What to Do

by Pablo Katchadjian

  10

  I’m furious and indignant because Alberto won’t stop talking about Borges in front of our students at the English university, who are enraptured with all the talk of mirrors, labyrinths, and doubles. Alberto isn’t into these subjects, but knows they’re good for captivating English students. Not only am I annoyed that he’s talking about these things, but also that I, despite being knowledgeable about this subject, can’t do what Alberto does because I refuse to talk about these things. I try to interrupt him by talking about Bloy, but the students scowl, they motion with their hands, they throw old rags and rocks at me … I’m left covered in old rags and rocks and as I’m about to drown, I’m suddenly on a ship that looks like an English university. Alberto is talking to an old woman. I head towards them but I’m blocked by someone who for some reason I know is poor-in-spirit. I escape from him and while looking for Alberto, I find a tavern with eight hundred drinkers. They offer me a little but I say no because I know that the wine tastes like muslin. Alberto is seated and talking with the old woman. I approach them, but again I’m blocked by the poor-in-spirit and he starts crying while showing me a blank piece of paper. I escape from him again and sit down with Alberto and the old woman who turns out to be a waitress. Alberto is talking to her about Borges and I get really mad because he could talk to her about something more interesting. I grab him by the hood of his jacket but he grabs me by mine and we end up crossed and completely immobilized. We suddenly find ourselves falling, in this same position, indefinitely. In the background, we hear an old woman singing some sort of music; due to this sensation, it feels like we’re in paradise.

  11

  Alberto and I are in some type of entrance hall at an English university where there’s a brain competition. What they do is weigh the participant’s brains and the heaviest one wins something that is undefined (you can see it in a glass case but you can’t make it out). Alberto and I compete and lose, although we thought we could win; suddenly, the poor-in-spirit shows up and wins, although everyone knows he’s not intelligent. An argument breaks out when Alberto shows me that he no longer has teeth. I check and I’m also missing mine. When I look behind us, I see a group of people who I know are fascists, although nothing in their appearance indicates this. When I think I’m certain that they have our teeth, Alberto looks at me and I see that he’s a mummy again. I worry and don’t know what to do, but in that moment, with impressive clarity, the following logic presents itself to me:

  – Alberto is a mummy

  – Lenin was mummified

  – Lenin wrote What Is to Be Done?

  – Alberto will tell me what to do

  I’m about to ask him but realize that I can’t because the logic is written on a blackboard and we’re in an English university giving a lecture on Ilya Kabakov’s work, which according to Alberto can be related to The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, although I prefer to relate his work to Bloy’s exegesis or Origen’s voluntary castration (equally). None of the students understand these relationships and that’s because they left their brains back at the competition and because we, more than lecturing, are bragging. So, we ask each other what to do, and Alberto, in contrast to what is written on the blackboard, doesn’t know. In that moment we hear the song of the old woman with muslin in her mouth and suddenly we’re in a forest whose trees look like they’re made of old rags. We hear eight hundred wine drinkers in the background. The wine drinkers sing something that goes really well with the old woman’s melody. The final feeling is that this moment is perfect, although we feel heavyhearted: it could be the lack of teeth or the lack of a brain.

  12

  I feel that my head is too heavy and Alberto tells me not to worry. But Alberto also feels really bad and we decide to go see a doctor. The doctor’s office looks like a tavern and while we ask ourselves how this is possible, we notice something weird about the doctor. Alberto tells me: He’s the poor-in-spirit. And then he tells me that the group of fascists and the poor-in-spirit are behind all of this. When I ask him what he means by “all of this,” Alberto tells me: I’m referring to the disaster of all of this. I understand him perfectly and although it’s clear that I understand, it’s not exactly clear what it is that I understand. I’m trying to explain this to myself when an old woman approaches us, and her coming closer makes us happy and alleviates our worries. Right after, we notice that the old woman doesn’t need a rational structure to understand us and that this is what does us so much good: we feel understood. But in that moment, I discover that the old woman is simultaneously the waitress; I ask Alberto if he notices this and he says yes. This cuts suddenly and now Alberto wants to give his nephew a broom he’s holding. Then there’s another cut and Alberto wants to take his black boots to the cobbler. I get anxious because I feel that Alberto is living these situations differently from me. I try to convince him that his boots are fine and that we’re in danger, but Alberto doesn’t notice anything: he keeps insisting with the broom and with his boots, but alternately, that’s to say, he goes from one thing to the other though the two are unrelated between themselves: when he talks about the broom he forgets the boots and when he talks about the boots he forgets the broom. To save him, I grab him by the hood of his jacket and take him out of there. Then suddenly we’re in a forest so clear that Alberto understands, by contrast, the danger we were in before. The contrast, on the other hand, makes me forget everything. We feel very light and think about Kovalevskaya’s and Lenin’s brains together, that’s to say, mathematics and revolution; this is the subject that we explain when we’re suddenly in an English university; the lecture begins with a quote from Simone Weil that Alberto writes on the board: “Unless one has exercised one’s mind seriously at the gymnastic of mathematics one is incapable of precise thought, which amounts to saying that one is good for nothing.”

  13

  We’re in a classroom in an English university. Through the window, I see that it’s snowing and that it’s possible that the snow will bury us; to avoid thinking about this danger and to prevent the students from noticing, I talk about Saint Isidore while Alberto explains issues with the translation of Saint Jerome’s Bible. But suddenly, I want to relate everything to Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread and this enrages Alberto; he tells me: We’re already bragging. A student stands up and asks why the anarchists placed bombs in restaurants. Alberto doesn’t know what to tell him and gets anxious. I grab him by the hood of his jacket and suddenly we’re in a restroom in a nightclub. It’s the women’s restroom. It seems very calm and, in that moment, we notice that the nightclub is empty because it’s three in the afternoon. Time passes very slowly until, just when we’re about to get bored, we’re suddenly in the entrance hall of an English university. There are a lot of people, and I get the feeling that they point at us and make remarks. I ask Alberto and he says that he perceives the same thing. I hear whispers behind us and realize that those who are talking don’t know that we can hear what they’re saying because what allows us to hear everything is the acuity of our ears. Regrettably, we notice that our pockets are full of cold butter and we have to leave for fear of the heat. We look back and see that they’re weighing the brains of five immigrants. They try to draw conclusions but they’re arguing too much; finally, they start punching each other. In the distance, observing the fight and taking notes on everything, is the poor-in-spirit with two fascists. When we see them talk, we see that their teeth are blackened. We’re talking about all of this when suddenly we’re back in an English university; we dedicate the entire lecture to explaining that the only thing that distinguishes men from animals is that the former are reserved in showing their teeth. We explain: The instructions, for men, are to use their teeth but keep them hidden; in animals, to use and show them whenever necessary (in men it’s never necessary to show them beyond what is expected by the rituals made to simultaneously confront and mock animals). We stop explaining because we notice that the students don’t understand anything.

  14


  I’m with Alberto and we feel that our heads are shrinking; he asks me: What are we going to do with our hands when we no longer have heads? I respond, with difficulty because my jaw is tightening, that I don’t know. In that moment we feel something like an equilibrium in the atmosphere, but still our heads keep shrinking. Alberto says: This is what I call balanced terror. He tells me it’s thrilling, that’s to say, that it’s simultaneously good and bad. I correct him: You mean to say positive and negative. In response, he scowls and motions with his hand. Suddenly, the problem with our heads goes away and we’re in a bank. Alberto wants to exchange the broom in his hand for a roll of dollars. The girl tells him he can’t, but Alberto insists. In that moment, I look at the people in the bank. There are a few tourists, a poor-in-spirit, some old women, some immigrants, and some fascists. For some reason, I’m certain that some of them are terrorists. First I suspect the tourists; then the immigrants; then the old women; then the fascists; then the poor-in-spirit. But in that moment, I’m certain of one more thing: we ourselves are terrorists, although it’s not because we do something terroristic, because neither we nor the others are doing anything. I ask Alberto if he feels like a terrorist and he tells me yes. I feel the same way. I ask the tourists and they tell me they do too; I ask the immigrants and they tell me that they think they do as well; I ask the old women and in response they show me the palms of their hands; the fascists don’t answer and close their eyes and the poor-in-spirit tells me that he doesn’t know and covers his ears. We’re all afraid of ourselves. What could we come to do? We don’t know and that’s the problem: what would we be capable of? I ask Alberto what would we be capable of and he tells me that he doesn’t know and that he also doesn’t know what to do with his hands. We relax when we’re suddenly in a plaza and there’s an old man who is simultaneously a pigeon. His wings are broken and Alberto heals him with his hands. Alberto tells me: I use my hands for this. I lift my thumb to show approval, but Alberto doesn’t notice because he’s busy. When I decide to try and help him, the old man is already flying. The sky becomes very luminous and suddenly we’re in an English university. I suggest we talk about the apocryphal correspondence between Seneca and Paul the Apostle, but Alberto, to avoid bragging, wants to talk about plumbing, about the principle of water valves. We come to an agreement and decide to analyze the apocryphal correspondence between Seneca and Paul the Apostle according to the logic of water valves. The students are very happy and applaud so much that they can’t hear us.

  15

  Alberto and I are in an English university giving a lecture, but for some reason we can’t bear the situation any longer and leave. There happens to be a bridge outside the classroom. It’s very windy, so windy that my scarf blows away and Alberto loses the broom that he had in his hand and was planning on giving to his nephew. Regardless, we remain standing in the middle of the bridge as if we’re waiting for something important. And a lot happens, but it’s not clear what happens nor whether anything really happens. For example, I’m wearing my scarf again and Alberto has the broom back in his hand. So then: had these things really been lost? That, we cannot know. Suddenly we’re in an English university explaining this, which Alberto decides to call a paradox, although I don’t agree. But we can’t finish the explanation because suddenly we’re back on the bridge and our things blow away again, but this time, compared to last time, the fact that our things have blown away makes my heart feel heavy. I ask Alberto if the same thing is happening to him and he tells me yes. In that moment, we understand that we have had this weight even before we began to feel it and that this same weight is what made us unable to bear the English university any longer. But Alberto comes up with another solution: weigh the weight. We’re talking about this when suddenly we’re in an English university: of healing with that which is harmful; of poisoning poison; that’s to say, of Hippocrates against Galen.

  16

  We’re relating Juvenal and Persius to Bloy. The relationship is so obvious that the students in the English university don’t understand it. One of them, who is eight feet tall, asks in a threatening tone: Those contents are irrational? Neither Alberto nor I understand the question, but from somewhere inside of me, a voice tells him yes, that the contents are irrational because they emerge from who knows where (or because it’s not known from where they emerge), but that the system of contents is the only rational thing that exists and that we should trust in that. The student, now with a double voice, asks: The system is truly rational? We still don’t understand the question, but I answer him again in a voice that’s as if it weren’t mine, or at least I feel that it’s not mine: Yes, the system is truly rational, but don’t get confused: the idea of the system is irrational and its origin is also irrational; what is rational, truly rational, is its function and its logic. The student agrees and leaves. Everyone follows him out. Alberto and I are left sitting there, behind a desk, and Alberto asks: From where did you pull all those stupid things you said? I respond that I didn’t say them, that they came out of me like that from somewhere and that the words themselves were irrational because, as much as they had their logic, we didn’t know their origin. In that moment, on the ship (because now we know that we’re on a ship and that we’ve always been on a ship: it’s a certainty), we hear beautiful music coming from two places: from eight hundred wine drinkers and from one old woman. When we think about the drinkers, we’re in a tavern; when we think about the old woman, we’re in a forest: it all depends on where we place our attention. What we don’t understand is how this is even possible if both types of music are emitted simultaneously, that’s to say, if the music is a perfect blend of both places, of the forest and the tavern. When we understand this, we’re suddenly explaining it in an English university: it was eight hundred old women producing this music. Alberto, to avoid enraging the students, tells them that it’s all a poetic construction.

  17

  Alberto feels like getting up from the floor (he’s on the floor) and I tell him that it won’t be good for him. I’m also on the floor and try to get up, but can’t. Then, we’re suddenly in an English university and we teach. Then we run through a forest. Then we’re in a tavern with eight hundred wine drinkers. Then in a plaza where there’s an old man who is also a pigeon. Alberto tries fixing his broken wings but the old man takes off flying. Then we find out that his wings weren’t broken, although watching him fly there are no doubts that his wings are completely broken and that with each beating of his wings another bone breaks. Nevertheless, the old man keeps flying just fine. As part of the background, as if coming from the sky, we hear an old woman singing music. The music moves us and makes us regret our situation.

  18

  We’re in a classroom in an English university explaining a new relationship that we invented between Paul the Anchorite, Paul the Apostle, and Kleist. Alberto tries to show that the Marquise from The Marquise of O … was impregnated by a saint, and supports his argument with some apocryphal proverbs by Paul the Apostle. But soon I notice that my head is getting bigger and that I simultaneously have cold butter in my pockets. I begin to feel anxious and want to go outside to get fresh air, but the size of my head prevents me from passing through the door. For a moment, I’m inside and outside simultaneously; but this doesn’t last long and next I’m only inside. Curiously, no one notices; afterwards I find out (from what they say) that to them my head is fine so they don’t have anything to notice. But as much as they think that, in that moment, I’m certain that my head is increasing in size and know that this represents a danger to me and everyone else. I try discussing this with Alberto but he scowls and motions for me to keep quiet. Suddenly we’re in a tavern and my head keeps growing. Alberto keeps not noticing, but the drinkers are very anxious because they know there’s a latent danger. A couple of them go outside to vomit in a black courtyard. I take advantage of this moment of confusion to ask Alberto to take a good look at my head. We’re in the middle of that when suddenly the foc
us shifts from my head to the smell of old rags. That’s to say, that now no one, not even I, myself, thinks about the size of my head. The smell of old rags makes us nauseous, and everything continues in a state of seemingly endless nausea, like a continuous and suspended retching.