What radiant colors. What childhoods. What wombs or mornings. White walls all around the length and width and depth of my soul. The piano surrounded by men or women and children. The piano plays. I was listening to it, off to the side. Pale. Way down inside me. Way beyond the sounds. Throughout the sunset, said the rosary of a dawn. Because dawns have rosaries. And also nightingales. Absurd. As absurd as sunset. They start cooking breakfast. They start dressing at the break of day. They become as absurd as the sun. Or morning. But the piano, so absurd. As absurd as day. As night itself. Like the piano. They start playing. They start singing. They start reciting. They start lecturing. As absurd as noon. Who can understand them? Absurd. Who can figure them out? Absurd. From each sun. From each new sunshine. Only the rosary of dawn remains. And the radiance of morning. Absurd. Cast off the sheets. Open the bed. Absurd. Casting through the window. Absurd. Casting. What colors. What childhoods. What dawns. Absurd.
Watching everything, said the spectator. Profane Comedy. The party. Or time, said the director. And fate, said the boy. And my baby teeth, he added, pointing to the void. And fate, repeated the boy. And this time he pointed to the pianist. Music always starts suddenly, said the pianist suddenly. And he surprised them. Children always crawl showing their baby teeth. Flies are always killed suddenly. And he surprised them again. Suddenly fate escaped. Suddenly the pianist. And the painter. Suddenly the spectator. Where there is no distance between the spectacle and the performance. Only the fate that marches. Silence, silence, please. This is when the hostess comes in, sits down, and surprises them again. The guests looked at each other surprised, and surprised each other again. Suddenly the piano played one of the keys of the pianist. How strange! And it surprised them again.
Hear this. Bastards. Don’t think that anybody or anything is going to kill me. Not the vinaigrette olives. Not the coffee cake of the most bitter expectation. When after all, it’s too late. What is hunger? The hunger that devours me. Hunger. No, no, I’ll tell the olives. No, no, I’ll tell the salad dressings. No, no, to the vegetables. No, no, to the green giants. No, no, to the liquor of dreams. And to the coffee cake of feeling good. And to the stuffed stomach. I know the story quite well. I know what it’s all about. I know all its arguments by heart. I swear No! for all the gold in the world, No! and No! No! No! No! I can’t stay seated and end up feeling full or bloated when the same crap as always repeats itself. And appetizers and desserts turn my stomach. Nauseated, I bid farewell. Nauseated. And I do not resign. Nor do I give up. No! and no! and no!
Now I laugh at everything and not for the irony. Even though my eyes are closing. And I’m not asleep. How many more minutes do I have left? Is it true that they’ll shoot me soon? And why not now? I’m not afraid of guns. Let them pull the trigger. Let them kill me. I told you they could pull the trigger. Why don’t they just pull the trigger and finish me off? Answer me. Why don’t they just pull it? We’re not immortals, and a shot in the temple would end it all. What’s stopping them from pulling it? Why is it so hard now that I’m so far away from my base and it would be so easy to pull that trigger? What’s the big deal? Why don’t they just finish pulling it? Why? Unless it’s too hard to point at me with a pistol. And become murderers. But they’re already that. Is it their guilty conscience. You know, the little worm. And nothing else. No shit. Cowardice. And nothing else. Cowardice. And all the rest. Pantomimes!
The sunset is purple. Then I discover night. Beside the night, half an orange open. Slices. The sky is starry at the party. And there is an orange fire. The bell rings. Orange behind orange. Here in the living room. Here in the courtyard. The teacher spoke. The spectator spoke. The producer spoke. We saw the film. We saw the ambulance. We saw the teacher swallow the purple sunset. And his nostalgia was yellow. Canaries are yellow. And form is yellow. And hope is yellow. But what do I care? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And I took my partner out to dance. I see everything. Everything. Everything. I see clearly. There’s absolutely no confusion. Everything is transparent. He swallows another draught of sleep. I remember. And I drink. But I see it very clearly. So clear. I faint. I fall. And die. Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! I die. And I don’t move. I die. Heh! I move. Ha! I die.
A scene. A fate. A crawl. A mitt. I blow on the candles. And cut a piece of cake. I blow on another candle. And eat my cake. I see my mother sitting all along the family grounds. I see billowing flags of love moving up and down all along the national grounds. And in a hidden corner a night shadow smells fishy. Smells burnt. Something was burning. The mother asks: What burned? The boy shows his baby teeth. The boy’s mitt, catching butterflies, comes and goes along the family grounds. I blow out the candles once and for all. To see if everything ends. The world’s birthday. The frisky ol’ goat turned sixty. This took place in a park. In a forest with big trees. With roots. With bridges. With brushes. With deaths. In a forest. Seated. A birthday was painted. Two birthdays. Three birthdays of green seasons. Green. Green.
Sunsets repeat themselves throughout my life. Railroad tracks come and go, decrepit with years. Throughout my years. A tree falls. A war breaks out. A lion dies. And I roar, roar. Or creak, creak. Throughout my life. Many violent deaths. Many happy years. Along the streetcar. Looking over its length. And its width. Long or short. Short circuit. I cut it all along. Cut. Shorter. Shorter. Longer. Longer. The movie film. Reduced. Increased. To nothing. To utter nothingness. In shadow, in dust, in nothing. Nothing.
Repeat yourself, universe. See if you dare to repeat yourself once and for all. Spring shouted beside itself. And turned into summer. See if you dare to kill winter. And summer repeated itself. See if you dare to stay young once and for all. And youth repeated itself for generations and generations and generations of green seasons. Green. Green. Am I still green? Where is spring? What’s this tale about? What’s this story of green seasons about? Green. Green.
What’s it all about? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Spring laughed. And gave a bud. Fall laughed. And plucked a flower. Winter laughed. And snow fell. Summer laughed. And I fainted from the heat. What’s it all about? Ha, ha, ha, ha! What’s your death about? Look at me. And stop asking questions. Shout: I don’t understand it. And rot. Or die. Or paint, said the painter turned into a forest of bitterness that was still painted green. Green. Green. And bitter. Bitterness. What’s it all about? Heh, heh, heh, heh! And envy laughed. I’m happy. Happy. Happy. And just then it set off an orgy of capital sins ending with these lines by Rimbaud:
—Oh! tous les vices, colère, luxure:
—magnifique, la luxure…
A tree is still a wonder. And I’m amazed that it is—said the architect entangled in pure reflection. The first floor is the one that leans farthest out the window of life. The chimney is like dust, smoke, wind. He goes on and on and on thinking about the chimney. He smokes a cigarette. He lights it. How strange. I’m lighting it. There’s only one power here. It’s the power of wind. It’s the power of water. It’s the power of generations. Of grandparents. And of great-grandchildren. And of my ball of the world turning another year older. And of the song to nothingness. You show me your teeth. They’re baby teeth. And I create a world for you. Like ostriches. A dream of a night reeking of sulfur. And a new season is created, a fifth season. That knows nothing. That ignores everything. That passes everything. Like life itself. It is created. Over the four seasons. A new season. Or the song of nothingness.
It is a cry I hear. A hidden clamor. Like that of a beast. Like that of a camel that became a lion. It is my birth. I am the boy. I am the clamor of silence. I am its pallor. And its hidden tremble. Death filled this puddle with such a scream. Leave me alone—cried the boy. And he played dead. This has been a dead cry. A cry that seems dead. It seems that death turn into deaths. They are born. Born. They grow. Grow. They seem. Leave me alone—he cried. And still seemed. I repeat. Seemed. Only seemed. And piano. Piano. Pianissimo. Always. Always. Always. And forever. He seems to be alive. He looks like death. It seems that death always remains. As if it were alive. But it is
dead.
Let’s say that sometimes things are different. But they are. And it’s better to do it right the first time. Than to have to go back and fix it. Proverbs are too. Or traffic signs. Stop. And the same boots of destiny still are. And the same butterflies. The boy laughs as always. Showing his seven baby teeth as always.
Life pains me—said the philosopher. Newspapers pain me. Days behind nights behind days. Seas behind seas behind tides pain me. Buildings behind parks behind doves pain me. Businessmen behind money behind usury pain me. Waves behind histories behind people pain me. Behind skeletons behind shadows. Behind phantoms of shadows. Behind eyes. Behind falling tears. “Flow without sorrow, tears, falling.”
Another flash of chaos or death, said anonymous. All is semblance. All is shadow. All is stone. Or dream. Or nothing. I have seen the boots of destiny rising. I have seen the shit of destiny rising. I have seen the bootblacks of destiny rising. Rising over the same boots of death. What is this? What is still creeping and crawling? Shoes tremble. Or boots. Tremble. And build fires. Matches of fire. And I keep repeating myself. I, the unknown, the mute, the invisible. I can’t understand anything. I don’t want to understand anything. There’s nothing to understand.
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it, noted the spokesman. It’s three, it’s four, it’s five. And suddenly three, four, and five disappear. And the sixth character appears. A telegram appears, or a letter. The father appears. And grandparents appear. And great-grandparents and great-grandchildren. And baby teeth keep chasing me. Or suddenly, yes, suddenly, I miss the butterfly. And I can’t find it. The butterfly has died. And the boy laughs. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. And everyone thought. Could it be the butterfly. Could it be fate. Could it be the architect. Could it be the mother. Could it be the hostess. Could it be life. And so be it, they said. And they repeated: amen. For the rest of time. And they started creating, building, dreaming, drinking, laughing. Also for the rest of time. And inventing episodes, dramas, sorrows, scenes, and nostalgias. They started looking in ecstasy at the infinite. And pointed out four seasons of the year. Yes, they pointed out spring, summer, autumn, winter. And surprised at themselves again they showed their baby teeth. Some were drinking milk. And cognac—others. And whiskey—others. And others said: amen. And so be it for the rest of time.
That’s the way it goes. Just think, I was a powerful man. Now I’m a bootblack. Just think, I’ve also got a baby tooth. It’s the only one I’ve got left. I’ve been turning with the wheel of fortune over the roads of the world for more than sixty years. And now my boots, ah, my boots are too tight. They don’t fit me right. And soon, either the mitt or the teeth of destiny will say once more: I don’t understand. Or feel it. But that’s the way it goes. First, a child. Later spring. Or fall. The prince kisses Sleeping Beauty. I wake up startled and stunned. And I see how leaves fall. And we’re back in winter or summer again. That’s just the way it goes. And the three or four of us will disappear. And the tenth or the seventh will come. And click. Clack. That’s the way the wheel of fortune turns. A powerful man. And a bootblack. That’s the way it goes.
I don’t mean to philosophize or preach—said the teacher. But would you believe that I can still dance. And I like to dance. I have died many times. But I bounce back. Just like a ball. And I dance. I die. Or I believe that I’m dead. Then I discover that death is only a new movement. A new birth. A sacred yes. And I show my baby teeth. That’s why I’m the teacher. Just think, it all boils down to nothing. But there are things I just don’t understand, and I’ll never be able to understand them. I don’t want to understand them. I place my hand on my head. I don’t care to understand them. I’d rather own them. Put on my boots. Wear them until their soles tear. Until they’re ruined. I’m a bootblack. But I don’t clean my own boots. I get them muddy and wear them out. Which confuses the big shots, now even more than before. They still can’t figure it out. How they shine. How my boots gleam whether they’re dirty or clean. How they’re mended. How they sparkle and gleam. Without looking clean. Without the bootblack cleaning them. And now I understand it all. I see it all so clear. Clear. And they started dancing. Hostesses. Teachers. Bootblacks. Architects. I don’t understand it. It’s clear. The sky is so bright. The star. The boot. The bootblack. I understand it all. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. Yet I understand it. All. All. All.
III. The Intimate Diary of Solitude
1. Death of Poetry
Withdrawn into the peace of this desert,
Along with some books, few but wise,
I live in conversation with the deceased,
And listen to the dead with my eyes.
—Quevedo, From the Tower
The Adventures of Mariquita Samper
I was trudging along after filming part of Profane Comedy—said the Narrator—when suddenly I saw The Intimate Diary of Solitude was already playing at the Arts Cinema. I bought my ticket. The usher handed me the stub. I bought some popcorn and sat down to watch The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. I looked around the Arts Cinema. It was spacious and comfortable with four escape doors: Exit One. Exit Two. Exit Three. Exit Four. Though each door walked a character from The Intimate Diary of Solitude. A total of four characters took up the front row. And although there were only four, or five, or six characters, they multiplied, doubling and tripling as the scenes progressed. I ate a piece of popcorn. Fell fast asleep. And didn’t wake up until the lights came on. And then I immediately began to write the first scene of The Intimate Diary of Solitude, entitled The Adventures of Mariquita Samper.
Epigraph: “A closed mouth catches no flies.”
My name is Mariquita Samper. I work at Macy’s. My job is to make up people who don’t like to make themselves up. I’m an artist. I’m the makeup artist of the characters of this fiction that separates fantasy from reality. And I’m shocked by the things that happen. A lady asked me to paint her dog’s nails. Lady, I said, I’m Mariquita Samper, Macy’s makeup artist. Not a canine pedicurist. Wuff! Wuff!—barked the dog. And I was so sorry. Then a guy with a perfume tray passed by, and a perfume that reeked like “a barking doesn’t bite” pervaded the store. I caught a whiff of sirens. Saw toys tooting. And a whole pack of police dogs came charging at us. Yes, it’s Macy’s, the World’s Largest Store! Yes, it’s New York. I ran for my life as soon as I heard the threatening sound of the pack of police dogs. Perfume and makeup went up in flames. Not so reality and fantasy. I took a cab to Caffé degli Artisti. And headed straight for the ladies’ room. Took off my high heels and false lashes. Wiped off some makeup. Left some rouge on. Dried my lips. And ordered a campari and soda. That’s when my friend, the French professor, arrived. I was a bundle of nerves. I kept gazing into his eyes. A professor and a Macy’s makeup artist. I forgot to mention that my name is Giannina Braschi. And that I agreed to play Mariquita—said Giannina Braschi—for commercial gain. And she flashed Mariquita’s gold tooth as she laughed. I’ve written books while making women up. I write on their faces. I illuminate their shadows and discover their craters and even their volcanoes that suddenly erupt. I write wrinkles on the faces of October and on the memories of November. Oh, Uri, Uri—for that was the French professor’s name. Uriberto Eisensweig speaks with a French accent. It’s not really an accent. It’s a speech impediment called sticky tongue. Uriberto pronounces his r’s like h’s. His little catch is like Mariquita’s red freckles. Like her red-dyed hair. Like her gold tooth. Uriberto is bearded and hairy like a monkey. I write these black pages on his black beard. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. And we left the café with the campari and soda in hand, as Bengal lights glared all over the menu and the makeup of the open book that is being written. Uri showed me a line. An oblique line at the back of the café. And it suddenly turned into the Narrator who was sitting to our left. No, please, not this nightmare, not again. If I haven’t arranged the date in The Intimate
Diary of Solitude. If Uri is not yet Uri, and Giannina is not yet Giannina. Suddenly everything fades. Everything escapes. Everything turns to solitude. Solitude is a well full of water. Here in this well—as I open my front door. Oh, Uri, Uri. Longing for Uri. A void. Enormous. Smooth. Smooth. Like a piece of clothing. In a building where clothing is bought and makeup is sold, a TV screen appears. The Narrator is screening Mariquita Samper. Suddenly there is no way to measure the distance between the Narrator screening Mariquita on TV and me climbing the stairs to my apartment. The doorman opens the car door. Mariquita steps out of the car. The doorman carries her packages. Mariquita smiles suggestively. Lifts her skirt a bit. And leans toward the TV. The Narrator tries to penetrate the intimacy of her heart. But there are so many doors that open and close. There are so many TV sets that turn on and off. And there is a white dove that escapes from Mariquita Samper’s heart and turns into a handkerchief when she stares at it. Her eyes glaze over as she follows the flying handkerchief. She opens her purse. Looks for something inside. Can’t remember what it was she was looking for. On her way to the station, looking for a nickel, she finds her train ticket. On the train that takes her around the circumference of her solitude, she stares at a landscape of water. She looks out the window that delimits the borders of her solitude and sees the handkerchief’s wings waving: goodbye-goodbye. Then Mariquita looks away from the window and looks at the open pages of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. I really like this phrase—she says. And she underlines it as I underline the same phrase that Mariquita Samper underlined while reading the adventures of her own solitude. She opens her purse, takes out a compact, and powders her face. She dabs some rouge on her cheeks and paints her lips. It’s been exactly one hour since she repeated everything that she read in the book. The train pulls into that station where I can still distinguish the day she fell in love with me from the day I left her. But it’s already midnight, and I’m still watching The Adventures of Mariquita Samper on TV. Suddenly, I’m back in the theater buying popcorn. Suddenly, the white dove flies out of the TV movie screen and sits on my hands. Suddenly, the dove widens the distance again, and Mariquita is back on the screen feeding the dove my popcorn. Mariquita gets off the train. Runs to 6th Avenue and 34th Street. Goes up to her apartment. Looks for another nickel. Takes the elevator. Goes down to the street to mail a letter to the Narrator. Takes the subway to 3rd Avenue on page 15 and stops to think in the heat of her solitude. She powders her forehead again, and her face glows like a ball of fire. She hears the sirens of fire trucks drowning out the sound of a transistor radio. The Narrator turns up the volume of The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. He feels his hand picking up speed with every word he writes. And the rhythm of life and writing accelerates. The car driving Mariquita down the highway can hardly stop like the Narrator writing this diary. The world is a great grammatical system. Mariquita re-underlines this phrase that reminds her of the white dove flying away. Goodbye-goodbye—she repeats. And some red Bengal lights interrupt the rhythm of her blood. She opens her purse, and there at the bottom is a phrase she forgot to underline. This crossword puzzle of things blinds me and erases distance. Then the Narrator wrote that Mariquita was about to go to bed. And as soon as he wrote it, Mariquita began to nod off. And she took a cab home. The doorman took her packages. Mariquita went up to her apartment. The Narrator turned off the radio, and Mariquita’s image slowly faded from the TV screen. But the Narrator left Mariquita’s picture on the screen of his solitude. He thought that his script should be written in her diary. And that the diary was slowly repeating what was already part of the solitude of Mariquita’s heart. He turned off the light. And she went to sleep in order to maintain the distance that she covered between the contents of her dreams and the intimacy of her solitude. But, before going to bed, he set the alarm clock of life to awaken Mariquita’s solitude from a deep sleep. He rested his head on her diary’s pillow of solitude. He got up an hour later, half-asleep, and watched The Adventures of Mariquita Samper again. I am not through yet. Don’t limit my existence—Mariquita told the Narrator. She got out of bed and began to sing. All I need is love. Love. Love. And she drifted back to sleep. She got up an hour later and sang it again. And quit her solitude for good. She read the intimate diary of her solitude again. All I need is love. Love. Love. And she continued arguing with the printed words of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. A party. A disco—she said. And on saying, “All I need is love,” she started dancing, flooding the words with music and joy. The blaring disco that Mariquita had just discovered in her heart woke up the Narrator. Mariquita yelled to him, “All I need is love. Love. Love.” And she continued correcting every page of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. She drew a heart on one of them. And a star on another. She laughed at the distance that her hand crossed at the bottom of her coat pocket. She revved up her diary’s roaring engine. She laughed at the TV screen where the Narrator had tried to limit her existence to a parenthesis between one phrase and another. In addition, she had erased the line that she had underlined and replaced it with: All I need is love. Love. Love. When the Narrator reviewed the pages of his diary, he found that Mariquita had limited his existence. And had replaced him with a revolution of mad rhythms. Rhythms of love. Love—Mariquita called it. Love. She had let her hair down. She had smeared black ink all over her diary. She had, at length, fallen in love. Or in the words of solitude, she had written the first fragment of The Intimate Diary of Solitude.
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