Portrait of Giannina Braschi
Dear Narrator:
I’ve got a really big problem. No one takes me seriously. They all love Mariquita, and when I tell them that I’m Mariquita, they just laugh. Everyone thinks that I made up the race of beauty, charm, and coquetry just because I made up the race of gossip and the race of solitude. No one wants to see Portrait of Giannina Braschi. My friends call me up and say, “Mariquita, Mariquita, what’s the gossip of the day? What’s going on in The Intimate Diary of Solitude today?” But they don’t know that I am an autobiography. They don’t know that I am Portrait of Giannina Braschi. My friends have told me I owe my existence to their gossip and their lives. And they’re right. I’m only called Giannina when Mariquita dresses up as Berta Singerman. I’m only called Giannina when Mariquita falls in love with Uriberto—Berta Singerman once said through Mariquita Samper’s mouth. You know something—and I say this only to the reader—these friends of mine do exist—although I’d never tell them that. They’re not figments of my imagination. I see them every day, or at least once a week when we get together at Mariquita’s to laugh at The Intimate Diary of Solitude. My friends are Uriberto, Mariquita, Berta, the Narrator, the race of gossip, and The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Little by little, you’ll meet my other friends who widen the circle of my solitude even more—said the Narrator. You already know Anna Mayo, the journalist famous for writing the race of gossip and the race of the Mariquitas and the Uribertos. But you still haven’t met Honorata Pagan, the fortune-teller who predicted that Berta Singerman would forfeit her Russian citizenship. This fortune-teller, named Honorata Pagan, was also the one who told me I had no right to complain if they confused me with Mariquita. “Giannina, you’re a celebrity. But your friends believe more in your lies than in your autobiography. You chose to be the author of this work. You chose your profession. So it’s your own fault if they don’t take you seriously. And so what if your friends love Mariquita more than you? Frankly, you already know that she is more beautiful, more charming, and more coquettish. She has a new love to talk about every day. And what do you have? Just a pen and paper to write your Intimate Diary of Solitude.” Honorata Pagan’s fame skyrocketed even before her predictions came through. Whenever I went, she went with me. Uriberto consulted her on some of his love affairs. Honorata had told him, “Uriberto, you will deflower Berta Singerman’s daughter—your own daughter, Mariquita. You will be an incestuous father.” What Honorata never got to tell him is that it would happen on stage. What she never got to tell him was that her prophecies were also fiction. Enough of your lies, Mariquita. I’m going to do Giannina’s portrait. I’m going to turn Mariquita into Giannina Samper. But don’t whine and complain when you’re the punch-line, Giannina. Don’t complain when you’re Mariquita, Giannina. That’s when the portrait of my intimate solitude became part of the diary. The painter was Vita Giorgi. I met Vita at a Soho gallery where Berta was giving Uriberto a show. On exhibit there were all of the portraits of Mariquita from the time she lost her virginity at 15 until the time she became the first Puerto Rican to forfeit her American citizenship and live in Moscow. And a new character was introduced there. An impudent, devilish clown by the name of Giannina Braschi—said the Narrator. With a furrowed brow and a hoarse throat, she burst out laughing like thunder or a steep cliff, and Mariquita Samper leaped out of the Portrait of Giannina. Even though I was by myself, I imagined that Mariquita and Uriberto, Berta Singerman, Honorata Pagan, and Anna Mayo, Vita Giorgi, and the Narrator, the race of gossip, and The Intimate Diary of Solitude were all around.
Mariquita Samper’s Childhood
She was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, like her mother, Berta Singerman. Uriberto Eisensweig and Berta Singerman had a daughter named Mariquita Samper—according to the Narrator. Mariquita was the illegitimate child of Uriberto and Berta—he added by way of gossip. The fact that Mariquita was born on her mother’s 50th birthday was also scandalous. And that, from day one, she was born independent of her parents. I don’t like dependence—she said. Mariquita was born talking. And the whole world was shocked. Not only was she born talking. She was born rocking from north to south, and from east to west. Mariquita was a child prodigy. She sang, read, laughed, cried, spoke, ate, wet, pooped, burped, and napped. She was a child prodigy like her mother—said Berta. After her father raped her when she was 15, Mariquita fell in love with another guy, also called Uriberto. It was he who told her that she should write the script of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. The Narrator chose Mariquita as his protagonist at first sight. Although Berta had taught Mariquita to be foolish, Mariquita wasn’t frivolous like her mother. Mariquita and Berta were very different. Berta was much more frivolous than her daughter—said Giannina. I, having lived in both of their bodies, affirm that there is no comparison. I would go so far as to say that Berta wanted to destroy her daughter. But it was Mariquita who destroyed Berta—said the Narrator. And she destroyed her because she did nothing to destroy her. No, nothing except steal her lover—said Giannina. And what do you call that? Nothing? I would agree—said Mariquita—that I did absolutely nothing. Life took care of it all. You know—said the Narrator—that life takes many turns. And those turns bring many surprises—said Mariquita. Berta made me suffer, but I got my revenge. I stole her lover and then dropped him like a hot potato. I fell in love with another Uriberto. Forfeited my Russian citizenship and went to live in New York. Acquired American citizenship. And disgraced my mother and father. Then the Narrator suggested I write a book entitled Mariquita Samper’s Childhood. He’d pay me a million dollars for the rights. I’d have to say that I had a miserable childhood. In short, I portrayed myself as an orphan. My parents are thugs—I said in Mariquita Samper’s Childhood. Of course, I became a heroine to the American public. Little Orphan Mariquita. Daughter of those filthy thugs who stripped her of her American citizenship. And yet, in spite of all its lies, the book was a best-seller in the U.S. and Russia. Remember—said the Narrator—that Mariquita had asked for asylum at the Russian embassy. She wrote a letter to the Russians stating that she wanted to be a communist. She had been mistaken. She had realized the value of Russian citizenship, especially as a Puerto Rican. My confusion lies in the fact that I’m a sad colony. Don’t you see that I’m Berta Singerman? Don’t you see that I’m confused? Don’t you see that I don’t know who I am? The Russians immediately granted Mariquita political asylum. And this was the story of Mariquita’s childhood in The Intimate Diary of Solitude.
The Raise
Chewing gum and blowing a really big bubble, I dreamed and dreamed until I suddenly popped the bubble with my fingers. Then I started chewing with more zest and zeal. That was Mariquita Samper talking. Giannina Braschi told me that she’d put me on TV. I told her I wanted to go on the air, blow a big bubble, and pop it. That’s how the cast of The Intimate Diary of Solitude would be introduced. I jumped and jumped for joy when Giannina accepted this number in her video. Uriberto, Berta, Giannina, Vita, Honorata, Anna, and the Narrator were there as viewers of The Gum of Life. Missing were Montserrat Nissen and Brian Pecanis. They had just finished making love. They turned on the TV and were watching The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. Mariquita was gone in a flash, and Brian seized the moment to lay a kiss on Montserrat, who was madly in love with her darling. You are my darling—Montserrat told Bran. And she sighed deeply. In the middle of the kiss and the sigh, the phone rang. Damned phone—said Montse—doesn’t give us a moment of privacy. Even though we’re the lost lovers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Montserrat answered the phone. Hello? Hello? Yes, Montse. This is Mariquita. Did you see me on TV? I’m calling to let you know that we’re giving the Narrator a party. He just got a raise so that he can make a more extensive cinematic production. He won all sorts of grants. They’re crazy about his cinematic novel. Of course—said Montse as Brian kissed her again. And Mariquita laughed. Hey, Montse, what’s the matter? You’re not paying attention. I’ll call you back when Brian is not touching
you in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. How did you know that we were making love? It’s a cinch to guess your luck, Montse—said Mariquita. I’ll call you later. I’m busy too. I’ve only got five seconds before I go on the air. We’ll chat then. Bye, Montse. Five seconds later, Mariquita was back on TV. Montse—Mariquita said suddenly. Since it’s so hard to talk by phone, I’m letting you know that the party won’t be at the Narrator’s house this time, but at Vita Giorgi’s. I’ll see you at eight o’clock, Wednesday night. Please bring five bottles of wine. Anna, Berta, Giannina, Honorata, Uriberto and, of course, the Narrator will be there. The camera zoomed in on Mariquita’s smile, especially her gold tooth. My luck has changed for the better since I gilded my tooth. The Narrator cut out the scenes of the gold tooth and the raise. He had these prophetic words inscribed in gold letters on a big poster: “Making money is turning solitude into a diary. In other words, it’s shit.” Look out, Montserrat, something is missing. What’s missing is a king-size bed to celebrate the love of the lost lovers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Good idea, said Mariquita through the TV screen. A water bed. I’m going to pierce it so they’ll drown when it bursts. You’re wishing me dead?—asked Montse. No, Montse, you’re not the one I want dead. It’s the Narrator and Uriberto even more. I’m fed up with both of them. I want to be as free as my white dove. Do you want some popcorn? She flashed her gold tooth again and stretched her hand through the TV screen, and Brian took the popcorn and fed Montserrat through another kiss with popcorn and solitude, Mariquita, solitude. Then the lights went out. And only God knows what took place on the water bed that Mariquita popped with the pin of love in The Intimate Diary of Solitude.
Manifesto on Poetic Eggs
Success—said the Narrator—is the first poetic egg. Success and money. I don’t worship you or respect you in the slightest—said Mariquita Samper. Your eggs aren’t poetic eggs. Your briefcase and plastic smile don’t fool me. A pack of police dogs should rip you to shreds. I object—said Uriberto Eisensweig. I object—said the Narrator. You’ve just laid a poetic egg. This wasn’t written in the official script. But it’s written in my heart—said Mariquita. Do you think you fool me? If you want to cash in on a novel, look for one of those cheap novelists who go around selling my dreams and poetic fantasies for big bucks. I wasn’t born to be your puppet. I’m not here to make you wealthy with lies. I was born to tell the truth. All this cock-and-bull that novelists like you have told—stupid Narrator—has nothing to do with what really happens at the margins of existence. What about the crazy old bag lady in Central Park who digs through garbage cans looking for food? No one mentions her. Who the hell cares about Montse and Brian? Who gives a damn about your Intimate Diary of Solitude? I’m happy to say, nobody gives a damn. But it worries me that Little Orphan Mariquita should be paid a million bucks for telling her asinine official story. It’s about time I flushed all this shit you’ve made me write. I’m not egocentric, you know. It’s easy to recognize egocentric writers like you, Narrator. The first thing they do is establish “how-to” doctrines. What they’re really after is power. Power and money. And they have a very strange way of looking at me, Mariquita Samper. They minimize life and the world. They’re not lyricists or bohemians. They’re propagandists, pushing pamphlets and doctrines. What’s the matter? You didn’t expect a Macy’s makeup artist to say these things? Subversive? I’ll always be subversive because the subversive always speaks the truth. What chapter were we on, Narrator? Read it all back to me to fulfill your literary ambitions. How much is missing from the chapter on poetic eggs to satisfy idiots like you? How many pounds of makeup must I put on to fool life? And, for the record, I am free. I chose to be a Macy’s makeup artist. I love to smear my face with lies because the more pounds of makeup, the more life weighs, and the more revolutionaries like me will write revolutions and manifestos on poetic eggs. I flash my gold tooth again. And lie down to sleep. But I’m immediately awakened by solitude. Dear Narrator, your diary has me locked up in this solitude that says nothing of the intimate reality of life. Have you seen how black people dance in New York City? Their dance is like the dance of love. All I need is love. Love. Love. On the other hand, I maintain the form of poetic discourses and novels, but I’m introducing a subversive element. This subversive element is my heart, which contains a little golden worm that never lets me sleep peacefully and always tells me, “Mariquita, always walk to the left. But don’t go so far as to lose sight of my heart’s dance.” After trudging through the city streets and watching all the lies, I go home at the end of a day of deep solitude and write the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs. There go the drooling writers and pamphleteers. Of course they make money. Of course they eat well. They talk with their tongues hanging out, just like you, stupid Narrator. Boom! Boom! He’s dead. He’s dead. Mariquita has killed the Narrator. Revolution in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. He’s dead. He’s dead. But he’s not dead. He has just told me that he doesn’t like aggressive women like me. He has just told me that there’s too much resentment in my words. And he has just told me that I also say, “Boom! Boom!” and don’t kill anybody. After all, I’m not a feminist. I don’t have to be a feminist to call myself Mariquita Samper. I’m sustained by my name and my person. I’m an egg and nothing more. When I go home at the end of the day, they tell me that I’ve insulted my mother’s memory. When I was a child writing poems and pitching them into the basket, my mother would say, “Mariquita, don’t throw away what you write. Have some respect for yourself.” She was right even though she was wrong. My mother wrote piles of shit and thought all of it deserved the name Berta Singerman. Her self-esteem overstepped the boundaries of fantasy. Berta thought she was more important than what she wrote. Her queen-bee attitude said it all. She never dreamed Mariquita would make fun of her. It never occurred to her that Mariquita lacked self-respect because she had so much respect for the writing of mankind and life. I don’t matter. I’m just a machine writing the world and life. What matters is the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs. And this manifesto is anonymous. It was written by rain, wind, blood, and pain. It was written by Mariquita’s gold tooth. Her red freckles and red hair are more important than Mariquita Samper. You just don’t matter, Narrator. To quote your poster, “Making money is turning solitude into a diary. In other words, it’s shit.” A golden bird in my heart dictated these prophetic words. I read them before you in this conference of absent writers of New York. This is all bullshit. And I denounce it. I won’t be taken for a fool. I’ve been playing Mariquita Samper for too long. I quit! I’m leaving The Intimate Diary of Solitude forever. When I smile my Mariquita-smile, they say—How pleasant she is! She is truly the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry—but now that I’m writing the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs, Oh! Oh!—they say—Watch out! Beware! Her eggs must be destroyed! They’re eggs—they say. They’re eggs. They’re not poems. Not novels. Not plays. Not masterpieces. We must yank out her gold tooth. We must dislodge her freckles and cut off her red hair. No! Shitty lecturers, you won’t destroy me! Mariquita ran away with her poster and her Manifesto on Poetic Eggs after dictating a death sentence to all the lecturers, writers, and novelists who had written The Intimate Diary of Solitude.
2. Rosaries at Dawn
What matters most of memory
Empire of Dreams Page 10