What to Do

by Pablo Katchadjian

  40

  Alberto and I are strolling across a bridge when a man with empty eye sockets, that’s to say, without eyeballs, approaches us. He’s blind, says Alberto. The man hears us, gets closer and says: And yet, I see. And starts saying things like: Here three sticks, there an eagle, that over there’s green, and so on. But Alberto stops him and says: You talk to me of things that I see, but that doesn’t mean you can see; to prove that, speak of things I can’t see. The man, then, like someone found cheating, makes a hand motion and leaves. Suddenly we find ourselves in an English university that’s simultaneously a tavern. There are eight hundred students drinking wine that tastes like rags (not only are we certain that it tastes like that, but, moreover, it smells like it). One of the students stands up and shouts: They came in! But the shout has no effect because we act as if we’re alone. The waitress comes to take our order and we try looking at her cleavage, but don’t see anything. Alberto tells me: Its depth is made of old rag. I respond yes, but that if it’s truly an old rag we should be able to smell it, and since the atmosphere smells like old rags, we’ll never know the truth. Alberto, then, feels sorry that we’re condemned to perceive everything through smell; he says to me: We’re like dogs. I tell him something that neither he nor I understand and so I probably didn’t say anything.

  41

  We’re on a ship. I look to the right and see a cave; Alberto asks: Why don’t you look to the left? I do as he says and see an island full of plants and birds. A music that’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant radiates from the island. I tell Alberto: That music is very different. Alberto doesn’t understand me and I can’t explain myself. Then we’re in a tavern full of young women drinking wine. Among them, there’s an old woman standing on a table singing a melody that moves us deeply. For some reason, the old woman’s legs are young and beautiful. I want to point her legs out to Alberto, but can’t find him. I inspect the place with my eyes (at least this is what it feels like) and see him: he’s by the table in a state of ecstasy before the old woman’s legs. The lyrics of the melody are: Someone activates / the motor of this moment / but I feel / that what happens is much too little. Suddenly we’re in a forest in which all the trees alternately look like legs and wood, and we’re escaping from something that, even though we don’t know what it is, we do know the effect it can have on us.

  42

  We try to give a lecture in an English university, but the only thing we manage to do is repeat: It’s that we’re fascinated with the quartets by Shost …, Shost … But we can never remember his name. A student stands up and asks us to explain what is so fascinating about the quartets by Shost … We don’t know; or we do, because we’re certain that we know why they’re fascinating, but we can’t explain it; and the second certainty is that if we could remember his name we could explain this fascination. The student, impatient, shouts: You aren’t professors! In that moment we’re suddenly in a very pleasant place, full of plants, with mountains in the background and a stream. Alberto says: This is what is commonly called beautiful scenery. The place is made to be enjoyed, but I don’t feel comfortable. I ask Alberto if he feels the same way and he says yes; and adds: It’s because this place seems to be made for us, for us to be fine in, but it doesn’t take into account what we need. I look at the place closely and think Alberto is right, although I tell him: And yet, it produces happiness to think that someone made this for and because of us. Alberto agrees and admits that our feeling uncomfortable is irrational. Some time passes and Alberto says to me: I feel that we could be destroyed by this scenery. Afterwards, as an irrational consequence of our irrational feelings, we break everything around us so that we don’t end up destroyed ourselves. Upon destroying everything, we regret it and don’t understand what we did. Alberto tells me: We didn’t plan this destruction so we shouldn’t even be capable of regret. Then suddenly we’re on a ship; in the distance there’s an island.

  43

  I’m with Alberto and we’re slumped on a bench in a plaza. We see how an old man who is a pigeon and has completely broken wings flies. Alberto says: And yet, he flies. As if in response to Alberto’s words, in that very moment, the old man begins a trajectory towards the floor, and just before he hits it, we’re in a toy store discussing Bloy. Alberto tells me: If we talk a lot maybe they’ll give us that broom. The broom is lovely and shines. It’s made of gold, says the naked sales assistant. Alberto responds: I want it for my nephew. In that moment, I realize that Alberto doesn’t know that the sales assistant is naked. I try pointing this out but he scowls and motions for me to keep quiet. Then I realize that even though the sales assistant is very pretty, she has old woman legs; and not only this: she’s also wearing black boots. Alberto insults her, pointing at the black boots. Then we’re suddenly in a trench. A soldier approaches us and says: This is a peaceful place. Then we see that the soldiers have women’s legs and that, while they shoot with their arms, they dance with their legs. On a level deeper than the trench, almost in the center, there’s an old woman singing a double song: it’s good for war and good for dancing. They’re two superimposed songs that sound great together, says a soldier who has an old rag in his hand with which he tries, unsuccessfully, to clean the mud walls. The song is divided into two parts; the first goes: Whoever shoots / knows what it’s worth; the second part: He who dances / does the rebirth. There is a moment of darkness that lasts until somehow we’re suddenly in a spring. I bend down to drink the water and notice that it’s tasty because it’s putrid.

  44

  Alberto keeps repeating that his name is Alfredo, and I accept this as if it were true, without even asking myself why he’s trying to convince me of something that’s a fact. But perhaps because deep inside I know that his name is a different one (although I accept the new one as if it were the original), I start doubting what Alberto tells me and this feeling of solitude lasts until we’re suddenly in a toy store. Alberto (now with his own name) wants to exchange a gold broom for something else, but he doesn’t find anything he likes. We make a mess searching for something; after some time, the disarray is such that we can’t move. Suddenly we find ourselves in the same place but tidy and we don’t feel like touching anything; through a window we see an island, and in the background we hear an old woman (we don’t see her but we’re certain it’s an old woman, although her voice sounds young) singing a song with lyrics composed of three lines that go: If I look but don’t touch / everything shines / understand this as advice. The melody of the song is so beautiful that we remain in a very delightful state of suspension (although we can’t help feeling that we’re about to fall at any moment).

  45

  Alberto and I are sitting on a bench in a plaza and we don’t know what to do, and although the landscape doesn’t include the possibility, we see an island in the distance and feel like being there but don’t ask ourselves how it’s even possible to see an island from a bench in a plaza. Then Alberto says: That island is there, but it’s as if it weren’t. Then we’re suddenly in a tavern; there are eight hundred drinkers drinking wine that tastes like rags (the taste of rag is a certainty because we smell it in the air). Alberto says: I’d like to tell the drinkers that their wine tastes like rags; I respond: I’d like to use all of this money (we know that we have a lot of money) to buy better wine and give it to the drinkers. We feel like doing a lot of things, but the possibility of doing them wrong keeps us from moving. In the middle of the tavern there’s an old woman singing; the melody is terrible, and the lyrics go: Even though almost everything turns out wrong, always / the possibility of coincidentally doing something right / makes it worth the effort to move. Although I already understand, Alberto explains: That old woman says that it doesn’t matter what one does because it’s beyond our control whether or not something turns out right. I respond: No, it doesn’t matter what one does, because one only has to do what one wants to do; there’s nothing else that justifies an action; the possibility of something turning out right or wrong is i
rrelevant to the action itself. So then we decide to do what we want. Alberto stands on a table and sings: Your wine / dear drinkers / tastes like an old rag … Immediately the atmosphere becomes tense. The drinkers, anxious, look at their wine with disgust. Many of them vomit. I know that now is the time to buy better wine and give it to them, but I can’t move because I think that they won’t want it, that they won’t like it, or that they’ll misinterpret my generosity (for example, as contempt). The old woman whispers in my ear: The most likely outcome is that everything turns out wrong, but it can always turn out right, and you mean well. In that moment, I feel full of energy, I see a flag flapping on the door that says Che Guevara, and so I buy wine with the money in my pocket (it’s not clear how I do this, but suddenly the purchased wine is at my side) and pass it around. Everything seems to go well, but the drinkers get angry anyway and, even though they like the wine, insult us. The old woman tells me: The catch in all of this is that things turn out wrong but never because of what one suspects. All of a sudden we’re on a bench in a plaza talking to an old woman with beautiful legs; the woman puts her head between our heads and her mouth between our ears and says: You can do whatever you want, there’s no responsibility or freedom. What I’m certain of in that moment is that one would be truly free if one could predict the effects of one’s actions. I tell Alberto this, but he scowls and motions for me to keep quiet.

  46

  Alberto and I are on a bench in a plaza arguing over whether it’s important to do what one wants or if that’s irrelevant because, in any case, one can never know where one went wrong, nor how what one does will turn out. Suddenly we find ourselves on a ship; there’s an island in the distance, and on the island there are plants and birds. Alberto tells me that he wants to go there, that over there is where everything we need is, and he throws himself into the water. Suddenly we’re in a toy store; Alberto talks about a dead person unknown equally by him as well as the sales assistant and myself. According to him, the dead person is a soldier, and if he was a soldier it means, says Alberto, that we’re at war, because soldiers die at war. In that moment, the sales assistant tells us: That must be why I’ve been so anxious. We try explaining to her that it’s not that she’s anxious because we’re at war but rather that war itself is a state of anxiety; but she doesn’t understand, perhaps because we aren’t convinced of what we say and stutter badly, and so she tells us with a voice that seems to come from somewhere else: If war were that I would not have a problem accepting it. And right at that moment we notice that the sales assistant is poor-in-spirit. Afterwards we’re in a trench; there we see a soldier in his underwear sing something about the homosexuality of war; it goes: War is about men fighting each other / that’s why / war is not serious. We don’t understand him and when we ask him to explain, we see that he is an old woman with beautiful legs. In that moment the desire produced by the sight of those legs restricts our free will. The old woman gets on top of a table and the place turns into a sunken tavern, that’s to say, an entire tavern, with all of the details, but stuck in a trench (at least that’s how the atmosphere feels). The old woman sings: To you, my friends / I’d give what I’ve got / these legs / that bring me there before things happen / this house / and this way of hugging each other / and if I don’t insist / it’s because each one of you will die soon. The old woman’s last words blacken the atmosphere, although happy giggling can be heard from the soldiers; when the light returns, we can’t see anything until we’re suddenly in an English university walking and talking between ourselves as the night falls in a way that’s a little abrupt and unexpected.

  47

  I’m with Alberto and we’re trying to talk to a man without eyes about our surroundings, although it’s very hard to identify the objects. This lasts for a while until we’re suddenly in front of a mirror that reflects us in a horrifying way: Alberto is a mummy and my head is growing. In the mirror, we see that there are eight hundred drinkers and an old woman behind us. When we turn around to look at them directly, they’re no longer there, but upon looking into the mirror again we notice that they’re still there and that our image is now that of us without any deformations. So then Alberto tells me: They’re in the mirror and we’re just as much here as there. And yet, I hesitate and ask: We’re there and here or only here and that’s our reflection, as would be normal? Alberto laughs and responds: If they’re there and not here it’s because that’s a place and not only an image. And right at that moment we see an island in the depth of the mirror that isn’t on our side. I tell Alberto: We should be able to go to that side. The old woman, from the mirror, responds: You can’t, because you two are there and have an image here, and that which is an image to you is real for us, and thus it doesn’t make sense for you to be in one place twice; I mean to say that you’re both already here, but not in a way that’s at all useful to you. Then we’re suddenly in a toy store; a naked old woman assists us and asks us what we want. Alberto tells her that he wants to buy something for a nephew of his, and that he’s thinking about a broom; he thinks for a while and adds: A gold broom. The old woman tells him that they don’t have gold brooms and Alberto, anxious, cleans his black boots. Then we’re walking through a forest full of trees; in each tree there are eight hundred drinkers who produce the unbearable smell of old rags, and that smell ruins our stroll.

  48

  Alberto and I are on on a still ship. A gypsy spreads some cards; we wait until she gives this look like she doesn’t know how to read them and says sorry for not being able to tell us anything useful. Suddenly, we’re in a toy store in which there are books instead of toys. We read and time passes as though nothing were going to happen. In that moment, Alberto looks at me and says: Marx died in order to avoid finishing Capital. I ignore him and we keep reading until, somehow, we’re suddenly in a toy store. The sales assistant is naked; Alberto, without paying attention to this, tells her he wants to buy a broom, but then he says that he wants to exchange the broom in his hand. The situation changes every five seconds (there’s a clock that marks time), without stopping. The sales assistant, anxious, blinks, and that makes everything turn black (little by little, blink by blink, such that the scenes are darker each time). Afterwards, we’re suddenly in a tavern making toasts and singing with eight hundred drinkers, having a great time. Suddenly Alberto looks at me with an impressive expression of lucidity, he gets on top of a table and, when all the drinkers are silent looking at him, shouts: Marx died because he didn’t finish Capital. First there’s a silence; then only applause and shouts from the drinkers. For some reason, they applaud both of us, and in that moment I’m certain that what Alberto says is true in that moment.

  49

  We’re in a park and hear a voice that tells us: That island is there but it’s as if it weren’t. And yet, Alberto and I don’t know what the voice is referring to nor do we see anything that looks like an island. What we do see at our feet is a box full of coconuts. Alberto grabs one and says: Look, this coconut was hacked in the wrong place; that’s why it lost all its liquid and is now useless. I grab the coconut, I look at it and see that, indeed, the attempt to remove it from the palm tree was such that the coconut is now dry. And yet, I tell Alberto, to the naked eye, this coconut is identical to all the others. Alberto responds: Yes, but lighter. So then I grab another coconut and notice the difference. Suddenly we find ourselves in a tavern. A drinker looks at us and, intentionally, lets the glass in his hand fall. The glass breaks and an old woman, from another table, tells us: What just happened there is the law of gravity. She lets another glass fall and repeats: This is the law of gravity. She says this with a mocking tone but with an expression of teaching us something. Later, all the drinkers are doing the same and repeating the phrase, which now seems like a prayer: This is the law of gravity, this is the law of gravity … Above this background noise, the old woman sings: The rupture / gives us delight, gives us the cure / gives us the form of the figure / makes us feel emotions / emotions that are p
ure. The place starts to sink and simultaneously burn down, and so the water boils. Faced with danger, we don’t know where to escape to; Alberto says: We have to act under the threat of ruin. And just when he says this, we’re suddenly in a cage that looks like a classroom in an English university; then, a seventy-something professor tells us: Man is the animal capable of posing questions and giving answers. Alberto tells me exactly what I was thinking: That’s good, he’s right. Immediately we’re suddenly in a classroom in an English university telling a group of students younger than us the same thing the professor said before. Each time we utter this phrase, the students applaud. This repeats a couple of times, and, although the applause can be heard louder each time, the scene is fainter each time and little by little dissolves.