3 Novellas: Home / Leaving for Jerusalem / The Nobel Prize

by Mois Benarroch

  The only experience I had with a major publisher was not that great anyway, although I sold a few more copies and we must not forget that the advance was not bad at all, with it I finally was able to modify the living room floor and the kitchen that was in a deplorable state and put in a good and pleasant quality parquet. Most of all I hated waiting. The contract that never arrived. I was sad. There is nothing better than to write when you’re sad.

  17.

  Although I could hardly hold it in and needed to go to the bathroom I feared going upstairs, but in the end I could not help and finally did so. As I held it I flipped through the books of Pisces, but it was a very peculiar reading. I was not interested in the plot, nor in the stories which in my opinion were bad. I read the characters: housewives, lovers, nameless or named, whole novels with the same character, Claudio, a writer who at the end of the book commits suicide. It alarmed me. There were many other writers, sometimes with surnames, others unnamed, and others with names only. Many love stories, you could tell he liked or tried to like love stories, but the plots were banal, a housewife who left her husband or vice versa, or both at once.

  In the basement I have a Wi—Fi connection and I wondered how I had not thought of it before. I downloaded the books of Pisces, it was easy to find many titles. I downloaded a novel unknown to me until then, Claudio’s Suicide the same writer who appears often in his books, I did not care who came in what book, but I realized that the characters repeated themselves from one novel to the other. Which can be considered the dumbest thing a writer can do, not everyone is Proust.

  My wife, thank God, was not home. She had gone to the doctor’s. I forgot she had an appointment that afternoon, at four. So I drank tea, made of mint and pennyroyal, quietly. After that I took a shower and went to my appointment with Eva. I felt like Adam in paradise. Or rather after.

  18.

  I arrived half hour in advance. On route I had a series of confused and unoriginal ideas. I had to stop writing because I could not go on like this, I did not understand why I kept writing one book after another, just like Pisces, It scared me to end up like him in a madhouse, and then I thought again that it could be a good argument for a book, the writer is his characters, but where was the plot? All we had were characters, and although at first it was an interesting character I lost all interest in Pisces after a few thousand words, and the end I had thought, despite being a surprise (and I do not write here or it would be a spoiler) did not give a good end to the book. And then it was there: the narrator, the writer (?), Eva, I could add the Pisces’ wife, if I was going to look for her, and I had no intention to do so. Lextra seemed fatal to me as a character. Who throws an alien in the middle of a metaliterary story? Who would think such a thing? And there we had his books, not very good books, with pleasant and minimally processed plots and one–dimensional characters. He was no Kafka, but Kafka was not Kafka when he was alive, so who knows, maybe others saw in his work something I could not see. I heard that he was often translated: German, French, and even Korean. Who knows why Korean? Richard Brautigan was also a big star in Japan when none of his books were selling in the U.S. Hispanic readers was not interested in the books of Pisces. And books are not interesting characters. We still have the city as a character. Irxal (pronounced IR–SHAL), the x in Spanish is a mystery, you can pronounce Irjal, Irshal, Irkhal, Irsal arrived.

  The first thing I said was "to be careful if one day Pisces said his name is Claudio."

  "He never says his name," she answered.

  "Better ask."

  "Why Claudio?"

  "He may commit suicide, if he calls himself Claudio. And if that day he is Claudio I think he will say his name. At least he will say: I’m Claudio, he’ll say something."

  "How do you know?"

  "I shall explain that to you one step at a time."

  "Today he was crazy, he said he was a woman and only used his right hand, when asked why he said he only had one hand, he cried like a child, he was very depressed, until he fell asleep."

  "Yes, that is a part of A Parisian Month.

  "What?"

  "It’s a character in one of his novels. See, this is what I wanted to explain to you, according to my theory he reincarnates every day as one of the characters in his novels."

  "There are many days that he is the same personality, weeks sometimes."

  "That’s what you think, because there are characters that appear in several novels, they are similar but not quite the same, many are writers, he wrote many novels."

  "Perhaps, but from a psychiatric point of view, it is of little importance. He still is a schizophrenic, and that does not depend on where he gets his personalities."

  "From a literary point of view it is very important."

  She was well dressed in a one piece brown colored suit that made her look thinner. I asked her if she wanted an ice cream, to which she said she had more time than last time but not that much, and she had to go home to see her ten year old daughter. Before, didn’t she say her daughter was 12 years old? Wasn’t that what she had told me the last time? Maybe she didn’t speak with me about her daughter, and this is pure imagination of mine, I am not sure. Although she had no reason to give me any explanation, she was the owner of her life and her time.

  "Would you mind informing me of Pisces daily character?"

  "I am not sure it’s possible, I only work four days a week and he is not my patient."

  "But remember what I said about Claudio."

  "If you want I can put you in touch with the nurse who takes care of him."

  "No no, it is better few people are involved, or else they may hospitalize me."

  "Yes, that makes sense."

  19.

  I took the long way back home. Sometimes the long way is the shortest, or is the only possible. If not I would go back to my house. I thought obsessively about the last sentence Eva said. That made sense; it was fine, but why yes. Yes, it makes sense. Why did she need that yes? Why not just: it makes sense. Or maybe it was her way of speaking, as I always say "look" before a sentence, or "of course" when there is nothing to look at. I’ve tried many times to dismiss these words, but, of course, without much success.

  I came home; my wife was waiting for me.

  "Where have you been?"

  "Don’t you always say I’m always home, I left you alone. Look, don’t you say you want to be alone and want to come home and not find me inside. That’s it; I leave in a few hours and…."

  "Do not get so angry."

  "Look, this cannot go on like this."

  "I had been saying that sentence every other day for the last ten years and thinking it every second hour. And the following…."

  "I can’t, I want a divorce."

  And she said, well, why don’t you just divorce and then give me my turn to explain. I explained that if we were married by agreement we should divorce by agreement. It made sense to me. Or maybe not. When I write it, it seems illogical because a divorce is generally the opposite of an agreement. Two or three times we drafted a divorce agreement, but we never did divorce. My daughters asked why. They do not understand. Neither did we .Although one is never ever able to fully understand the depths of any relationship. Sex was sometimes very good, never very bad. Maybe that was the reason. Makes sense.

  20.

  The next day I went reluctantly to the Jordan. It was one of those days as a writer. I was not even interested. He waved.

  "How are your books?"

  "Fatal."

  "Really?"

  "Well, not quite, that is, the books are very well, I’m very happy with what I write, but it seems the readers won’t come. No readers. Not that my books are not enjoyed, those who read them like them, or they tell me they like them, maybe because they pity me, God knows, but they don’t buy the books."

  "So what?"

  "I don’t know why, but if you don’t you cannot publish your new book. And I want to publish. It’s crucial for me."

 
; Eva passed by and did not greet me. It was very rare. Pisces was also the least interesting that day. Writers are the worst characters.

  And suddenly there I saw the end of the story. I saw everything. I went hurriedly to write. That’s the moment when I started writing this book.

  I am not telling it to you yet (of course, it is the end and if I tell it to you now it would not be the end), but many readers tend to read the end first, and others even begin by the end. Well, from now on, you can go directly to the end. And now we have a book a la carte, whoever wants to read three chapters and go to the end, it will be a short story, others in between, they’ll get a short novel, and others will read everything patiently and follow me. Each reader according to the time he has and all for one. United we read!

  Let’s see if that attracts readers.

  21.

  I decided to go home and write what was on my mind. I put aside my novel Gondola in the Dead Sea for better times. And I was thinking that one should write very fast or completely isolated from the world, so they are not bothered constantly by the whole world, when coming in front of me was the writer that deviated me from my novel and sent me to Pisces, the one who never finished his book, and I was about to say "the one I needed now" when he attacked me..."

  "So? You are seeing our friend. Are you coming back from a visit?"

  "Well, hmm… Yes, and he has given me an idea for a new book, so I’m in a hurry to go to my basement and write it."

  "What basement?"

  "I have moved and there I have a basement. It’s my office now."

  "Well well… aren’t you getting rich, and what does our writer–character tell?"

  "Quite a character. But how do you know I’ve gone to see him?"

  "I know many things, and you’ve gone several times. And now you are going to write another novel about the character? You have not written enough? Learn from me, leave things alone and wait for a masterpiece."

  Then I remembered his contract, and I really wanted to get him off of me.

  "So what happened? Did you sign the contract?"

  "No, not yet, we are discussing, all publishers want to exploit you and make money off the sweat of your brow, the sweat of the front, without working. I’ve sweated enough for my book."

  "True, it’s the only thing that interests them, exploit you, they are terrorists, exploit and explode, they are worse than Al—Qaeda, the worst thing."

  "You’ve gone too far."

  "You still don’t know them, all the world’s publishers have been enriched through my books and I was left with just a basement."

  "All of them?"

  "All of them. The best thing to do if you do not want to be exploited by others is to exploit yourself."

  "What?"

  "Look, you go to the publisher and commit a suicide terrorist attack. That’s the solution."

  The guy started to take me for a fool, and that was my intention.

  "Look, I have to go. Send my regards to the character."

  The writer who never published his books accelerated his steps and disappeared from my sight. Who knows? Maybe after the things I told him he may sign the contract, if any such contract is not part of his imagination. Some time ago I realized that few writers tell the truth about their books, contracts, and sales. I maybe the only one in the world who does it.

  But my deviations were not to come to an end. One more step and there is Lextra. More beautiful and sexier than ever. And so young. For Christ sake, so young. I was also young but that happened so many years ago.

  "How are you honey?"

  "Well, very well, captivating memories from humans."

  "I forgot that one."

  "Why don’t you come over to my friend, I am very well there, very quiet and she comes back Thursday."

  "I have to work and I’m in a hurry."

  "Did I scare you?"

  "Sort of, yes, a little."

  "It’s what you have in your imagination, I did not do anything in bed, even if you don’t believe it, and I just set your imagination free."

  "That’s what scares me most. That is what scares anyone. Or not, I do not know. But I have to go."

  I kept my pace. Mobile. My wife.

  "Can you go to the grocery store and buy eggs and milk; we have run out of milk."

  I had no choice but give up. I felt guilty of writing and felt I had to compensate my wife and do whatever she wanted. .So I surrendered to the evidence and left my writing project for another day.

  22.

  A few days later, or maybe weeks, because my visits to Pisces became less frequent, my wife took me in the car to the Jordan (I have no driving license, how many times do I have to say it). On the road, near something that looked like a fountain I saw a man on a bench masturbating. The sight impressed me, he had a big dick (which reinforced my complex of having a small dick, small but fat, of course) and I asked my wife if she saw it, she said that she didn’t, but that she has seen it many times in the past. Where does she ramble when she is not with me? No idea, it was the only time in my life I saw such a thing before or after I never saw someone masturbating outdoors and showing off. The man was neither ugly nor old. It disoriented me even more.

  In this mood I arrived to the clinic but that day Pisces was in high spirits. He immediately called and greeted me.

  "How you doing? So much time no see?" He said with a smile on his face.

  "Hello. Hello."

  "Your name is Uranio, right? Let’s see if I remember it, these days I’m a little disoriented. That is, yes, Pepe Uranio, you won a Planeta prize."

  "Well, not quite."

  "Then, the second prize."

  Apparently he had an obsession with the Planeta prize; all the writers that had appeared in his books won the Planeta.

  "And it was rumored that it was because you did not want the first prize."

  "Yes, a telltale, always rumors, who will not want so much money?"

  "Just in case anyone is interested, not only I have no driving license, but never in my life did I have it, and I never took to one driving lesson. In many countries this is not a handicap, but I have no idea how to drive a car. What I know very well is all makes and models, from the sixties on, some cars from the fifties, because my brother and used to do competitions who guessed the first model of the car coming towards us, when my father was driving. Only once a friend tried to explain to me how to drive and I sat behind the wheel in a car. I think he regretted this all his life. We almost crashed against a wall. He said I was a hopeless case and would not try again. Maybe he still has nightmares because of me, I almost forgot it. I say this because I have a need to always tell the truth. An obsession. Not highly recommended for writers.

  "Well, asked Pisces, how is it going?

  "What?"

  "What could it be? The books."

  "Of course, the books. Well. Very well. I am going be translated into Arabic."

  "What for? I was also translated and didn’t make any money."

  "I don’t know, I have nothing to lose. It’s better than nothing."

  "Then you are really in a bad state."

  "Well, not that bad, the money is bad, but what I’m writing now is the best I’ve written."

  "That’s what we always think. But if it doesn’t sell, no matter how well one writes, one is wrong."

  I think he wanted to put me down. It’s something writers really like to do, lowering another writer to make him feel bad, it’s some kind a joke, then you can call another writer, and tell him what the other said and laugh. Only writers understand those kinds of jokes and it makes them laugh.

  And then he approached my ear and asked me if I smoked, I said that only cigarillos. He made a sign and we got out into the garden. I gave him a mini cigar, which was a bit expensive to invite, I always think I should have with me something cheaper, because it is annoying that cigarette smokers ask you for a Cohiba and often leave it half smoked. It really pisses me off.

  "And
what is it you’re writing so well?" he said behind the smoke. The weather was dry (which means there was no way to keep the cigars in good condition) and the wind was not blowing at all. It was spring; it happened in spring and autumn, first a dry desert wind and then days without anything moving.

  A novel about a writer who believes every day he is a different character.

  I do not think he understood the irony. At that time I had not yet begun to write that novel, but it was all I could answer. He continued to smoke and I believe that I had to say something, so I said: "I have sworn a thousand times not to write again about writers, but it forces itself on me."

  "What do you like to write about?" he said as out of a dream. Smoke and also the weather made everything seem much slower.

  "About homeopaths. They are not less interesting than writers, especially the classical. I mean the classical homeopaths, those who are always seeking for a single remedy to cure all the symptoms of the patient. They’re not less obsessive and I think they are even crazier than writers. But it’s not a very literary madness, I do not know if it is something that can be written."