her husband, Kay, who gave me an affectionate handshake (I looked closely at his arms and it was true that one of them did not move). He was a tall, impressive-looking man, elegantly thin and slightly snobbish, wearing a silk scarf and a casual but very elegant suede jacket, the very image of a wealthy fifty-something left-leaning European intellectual. A screen at the back of the room was showing images of Sabina performing various kinds of sexual acts, stunning views of her buttocks, legs raised, close-ups of her vagina, huge penises, her face twisted, lips sucking, expressions of pleasure . . . As the images were silent, I had to imagine the moaning; her acting was so magnificent that it echoed in the mind, and the sounds she made could be heard perfectly, and so, with a glass of Glenfiddich in my hand, I was letting myself be carried away by the images, unworldly and obscene at the same time, when Sabina approached and said, I assume you speak Italian? I read in your biography that you live in Rome. Yes, I said, of course I speak Italian. She took me aside and said, let’s talk a while in that delightful language, come, have another drink.
She was wearing torn jeans, which made her look very youthful. I told her I had been impressed by her ability to fight, come what may, to find the strength to overcome everything, and she said, thank you, my friend, who better than an artist can appreciate what that means, living to please other people is worse than riding a tiger, and just as dangerous; I’m sure you’ll agree with me that living for your art requires you to weave a net that will catch you when you fall, to catch you every time you fall, making sure you don’t hit the bottom but stop somewhere halfway, from where it’s easier to get back up again, but tell me, what kind of subjects do you write about? I took another sip of my whiskey and said, somewhat shamefacedly, I write about things I consider important, friendship and separation, solitude, the past, betra
yal and love, the same old subjects, I suppose, the ones you find in writers like Andreas Stiflit, Chekhov or Piotr Bordonave, and even in less well-known writers like Péguy or Bernanos. She said, and do you like Italian literature? Well, I said, we could spend several days talking about all the wonderful things in Italian literature, where do I start? Carlo Emilio Gadda, Bufalino, Carlo Levi and Primo Levi, the poetry of Ungaretti, that remarkable poem by Salvatore Quasimodo that says: Everyone stands alone at the heart of the world / pierced by a ray of light / And suddenly it’s evening, I may have gotten it wrong, I don’t have a good memory; and Calvino and Sciascia and Boccaccio, who wrote about people sheltering from the plague who get together to tell stories, rather as we are doing in this besieged conference, anyway, I said, Italian literature has always been with me, I should say that I learned your language when I was a child and it’s always been close to my heart.
As I said this, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at one of the plasma screens and saw what she would have called a “multiethnic and multiracial double penetration,” because one of the penises was black. Noticing that my attention had shifted away from her, Sabina exclaimed, oh, I can’t believe it! that’s Shadows of Lust! I’m sorry, my friend, this documentary is a gift from Kay and I don’t know what’s in it, so it’s a constant surprise to me, look at those images, we shot them more than fifteen years ago and I still remember the arguments we had about the message of that scene; one of the associate producers thought it would be more commercial if the African penis, which for anthropomorphic reasons is larger, penetrated the anus, but Kay and I thought that would be sending out the wrong message, as if the anus was the dark part of the body and therefore the natural place for a black man, which didn’t satisfy us from the political point of view, so we said, let’s take a commercial risk for the sake of an idea that’s not only esthetic but also ethical, an idea of social harmony, and so the anal penetration was done by the Caucasian and the one from in front was given to the African, a way of saying to the world, let’s have done with preconceived racial ideas, let’s respect each other’s differences, and well, I think we made our point, we’ve never been like other producers, who are ready to do anything to be commercial, no, we’ve always been consistent and perhaps that’s the key to our success, anyway, I’m sorry if I changed the subject somewhat, but now I’m going to come to the point and ask you a question, do you think José Maturana’s suicide was premeditated? do you think he had been planning for some time to do away with himself in the middle of the conference in order to give his death an esthetic dimension by turning it into a theatrical mise en scène? The question took me by surprise and I did not know what to reply, I had assumed that I was the only person trying to make sense of José Maturana’s act, at least the only one thinking about it beyond the typical banal comments on his motives and so on.
My husband and I, said Sabina Vedovelli, have talked a lot about it and we see that final gesture as something highly poetic; Kay has been making notes for a possible screenplay dramatizing his life, and that’s when we thought of you, because after all you are the only genuine writer at the conference and we’re very interested in your vision of what happened. We’d like to make you a formal offer and that’s why I’m inviting you to have dinner with us in our suite tonight, could you come? you don’t have any other engagement? I said that, unless I had some unexpected appointment with my Maker–like that character in Somerset Maugham–I was free and ready to oblige. She laughed and said: oh no, touch wood! Come and see us then, it’s in the right wing of the hotel, third floor, Suite 9D, we’ll expect you at eight tonight. I’ll be there, Sabina, and she said, excellent, now enjoy our canapés, I’m going to greet our other guests.
One minute before the hour, I was knocking at the door of 9D, the Judith and Holofernes Suite.
It was Kay who opened the door, still dressed casually, but so exquisitely that it made me regret my commonplace costume of blue shirt and khaki pants. He invited me into a luxurious apartment. In the middle was a sunken area covered in rugs and cushions and lit with indirect lighting. Soft music was playing, a concerto, I thought, possibly by Handel, although I was no expert. There was a glass dome above us, through which the stars looked down, indifferent to what was happening below. Scotch? he said, opening a drinks cabinet with dozens of bottles glinting agreeably in the light. Sabina will be here in a minute, I know she’s already put you in the picture about what we want and why we’ve invited you here tonight.
Then he asked me to choose a whiskey, so I looked at the labels and selected the bottle of Lagavulin, which I had discovered years ago in a novel by Vázquez Montalbán. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable while I bring some ice. The large cushions were really welcoming. The windows were closed and covered with prints of the city.
Before coming to the conference, we looked at the biographies of the delegates, including yours of course, and now, in the light of what happened to Maturana, we believe you’re the perfect person to write his story. You can write it as fiction or nonfiction, whichever you prefer; then our team will adapt it as necessary in order to turn it into a terrific movie. Sabina and I had been thinking, even before coming here, of writing something about this city, but the best things are always the most unexpected, and bang! the story just turns up, like an animal poking its nose out. That’s why we always have to be alert. The pastor’s life, reaching a masterly climax with his suicide: what a fantastic subject! I know we shouldn’t talk that way about somebody who’s died, but I suspect he wanted to make his death a ceremony, a theatrical performance, so I applaud, well done, reverend, excellent work! It made such an impression on us that we went to the morgue to see his body, just to make sure it really was a suicide, and there was no doubt about it, those vertical cuts in his veins said one thing very clearly: dear friends, I’m not joking, this is it. On hearing this, I thought: so it was you . . . Marta, I don’t think much of your powers of observation if you couldn’t recognize Sabina Vedovelli!
Suddenly Sabina appeared from one of the corridors at the far end of the room. She was wearing thigh-length white leather boots, a miniskirt, and a white latex top, an aggressive Seventies-style outfit in sharp contrast to her cobalt-blue eye makeup and lipstick. Seeing her gave me a sense of calm, like the blue domes in certain towns in the Mediterranean. What are you drinking? she asked, and Kay said, whiskey, shall I pour your martini? it’s ready. She drank two tiny sips and went to the door. The dinner had arrived. A bellhop came in, pushing a trolley with silver trays. He arranged everything on the table, lit two candles, uncorked and poured the Sancerre wine, leaving the bottle in the ice bucket, and withdrew with a little bow. Only then did Sabina greet me with a rapid handshake and we sat at the table.
The discussion started immediately. I’m sorry to be so direct, my friend, but I’d like to ask you a question by way of introduction . . . What’s your favorite part of a woman’s body? Without thinking I said: the buttocks. I love touching them, sinking my fingers into them, sucking them, feeling their girth, appreciating their hardness, resistance, and volume, finding architectural similes, domes of mosques, vaults, opera houses, stupas, ziggurats, coliseums, and pantheons, I love reciting poems by Pietro Aretino to them and proclaiming myself their slave, looking at the sky and finding likenesses in the clouds or in the mountains, anyway, the buttocks, without doubt.
Sabina cracked a smile and said, I like your style, for a moment I was afraid your answer would be: I love the outline of the hands or the delicate shape of the instep or even the shadow of a beauty spot on the cheek, which is what hypocrites reply, even if while they’re saying it they’re looking at the crotch of the woman walking past. People say empty, stupid phrases that reflect their fears and that insubstantial vision of the world that’s so common today in so many groups, the dictatorship of verbal, ideological, and physical asepsis, God, that desire to smother the animal nature of the body, ugh, I also like Pietro Aretino, do you remember any of his poems? Of c
ourse, I said, I know a lot of them, and she refilled the glasses and said, let’s hear one, tonight should be filled with poetry.
Open your thighs, my darling mine,
That I may see your wondrous rose,
That lovely hole where soft hair grows,
Gate to my dreams! O honey fine!
And having made that journey south
And tasted fruit of such delight
Then turn I must, to end the night,
And plant my tool within your mouth.
Sabina grinned with pleasure and raised her glass: to Aretino, the poet of the cunt and the pleasures of the ass! As we clinked our glasses, a drop of Sancerre spilled on the tablecloth, and she put her finger in it and crossed herself. Ah, how I love the love that is sincere and human, the love of the body, the clitoris and the cavernous textures of the penis and the labia, that’s the most important, most daring revolution in the world today, and it’s what Kay and I try to demonstrate through the stories we tell at Eve, stories that both entertain and convey models of thought, stories that are instructive and, at the same time, real, performed by men and women who sweat and ejaculate and shit, the last bastion of a truth that’s on the verge of disappearing from the world forever, and not because of a war, the kind threatening this city and of which this city is a symbol, but because of something worse, the war of infinite human stupidity, a siege just as cruel, just as terrifying, as those waged with bombs and guns, Eve is fighting that war in hand to hand combat, or should I say “body to body,” because it’s in the body that it must be won, and I tell you, my friend, that we are prepared to use all the resources we have and even die in the attempt, we will save and spread that profound truth of the body, my God, we are made of blood and bones and flesh and the juice that moistens our vaginas, not only of prayers and empty words and polite phrases; our heads are in our crotches, setting off a ruddy geyser of sperm; there is no art or doctrine unconnected with those liquids, because much of art, basically, is an immersion in those liquids, a series of blind discoveries in primitive waters, like the harmonious wandering of nomadic fish, for example, everything that an artist can extract from that dark cave and bring out into the light, making others see it, that is great art, my friend, but there are fewer and fewer of us, hence the importance of going as deep as possible, into the essence, rejecting the light and frivolous, fleeing anything that lacks that patina of brilliance that the parthenogenesis of the Earth gives certain metals, anyway, it is urgent to act, this civilization is mortally wounded and the duty of Eve, our duty, is to be the guardians of that ancient nobility of ideas and feelings that once allowed great art to exist, that is the only thing we possess, as I’m sure you will already have noted at the conference, it is we who are really under siege, a small group of men and women telling stories in the midst of disaster, convinced that in doing so we are protecting something essential, something we can’t lose and for which it’s worth risking all, with all our strength and talent, we are knights of something that’s about to die, an order or lodge in the greatest poetic sense.
Necropolis Page 38
