The Word of the Speechless

by Julio Ramón Ribeyro

  •

  That vision saved me. At that moment a spark was lit inside me that mobilized the entirety of my intelligence and willpower so that I could emerge from my prostration and thus from my confinement. I wanted nothing more than to be reintegrated into life, no matter how ordinary it was, without any demands or ambitions other than to be able—like those construction workers—to eat, drink, smoke, and enjoy the rewards of being a normal but healthy man. To do so it was imperative for me to pass the trial of the scales, but since it was impossible for me to eat the food in that place, I devised a plan. Every morning before being weighed, I placed several one franc coins in the pockets of my pajamas. I then added five franc coins, the biggest and heaviest ones, which I received as change from the newspaper vendor. In this way I managed to gain several hundred grams, which still wasn’t sufficient or even probative. I then asked my wife to bring from home a complete set of cutlery, claiming that I would be able to eat better with them than with the clinic’s awkward set. They were the solid and expensive silverware that my wife had bought at a moment of delirium, in spite of my opposition, and that now, making a detour from their destiny, had become truly valuable. As I couldn’t hide them in my pockets, I stuck them into my socks, starting with a coffee spoon then advancing to a soup spoon. Within a week I had gained two kilos and even more when I sewed the fish forks into my underwear. The nurses were amazed by my recovery, which didn’t correspond to my appearance. A physician came to see me, checked the record of my weight, examined me, and interrogated me, and a few days later the authorization came for me to depart. Hours before my wife picked me up in a taxi, I was dressed and standing up, looking one more time out the window at the agile, weightless, airborne, and—I would even say—angelic construction workers, who were building the second floor of that new pavilion for the terminally ill.

  •

  Needless to say, one week after I left the clinic I was able to feed myself only moderately well, but I had regained my appetite; a month later I was drinking a glass of red wine with my meals; and a little later, to celebrate my fortieth birthday, I lit my first cigarette, with my wife’s acquiescence and the indulgent applause of my friends. This cigarette was followed by others, and still others, until the one I am smoking now, fifteen years later, as I force myself to draw this story to a close while sitting on the terrace of a small house on Via Tragara, contemplating at my feet the bay of Marina Piccola protected by the steep slope of Monte Solaro. Twenty centuries ago Emperor Augustus set up his summer residence here, and Tiberius lived here for ten years and built ten palaces. It’s true that neither of them smoked, so they have nothing to do with the topic at hand, but the one who did smoke was Vesuvius, and with so much passion that the smoke and ashes thereof covered the vineyards and houses of the island, ushering Capri into a long period of decadence.

  I light another cigarette and tell myself that it’s time to end this story, the writing of which has cost me so many hours of work and so many cigarettes. My intention is not to derive either a conclusion or a moral from it. Whether it is taken as a eulogy to or a diatribe against tobacco is all the same to me. I am neither a moralist nor a demoralizer, as Flaubert liked to call himself. And speaking of which, Flaubert was a tenacious smoker, so much so that his teeth were rotten and his mustache yellow. As was Gorky, who also lived on this island. As was Hemingway, who, although he was never here, did live on an island in the Caribbean. There is a tight bond between writers and smokers, as I said at the beginning, but, might there not also be one between smokers and islands? I reject this new digression, no matter how virgin the island it would lead to. I also see with some apprehension that I have only one cigarette left, so I bid farewell to my readers and am off to town to buy a pack of tobacco.

  A LITERARY TEA PARTY

  ADELINDA walked over to the window while her eyes, for the thousandth time, surveyed the living room to confirm that everything was in its place—ashtrays, cigarette holder, flowers, and above all, books, though these not too ostensibly on display, as if somehow they had dropped there by accident. Pulling back the lace curtain, she peeked outside, but all she saw was the front gate and past that the empty sidewalk and the tree-lined street.

  “So, you’ve all read Summer Storm?” she asked, returning to the coffee table in the middle of the room to take a cigarette.

  “You still have to ask!?” Doña Rosalba said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s his best novel. The style! The sensitivity!”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s a novel,” Doña Zarela said. “For me, it’s a poem. It’s what I’d call a poem. In prose, if you like, but a poem.”

  “Here’s his picture in the newspaper, along with the interview. Tell me, Auntie, is this really how he looks?”

  Adelinda walked over to look at the newspaper Sofía was pointing to.

  “Well, a little . . . It must be a recent picture. Truth is, I haven’t seen him in years, since he was a child, except one time when he came to Lima for a few days. He has the same expression, at least.”

  “For forty, he doesn’t look at all bad,” Sofía said. “Have you seen what he says in the interview? When they ask him what he desires more than anything—”

  “We know, we know,” Doña Rosalba said, interrupting her. “We’ve all read the interview. I, for one, don’t skip a single one of Alberto Fontarabia’s words.”

  “What does he say?” Adelinda asked.

  “‘My greatest desire is to be forgotten.’”

  “Don’t you think we should put on some music?” Doña Zarela asked. “Some Vivaldi, for example? I’d say his books have something very Vivaldi-esque about them . . .”

  “Let’s wait till later for the music,” Doña Rosalba said. “It would be better to figure out what to ask him. I, for one, have two or three things I’d like to know. I have them here, written down in my notebook.”

  “Oh, no!” Sofía protested. “No questions! Better to let him talk, so he won’t feel hounded. Don’t you think, Auntie?”

  “Let’s wait and see. We can ask him a few questions, just so long as it doesn’t sound like an interrogation.”

  “By the way, Adelinda, why in God’s name did you invite the Noriegas?” Doña Zarela asked.

  “I can invite whoever I want, can’t I?”

  “You could have invited the Ganozas, they’re more cultured. The Noriegas are unbearable, especially him. He’ll start talking nonsense and probably bring that book of his he published years ago to ask him what he thinks, maybe even so he’ll write something about it. Didn’t Gastón publish a book?”

  “Not a book, some kind of brochure-type thing, it’s an epic poem, something about Tupac Amaru, I think,” Adelinda said.

  “I agree with Zarela,” Doña Rosalba said. “I would have—poof!—made those Noriegas disappear. Gastón can sometimes be so tiresome, and she’s kind of vulgar, thinks she’s some kind of grande dame . . .”

  “We’re not going to start badmouthing people,” said Adelinda. “Sofía, can you come with me to the kitchen? Don’t any of you move. If someone comes to the door, tell me so I can let them in.”

  Adelinda and Sofía went into the kitchen.

  “I don’t know the Noriegas or the Ganozas, but those two ladies—”

  “Please, Sofía, don’t you start as well . . . Rosalba is a highly cultivated woman, she belongs to the Book Club, like me, and she never misses a lecture at the Alliance Française. And Zarela might not be the brightest bulb, but—”

  “I know, I know, you’ve been friends since high school or whatever, but Alberto Fontarabia is going to think he walked into a museum . . . But you, what can I say? You look gorgeous . . . It’s your hairdo, maybe, and that dress, too . . . Tell me, Auntie, how did you meet Fontarabia? Because he’s much younger—”

  “Please, check if the sandwiches have dried out. I’m going to see if the cake is ready.”

  “Is this what you’re going to serve?”

  “Herminia has gone to pi
ck up some pastries . . . What were you saying? Oh, yes, Alberto is a lot younger, of course. I knew him when he was a little boy. When I was married to Boby, we were neighbors of the Fontarabias. Then we moved. Boby died, Alberto went to Europe, and I didn’t see him for years . . . Until, during one of his visits to Lima, he gave a talk and I went to it. I finally went up to him, because he was very friendly, and he signed a book for me. To this day I remember what he wrote: ‘For Adelinda, my unforgettable neighbor.’”

  “The cake’s done? Good, let’s go back to the living room. We don’t want the writer to arrive and not be greeted by his ‘unforgettable neighbor.’”

  “Wait. I want to ask you something. Do you think I can show him my poems?”

  “Of course, Auntie, they’re beautiful! So romantic. I’m sure he’ll like them. Especially the ones you wrote for Boby . . .”

  “But, what will Zarela and Rosalba say?”

  “What do you care? Let them say whatever they want. What matters is for Fontarabia to read them.”

  “You’re right, I’ll play it by ear. Cover the sandwiches with a damp cloth. I’m going to boil some water for tea.”

  The minute they returned to the living room, Rosalba laid into them.

  “You forgot something, Adelinda, you who always remembers everything: a camera! Zarela’s right. We’re not leaving here without a picture with the writer. I would never forgive myself.”

  “It didn’t occur to me,” Adelinda said. “I have a camera upstairs, but I don’t think it has any film in it. I can send someone out to buy . . .”

  “Do it, now, Adelinda . . .”

  “He’s here!” Zarela said.

  A car had stopped in front of the house.

  Adelinda ran to the door and opened it a crack.

  “The Noriegas!”

  A few minutes later a portly man sporting a thick mustache and carrying a small package in each of his hands came in followed by a small brunette wearing tight pants and a button-down shirt.

  “If we’re late it’s Chita’s fault, she spent all afternoon at the hairdresser’s. You know what I’ve got here? Summer Storm! For him to sign.”

  “But you haven’t even read it,” Chita said.

  “What do you mean, I haven’t read it?”

  “We bought it last night, after Adelinda called to tell us that Fontarabia was coming over and to invite us for tea . . .”

  “I’m a very fast reader. After you fell asleep . . .”

  “But you fell asleep before me, with the book in your hand.”

  “Same thing, I had time to skim it.”

  “What about the other package, Gastón, what do you have there?” Doña Rosalba asked. “No, you don’t have to answer, we already know, it must be your thing about Tupac Amaru.”

  “Your thing? Did you hear that, Adelinda? Your thing! And Rosalba considers herself an intellectual! Well, yes, it’s my thing and I’ve brought four copies. One for Fontarabia, one for the Bibliothèque nationale in Paris, another for him to give to Jean-Paul Sartre, and another, another . . . who’s the other one for, Chita?”

  “How should I know . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, but I’m sure it will end up in good hands. Anyway, Adelinda, I hope you’re not going to offer me sandwiches, pastries, and other such nonsense. You’ve got a good shot of something for me . . . What? Our author is keeping us waiting? I have some things to say to him! I am his greatest admirer, but I also have my own ideas . . .”

  “Don’t start with your own ideas, Gastón. I’ve heard that tape at least fifty times.”

  “For good reason, because you’re my wife and you’re there to listen to me. But these ladies haven’t. They are all literary ladies, as well, beginning with our hostess.”

  “Gastón, please, relax, I’ll give you some whisky. Stop buttering us up, and anyway, there are no literary ladies here. Save it for Fontarabia.”

  Adelinda poured out a shot of whisky on the rocks.

  “What about you, Chita, would you like a drink, too, or will you wait for tea?”

  “I never drink before seven . . . Oh, but I see you have Fontarabia’s novel on the table. I haven’t read it, either, Adelinda. Give us a summary. Please.”

  “How can you ask, Chita!” Doña Rosalba interjected. “As if it were possible to summarize that book. You have to read it from cover to cover. Every sentence . . . what am I saying? Every word, you have to savor every word.”

  “The part that intrigues me most is the end,” Doña Zarela said. “What do you think? Was Leticia in love with Lucho or not? Everything is left so vague, so confusing . . .”

  “I didn’t find it confusing at all,” Sofía said. “It’s super clear that Leticia was in love with Lucho. She just never told him, she was too proud.”

  “But besides that, whose child was it?” Doña Zarela asked.

  “What child are you talking about?” Gastón asked. “Is there a child involved?”

  “The child was Lucho’s, of course,” Doña Rosalba said.

  “No, no, it was Uncle Felipe’s,” Sofía said.

  “You see, Chita?” said Gastón. “If you’d bought the novel when I told you to, we’d know whose child it was . . . I’m a real Sherlock Holmes when it comes to things like that.”

  “The part about the child isn’t important,” Adelinda said. “Or if it is, it’s secondary. What’s important is the atmosphere, the mood in the novel.”

  “But, besides that, what’s the novel about?” Gastón asked. “As far as I read, there was something going on at a hacienda.”

  “It’s a costumbrista novel—” Doña Rosalba started to say.

  “Costumbrista?” Doña Zarela interrupted. “No way! That’s precisely what it isn’t at all is costumbrista . . .”

  “If you want to label it, I’d say it’s more psychological,” Adelinda said.

  “Why not social?” Doña Zarela said. “Because there’s a social problem in the mix.”

  “For me, it’s much simpler,” Sofía said. “It’s a love novel . . . about teenage love.”

  “Just a minute,” Gastón said. “One step at a time. What I want to know—”

  “You don’t want to know anything,” Chita said. “The only thing you want is to put in your two cents.”

  “Auntie! I think he’s here!”

  A shadow slipped past the window. Adelinda rushed over to peek out from behind the curtain.

  “It’s Herminia. She’s back from the bakery.”

  “Phew!” said Gastón. “And here I was, preparing myself to confront our author! With one question, just one, but one that makes you think . . . Why are you making faces, Chita? You’re the only person here who thinks I’m not capable of holding a conversation with an author. It doesn’t matter that I run an explosives factory. I’ve told you a thousand times about Alfred Nobel.”

  “If Fontarabia is late,” Doña Zarela said, “I think we should serve the tea. For me, one thing is art and another thing entirely is punctuality.”

  “Artists are absentminded,” Sofía said. “I think it would be rude . . .”

  “As you wish,” Adelinda said. “It’s all the same to me. I don’t stand on ceremony, but if you think . . .”

  “I’ll have another whisky,” Gastón said. “As for the rest of you, have your tea now and when he gets here, I don’t care.”

  “Why don’t you call his house?” Doña Zarela said. “Find out if he’s left yet. It’s already after six.”

  “We’ve already waited an hour, we can wait ten more minutes,” Doña Rosalba said. “I’m not particularly hungry. After all, tea is just an excuse. Our real nourishment will be our conversation with Fontarabia.”

  “I agree,” Sofía said. “It will be thrilling! Won’t it, Auntie? Since you’re the only one who knows him, tell us—”

  “What can I say? I’ve already told you, other than when we were neighbors, when he was a child, I’ve only seen him occasionally since.”

  “Di
d he ever tell you a secret?” Doña Rosalba asked. “Something about his private life or about how he writes? I love the little details about an artist’s life, what’s never talked about except en petit comité.”

  “I have no interest in all that,” Gastón said. “It’s all the same to me if he writes lying on a sofa or hopping around on one foot. I’m interested in his ideas. What does he think, for example, about the role of the writer in our society? Now that’s something we’d like to know!”

  “What do you think about that?” Doña Zarela said.

  “But Gastón doesn’t think,” Chita said. “Not about that, not about anything. Gastón just talks.”

  “I think it’s fine for him to talk,” Rosalba said. “Goodness me, Chita, everybody has the right to talk, even your husband! But if the goal is to talk, let’s forget all these silly things and talk about something more elevated. Nobody has said anything, for example, about Fontarabia’s style.”

  “The style is the man,” Gastón said. “Cheers!”

  “But I already said that his style is pure poetry,” Doña Zarela said. “The thing is, Rosalba, you’re the kind of person who doesn’t listen. I read his books as if, I don’t know, as if I were reading the poems of José Santos Chocano . . .”