Georgina pulls a face as if she’s bothered: curiosity seems to her an unworthy and irritating sentiment. She can’t imagine Ibsen worrying about what people write in their diaries.
‘Well… I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It makes no sense if you tell it.’
‘Tell what?’
Georgina turns around, her feet on the wall. The sun has started to come out, and the glimmer hurts her eyes. She crumples the green and golden cup, makes it into a ball and throws it into the water. Then she regrets having done it: Manuel mustn’t believe that something has put her in a bad mood. It’s a good thing the sun is coming out: they’ve been on the riverside for an hour now waiting for it to rise. And it does. The sky is blue, red and yellow. That’s good.
She turns and sits as before.
‘I don’t know where to start,’ she says. ‘Because it turned out to be a very long diary. I would write in it every day… And there was always something to write about. I was a terrific adolescent, you know. I mean it, don’t laugh. I mean the theatre and all that. I was always talking about the theatre, and about the actress I was going to become. About my idols and about how I was going to work harder and harder until I’d be even greater than all my idols… Because unless you reach the highest peaks, life has no sense at all… I would also write about that, of course. And my thoughts about life, about fate… I don’t know… that one’s fate isn’t written down anywhere. I mean, there’s no star carrying a sign saying “Georgina Requeni Will Be The Greatest.” That’s it, you make up your own fate; that’s the thing. See my hand? Look! Even the lines of your hand change. You change them, see? Really, a palmreader explained it to me once… So, well, that’s what I wrote about. I felt, I don’t know—’ She stops and looks at him. ‘Happy now?’ she asks.
He is about to speak. She anticipates what he is about to ask.
‘It was a beautiful diary,’ she says. Then, in a mysterious tone, she adds, ‘The ceremony was really impressive.’
‘Ceremony?’ he asks. ‘What ceremony?’
His expression is very funny. Georgina is about to laugh.
‘The ceremony,’ she says. ‘Death. Everything must have its ceremony.’ She laughs like someone who has just remembered something hilarious. ‘You know what I did when I was eighteen?’ she asks.
He shakes his head.
‘I wrote the last page,’ Georgina is glowing. ‘A fabulous page, you should have seen. In my opinion, the best page in the entire diary, I mean it… The days of small gestures were over; one couldn’t help it. Now was the beginning of the real struggle… I didn’t cry or anything like that. I put the diary on a blue tray. A tray with little angels painted on it, I’ll show it to you when you come to the house. I lit a match and pfff. It became a blazing bonfire. I stared at it for as long as it took, and then the ashes… I bet you can’t guess? I threw them to the wind. Don’t laugh… Just a game, I know. But wasn’t it a beautiful ending?’
Manuel looks at her and says nothing. She’s in despair because she can’t figure out whether he’s truly moved (and by what) or whether he’s making fun of her.
‘I mean it,’ she says. ‘Everything must end in the same way it lived. What else could I have done? Thrown it into the garbage?’
Imposter, she thinks. A Hedda Gabler who shoots herself then throws kisses around is an imposter. Doesn’t anyone notice? No one notices. The applause increases, followed by an ovation. Georgina must admit that, speaking in general terms, the public is stupid: they call out the name of the star because they are fans, not because they understand anything about the theatre. The young woman on the proscenium throws one last kiss with an ample movement of the arm. Georgina, back in the wings with the rest of the cast, sees only her back but imagines her starlet’s smile. She looks at the woman’s nape with scorn. Now Doctor Tesman and Councillor Brack advance and stand on both sides of Hedda Gabler. A new wave of applause; the two actors bow their heads slightly. Now: this is the moment when they are all meant to come forward. What for? Hear them clap, no need to take a bow. The applause becomes weaker. What do they expect? A miracle? Georgina would have liked to know how Sarah Bernhardt herself would have managed to make something decent out of the role of Berta. Yes, Madam. It’s morning already, Madam. Councillor Brack is here to see you, Madam. No, she can’t take it any longer. Today she’ll give it all up. She thinks about it hard, as hard as a tombstone, and the clearness of her decision makes her feel better. She’s certain that only a privileged spirit is able to be as inflexible as she is: the spirit of a great artist. She lifts her eyes and smiles haughtily at the public. Dear Lord, she thinks. Grant them a minute of greatness to allow them to understand this smile. The curtain falls for the last time. Georgina heads for the dressing-rooms. She feels that one day, this too will be part of her history. Alone and unknown at the age of twenty-four, making her way through a throng of people who embrace and congratulate one another and ignore her, crossing dark corridors without paying attention to anything, without greeting anyone, without thinking about anything except—
‘Oh no, it never concerned me,’ she’d smile condescendingly. With exquisite good manners, she’d overlook the fact that several young men, out of sheer admiration, have brought up the subject of her nebulous beginnings.
‘But it was something outrageous. A talent like yours… Wasted on unbearable minor roles. How were you able to put up with it? Did the thought of giving it all up ever cross your mind?’
‘Never,’ she’d answer indignantly. ‘Do you think that with displays of false pride I’d have become who I am? Learn the lesson well, my children: nothing, nothing at all is ever achieved without struggle. One must start from the bottom, bear every blow and never falter.’
How true! she thinks, reaching the end of the corridor. She has at last understood the meaning of this moment, the greatness locked in all those anonymous years. She opens the door to her dressing-room. The other two women have taken off their costumes. The last performance of the Three-Penny Opera is over. In their slips, the two women, both perched on the only chair in the room, are smoking cigarettes. Georgina sees them, steps back and closes the door.
‘Come in,’ she hears. ‘If we try, all three of us can fit.’
Inside the room, they laugh.
‘What can you do,’ she hears. ‘The inconvenience of not being a star.’
Georgina makes a grimace of distaste.
‘Let her be,’ she hears. ‘That’s how she is.’
‘How?’ Georgina cries. ‘How am I?’
Santiago, his back towards her, lying by her side in the bed, isn’t startled. In the seven years he has known her, he has learnt not to be bothered by her sudden questions.
‘You’re Georgina,’ he says simply.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But. I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain.’
She remains silent for a moment. Then she says, ‘Why are you here, with me?’
He laughs half-heartedly.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late in the day to ask me that?’
‘You don’t understand,’ Georgina says. ‘In the early days… Don’t you see? In the early days it was different. It was… I don’t know. There was a time when everything was crazy, vertiginous. Each time we were together it was something new, something unpredictable. The joy of sin, remember? As if we had things to teach, as if. It was so lovely, Santiago. So lovely. Wasn’t it? It was. Wasn’t it? It was as I just said, yes? Santiago? Was it?’