Marta replied: do you consider yourself a great writer? I’m not the one who thinks that, said Rashid, it’s the press and my readers who consider me a great writer, at least that’s what they say to my face. They may be lying but that’s what they say, and I believe them, because nobody is forcing them; my books are successful in a dozen languages and that must mean something, mustn’t it? He took a long slug of whiskey and said, I don’t want to appear arrogant, I don’t think my books are important, but I like them, that’s why I write and publish them. Other people think they’re important.
Again Marta looked at me, as if to say, it’s your turn, do you have your answer yet?
I can think of a thousand reasons not to write, I said, in fact I haven’t written for quite some time now; things like illness or boredom, irritation or fatalism, or remembering that all human enterprises are doomed to disappear, however long they last. . Thinking that doesn’t exactly inspire one to write.
And are you going to start writing again now? she asked, and I said, perhaps I’ll try a new genre, biography for example, this conference may be a sign.
And why would you start writing again?
There are things we do without any reason or for the most trivial of reasons, I said: going out and walking along the road during the rush hour and looking at people in their cars; showing up in midafternoon at the box office of a movie theater or browsing in bookshops or sitting on a balcony watching people on their way home, and repeating to yourself in your mind, why am I doing all this? why today did I walk to a bookshop or go to a movie theater and just as I got to the door decide not to go in? We do things that have no meaning or only acquire meaning over time, perhaps because deep down we want to change our lives at the last moment, when everything appears fixed, like those roulette players who one second before the close of bets nervously shift a tower of chips, from one number to another, and then bite their fingers; because we’re searching for some kind of intense experience, or because we want to be someone else, yes, to be someone else, there you have your answer: I write to be someone else.
Marta smiled and said, you see, we’re making progress already, I told you we could still get a good article at this hour, the idea that alcohol and work are incompatible may be correct for dentists or people who perform circumcisions, but not for those of us who work with words. Of course, provided we stay a bit horizontal, or support ourselves with the other hand.
I took advantage of our eyes meeting — hers were two blue fishbowls — to ask her, how about you, Marta, why do you write?
The change of trajectory disconcerted her, but she seemed to enjoy the game, and said, I write because it’s what I do for the arts pages, that’s rather a stupid answer, I know, but it’s the literal truth; if I were on the financial pages or the sports pages my life would be different, I’d write less, I’d be dictating results or commentaries by telephone, and that would be all; I should add that I feel proud when I see my texts printed and imagine they’re going to be seen in railroad stations and tea rooms and hairdressing salons and the people who read them will approve or reject them and one in a hundred or a thousand will remember my article that night and make some comment over dinner, that, by and large, is what drives me to write, don’t you feel the same way?
I said yes, I was pleased that what I wrote would be seen by readers unknown to me, but I didn’t feel any pride, because to tell the truth the books we leave behind us drift away from us and we end up kind of mutually rejecting each other, as if after a while we did not recognize each other, and that’s what’s happening to me today, I’m miles from them, I’m not the same person who wrote them; I genuinely think those books are dead.
A loud explosion plunged the bar into silence and darkness.
There were a couple of grotesque screams and some laughter. Then somebody struck a light, and I saw that the people were all frozen in their places, even those who were on the dance floor. There was another explosion, and I grabbed Marta’s hand and headed for the exit. Where the hell had Rashid gotten to? I found him in the corridor and I said, it’s time we got back. The windy night carried the smell of gasoline and scorched tires.
When I got to the hotel I realized how much I had been drinking. The steps were moving like the keys of a pianola and I almost fell. As I walked toward the elevators I heard music on the second floor and decided to go have a look. In the main reception room a waiter was extinguishing the candles and collecting the candlesticks. Another was removing the tablecloths and the remains of food. On one side of the room a few delegates had appropriated a few bottles and gathered around the piano. The person playing turned out to be none other than Leonidas Kosztolányi. They were all singing out of tune and drinking.
When I got to my room, I left my clothes on the armchair and went to take a shower, the only way to clear my head before sleep. I switched out the light and stepped inside the jet of water, which felt really good. I do not know how much time I was in there, but I actually fell asleep and even dreamed. Then I turned off the water, grabbed one of the towels, and stepped out of the shower, shivering as I did so.
It was then that I heard the voices. A woman on the verge of tears and a man trying to console her. Being in the dark, I lost all sense of direction and was not sure where the voices were coming from. I even thought they might be coming from my own room. I did not have the strength to switch on the lamp, so I concentrated all my energies on listening. I love you, the man was saying, you’ve always known that, why should everything be different now? The words made the woman moan even louder and the man insisted, blaming her. You can’t keep returning to that time, he said.
The fact that her moaning did not diminish in intensity made me think that she was hoping for more affection, and I tried to imagine the scene: the two of them on the couch, the man embracing her, the woman with her face in her hands; but his attempts at consoling her, perhaps because they had been repeated too often and had become old and tired, did not convince either of them anymore, and I wondered, what is it that she returns to and reproaches him with? how, out of the many ways you can hurt somebody, has he hurt her? After these questions came others: were they young? middle-aged? The fact that the man was whispering made it hard to determine his age.
He said: I love you and that’s all that matters, forget everything else, what does the past matter? life is full of traps; but she continued sighing and crying, and he insisted: if I were lying I wouldn’t have brought you here. That phrase produced a special effect, because at last she spoke: I prefer not to believe you, because if it turns out that you’re lying I’ll slash my wrists and this time I mean it, and it’ll all be your fault, listen to me, your fault for making me heartless and false. Now it was the man who paused for a long time, a pause that made me assume they had embraced and the woman had stopped crying, but I was wrong, because the sighs started again: nobody’s realized what I’ve done, but that doesn’t mean that I’m ready to keep doing it, do you understand me? let alone for a bastard like you.
Her tone became threatening. Then there was a different sound, which, in my delirium, I associated with a kiss, a long kiss, profoundly desired by the two of them. Finally he spoke, and said, feel how much I love you, you can smell it, touch it, it’s no lie. And again the kiss. Don’t try to break my heart, she said, you won’t succeed this time, I’m strong now, and he said, I don’t deserve anything, I know that, what I deserve is for you to spit at me and humiliate me and even pee in my face, if you think it’s necessary, I deserve that, you know, I’m not trying to convince you of anything, all I want is to clear the way so that the truth can come out without any shame.