by Ben Lerner
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I wasn’t sure if Teresa had slept in the bed with me; there were sleeping bags and pillows on the floor, but they might have been Arturo’s or Rafa’s, neither of whom was in the apartment now. The sleeping bags made me think of body bags lined up beside the tracks, although I hadn’t seen that yet. I had confused memories of people entering the apartment when I was half-asleep, snatches of their drunken conversation, the smell of marijuana, maybe a body next to me, breathing. Teresa was on the phone, speaking quietly so as not to wake me. I would not be able to ask her if she had slept in the bed; if she did, that would constitute a new level of intimacy and I could hardly admit I had no memory of it. For all I knew we’d kissed and fooled around; while I doubted that, I could imagine it in a way that felt like remembering.
The cat was still on the red couch, blinking. Although I had not made a noise or moved, Teresa knew I was awake, and brought me, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, an espresso; I hadn’t heard the machine. I couldn’t read her smile. I couldn’t believe how good the coffee was. She went back to her desk and I sat up and finished the coffee and tried to listen to her conversation; she was saying something about making or receiving a delivery; maybe she did real work for the gallery. After my coffee I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower and shat and took one white pill and then stepped into the shower. The showerhead was elaborate and could be adjusted so as to texture the water in various ways. Somehow the showerhead, more than any other object in the apartment or the apartment itself, made me feel that Teresa’s wealth was limitless. I realized I had not had water to drink, only coffee and alcohol, for what felt like an alarmingly long time. I opened my mouth and let it fill with water and swallowed.
I put on the same clothes and came out of the bathroom to find Teresa dressed, smoking and drinking her coffee on the red couch. She smiled at me, the cat blinked at me, and I said to her in English, “Everything here is beautiful. You are beautiful. The shower is beautiful. The coffee. How did you know I was awake? How was the beautiful coffee suddenly ready?” I sounded like I was translating from Spanish. “Why does everything in the apartment, from a pile of books to those papers on your desk, seem so beautifully arranged? How is it that your cat communicates so much intelligence, that it blinks so significantly?”
“Why are you speaking English?” she asked in English, widening her eyes.
“I don’t know,” I said in Spanish. Then I repeated in Spanish, to the best of my ability, everything I had just said about her, her dexterity, the shower, the coffee. She laughed at this but also looked a little sad. Then she said I must have really needed my sleep, that I’d slept deeply and for a long time. I wondered how she’d gauged its depth, if she’d tried to stir me. I did feel rested. The light in the apartment looked postmeridian.
“We should go to the protests,” she said. I blinked at her and she explained: “There are protests at the PP headquarters. The PP was blaming ETA when it knew it wasn’t responsible. People are furious,” she said.
“Are you furious?” I asked.
“Arturo texted me,” she said, ignoring my question. “He said there is a huge protest in front of the headquarters. A short walk from here.” Then in English: “It’s history in the making.”
“If I hadn’t woken up,” I asked her with something strange in my voice, maybe anger, “would you have woken me or gone without me or just not gone?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You woke up.” Her eyes were wide again.
We left the apartment, walked a few blocks, and before we saw the crowd, we heard it, chanting about truth and lies and fascism. Police in riot gear stood between the crowd and PP headquarters. The crowd was young and angry and we joined them. Teresa, to my surprise, blended in gracefully, taking up the chant, although I couldn’t pick out her voice particularly, and pumping her fist in the air with the rest of the crowd without any of it seeming affected or silly. People were banging on drums and pots and pans and I followed Teresa deeper into the crowd. Finally I could go no farther and she disappeared in front of me. I felt she knew she’d lost me, and wondered if she was responding to my standing still at the protests the previous day. A police officer said something on a megaphone and the chants intensified. I thought the building might be stormed, but it wasn’t. I slipped back out of the crowd and crossed the street and watched the protest from there. For a second I thought I saw Isabel.
After I don’t know how long, Teresa emerged from the crowd and found me. She was with a man I didn’t recognize. Even from far away, I could tell that he was handsome. When they reached me she spoke to me in English.
“Where did you go?” she said. And when I didn’t respond, she said in Spanish, “This is Carlos.”
I shook Carlos’s hand as jealousy spread through my body. He was a full six inches taller than I was.
We stood together and faced the protest. The crowd had expanded so that now, while we were still apart from it, we were close enough that our presence expressed fellowship. Without warning and with improbable volume, Carlos started a chant about Rajoy. He was bellowing, and yet he seemed completely calm. At first he was the only one chanting his chant and I hoped nobody would pick it up, that he would have to abandon it, embarrassed. But then the other people who were near the crowd but not part of it joined Carlos in chanting. And once the people who were near the crowd were linked by the chant, they moved and we moved with them into the crowd and were absorbed. Then Carlos’s chant spread from our part of the crowd forward and grew deafening. Carlos’s voice was no longer distinct and I looked at his handsome face and hated it.
Again I retreated and Teresa saw me go and just waved good-bye and I felt annihilated. I tried to smile at her in a manner that doubted her politics, doubted her place in the crowd, but could not. I wound my way through various small streets until I found myself near Sol. From there I walked to my apartment and once in my apartment read about the unfolding events of which I’d failed to form a part. The elections were tomorrow. I tried to think about whether public outrage would cost the PP the elections, about blood on the platform and the makeshift morgue in the convention center near Atocha, but instead I imagined making love with Teresa as if I were remembering it. Then I imagined her fucking Carlos and felt sure that when I left they had gone immediately back to her apartment. I tried to think about Isabel, could not, but was reminded of the necklace, which I took out of its case. It felt like I’d been carrying it for years. I put it back in its case and left the apartment for the jewelers to see if I could return it. By the time I reached the jewelers I doubted I would have the courage to face the woman who sold it to me; I was relieved to find the store was closed.
I walked to the Reina Sofía, bought a ticket, and wandered through the giant Calder exhibit. The museum was almost empty. The large white rooms reminded me of Teresa’s apartment and I imagined sleeping with both Carlos and Teresa at the same time and being humiliated by his beauty and size. I pictured giving Teresa the necklace, how she would accept it graciously but without surprise or emotion and I was furious at her. There was a very young museum guard, a teenager, sending a text beneath a giant mobile. I approached her and said that I had bought a necklace for my girlfriend but that we had broken up and I was leaving the country the next day; I didn’t want the necklace, would she like it. Without giving her time to answer, I handed her the case and walked away.
From the museum I went to the café where I took my lunch almost daily and ordered one of the hard sandwiches and a watery beer. When I had finished my meal I was surprised that it was dusk, I must have slept very late, and I walked into El Retiro to buy more hash. I scoured the park but could not find a dealer anywhere. It occurred to me that they’d probably been rounded up by the police, questioned, and perhaps deported since, as I had read, there was some speculation that the bombers had come from North Africa. I sat on a bench and watched the wind in the old-world trees and said to myself that I would no
t go to Teresa’s apartment or the gallery. I swore that I would wait for her to come to me and if she never came, so be it. But then I said to myself that History was being made and that I needed to be with Spaniards to experience it; I should at least try to find Arturo. I knew I was only elaborating an excuse to see Teresa. I tried to justify my pettiness by meditating on the relation of the personal to the historical but my meditations did not go far; I stood, absently checked my pockets for tranquilizers, and began to walk quickly through the thickening dusk.
I was lost for a little while but eventually found her building, rang the bell, and was immediately buzzed in. As the elevator slowly ascended—it worked without the key—I began to hear music and voices and laughter; I was still attempting to compose my face when the doors opened. There were a lot of people, Teresa and Rafa the only two I knew, smoking and drinking and talking animatedly about the protests and elections. Several people were on phones. I looked around for Carlos but did not see him and a wave of relief broke over me. Teresa was on the red sofa admiring another woman’s earrings; she did not stand to greet me. I walked to Rafa, who was looking through Teresa’s music, and asked him where Arturo was as if it were important that I find him. Without listening to his response I walked out onto the balcony and lit a cigarette and there was Carlos, smoking with two other men. Carlos smiled a smile I experienced as triumphant, postcoital, and said hello. He did not introduce me to his friends, who struck me as stylish and hostile; they were heavily and expensively tattooed. I grinned at the friends in a way that suggested I would slit their throats if given the chance and echoed Carlos’s greeting. I wasn’t sure what to do; I could not return to the apartment without it seeming like a retreat and I was too full of jealousy to attempt casual speech. Finally Carlos said something to me about how this must be an interesting time to be an American in Spain. I said it was, ignoring the derision with which he’d pronounced “American.” What did I think, he said. About what, I asked. About everything, he said. I looked off in the distance as though I was making an effort to formulate my complex reaction so simply even an idiot like him might understand. Then, as if concluding this was an impossible task, I said I didn’t know.
“I enjoyed your poetry reading a few months ago,” said one of his friends. He sounded gentle and sincere and I was bewildered. I wondered if Carlos in fact was being completely friendly, if I was only projecting my jealousy. I felt a little crazy and remembered puking in the bathroom at Zalacaín.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you going to write a poem about the bombings?” Carlos asked, the mockery unmistakable. I wanted to throw him from the balcony. I finished my cigarette before saying no.
I walked back into the apartment, saw a space beside Teresa on the couch, and sat down. She started playing with my hair and I said to her in English that Carlos might get jealous; she ignored me. I wanted to kiss her but didn’t. I took a book from a stack nearby and feigned interest, thrilled she was flirting with me in plain sight. After a while Carlos and his friends returned and Carlos said something to a few of the other people milling around and then said to Teresa that they were going to rejoin the protest, that he would text her later. O.K., she said, smiling at him the same way she had smiled at me. They kissed each other on both cheeks and while he was near her ear he whispered something and she laughed. “Later,” he said to me, and I said good-bye as if I couldn’t quite remember who he was.
Soon the other guests, including Rafa, left the apartment, presumably for the protest. I continued to look at the book, a novel by Cela. Teresa went to her desk and when she came back she had a thin joint, which she lit and passed to me. It was weed, not hash. When we finished she went to her closet and began to change. I rose and walked to her and held her from behind and kissed her on the neck. She turned to me and we kissed for a while but for reasons mysterious to me, that was that. I sat back down and she finished changing and then sat beside me and resumed doing the thing with my hair and asked if I wanted to find the protests. I said I was too high and she squinted and said she felt she needed to go. I didn’t say anything. She said I could stay there and read or whatever until she returned. I thought of Carlos.
“What did that guy say to you when he left?” I asked.
“What guy?” she asked.
“Carlos,” I said.
“Nothing,” she said.
“He whispered something to you when he was saying good-bye and you laughed,” I reminded her.
“I don’t remember,” she lied. I was furious.
“When do you think you’ll be back?” I asked, careful not to reveal my anger.
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“If it’s O.K., I will stay here for a while. Then I have to meet someone,” I said.
“O.K.,” she said. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to ask me who. “Take those keys,” she said, pointing to a hook by the door. “You can leave the elevator unlocked; the bigger key is for the front,” she said.
“O.K.,” I said, my fury tempered by the offer of the keys.
“Let’s go over the poems tomorrow,” she said. “I want to select a couple of the new ones to translate.”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t care about the poems.
“Unless you don’t care about the poems,” she said. Her eyes were neither wide nor squinted and she was not smiling. I was pleased to see her angry.
“I’m not very interested in poetry at a time like this,” I said, suggesting she was focused on petty personal concerns at a moment of historical unrest. “Tomorrow is the election,” I said, as though she might have forgotten.
She looked angrier. “And what are you planning to do tomorrow?” she asked. “How are you going to participate in this historic moment?”
“It’s not my country,” I said, my face asserting this statement had many simultaneous registers of significance. I thought I saw her sound them in her head.
“Bueno,” she said, which can mean anything, and left.
I walked onto the balcony to find it was fully night and watched her go. When I couldn’t see her anymore I went back into the apartment. I looked around her desk, found what looked like a diary, and opened it; it was full of poems in what I supposed was her hand. They were replete with words I didn’t know and that I assumed must be very specific nouns: grackle, night-blooming jasmine, hollow-point shells—I had no idea. I assigned a meaning more or less at random to each unfamiliar word and then the poems were lovely. I began to read one aloud but my voice sounded strange in the empty apartment and I stopped, again remembering Zalacaín. I searched the journal to see if there were peoples’ names in any of the poems, Adán, Carlos, etc.; there weren’t. On one of the pages there was a stain, probably coffee, but it made me think of blood. I imagined Teresa writing in the journal on a train and I imagined the train exploding.
I put the journal down. I felt stupid for not going to the protests and decided I would find them, find Teresa. I took the keys and left, walking first to PP headquarters. Nobody was there except a few journalists, a few police. I asked a teenager on a bench where the protests were; he just laughed at me. I walked to Colón but the plaza was empty. From Colón I moved up El Paseo de Recoletos, which became El Paseo del Prado. It felt strange to be looking for a crowd, to be wandering around in search of History or Teresa. I walked all the way to Atocha. I saw candles and small groups of people but no protest. For the first time since I had been in Spain, I wished I had a phone. I walked back down El Paseo del Prado and onto Huertas. I passed a bar that had a TV on and I could see images of a swarming crowd. I went in and ordered a whiskey and saw the protestors in front of the PP headquarters. At first I thought it was footage from earlier in the day, but then I noticed it was dark. Is this living, I asked the bartender, pointing to the screen. He blinked at me. Is this live, I corrected myself. He nodded. I drank and watched and eventually went home and fell sleep.
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While Spain was
voting I was checking e–mail. According to the internet, protests continued at the PP headquarters. Then, while Spain was voting, someone rang my buzzer. I thought it was Teresa and I was about to let her in when I realized it might be Isabel, whom I did not want to see. I decided to risk it, hit the buzzer, and heard someone running up the steps. By the time I heard a knock at my door I had deduced it was Arturo; he was the only person I knew who would run. I opened the door and he looked excited, like he hadn’t had much sleep. He sat down and asked for a cigarette and I gave him one and he lit it and began to speak. He said those fascist bastards were going to lose and Zapatero would win and while Zapatero wasn’t a radical, he was O.K. He said they had been up all night protesting and partying. I asked if those were the same thing, protesting and partying. He smiled inscrutably and I wondered where they had learned to smile that way, then thought I remembered that smile on the faces of the elegant people in the old photographs in Teresa’s apartment.
“Did you vote?” I asked him.
“I don’t vote,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in it,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I won’t participate in a corrupt system,” he said. He said it like he’d said it many times that day.
“Does Teresa vote?” I wondered.
“Yes,” he said, but it sounded like he wasn’t sure.
“And Carlos?” I asked, as if I knew all about Carlos.
“Carlos is a Marxist,” Arturo said, picking up one of the volumes of Tolstoy and flipping through it.
“A Marxist,” I repeated. “How long have you known Carlos?” It occurred to me that I didn’t know if there was an active Communist party in Spain.
“Forever,” he said, still looking at the book. “But Carlos votes.”
I don’t know why I was surprised: “Really?”
“Yes, but he votes for the wrong side on purpose,” he explained.
“He votes for the PP,” I exclaimed in disbelief.