And I: The blind, Farewell, the stumbling of the blind, their futile flailing around, their bumping and tripping, their staggering and falling, their general debilitation. And Farewelclass="underline" I don’t know what you’re talking about, what’s happened to you, I’ve never seen you like this. And I: I’m glad to hear you say that. And Farewelclass="underline" I don’t know what I’m saying any more, I want to talk, but all that comes out is drivel. And I: Can you make out anything clearly in that shadow play? Can you see particular scenes, or the whirlpool of history, or a crazy ellipse? And Farewelclass="underline" I can see a rural scene. And I: Something like a group of farmers praying, going away, coming back, praying and going away again?
And Farewelclass="underline" I see whores stopping for a fraction of a second to contemplate something important, then heading off again like meteorites. And I: Can you see anything there about Chile? Can you see the future of our land? And Farewelclass="underline" That meal didn’t agree with me. And I: Can you see our Palatine Anthology in that shadow play? Can you read any names? Or recognize any profiles? And Farewelclass="underline" I see Neruda’s profile and my own, but, no, I’m mistaken, it’s just a tree, I see a tree, the multiple, monstrous silhouette of its dead leaves, like a sea drying up, it looks like a sketch of two profiles, but actually it’s a tomb out in the open, cloven by an angel’s sword or a giant’s club. And I: What else? And Farewelclass="underline" Whores coming and going, a river of tears. And I: Be more precise. And Farewelclass="underline" That meal didn’t agree with me. And I: How odd, it doesn’t look like anything to me, just shadows, electric shadows, as if time had speeded up. And Farewelclass="underline" There is no comfort in books. And I: And I can see the future clearly, and I can see you there, living to a ripe old age, loved and respected by all. And Farewelclass="underline" Like Doctor Johnson? And I: Precisely, to a T, you’ve hit the nail right on the head. And Farewelclass="underline" Like the Doctor Johnson of this godforsaken strip of earth. And I: God is everywhere, even in the most outlandish places. And Farewelclass="underline" If I weren’t so drunk and didn’t have such a gut-ache I’d ask you to hear my confession right now. And I: It would be an honor. And Farewelclass="underline" Or I’d drag you into the bathroom and screw you good and proper. And I: That’s not you talking, it’s the wine, it’s the shadows upsetting you. And Farewelclass="underline" No need to blush, we’re all sodomites here in Chile. And I: Not just our pitiable compatriots but all men are sodomites, each of us harbors a sodomite in the architrave of his soul, and it is our duty to prevail over that unwelcome guest, to vanquish him, to bring him to his knees. And Farewelclass="underline" Now you’re talking like a cocksucker. And I: Never, I have never done that. And Farewelclass="underline" I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Not even at the seminary? And I: I studied and prayed, prayed and studied. And Farewelclass="underline" I promise I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I promise. And I: I read St. Augustine, I read St. Thomas, I studied the lives of all the popes. And Farewelclass="underline" Do you still remember those holy lives? And I: Indelibly etched. And Farewelclass="underline" Who was Pius II? And I: Pius II, also known as Enea Silvio Piccolomini, born in the vicinity of Siena, Supreme Pontiff from 1458 to 1464, attended the Council of Basel, secretary to Cardinal Capranica, spent time in the service of the Antipope Felix V, then in the service of the Emperor Frederic III, who crowned him poet laureate, he wrote verse you see, lectured at the University of Vienna on the classical poets, published a novel in 1444,
Euryalus and Lucretia, in the manner of Boccaccio, just a year after publishing the said work, in 1445, he was ordained a priest and his life took a new turn, he did penance, admitted the error of his ways, became Bishop of Siena in 1449 and cardinal in 1456, obsessed with the idea of launching a new crusade, in 1458 he published the bull Vocavit nos Pius, in which he summoned the unenthusiastic sovereigns to the city of Mantua, in vain, later an agreement was reached and it was decided that a three-year crusade would be undertaken, but no one paid much attention to the Pope’s grand words, until he let it be known that he was personally taking over command of the operation, Venice then forged an alliance with Hungary, Skanderbeg attacked the Turks, Stephen the Great was proclaimed Atleta Cristi, and thousands of men flocked to Rome from all over Europe, only the kings remained indifferent and unresponsive, so the Pope made a pilgrimage first to Assisi and then to Ancona, where the Venetian fleet was late to meet him, and when the Venetian warships finally arrived, the Pope was dying, and he said “Until this day I was wanting for a fleet, now the fleet must want for me,” and then he died and the crusade died with him. And Farewell said: So he screwed up, like a typical writer. And I: He protected Pinturicchio. And Farewelclass="underline" And who the hell was he? And I: A painter. And Farewelclass="underline" I guessed that much, but who was he? And I: The one who painted the frescoes in the cathedral at Siena. And Farewelclass="underline" Have you been to Italy? And I: Yes. And Farewelclass="underline" Everything falls apart, time devours everything, beginning with Chileans. And I: Yes. And Farewelclass="underline" Do you know the stories of other popes? And I: All of them. And Farewelclass="underline" What about Hadrian II? And I: Pope from 867 to 872, there’s an interesting story about him, when King Lothair II came to Italy, the Pope asked him if he had gone back to sleeping with Waldrada, who had been excommunicated by the previous pope Nicholas I, and then with trembling step Lothair approached the altar at Monte Cassino, which is where the meeting took place, and the Pope waited for him in front of the altar and the Pope was not trembling. And Farewelclass="underline" He must have been a bit scared all the same. And I: Yes. And Farewelclass="underline" And the story of Pope Lando? And I: Little is known about him, except that he was Pope from 913 to 914, and that he gave the bishopric of Ravenna to one of Theodora’s protégés, who succeeded him on the papal throne. And Farewelclass="underline" Funny name for a pope, Lando. And I: Yes. And Farewelclass="underline" Look, the shadow play has finished. And I: Yes, you’re right, so it has. And Farewelclass="underline" How odd, I wonder what could have happened? And I: We’ll probably never know. And Farewelclass="underline" The shadows are gone, the rushing is gone, that feeling of being caught in a photographic negative is gone, was it just a dream? And I: We’ll probably never know. And Farewell paid for the meal, and I accompanied him to his door, but did not want to go in, because everything was foundering, as the poet says, and then I was walking alone through the streets of Santiago, thinking of Alexander III and Urban IV and Boniface VIII, while a fresh breeze caressed my face, trying to wake me up properly, but still I cannot have been properly awake, for deep in my brain I could hear the voices of the popes, like the distant screeching of a flock of birds, a clear sign that part of my mind was still dreaming or obstinately refusing to emerge from the labyrinth of dreams, that parade ground where the wizened youth is hiding, along with the dead poets who were living then, and who now, against the certainty of imminent oblivion, are erecting a miserable crypt in my cranial vault, building it with their names, their silhouettes cut from black cardboard and the debris of their works, and although the wizened youth is not among them, since in those days he was just a kid from the south, the rainy borderlands, the banks of our nation’s mightiest river, the fearsome Bío-Bío, all the same I sometimes confuse him with the swarm of Chilean poets whose works implacable time was demolishing even then, as I walked away from Farewell’s house through the Santiago night, and continues to demolish now, as I prop myself up on one elbow, and will go on demolishing when I am gone, that is, when I shall exist no longer or only as a reputation, and my reputation resembling a sunset, as the reputations of others resemble a whale, a bare hill, a boat, a trail of smoke or a labyrinthine city, my reputation like a sunset will contemplate through half-closed eyelids time’s little twitch and the devastation it wreaks, time that sweeps over the parade ground like a conjectural breeze, drowning writers in its whirlpools like figures in a painting by Delville, the writers whose books I reviewed, the writers whose work I criticized, the moribund of Chile and America whose voices called out my name, Father Ibacache, Father Ibacache, think of us as you walk away from Farewell’s house with a dancer’s sprightly gait, think of us as your steps lead you into the inexorable Santiago night, Father Ibacache, Father Ibacache, think of our ambitions and our hopes, think of our mute, inglorious lot as men and citizens, compatriots and writers, as you penetrate the phantasmagoric folds of time, time that we perceive in three dimensions only, although in fact it has four or maybe five, like the castellated shadow of Sordello, which Sordello? a shadow not even the sun can obliterate. Nonsense. I know. Twaddle. Piffle. Balderdash. Rot.