"Everything we write is about writers, if you write about a doctor you are writing and therefore all the characters are influenced by the fact that the writer is writing, so all of them are writers, in one way or another."
I don’t think his idea was very clear.
"And what about the autonomy of the character? Can’t he break free from the writer and do unexpected things?"
"He can. But only to a certain degree."
Then, and only then, I lit my cigarillo.
23.
When the first smoke came out of my mouth Pisces asked if I had a cell phone, he asked me with his hand, holding a hand to his ear and opening it while smoking his cigarillo as he expelled the smoke. I gave him my phone.
He dialed and began to speak: "Look ... look ... I bought a camera ... yes ... a Canon ... what could it be ... I only buy Canon ... and I received it yesterday by mail ... and see ... I opened the box ... and in the box there was a piece of cardboard ... like where they sell eggs ... gray ... yes ... look lady, sir ... or ... It’s hard tell from your voice ... You have a neutral voice ... what surprised me is that instead of a camera there was an egg ... yeah ... an egg, lady ... no ... no ... no ... not a bird, not the kind of birds that come into the picture ... an egg ... and I almost thought it was a great new invention ... ... but when I put my hand on the egg ... look! I’m serious ... I put my hand and there was a chick ... but how can I return the camera if there is no camera ... what? To put the chick in the box ... but I cannot ... sir ... ma’am ... sorry ... I can’t ... the chick is walking in the room (and he started to say piu piu piu ) ... Do you hear ... no ... no need to send me another camera ... I like the chick… he is white ... well ... a bit yellowish ... Maybe he has hepatitis ... I don’t care ... what I want to ask is if you can send me some food to the chick ... canary seeds or whatever they eat ... I don’t know what they eat ..." He continued for half hour and then gave me my mobile, and left.
24.
Yes, I know that chapter 23 is not a good chapter. I tried not to write it but it interfered with me and would not let go. Like many good ideas — to write this nonsense by Pisces is fine when you think about it in bed, but when it gets really on the page the idea seems more and more stupid.
After this chapter I had no choice but to surrender before the evidence and I let the story aside for many months, and perhaps I would not have published if what happened on the 7th of October hadn’t happened.
25.
It was October 7th. I woke up early, eager to see the sunrise. The sunrises were something I liked more and more and they had the peculiar quality of not costing you a penny. While watching the first rays of sunlight seeping from dawn I turned on my PC. I entered www.noticias.net news portal as I always do and could not believe what I was reading. I thought I was dreaming. And maybe I was. The writer Raul Pisces Wins the Nobel Prize in Literature. I read and reread. How could it be? It could not be. He was a shitty writer. I knew it very well. How could they give it to him and not to me? Well, to me it was clear, no one knew me. But neither was he known. Or did he become so famous in other countries and no one knew it. The news did not know a lot about him, they asked who he was, at some point someone came with the idea that a group of writers had created Pisces as a vanguardist idea, he was the alter ego of everyone in the group, a group of 15 writers, they had a publishing program where each one wrote a novel and only the title was fixed. Then others came and apparently wrote more novels written under the name of Pisces. The article seemed more unlikely than the prize. But it was October 7, and not an April 1. So it was not a joke. I went to Lemonde.fr and there the tone was different, he was considered a great cult writer and had a group of readers who followed his books, his theme was love in a cold society and they mentioned a thing that I had not noticed, that in all his novels contained an amputee character, leg, wrist, hand, finger. According to one scholar it was a metaphor. Nothing more was written there. A metaphor.
A metaphor.
For Christ’s sake.
Then I started thinking nonsense, a metaphor, metafora, a sacafora a metalaputaquelopariofora a metametastasis a metapsicosis a metaeslameta, metaphor is the goal, goal metaphors, metastasis of metaphor, metamorphosis metaphorically metastasis phoric goal, put more phoric in the story, meta metaphor metaforar, I’m a thoroughbred metaphoric, Uncle metaphoric told me in a story,
"Do not tell me."
"Yes, it was something metaphorical."
"And how did he do it?"
"It’s a long story, don’t be metaphoric. You will not believe it, kid."
The sun was still appearing. And this was not a metaphor. Or maybe it was. One more metaphor, one less, who cares. I care. A metaphor at a stoplight.
Then I had a premonition. Not a déjà vu. A déjà vu of a premonition. I had had already lived it a few months ago, in another way, but now I realized it was the same things that was happening: Pisces would be Claudio that day and before learning of the award he was going to commit suicide. I called Eva. No answer. Called again and again. And again. Then I went to the Jordan. When leaving my wife asked me to throw the trash in my way. I had not realized she was awake. I went with the trash bag the container was so far from home I continued with the bag until the phone rang and I realized I did not have a free hand. I put the bag on the street and it was Eva.
"What is it?"
"They have given the Nobel Prize to Pisces."
"Congratulations, but why did you call me so many times."
"It was not for that, it was..."
And then I was not sure how to explain my premonition.
"Look, come to the Jordan, and I’ll explain, it can be dangerous."
"I am not working this morning. And I’m going to the hairdresser."
"The hairdresser? Only a woman can introduce the hairdresser here, in peak suspense, this guy may commit suicide, and you with your hairdresser, are you in love with him?"
"How do you know?"
"And you have to go after that to do the manicure, right?"
"You know that also? You are a prophet. Let’s see where I’m going after that."
"You’re going to eat a salad with a friend and will share it between you two."
"Right."
"Well, I’ll stop here, I don’t care what you do, I need you at the Jordan."
"I’m not going and he is not my patient. And in the Jordan occasionally a patient commits suicide. It’s part of the job."
"Well, – there was no choice but to give in and in a hurry. At least you could phone and tell them he could commit suicide."
"Why don’t you do it?" That kind of questions could resume my marriage.
"Because they will take me for a madman."
"And not me?"
I closed the phone; apparently she was having her period. Or PMS, and she was the kind of woman who is unbearable in the morning. Surely that was the reason she was still single, or divorced, or widowed. No male. Sola. Makes sense.
She could not help me. So I ran to the clinic. On the way I saw the writer who never finishes his novels across the street and sped over so he would not see me. Lextra saw me and waved, she was on the right sidewalk. I arrived to the Jordan.
Pisces was not in the room.
"Where is he?" I asked the receptionist.
"Eva does not work today."
"No, not Eva, the writer."
"Well, he must be in his room. He said he was Claudio said and that unless three companions came he would not leave his room, he doesn’t want any visitors."
"He can kill himself."
"Like everyone here, more or less."
"No, not that, if he is Claudio it can mean suicide. Tell your psychiatrist, perhaps he’ll understand."
"Don’t worry, I will tell him. Are you his partner?"
"What?"
"If you are his partner? ... The writer."
"No."
"His brother?"
"No, a friend. A writer friend." And suddenly
I remembered that I had never seen him in his room and did not know the number of his room.
"Can you tell me the number of his room?"
"No, he asked not to be disturbed. And he is entitled to his privacy. And since you are not a family member it is prohibited to provide such information."
I called Eva. She was bothered that I called her again. I told her that it was urgent and asked for the room number of Pisces. Floor three, room three, so easy. I went to the elevator. The clerk tried to tell me that I could not climb without permission. I acted as if I didn’t hear a thing. The elevator did not arrive so I took the stairs that were on the right. I got to the third floor, I was suffocating. I wanted to pee; I asked one of the patients for the services. He started telling me about all the services available at the clinic. The bathroom, I said.
"Why do you want to go to the bathroom?"
"For the same reasons that everybody wants to go to the bathroom."
"To shit or to piss."
"And why would you care?"
"Well, one shows interest in their neighbors and you see what happens. Makes you want to not be human."
"Well, where is it?"
"Very easy, utilities, and so called services in general, are on the ground at the entrance, next to the reception."
"And don’t you have one here in the room?"
"There are, but there are not public, they are private."
"Can’t you let me in?"
"No."
I rang the bell of Pisces’ room.
"Quickly, I have to go to the bathroom."
"And who are you?"
"Your friend."
"Well, I’m sorry, my butler is out today and I can’t open the door."
No one had come to see if Pisces committed suicide. Nobody cared.
"You got the Nobel Prize."
"And what is that?"
"A literary prize."
"You have the wrong room."
Suddenly I saw that the elevator was on the third floor. I ran into it, went down and went to the bathroom. The nurse recognized me and asked me not to bother the writer anymore. Or else she would call a doctor.
I went to the bathroom. Peed and left again.
I went to his room and, nobody answered. I forced the door. Pisces was hung; saliva came out of his mouth. I shouted. A large nurse came and stared at me as if she wanted to kill me.
"He has committed suicide," I said.
"Who?"
"Pisces."
"There is no Pisces here."
"Oh no! Well there he is."
I looked and looked where I was pointing. I looked again.
She left and came back with another nurse and perhaps a doctor. Then I think they injected me with something. I don’t know how long I slept. I woke up slowly. After a while the doorbell rang. I got up and opened the door.
Two girls dressed in miniskirts in their twenties with nothing on top were in front of me. They looked like topless bar girls.
"We have a letter for you."
They gave me an envelope.
I looked at them and looked again. Good tits they had.
"Don’t you open it?" Asked one of them.
"No."
"Well, we will tell you!"
And both said
"You have won the Nobel Prize for Literature."
"Not me," I said, "Pisces."
"Not Pisces. You are the winner. Jorge Acuario."
The Swedish Academy discovered an original way to announce this award. Or maybe it was a hoax of Pisces.
Not quite knowing what to do or say, all that came from my mouth was:
"Can I touch your boobs just a bit?"
THE END
3 Novellas: Home / Leaving for Jerusalem / The Nobel Prize Page 10
