— Blackbirds will come again, but they won’t come back the same.
— But why—I asked—why won’t they come back the same?
— You can’t cross the same river twice. New waters.
In the background I heard the bitch’s laughter, sloshed as she was, with her curly sweaty hair, which I’m sure she hadn’t washed in ages, and her shiny face and her yellow, yellow teeth, and her gums, open wild, I could even see the chambers of her throat with scotch splashing sassy, screaming like a witch and dancing, because he was with her and I was alone and lonely in my solitary room. The question is — why did he want to say hello?
— He wanted you to know he found a new love.
— So why didn’t he say so when he had me on the phone?
— Fear of sabotage.
— So why didn’t he sneak around the corner when he saw me instead of jumping out of the fog like a frog?
— It’s not as if he introduced you.
— Worse, suggestion hurts more.
— You took him by surprise. He didn’t expect to see you, so he called your name out of reflex.
— But why did he look at her at that very moment with a look that said:
— She caught us in the act. Keep walking. Don’t stop. I’ll say hello.
— That’s your jealousy talking.
— No, I swear, it was his bitch. And if he had any balls, he would’ve introduced me to her. What’s wrong with meeting a whore? He was hiding something. His conscience.
— Please, he’s got no shame.
— The look in his eyes. Her look. Her messiness. They were making love minutes before they encountered me. I’m not stupid. She had no makeup on.
— That’s your rage, your jealousy.
— I just want you to know how cruel he was.
— Cruel, but funny. I love the story.
— Look, I’m going to show you how I did it.
— Easy. It’s called hypnotism, and it’s a lack of respect.
— Wait, I thought you believed in my power to enchant.
— I believe it’s a kind of spell.
— Yes, but I’m not taking away their will. I’m giving and giving music to each singer, showing them how to voice the pain in the notes, lowering the catastrophes and feeling them, and being at one with them. And everyone who saw me, believe me, felt the voice of pleasure. All my hairs were on end — I had goose bumps all over.
— Spare me. You were nine years old when you conducted the choir.
— But with such devotion simple, yet sacrificial, knowing the mortality and the wounds, I mean, really knowing what art is about, a mystical experience, recognition of a vocation. And at that age.
— A very normal experience for a very normal child.
— Not any child can sustain that devotion. The choir was flying high. They knew it was no silly game. They followed my hands better than Evy Lucio’s.
— You memorized her gestures.
— Yes, but you have no idea what conducting means to me. I was bored of strumming the guitar, no, it wasn’t the guitar, or the scales, or the piano, or the scores, not even, not even singing. Now that I hear Dulcinea I recognize my style in the way she howls. She arches her neck all the way back until a simple, high-pitched howl comes out of her throat, the dark sound of a stormy gale of wind: Auuuu. Auuuuu. The auuuuuu conveys the gust of abandonment at the same time — calling for help — it voices pure panic in the face of danger — while howling to the infinite and hearing the echoes in the depths.
— Sounds German.
— I am a scream that transcends madness.
— You think I’m gonna believe your feelings are more powerful than mine because you talk in catastrophic combustions. It’s plain intimidation by association. You’re as fragile as, how can I say…
— As you. Let me feel the way I feel. What’s wrong with being in touch with oneself?
— You miss the touch of others because you just don’t listen enough.
— When is it enough? When you destroy everything I feel.
— Go ahead. If I feel it’s important I’ll unplug my ears, take what I need, and disregard the rest as I yawn with tolerant affection.
— Here they come.
— Let me see your grass. Where did you get it?
— From Granma’s garden.
— Just watch. They’re going to think you stole it. I bet you won’t get anything.
— Don’t say that. Granma said I could. And you took it too.
— From my own garden.
— Let’s not fight. Count the presents. Goody two-shoes. I bet I got more.
— Shhh, I hear the camels coming.
— Ay, you left the door open. Take a peek.
— No, I don’t want them to see me. Give me your hand. We’ll go together.
— Close it.
— No, they’re going to see us.
— Close it, dummy. Scaredy-cat.
Slam — bam — auuu!
— My finger. Momma.
Oh, my pinkie was a salamander dangling on the doorway.
— Momma. Momma. What do I do? Auuuw.
I didn’t dare to look at it. Down the stairs came my mother from the second floor, took my finger off the door — blood gushing — as you can imagine — and tied it back on with a handkerchief, soaked in blood, and took me to the hospital where they stitched me back up.
— You were waiting up for the Three Kings.
— I sacrificed my pinkie.
— But it got you a buggy.
— With blinking headlights.
— Every cloud has a silver lining.
— And all good things must come to end.
— And the camels?
— They ate the grass and trampled the place.
Ta-da-dúm
Ta-da-dúm
Ta-da-dúm, dúm, dúm
— How’s your pinkie?
— It’s shorter than the other one.
— Looks the same to me. You’re just bending it.
— If it happened to you, you’d appreciate it more. The day after I got stitches, my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins were all standing around my bed. Waiting for the resurrection of the flesh and the life of my finger. Bruised. Bandaged. Just waiting around. Not knowing what to expect. I sat up in my sleep, singing the Pied Piper of Hamelin and playing his flute:
Ti-ri-ri.
Ti-ri-ri.
Ti-ri-ri.
I had to exercise my fingers. Especially my pinkie:
Ri. Ri. Ri.
— You didn’t see stars?
— It’s not every day you see them, but the pain had a tune of its own. Did I ever tell you the one about the stabbing?
— Oh, not again.
— Chicken. I was jumping rope in the patio corner. Always trying to keep more of a distance from two little girls, Mumi and Mindy, who were playing darts. I called out:
— I can’t believe it. What are you doing playing that macho game?
They were having fun. And the wind was blowing harder. Auuu. Just like Dulcinea.
— Accidents happen when you least expect it—I thought—even in safe little corners of the world.
I had a funny feeling the dart would head my way, but why stop jumping rope.
— I’m happy. I’m not throwing anything at anybody. I’m a pacifist in the war of darts, just jumping my own rope.
And just then, a dart right through the back of my hand. Stabbed. Stabbed. I see the girls coming at me, thrilled by the sight of my blood.