by Ben Lerner
“I won’t have to work for several months, it’s true,” I said in a way that implied I would then have to work in a coal mine. “Unless you think writing is work.”
“What will you do when you go back to the United States?” Rufina asked. Perhaps the most important unspoken rule that Isabel and I had developed in our short relationship, our most important kind of silence, was never to refer to the time after my fellowship. I looked at Isabel. It had been a while since I’d thought what I would, in fact, do upon my return.
“I don’t know that I will go back,” I lied. Isabel remained quiet, but there was a change in the intensity of her silence. I lit a cigarette to distance myself from this statement.
“And your parents will send you money,” Rufina laughed, and then said something that involved the word “Bohemian.” “What,” she said, “do they do?”
I knew that no matter what I said my parents did, Rufina was going to find it hilarious, so I decided to tell the truth, although I knew it would be particularly funny: “They’re both psychologists.” I heard Isabel shift uncomfortably.
As expected, this cracked Rufina up. I assumed the flourish of talk that followed was about the preposterous image of a Bohemian poet supported by his psychologist parents. Isabel said something about not being too hard on me, but I smiled to indicate I was fine with being teased. “Isabel’s friends from the language school are always rich,” Rufina explained to me. “Friends” clearly meant “boyfriends.”
“What is your profession?” I asked, sounding intensely foreign.
“I lost my job,” she said, flatly. I blinked. “Maybe I’ll start writing poetry. Maybe,” she said, leaning forward and placing her hands on my thighs, “you’ll marry me and we can live off your family.” I thought I saw Isabel wince when Rufina touched me.
“O.K.,” I said.
“Do you think your parents would like me?” Rufina asked, sticking out her chest in a performance of her voluptuousness I didn’t quite understand, but enjoyed taking in.
“I think my mom and dad would like you,” I said.
“I can cook and clean,” she said, sarcastically, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“My mom is a well-known feminist,” I said, a statement that sounded as stupid as it was. Rufina laughed, Isabel asked what time it was, implying we should leave, but was ignored. I could see her staring at Rufina, mutely telling her to shut up; I didn’t understand the extremity of her concern. “You’d like my mom,” I said to get further away from the feminist thing, “but she’s not so rich.” I smiled again, in part to calm Isabel. “Neither she nor my father ever give me money,” I lied. Now Isabel was looking at me strangely. I had just finished saying maybe Rufina could meet my parents if and when they visited Spain, when I remembered I’d told Isabel that my mom was dead.
There were several ways I could have recovered from this mistake; I could have looked melancholy and later claimed that I simply refused to share such a loss with Rufina, or, if I’d kept my cool, I could have maintained to Isabel that she had misunderstood my terrible Spanish in the first place, that I’d never said or meant to say that my mom had passed away. But I could feel my face, which was burning, fully confess to Isabel that I had lied to her. I’d told Isabel the lie during one of our first nights together when, still guilty from having recently told it to Teresa, I had felt compelled to repeat it, maybe to deepen my guilt into a kind of penance; surely I’d been drunk. Instead of amplifying my guilt, however, repetition mitigated it. While she had responded tenderly, Isabel never asked me about my family, and I never returned to it; at first I’d been aware of needing to avoid talking about my mother, as I still was with Teresa, but with Isabel I avoided talking about almost everything, save for my cryptic aesthetic pronouncements.
Isabel said she had to piss again and left the porch. Rufina, confused about what had passed between us, didn’t resume her sarcastic inquiries, and in the ensuing silence, I tried to imagine how Isabel was going to react. My lie would be unforgivable in any context, but I felt it would be particularly unforgivable in Spain; had I told the lie about my father, that might have been O.K.; I could always say he was a fascist, whatever that meant, and that I’d merely engaged in wishful thinking. Almost every movie I had seen since arriving in Spain, maybe every Spanish movie made since 1975, was about killing, literally or symbolically, some pathologically strict, repressed, and violent father, or was at least about imagining a Spain without such men, a Spain defined by liberated women rediscovering their joie de vivre with the help of their colorful gay friends. But to have “killed” my mother, the “feminist,” for whatever reason, revealed me to be at heart a right-wing, jackbooted misogynist, and further called into question the legitimacy of my research.
“I told Isabel earlier,” I said slowly to Rufina, who, smoking again, appeared to have forgotten all about me, “that my mother was dead. This isn’t true.”
“What?” she asked, suddenly interested, but sure she’d misunderstood.
“I told her my mom was dead, but my mom is alive,” I paused. “Just now, I forgot I had lied.”
“My God,” Rufina said, and gasped. “Why did you do that, Adán?” She was more intrigued than disgusted. She was smiling, not unkindly.
“Because my mom is sick,” I said. “And because—” I pretended it was difficult to go on. The smile drained quickly from her face. Then it was difficult to go on: “I am scared … I was trying to imagine …” Rufina leaned forward, now all tenderness. “I thought if I said it, I would have less fear,” is how I must have sounded.
“Poor boy,” Rufina said, and looked like she wanted to embrace me. The thrill I felt at her gaze checked the advancing waves of guilt. Isabel appeared in the door.
“I want to go,” she said.
“Sit down, my love,” Rufina said with an authority that returned Isabel to her chair. Then to me: “Continue.”
“I came here,” I began, “and nobody knows me. So I thought: You can be whatever you want to people. You can say you are rich or poor. You can say you are from anywhere, that you do anything. At first I felt very free, as if my life at home wasn’t real anymore.” Isabel was trying to make herself believe I’d confessed my lie to Rufina. “And I was glad to be away from my father,” I threw in for color, implying my dad, gentlest of men, was some kind of tyrant. “But then the reality returns. And I have constant terror. I call her all the time. She says she is fine, but I don’t know for sure. I didn’t want to leave her, but she said I had to come here and do my work. That I had a responsibility to my writing. She insisted. I can’t imagine life if something happens to her. And then when I meet someone important,” I said, looking directly at Isabel, “I lied. To see. If I could say even the words.” Isabel appeared to understand. “I am crazy, I know,” I said, placing my head in my hands. Then I said, looking up at Isabel again, “I am sorry. I am sorry to her. I am sorry to you.” I contemplated crying.
Isabel came to me and pulled my head against her and said something to comfort me that included the word “poet.” Rufina was rubbing my leg. I saw myself as if from the yard, amazed.
__________________________
That winter my research fell, my research was falling, into two equally unrepresentable categories. All December, there was rain, record amounts apparently; the city was strangely empty, emptied; even if it were merely drizzling, the Spaniards seemed to suspend all nonessential activity. Besides young men delivering the orange canisters of butane, or elderly women protected by plastic slickers hurrying between grocers, I saw next to no one on the streets. That December, if someone rang my buzzer, and that someone could only be Isabel, Teresa, or Arturo, their cars illegally parked in La Plaza Santa Ana, I wouldn’t answer, and because it was raining, they wouldn’t linger.
These periods of rain or periods between rains in which I was smoking and reading Tolstoy would be, I knew, impossible to narrate, and that impossibility entered the experience: the particular texture of my
loneliness derived in part from my sense that I could only share it, could only describe it, as pure transition, a slow dissolve between scenes, as boredom, my project’s uneventful third phase, possessed of no intrinsic content. But this account ascribed the period a sense of directionality, however slight or slow, made it a vector between events, when in fact the period was dilated, detached, strangely self-sufficient, but that’s not really right.
During this period all like periods of my life were called forth to form a continuum, or at least a constellation, and so, far from forming the bland connective tissue between more eventful times, those times themselves became mere ligaments. Not the little lyric miracles and luminous branching injuries, but the other thing, whatever it was, was life, and was falsified by any way of talking or writing or thinking that emphasized sharply localized occurrences in time. But this was true only for the duration of one of these seemingly durationless periods; figure and ground could be reversed, and when one was in the midst of some new intensity, kiss or concussion, one was suddenly composed exclusively of such moments, burning always with this hard, gemlike flame. But such moments were equally impossible to represent precisely because they were ready-made literature, because the ease with which they could be represented entered and cancelled the experience: where life was supposed to be its most immediate, when the present managed to differentiate itself with violence, life was at its most generic, following the rules of Aristotle, and one did not make contact with the real, but performed such contact for an imagined audience.
This is what I felt, if it wasn’t what I thought, as I smoked and listened to the rain on the roof and turned the pages and smelled the wet stone smell of Madrid through the windows I kept cracked. And when I read the New York Times online, where it was always the deadliest day since the invasion began, I wondered if the incommensurability of language and experience was new, if my experience of my experience issued from a damaged life of pornography and privilege, if there were happy ages when the starry sky was the map of all possible paths, or if this division of experience into what could not be named and what could not be lived just was experience, for all people for all time. Either way, I promised myself, I would never write a novel.
When it was raining in the afternoon I would sometimes walk through El Retiro, which would be empty save for a few hash dealers, all African, passing the time under the awning of a shuttered kiosk or, if it was only drizzling, standing under one of the steaming trees. There were always hash dealers in El Retiro, most of them around my age, selling eggs of what they called “chocolate,” mainly to tourists, as there was much better hash to be had. I was surprised by how polite the polyglot dealers were, the prices highly negotiable in whatever language, no threat, however vague, of violence, and their sheer numbers startled me: one for every fifty yards of the park in good weather. While they must have known each other, one sensed that each man worked alone. As far as I could tell, the police tolerated the dealers in the park, although I’m sure they could be, and occasionally were, rounded up and deported. The police tolerated hash in general; I could never quite tell if it was legal or illegal to smoke. A policeman or park official of some sort might pass by on a golf cart, see you conversing with one of the dealers, and shoot you a dirty look, but never, in my experience, would he stop; if the look were dirty enough, the dealer might walk away from you, but typically with more annoyance than concern.
In the rainy period of my research, I would buy an egg or half an egg from whatever dealer I first encountered, the dealer surprised to have a customer in such weather, then walk to the semicircular colonnade built around the statue of Alfonso XII overlooking El Estanque. When I found a relatively dry, sheltered place, I smoked and watched the faint rain fall into the artificial lake. I had never smoked hash before coming to Spain and, unlike the weed I smoked in Providence, which instantly made me an idiot, the hash usually allowed me to maintain, or at least to believe I was maintaining, the semblance of lucidity, especially after months of habituation. I experienced it as a tuning of the world, not, as with strong weed, its total transformation or obliteration, and I could read or “work” while smoking hash, or at least believed I could, whereas when smoking stronger stuff I could not follow, let alone form, whole sentences. But the alterations effected by the hash were somehow all the more profound for being understated, in part because one could forget or at least discount the role of the drug in one’s experience. If, say, a group of trees that had previously been mere background suddenly stood forth a little and their slender and strictly symmetrical forms became an elegant if unparaphrasable claim about form in general, you could write that observation down without dissolving it in the process, or without the strangeness of your hands distracting you from however you’d planned to use them. If a slight acoustic heightening allowed you to perceive for the first time consciously that the sound of the leaves in the wind was, as it were, in conversation with the similar but ultimately distinct sound of distant traffic on Calle de Alfonso XII, or that a hammering noise was in fact two noises, one issuing from a nearby tree and the other from a construction site beyond the park, and if these realizations inspired some meditation on the passing into one another of the natural and the cultural, the meditation, if not profound, could at least achieve coherence, could be formulated as it was experienced, not retrospectively, after coming down. Many people, I believed, used similar drugs to remove themselves from their experience, but because, for as long as I could remember, I always already felt removed from my experience, I took the drug to intensify the vantage from said remove, and so experienced it as an intensification of presence, but only at my customary distance from myself; maybe, when I panicked, that distance was collapsing.
That I smoked hash with tobacco was critical during this phase of my project, although I was resolved never to smoke a cigarette again after leaving Spain, and so smoked with particular abandon, critical because the cigarette or spliff was an indispensable technology, a substitute for speech in social situations, a way to occupy the mouth and hands when alone, a deep breathing technique that rendered exhalation material, a way to measure and/or pass the time. More important than the easily satisfiable addiction, what the little cylinders provided me was a prefabricated motivation and transition, a way to approach or depart from a group of people or a topic, enter or exit a room, conjoin or punctuate a sentence. The hardest part of quitting would be the loss of narrative function; it would be like removing telephones or newspapers from the movies of Hollywood’s Golden Age; there would be no possible link between scenes, no way to circulate information or close distance, and when I imagined quitting smoking, I imagined “settling down,” not because I associated quitting with a more mature self-care, but because I couldn’t imagine moving through an array of social spaces without the cigarette as bridge or exit strategy. Happy were the ages when the starry sky was the map of all possible paths, ages of such perfect social integration that no drug was required to link the hero to the whole.
I didn’t think these things, but might have, as I walked back through the park and home, then lay on my bed, only several feet beneath the downward-sloping ceiling, after having ignited the butane heater and drawn it near me. Once I was warm I would eat something, open a bottle of wine, and then write Cyrus, to whom I’d long since confessed I had internet access in my apartment, and who was in Mexico with his girlfriend and her dog. I was vaguely jealous of them; they’d driven to Mexico in her pickup with little money and no real plan in order to acquire experience, not just the experience of experience sponsored by my fellowship. His girlfriend, Jane, who had attended the same university as I, was the daughter of a very rich and famous man, but had foresworn her fortune, at least temporarily, in order to live lightly on the planet, make art, and write; before she left for Mexico, she had been squatting in one of Providence’s abandoned warehouses with a group of like–minded artists. Often around eight or nine p.m. in Madrid, Cyrus would be in an internet café in Mexico, and we
could instant message. One Monday night:
ME: you there? what’s up in xalapa
CYRUS: Yeah. Went on a kind of trip this weekend. Planned to camp
ME: i was going camping here for a while
ME: hello?
CYRUS: I remember. It’s hard to imagine you camping, I must say. Anyway, we drove to the country to see some pueblos, walk around
ME: cool
ME: what did you see
CYRUS: There was a bad scene there
ME: you mean a fight with jane?
CYRUS: No. Although we’re fighting now, I guess
ME: stressful to travel together if you haven’t before
CYRUS: Well we were walking
ME: still there?
CYRUS: along a river and
CYRUS: I’m still here, yes. Jane wanted to swim, but I was a little worried about the current. Not to mention the water did not strike me as particularly clean
ME: my brother once picked up a parasite swimming in a lake and was sick for a month
CYRUS: Right. And Jane launched into this speech about—half joking—about how I was afraid of new experiences or something, how I was always happier as a spectator. Not a fight, just teasing, albeit
ME: i hate new experiences
CYRUS: emasculating teasing. Something about that being what was wrong with poets
ME: the new poems are great, btw
CYRUS: I guess I should mention we were smoking a lot of that Acapulco Gold
ME: so what happened with