What was the bard of bohemia going to do, once we each sat down with our cuba libres, but improvise some awful verses on the subject of our lady, sitting there wordlessly? We saw Arturo’s grimace of disdain and Ventura took advantage of Teófilo’s sigh to laugh good-naturedly and say that this donna immobile would be the best Tancredo at a bullfight. Too bad that woman, inventor of the art of bullfighting in Crete (who continued to delight circus audiences as écuyère), is not able to play the central role in the modern bullring. The man who plays the Tancredo — the fat, rosy-cheeked Ventura began his imitation, first licking his rosebud lips and then anointing a finger with saliva and dramatically running it over his eyebrows — is put in the center of the ring — so — and doesn’t budge for anything — so — because his life depends on it. His future movement depends on his present immobility — he stood stock-still in front of La Desdichada — as the gate opens — so — and the bull — so — is released and seeks movement, the bull is attracted by the movement of the other, and there is Tancredo, unmoving, and the bull doesn’t know what to do, he awaits a movement, an excuse to ape and attack it: Ventura del Castillo motionless before La Desdichada, who is sitting between Bernardo and me, Arturo standing, watching what is going on with the most correct cynicism, Teófilo confused, his words starting to burst out, his inspiration starting to perish: his hands in front of him, his pose and his speech suspended by Ventura’s frozen act, the perfect Tancredo, rigid in the center of the ring, defying the fierce bull of the imagination.
Our friend had been converted into the mirror image of the wooden dummy. Bernardo was sitting on La Desdichada’s right and I on the mannequin’s left. Silence, immobility.
Then we heard a sigh and we all turned to look at her. Her head fell to the side, onto my shoulder. Bernardo stood up trembling, he looked at her huddled there, resting on my shoulder — so — and took her by the shoulders — so — so — and shook her, I didn’t know what to do, Teófilo babbled something, and Ventura was true to his game. The bull was attacking and he, how could he move? It would be suicide, caramba!
I defended La Desdichada, I told Bernardo to calm down.
— You’re hurting her, you prick!
Arturo Ogarrio let his arms drop and said: Let’s go, I think we are intruding on the private lives of these people.
— Good night, madam, he said to La Desdichada, who was being held up with one arm supported by Bernardo, the other by me. — Thank you for your exquisite hospitality. I hope to repay it one of these days.
Toño and Bernardo
How would you prefer to die? Do you see yourself crucified? Tell me if you would like to die like Him. Would you dare? Would you ask for a death like His?
Bernardo
I watched La Desdichada for hours, taking advantage of the heavy sleep Toño fell into after dinner.
She had returned, still in her Chinese dressing gown, to her place at the head of the table; I studied her in silence.
Her sculptor had given her a face of classic features, a straight nose and nicely spaced eyes, not as round as those of most mannequins of the time, who looked like caricatures, especially since they were usually given fan-shaped eyelashes. The black eyes of La Desdichada, on the other hand, were melancholy: the lengthened lids, like a lizard’s, gave her that quality. In contrast, the mannequin’s mouth, tiny, tight, and painted to look like a ribbon, could be that of any store-window dummy. Her chin, again, was different, a little prognathous, like that of a Spanish princess. She also had a long neck, perfect for those old garments that buttoned to the ear, as the poet López Velarde wrote. La Desdichada had, in fact, a neck for all ages: childish nakedness, then silk mufflers, finally pearl chokers.
I say “her sculptor,” knowing that this face is neither artistic nor human because it is a mold, repeated a thousand times and distributed in shops all over the world. They say that store mannequins are the same in Mexico and Japan, in black Africa and the Arab world. The model is Occidental and everyone accepts it. Nobody had seen, in 1936, a Chinese or black mannequin. While they always stay within the classic mold, there are differences: some mannequins laugh and others don’t. La Desdichada does not smile; her wooden face is an enigma. But that is only because I am disposed to see it that way, I admit. I see what I want to see and I want to see it because I am reading and translating a poem by Gérard de Nerval in which grief and joy are like fugitive statues, words whose perfection is in the immobility of the statue and the awareness that such paralysis is ultimately also its imperfection: its undoing. La Desdichada is not perfect: she lacks a finger and I don’t know if it was cut off purposely or if it was an accident. Mannequins do not move, but are moved rather carelessly.
Bernardo and Toño
He throws me a challenge: Do you dare take her out on the street, on your arm? Take her to dine at Sanborns, how about that? Test your social status, let them see you in a theater, a church, a reception, with La Desdichada at your side, mute, her gaze fixed, without even a smile, what would they say of you? Expose yourself to ridicule for her. I wouldn’t count on it, friend: you wouldn’t do anything of the sort. You only want to keep her here at home, for you alone if possible (do you think that I don’t know how to read your glances, your looks of violent impotence?); otherwise, the three of us together. Whereas I will take her out. I’ll take her out for a stroll. You’ll see. As soon as she recovers from your abuse, I’ll show her off everywhere, she is so alive, I mean, she seems alive, just look, our friends were almost fooled, they greeted her, they said goodbye to her. Is it only a game? Then let the game continue, because if enough people play it, it will cease to be one, and then, then maybe everyone will see her as a living woman, and then, then, what if the miracle occurs and she really comes to life? Let me give that chance to this … to our woman, that’s right, our woman. I’m going to give her that chance. I think then she can be mine alone. What if she comes to life and says: I prefer you, because you had faith in me, and not the other, you took me out and he was embarrassed, you took me to a party and he was afraid of being laughed at.
Toño
She whispered in my ear, in a rasping tone: How would you like to die? Do you see yourself with a crown of thorns? Don’t cover your ears. Do you long to possess me and are you unable to think of a death that will make me adore you? Then I will tell you what I will do with you, Toño, tony Toño!
Bernardo
La Desdichada had a very bad night. She groaned dreadfully. I had to watch her closely.
Toño
I see my face in the mirror, on waking. It is scratched. I rush to look at her. We spent the night together, I explored her minutely, like a real lover. I didn’t leave a centimeter of her body unexamined. But when I saw my own wound I went back for another look, to discover what I saw last night and then forgot. La Desdichada has two invisible furrows in her painted cheeks. No tears flow over these hidden wounds, repaired rather carelessly by the mannequin maker. But something flowed down that surface once.