Necropolis (8 page)

In all that ocean of words, I discovered poetry, and set out with enthusiasm to learn its meaning and enjoy the rhymed phrases, something that before then, to tell the truth, had always seemed to me a bit faggoty, and note this, my friends, it was through poetry that I started seriously giving a meaning to my life, in spite of the fact that, obviously, the question of the hairy orifice through which I had come into the world was still a mystery, let me make that clear, but at least I already felt a brotherhood of meaning and solitude through those rhymed words, and that was something I saw in William Carlos Williams or Whitman or Milton, the last of these on a religious theme, which was especially beautiful.

In those words I saw the same stream of light that had blinded me that first day. The same voice coming from on high, but in another format, and sometimes, I confess, a rhyme made me cry because of its perfection, the cleanness and purity it concealed; ever since then, beautiful things have moved me and made me want to cry, beauty touches me deeply, takes my breath away, as if I hadn't expected anything of the world but trash and gruesomeness; the beautiful turns mystical and allows us to regain our belief in appearances, in the possibility of goodness and tranquility, in other words, peace. Beauty, in those days, was synonymous with peace, that space where the spirit, or at least mine, grows wings, launches itself into the air, and sees everything from a long way up. And so I felt grateful to those blocks of printed paper, that black ink, those numbered pages. It was the great revelation of my life after the Eye of the Big Enchilada, and I really mean that, my friends.

A year passed and on my side things improved a lot, because the library in the house had more and more books, so I was able to shut myself in with them and read until late at night in my room. By the way, we called our rooms “cells,” just like in a seminary, even though ours had television and Wi-Fi and radio and a thousand things more, including shelves and en-suite bathrooms. For her part, Miss Jessica worshiped Walter more and more every day, and of course he himself was increasingly handsome and conceited, his body so perfect now it was like a sculpture by Bernini, so perfect it seemed untouchable; he still had Jefferson at his side, although with one novelty, which was that at least once a month he brought Walter groups of young men for “evangelical gatherings”; it sounded strange to me, because these young guys weren't thieves or dealers, but did look like faggots.

I could imagine what those gatherings must be like, and from the start I told Walter that I preferred not to take part, no, thanks, I'm teaching myself with Ebenezer's books, ever since I discovered reading I've realized I can become a better person and I think it'll benefit my pastoral work, so please excuse me, I'll join you later, for now I prefer to be alone, and, very theatrically, because he was already wearing made to measure red and yellow tunics, he gave me a kiss on the forehead, closed his eyes and said, José, José de Arimatea, you were my first disciple, you must grow spiritually so that you can bring even greater honor to our Church, follow the path you've found, but don't become a stranger.

So he excused me and, in a way, blessed our separation, with him on one side and me on the other, close but taking different paths, and it's something I really have to thank him for today, yes really, because I studied and read and thought and became,
mutatis mutandi
, an enlightened animal, I joined the world of civilized people, my friends, I'm sure you understand, and I read the poetry of Góngora and Quevedo and Juan Ramón Jiménez and Pedro Salinas and especially León Felipe, and I read studies on the moral evolution of Jesus by Harold Iridier, S. J. and the three volumes of his monumental work,
Distant Christ
, and I studied the works of St Augustine and St Thomas Aquinas and also Tertullian, father of the Church, who talks about the truth of the impossible, which I think is really beautiful, and in this way my brain started to put forth shoots and show me that the world was something greater than that city of vacant lots and highways and grocery stores with fronts eroded by the wind from the sea; I also discovered history and learned that what we are today is connected with what we were, that we're in a tunnel and can see the end of it but not the beginning, and there in that dark corridor is the philosophy of Hegel and the Punic Wars and that fat man Balzac writing
Old Goriot
and drinking coffee through the night, anyone would think he was Colombian, and you also see the martyrdom of St Lawrence on the grill and old Michelangelo painting his fresco, and even Muhammad's ascent to heaven, which happened quite close to here, and the birth of Jesus and his crucifixion, which is the most painful event of all, and Abraham raising his knife to kill Isaac before the Big Boss stayed his hand, and who knows how many things more that we don't know, my brothers, like the story of the birth of yours truly, your servant and God's, or the birth of Walter de la Salle, which was also a mystery, and remains one, and that's why it seemed that his destiny had to be so elevated, but anyway, let's take our time, let's fly slowly down to the property in South Beach, but take a little pause first, my friends, just two or three minutes before we return for the final part of the story, which is the best part from the spiritual point of view.

 

 

When I entered the reception room, which was lit by seven-branched candlesticks, a man in a dark suit was talking from a pulpit. I tried to make sure that nobody saw me, but no sooner had I taken a few steps than the speaker looked up, uttered my name, and bade me welcome. A few of the guests turned, so I said, good evening, I'm sorry I'm late, I'm a bit tired and I lost all sense of time, but nobody said a word or smiled or even nodded, so I added, I've been sick…

From a corner, a waiter emerged with a tray full of glasses of champagne and offered me one, but I did not take it, not because I did not need an aperitif, but because I had been hoping for something stronger. The waiter took no notice and handed me a glass, so I took it and raised it, looking at the speaker, and said, it's a pleasure to be here, cheers to everyone. There was a tumultuous toast and the room cheered up again, as if coming back to life after an anxious moment. The speaker continued with his speech, talking about the tradition of the hotel in difficult times, these walls that had seen fighters firing rifles and patriots falling, sacrificing their lives for a cause, he said, and yet, just as it was now, it had also been a symbol of excellence and refinement, however difficult the times, at other times it had been a barracks and had even been partly destroyed, adding, after a theatrical silence, of course I refer to “that bomb,” and when I heard that I was intrigued; only later did I find out that he was referring to the bomb the radical group Irgún had planted in the hotel when it was the headquarters of the British Administration at the time of their mandate in Palestine, an event linked to the name of Menachem Begin, originally considered a terrorist and later prime minister of Israel, that was how it was, it is well known that in the fertile field of History people make astonishing comebacks, as the speaker put it, and he continued talking about these wars of the past, as well as the war outside, which you could breathe in the air and see in the stony, terrified faces of the passers-by, and because of all this, he said, raising his voice, because of what is happening and must be remembered, because of all these select or even simply human things that we must preserve and protect, we have decided to call this conference, whose ultimate aim is to honor memory through memorable lives, those which you, dear delegates, bring us in your notes or in your memories, with no obligation that they should be great lives in the traditional sense, of course not, in no part of the Old Testament are we told that it is obligatory to live great lives or perform heroic deeds, no, gentlemen, man is small and that condition may make him fragile, but it also ennobles him, that is something that all of us here know very well, as we have decided to meet while the world is falling apart, in a chaos of rubble and smoke and ashes, and we are meeting because we believe in the word and in the testimony of life, our most precious gift, and that is why I want to thank you, truly thank you,
shalom
, welcome, the man concluded, raising his arm and making another toast, and the audience rewarded him with applause.

A moment later, a fat man with a nose like a potato approached me and said, you don't know me, my friend, allow me to introduce myself, my name's Leonidas Kosztolányi and I'm a delegate at this conference. He gave a bow, which seemed very appropriate amid all these tapestries and big velvet drapes, and on hearing my name added, yes, yes, I read your résumé, you're the writer, a pleasure to meet you. Then he approached my ear and said, I suspect this champagne is too mild for the complexity of our minds, come, let's go over there, I think they have something more substantial.

At the drinks table, I asked for a double whiskey with two cubes of ice, and when I had it in my hand–I had decided to forget my doctor's warnings for a while–I was ready to listen to Kosztolányi, who asked me if I knew his city, Budapest, to which I replied, yes, I do, and what's more, I said, I consider it one of the most beautiful in the world. In an antique shop in the Jewish ghetto, near the synagogue, I bought a small model plane made of metal, which I still have on my desk, next to my books of poetry. The man responded by striking himself on his stomach, that's good, poets and aviators, of course, Saint-Exupéry and all that, very good, and then he said, you just mentioned an antique shop, which struck a chord with me, my passion is for things of the past, objects created by hands that are no longer with us but are now just ash or earth, anyway, I'm sorry if I'm waxing lyrical, you're a writer and that's why I allow myself such license, my interest is in those things that have a patina on their surface that could be the patina of memory, the air of times gone by, and you must be wondering, listening to me, do objects have a memory? I hasten to say, yes they do, of course they do, you just have to know how to approach them, how to put your hands around a statuette or a piece of porcelain and listen; that is when, suddenly, there appear images, things that were lived, words that echo, souls that are no longer with us, people who once populated this old world and surrounded themselves with beautiful things in order, no doubt, the better to bear the essential tragedy of life, which is its brevity, don't you think so? As I was about to answer he continued speaking–I realized that his questions were rhetorical–and said, you are one of the most interesting people at this conference and I'm going to tell you why, it's because you're new, I mean, new to these biographical debates, many of us have met before on other stages, doubtless less dramatic ones, I'll give you an example, do you see that man over there? he said, pointing to a bald man, that's Edgar Miret Supervielle, the famous bibliophile, you probably saw him on the list, and well, he and I usually meet at antique book fairs, philatelic or antiques trade events; I can tell you he's a thoughtful and highly cultured man, with a keen nose for business and an uncommon ability to spot a lie, but he's a genius, believe me, a real genius. On hearing this I felt a certain unease, realizing the extent to which I was an impostor in this group, so I said, thank you for considering me interesting, I'm here to learn about all of you. Suddenly Kosztolányi, who was clearly not listening, said, come, my friend, I see Supervielle has been left on his own, it'll be a pleasure to introduce you. The man arrived and held out his hand, which I shook firmly; then he repeated my name and said, ah, I know you, you're the writer, the only one among us who writes fiction, isn't that so? a true artist, and I said, well, if we abide by the traditional definition perhaps yes, although I believe that any act of writing has . . . a connection with the shadowy areas where esthetics lie. Kosztolányi got excited and said, very good, shadowy areas! that's what I call speaking, this is the beginning of a true friendship and that deserves another drink, don't you think? of course it does.

With our glasses full, I asked Supervielle if he lived in Israel, and he replied, yes and no, I have a house in the Negev Desert, to the south of Jerusalem, and an apartment in Paris, which is my base for some of my European business, but my family is spread around the world, one son in New York, another in Costa Rica and a daughter in Buenos Aires, can you imagine, you're Colombian, aren't you? Yes, I said, and what does your daughter do in Buenos Aires? and he replied, well, you know, a question of love, she married a colleague of mine, a bibliophile and a treasure hunter, like me, only Argentinean, I should tell you that of course I was opposed to the marriage and the truth is that even today, seven years later, it makes my blood boil, a young woman of twenty-eight with a man of fifty-six, is that normal? I was not sure what to reply, because age is no impediment to anything, so I shrugged, but he said, any age may have its mitigating points but in this case there's an aggravating circumstance, which is that he was my partner in two bookstores, one in Madrid and the other in Buenos Aires, and to tell the truth, I must say it was and still is strange to know that I am working to build a legacy that, on my death, through my daughter, will pass to my partner, do you see? I try not to think about it when I add to the family capital, because I could very easily argue that he ought to contribute more, but in the end, this is all nonsense, the ramblings of a grumpy old man, what matters is my daughter, not that I'm saying she's exactly happy, because marriage, as I'm sure you know, has the same decaying effect on love that heat and the passing of the days has on meat, turning it into a shapeless and foul-smelling mass, that's why I know that she isn't happy, but never mind, that's life and what's done is done, I've been to visit them a couple of times and I was dazzled by Buenos Aires, its bookstores are like the wreck of a sunken liner, I've found some amazing titles, it's a highly cultured country, a country of immigrants, and there are books in every language, it's magnificent, and I said, I agree with you there, Monsieur Supervielle, I also like books, first editions of authors I admire, and I have one or two important ones myself, like
A Poet in New York
, by Federico García Lorca, Editorial Séneca, Mexico City, 1940, with original drawings and an introduction by José Bergamín. As I said this I noticed that Supervielle was changing, a sharp expression came into his eyes and he nervously raised his thumb to the base of his nose and pushed it up, then said, very interesting title, if you don't mind my asking, did you inherit it? was it a gift perhaps? may I know where you obtained it? I'm sorry, my friend, it's a professional deformation, but I hastened to say, it's not a secret, I bought it in a bookstore in Seville for not much money, I don't remember the name, it wasn't a specialized store and it's possible they didn't know its value, I felt a bit guilty when I bought it, I confess, and Supervielle said, you don't have to justify yourself, my dear colleague, as you can imagine, being a bibliophile I don't have that kind of scruple, I think objects, like people or civilizations, have a destiny, or many destinies, given that they're perennial, that's why it's normal that they should pass from hand to hand, just like antiques; whatever is valuable and beautiful ennobles a life, but then must pass to someone else and then someone else until the cycle is complete, don't you think so, my friend? sometimes the cycle ends with fire or at the bottom of the sea or simply turns into something else, into parts of something greater, anyway, Leonidas, do you agree with my appraisal? Kosztolányi seemed to wake up and said, very much so, Edgar, yes indeed, and as the talk is acquiring the muddy color of profound matters, I suggest we have another drink.

As I walked to the drinks table, my eyes met those of an extremely attractive woman with a wonderfully pure face. I saw her for barely a second, as she turned and put a glass down on a tray. Then she stepped back and our eyes met again, for an even shorter time, before she disappeared in the crowd. After that apparition, Kosztolányi and Supervielle seemed to me like two strange gnomes, wandering jugglers created by a lame, blennorrhagic Shakespeare in a waterfront tavern. I stretched my neck, trying to see her, but in vain. I looked at the waiter's tray and, strangely, it was empty. The glass that the woman had left there a moment before was already gone, so I told myself, it must have been a hallucination due to my tiredness or the alcohol I had consumed, I must have had about five glasses already, my God, my doctor would scream blue murder, it must have been that, something that had emerged from my subconscious; I started to imagine that this narrative might well take an abrupt turn toward the fantasy genre, but Kosztolányi and Supervielle were real enough, and when I focused on their faces both were looking at me, questioningly, and I realized that the last words Supervielle had spoken, don't you think so, my friend? had been directed at me, so I said, I'm sorry, I lost the thread, I'm very tired, I've only just recovered from a long illness, could you please repeat what you were saying.

They looked at me in surprise and Supervielle said, we were talking about the conference, of course, and about the dramatic context of this war, unpleasant and inhuman like all wars; we were saying that people are talking in small groups about those spray-painted notices that have started to appear all over the city and the roads with the word
Alqudsville
, which sounds oddly picturesque, you know that the Arabic name for this city is Al-Quds, so the word is a kind of joke, or worse, something that many fear but that nobody here dares to say out loud, don't you think so, my friend? So I said, I'm not sure what to think, I haven't been following current events for quite a while now because of my convalescence, so it's hard for me to express an opinion, but I'd love to hear yours, it would be enlightening. Kosztolányi made as if to speak, raising his index finger like a conductor about to bring in the percussion or the wind section, except that instead of words we heard a loud explosion that shook the building, cut off the electricity, and turned out the lights.

There were cries, people running blindly, and a couple of glasses fell to the floor and shattered, but the master of ceremonies, helped by the flickering light from the candles, jumped onto the platform and begged for calm; then he ordered the musicians to carry on playing, by heart. The party continued and Kosztolányi said, it was a six-inch shell, I can recognize them, I think it's time for another drink, we don't want to lose the momentum, we're at war and war is men's business, so he moved his bottle closer and filled our glasses.

After the conflagration, the second speaker went up to the platform, knocked with his fingers on the microphone and started speaking, thanking the audience for their presence, especially the international delegates, and said, I know this is a strange time to be holding conferences, these fateful years it has befallen us to live through would be more suitable for seclusion and solitude, and that is why we are so grateful to you, the intellect must continue its work in the midst of the most horrifying circumstances, it's always been that way and today more than ever, when the present is growing ever angrier as if to punish us, it is worthwhile looking at the past, turning to memory, which is one of the keys of this international conference, because in memory lies the origin of ourselves and of reality, let us remember that each one of us, or so the novelists tell us, is unique and irreplaceable, but above all it is what each person can tell or remember, what he can tell others, or that other who takes shape in the smooth mirror of writing, and I'm sorry if I speak to you in metaphors, in spite of being a sociologist I have cultivated poetry, where I have found the best of life, its truest consistency, anyway: that thing, so precious and fragile, that is in danger just outside these walls, and not only here but in so many other places, and in so many other wars, that is why we must continue to speak and write and tell stories; I believe in the redeeming power of the word and I know you do too, and that is why I now raise my glass and say, cheers, welcome,
shalom
, and thank you.