What to Do

by Pablo Katchadjian

  29

  We find ourselves with a student who wants to tell us something; we tell him to go ahead but he hesitates; a lot of time passes until he feels encouraged and says: War is the chicanery of being anxious. In that moment, Alberto and I feel that this phrase is our fault. Then we’re in a tavern with eight hundred drinkers who toast looking at us: it’s a toast in our honor. One of them stands up and, winking at us, shouts: We’re terrorists because we don’t know what to do. Hurried, we go out to a black courtyard and we’re suddenly on a ship that is simultaneously a bridge. Everything’s black except an island seen in the distance. Alberto tells me: That island is twenty yards away. I tell him that it’s at least a mile away, but he insists it’s very close. He wants to jump off and swim to the island, but I propose something else: Let’s use the ship, which is also a bridge. Alberto doesn’t want to wait and says he’s going to swim to the island. He jumps into the water and I don’t know whether I should follow him or not. Then suddenly we’re in a room destroying sculptures; everything seems to be going well, but, doing this, I don’t feel any emotion; and yet I’m certain that such an act could be emotional. Alberto accuses me of not wanting to have a good time. We hear, through the broken roof, an old woman singing with muslin in her mouth; in the background, a chorus of eight hundred drinkers sings: We agree / war is all you see / this terror. The melody of the old woman is beautiful and subdued; it goes: In the distance / there’s a space of vagrance / a paradise / for the tired. Above the eight hundred drinkers and the old woman, we see an old man who is a pigeon flying despite having broken wings. Alberto tells me: And yet, he’s flying. But the old man looks like he’s about to fall at any moment.

  30

  Alberto and I are on a ship trying to find an old psychic who charges too much. We find her, we talk with her and she tells us: You’re both going to an island. We ask how much we owe her and she gives us a price that’s lower than expected. We pay and thank her. When we leave, we discover that the old woman with whom we were talking wasn’t the one we were looking for, but rather another one who doesn’t charge much and has a bad reputation. Suddenly we’re on a different ship than the one we were on before. Alberto looks at me and says: We’re in an English university. I say that this is impossible although I see a classroom and some students waiting. We don’t know whether we should go in or not; Alberto tells me: I don’t know what we could come to talk about. When we look closely at the students, we notice that there are eight hundred of them; we look even closer and notice that they’re in a tavern and that they’re drinkers. I try telling Alberto something but he scowls and motions for me to keep quiet. Suddenly we’re in a black room; in front of us there’s a baby with a distinctly medieval cow’s head; behind him, five sweaty girls. The baby says: Fascists say it’s better to not do anything so that afterwards everything can be done; and adds: But I don’t say this. The girls shout excitedly and take the baby away and, in that moment, we notice that they are old women.

  31

  Suddenly we’re on a ship and there’s an island in the distance. Alberto tells me: It’s not so far away. He looks like he’s willing to jump. I try convincing him that we should use the ship as a bridge to get to the island, but Alberto tells me that it would take too long. And even though it’s impossible to know whether this would or wouldn’t take long, I’m certain he’s right. Alberto throws himself into the water and I try following him but can’t. I say: I can’t jump. There is suddenly a poor-in-spirit and he replies: It’s fine, that’s what it’s for. What is? I ask. He says: The book you’re reading. I look and see that I have a book in my hand and that I’d never be able to jump with a book in my hand. Suddenly we find ourselves in a black room. The floor moves and Alberto, pointing at something, tells me: The floor is rotten. I look up and see that someone is taking notes on everything we do. He’s writing down that the floor is rotten. Behind him, through a hole in the ceiling, we see an old man who is a pigeon flying just fine with completely broken wings. Alberto says: His wings are broken and yet he’s flying: he doesn’t know it but he does it. I ask him to explain why he says “and yet” and why he says “he doesn’t know it,” but before Alberto responds, we’re suddenly sitting on a bench. Alberto removes a hat that he has on and I do the same. When I look at his cap, I notice the name Alberto is written on the inside. Mine also has my name, and Alberto says: I feel as if we’ve known each other since long ago. This comment makes such little sense that everything darkens as if the light were covered by an old rag.

  32

  Alberto is in the water and I’m on a ship. It looks like Alberto has just jumped off. He tells me: We’re going to the island, everything’s there. But I can’t jump. A poor-in-spirit who’s in front of me tells a failure: He has a book in his hand; he won’t be able to jump like that. Suddenly there’s an old woman and she tells me: Give me that book. I reply that I can’t, that I need it. The old woman, very kindly, asks me why. I respond: This is what it’s for. But in that moment, surrounded by all of them, I become suspicious of the excessive amount of help. I’m at war, I tell myself: I shouldn’t believe anyone. I look down and see Alberto; he’s playing and floating on his back. He says to me: Let’s go to the island, everything’s there. I don’t know what to do. Suddenly there’s a group of eight-foot-tall students and they want to take the book away, supposedly to help me; suddenly, the image of a room with sculptures appears before me, and as a result of that lesson, I throw the book before they take it away. The ones who helped me, upon seeing me about to jump, try to stop me: they grab me by my head and hands. In that moment, I realize that they couldn’t care less about the book. With a lot of effort, I’m able to jump; upon falling, I feel that I’m drowning and this feeling lasts a long time. The scene repeats itself, again and again, the jump and then the drowning, until Alberto and I suddenly find ourselves in a black tavern with eight hundred drinkers singing: War, in the past / was all we had / in this life / we agree / war is all you see. Alberto has a broom in his hand and wants to sell it. He offers it to one of the drinkers; the drinker, still singing, but simultaneously talking to us, says: I like it, I’ll buy it. Now Alberto has a stack of bills in his hand and wants to buy a house in the countryside. For some reason, I’m certain such a purchase would end in disaster. I tell Alberto: No, don’t buy. Alberto scowls and motions for me to keep quiet, and yet he throws the money on the floor and kicks it. Then we’re on a ship and Alberto wants to jump to an island that’s in front of us; he tells me: Everything’s on that island. I suggest we use the ship like a bridge, but he says no and jumps into the water. I remain above, very relaxed, reading a book.

  33

  I’m with Alberto and we’re on a ship trying to read a book between the two of us, but we can’t because there are eight hundred drinkers on the deck drinking wine that smells like old rags and singing: War to me / is terrifying / and that’s why I’m anxious. The melody of what they’re singing is so lively that Alberto and I join them, although, for some reason, we only pretend to sing: we stand among them and move our mouths. Everything goes on like this until one of them notices that we aren’t really singing and shouts: These ones aren’t singing. Alberto looks at me and says: It’s time to go to the island. What island? I ask. He points in the far distance and says: Everything’s there. And without saying anything else, Alberto jumps off the ship. I hesitate: I see Alberto below, in the water, waiting for me, and the drinkers, above, threatening me with their fists although they don’t look like they’ve decided to harm me. This situation lasts a long time until we’re suddenly in a black tavern. There are eight hundred drinkers drinking and toasting to us while shouting: We toast to them! We go along with them and together we all start singing something like the following: A terrorist / doubts his own sight / but I enjoy what I see / because I don’t believe / that such a thing even exists. And we continue like this for a long time, feeling very lively.

  34

  I’m with Alberto and I don’t know what�
�s going on. We’re there and not there simultaneously or alternately: when we’re there, the place is a ship, although not too clearly, and the ship moves and advances in the opposite direction of an island that Alberto points to while his eyes fill with tears; when we aren’t there, it’s not clear why, but we feel darkness; and when we’re in both places simultaneously, it’s a layering without conflict, between being and not being: it’s a suspension of everything. In this suspension, Alberto thinks to enter an island that can’t be seen. Suddenly we’re on an island and for some reason can’t open our eyes, although I’m certain that this is the place we’ve been searching for.

  35

  Alberto says so many things so quickly that I don’t understand him. I know that he’s talking about an island where, so he says, everything can be found. The more time passes, the more I find Alberto confusing. The place we’re in seems to be a dark and empty tavern. At one particular moment, I understand Alberto to say: One enters the island through darkness, in suspension. I respond in a serious tone: When I understand, I understand less; I prefer the incomprehensible murmur. Alberto laughs. Flowers fall from the ceiling and, upon hitting the floor, make an unpleasant sound. I grab one (although I feel like I’m grabbing more than a hundred) and smell it: it’s rotten. Alberto takes it away from me and uses it to clean his black boots. But the more he cleans them, the dirtier they get. I tell him: Alberto, those boots are disgusting. Suddenly we find ourselves in a bank and Alberto wants to sell the broom in his hand; he says to me: I was thinking of giving it to my nephew, but maybe it’s better to sell it and buy new boots. We proceed to a situation in which Alberto has already sold the broom and bought the black boots he’s wearing. I look at them and notice one heel is much higher than the other; they’re poorly made. I tell Alberto that he’s walking as if he’s lame, but he scowls and motions for me to keep quiet. I don’t know how, but afterwards we’re suddenly on a ship; it’s already night and for some reason we’re sad. Alberto points to an island in the distance; he tells me: Everything’s on that island, right? I tell him yes, but I try to be honest and tell myself that I don’t know. Then I tell Alberto that I don’t know and he says that he’s already realized this.

  36

  Alberto and I are in an English university, strolling through a park and admiring the architecture; Alberto tells me: Look at that gothic dome. Four very tall students approach us and say: We want to learn from you. We respond that we have nothing to teach, but they insist: We want to hear about Bloy. Somehow, we’re suddenly in a tavern and there’s an old woman on a stage singing as if she has muslin in her mouth. The song goes: During war / my lullaby will terrify / anyone who smiles for more than two minutes. But the song is of such sweetness that we begin to rise and arrive, no one knows how, at an English university. Three students approach us; they’re eight feet tall and look dangerous. Alberto scowls, makes a motion with his hand, and whispers in my ear: They’re fascists. We want to escape, but our legs are so heavy and moving is so difficult that we can’t and they capture and lift us up in the air. This scene repeats itself again and again (it’s not clear how many times, but it has the effect of an obligatory and prolonged repetition): we try escaping, but our legs move with such heaviness that they always capture us. This repetition is distressing above all because there’s no reason that we shouldn’t be able to escape. Alberto tells me: It’s this that we have to fulfill. I respond: The book (I have one in my hand) that I’m reading is for this. And in that moment we’re suddenly in a trench full of soldiers singing a terrible song. A soldier approaches us and says: We’re all very anxious. Alberto, with a smile, responds: Of course, because we’re at war. The soldier remains thinking; after some time he tells us: We’re very anxious not because we’re at war, but rather we’re at war because we’re anxious. I intervene and say: No, the two things are the same: war is to be anxious. The soldiers stop doing whatever they were doing and start laughing at what I just said, but I don’t feel that they’re mocking me, but rather that they understand that what I said is a joke. I laugh with them and this moment of communal joy lasts until suddenly Alberto and I are ordering breakfast in a bar. When the waitress arrives with our food, we try looking at her cleavage, but can’t see anything because in its depth everything seems to be made of old rags.

  37

  It’s dark, it’s raining and there’s a cold wind that makes us shiver. Alberto says: I don’t complain about that which is strange. And yet, this situation isn’t strange: there’s wind and rain and we’re having a really bad time. This lasts for a while until suddenly there’s a poor-in-spirit who tells us: I want to hear you talk about books, I want you to tell me I’m crazy. But we don’t know anything, we can’t talk about any book. The poor-in-spirit insists: Talk to me about Bloy, of Paul the Apostle, of Paul the Anchorite, the first Christian anchorite, the one who found his path in solitude. We don’t know what to tell him and we feel that the rain is melting our bones (this feeling isn’t very clear, but it’s a feeling like this one). Now we’re in a cave, sheltered from the rain that can be heard outside. There is a poor-in-spirit next to us, he says: Talk to me of the beautiful appearance, of the dryness of the cave, of the path that Paul the Anchorite found. But we really don’t know who Paul the Anchorite is and respond: The book you’re reading is for that. The poor-in-spirit looks at the book he’s holding, he reads for a while and, with a perplexed expression, says: I don’t complain about that which is strange, but let me clarify: one is from June 29th, the other from January 15th. Perplexed, we stare at him and he adds: I’m referring to the calendar of saints. Then there’s an emptiness that lasts until we’re suddenly in a classroom in an English university in front of a group of fascists. We’re drenched and don’t know what to talk about. One of the students raises his hand and asks for an explanation. What do you want to know? I ask. I don’t want to know, he says: I only want you to talk about books, for you to tell me that I’m crazy. The situation is so tense that we leave through some type of hole. Suddenly we’re in a black and damp tavern. We feel as if we’re made of old rags.

  38

  Alberto looks at me and, pointing at a dark spot, says: I don’t know where we should go. I look at the dark spot and see that we have to choose between three paths. Alberto tells me: This is an excessive situation. I tell him I agree, that everything could have been made better, that choosing between paths is unfortunate. In any case we hesitate over what to do. Suddenly there’s a conformist (we’re certain that he’s simultaneously a conformist and a poor-in-spirit) who says: The path you have to choose is this one. We look at the one he points out: there is no difference between that path and the other two. We ask him why that path would be more convenient than the others, but only to see what he says, because we don’t trust him. He says something incomprehensible and leaves. Alberto says to me: If what he says is incomprehensible, it’s because he just said whatever. I agree, but add: In any case, we don’t know which path to take. Alberto remains contemplative; after some time like this, he tells me: We have to devise a plan of action. I tell him that we can’t, that it would be impossible to devise a plan originating from the objective situation because we don’t know its rules. But Alberto argues: Yes, it must be possible, because the system of contents is rational, and we should devise a plan based on that same system. What Alberto says is true, but I argue in order to provoke him: The system of contents doesn’t answer to our needs, it follows its own logic, without taking us into account; like this, it’s not possible to devise a plan. We stay silent without knowing what to do, and this lasts until we’re suddenly in a trench. Alberto is worried because his black boots are getting muddy. A soldier approaches us and, with a bad attitude, says: You see / war is terrifying. Suddenly we find ourselves in a spring and Alberto takes advantage of this to clean his black boots. Then suddenly we’re in an auto-repair shop; then in a hair salon; then suddenly back in a trench. Alberto tells me: I’d like to be still for a while. But the movement is inevitabl
e and we keep passing from one place to another until I realize what’s happening: we pass so quickly from one place to another that the places start blending into each other. Then we’re in a hair salon but there’s someone fixing a car and someone else is a muddy soldier in a trench. Everything starts getting worse once there are dead soldiers in the hair salon and sunken cars in the spring and we see that everyone is drinking wine that tastes like rags in the English university. An old woman with muslin in her mouth sings a melody that touches us; it goes: What moves / is a soldier / and by his side / we’re all waiting for news / of whether it’s possible / to tell us who it is we’re waiting for / because a lot of time has passed / and we’re more and more tired. In that moment, we remain quiet and realize that we’re exhausted. Finally, it’s as if we fell asleep, although it’s obvious that we’re awake.

  39

  We’re in an English university giving a lecture on constellations, but not on constellations that actually exist, but rather on the concept of constellation. Alberto says: We connect these points and the result is ours, but the points were already there. The students don’t understand. I insist: The points couldn’t have been connected without our intervention and we decide which point to connect with another; because of this, the result, that’s to say, the constellation, is a creation of ours built upon something previously present; it can even be said that one found a constellation. But the students still don’t understand anything. One of them stands up: he’s eight feet tall. He wants to ask a question; a little scared, we tell him to go ahead. He tells us: You both talk garbage, you lie, you don’t know what you’re saying, you treat us like idiots, you think you’re … We’re in a spring; Alberto, as he cleans his black boots, says: I feel as though this place is truly pleasant. I tell him that I feel the same way, and to confirm this I bend down and drink a little water. The water is tasty and that makes me hesitate and ask: Why does the water have a flavor, of what? Alberto tastes the water and tells me: It tastes like old rags. I taste it again and tell him he’s right. And yet, this time the taste of old rags isn’t unpleasant and remains as a background while we pass from one place to another without being able to stop.