— They sound like frogs and chickens, ducks and hens.
— New York is a canister of echoes, a canister of sounds and sunsets — resounding — resounding — resounding.
— Crude is the word, raw.
— Like a carrot. A raw carrot.
— It’s the last great European city. And the first great American city.
— And the capital of Puerto Rico.
— On the verge of collapsing.
— This city has always been apocalyptic. Since the turn of the century, when the subways were laid, the streets were gutted, tunnels gorged, people leaping, anarchic steps from one muddy plank to another. Memory has few landmarks. Wear it down. Tear it down. Beethoven rolls around Central Park on rollerblades and motorcycles, and he’s a contemporary of Jackson and Madonna vis-à-vis Walkmans. Every pair of ears picks its own noise. The dead are alive, alive and rolling around like dice on Wall Street.
— Nobody is secure. Suing the president for sexual harassment. There is no authority that cannot go unchallenged. We could never have a queen. We would dethrone her. No respect. Not even for the dead.
— I was in a hurry. I took a cab. I was planning to walk, but I always leave everything for the last moment. Where are the keys? Always under my nose. But the moment I have to leave, I look at my watch, already five minutes late, oh, here they are. I rush out, but the elevator takes an eternity and stops on every floor. Traffic. Rush hour. The driver taking me the long way, the meter rolling. Why did he take the long way? We would be there already. What can I do? Sit back and relax. Out of the corner of my eye, I see out the window a drunkard has finished his bottle of rum, and he takes the bottle back over his shoulder, in slow motion — what is he going to do, throw it — where? I hear the crash of the bottle against the windshield. Freeze-frame. What happened? Am I dead? That sound. A bomb in my face. The window shattered, diamonds showering the driver and me — frozen, silent. Am I dead or alive and quaking? I asked the driver:
— Should we go to the police and report him?
— As if they cared. I’ll take you to your destination. They mustn’t track your references, they mustn’t know who you are, they mustn’t trace your roots and pinpoint you — there she is, now nail her to the cross of an address, name, portfolio, credit card, social security number, telephone number, mother’s name, father’s name — they’ll cross-examine you, they’ll dig into you until they dig your grave, and then they’ll bury you, shedding powder on your dirty face, and shedding tears on their evidence, wild cards, wild ducks, they’ll forget you were alive, and they’ll shed tears, tearing apart your grave. Grave is the world, torn apart under this dirty earth.
One day, Aeschylus, bald and old, was walking along a beach in Sicily, watching the sea, when a seagull flew overhead with a turtle it was going to eat, opened its beak and dropped the turtle on Aeschylus’s bald head, mistaking it for a rock.
— And cracked the turtle open.
— Like a nutshell. And killed the tragedy with a comedy.
— What a riot, the braying of destiny. The bleating of a goat. Alpha and omega. The laughter of a bubble when it lands on salty sand and wets it.
— One day, I was walking, hearing jackhammers pounding the streets, and thinking — danger — if those aqueducts come loose, the earth will swallow me whole. And just as I skirted my way to safety, holy shit, a bicycle. Near miss. Asshole. They should outlaw bikers. They’re a menace to society. They ride the sidewalks, run red lights, and mow you down with fear. Just because they’re messengering life. Racing at top speed. Lightning flashes in the air. Pronto. Pronto. And in one of those urgent urgencies, I open a taxi door and another biker slams right into it, messenger of death.
— Are you all right?
— Yes. No problem.
He got up groaning and wheeled his crooked bike out of traffic. Serves him right. Messengers, in-betweenies, go-betweenies. Why do they get in the way? Happy to be alive — and hearing all the ruckus. Radios. Horns. Jackhammers. Sirens. Between the growling in my stomach and my dreams — pa-pa, boom-boom, conversations — in tune with my being, I am whole with the body I forge when I walk, and I am exhausted, better exhausted, the head spins faster when the body is exhausted. I would like to walk inexhaustible, walk tireless, walk nonstop, getting in shape. The wind whips around the corner like a knotted whip, hinders my entrance, exit, the return comes later, much later, we’ll get to it later when we have more time, we’ll have fewer hours later so how will we have more time, because we’ll have fewer hours, we’ll have more time, only if we know how to make the most of it, by not wasting it, by wasting it, we’ll make the most of it. Then, out of the blue, a brick falls right in front of me. I don’t even have time to react. I just looked up and down. And shook my head. A breath of luck. Knock on wood.
— Rub a bald head for good luck. Caress it. So no one else on this wretched earth will ever have to suffer Aeschylus’s fate.
— Makiko came to me. I told her:
— You look beautiful.
— I feel fat.
— Why?
— I am sad. I don’t know why.
Then Rey passed by and glared at her, disgusted, and she glared back at him.
— Was it because of Leen?
— I think Makiko is living with Leen because she wants to be like her — beautiful. But then, as close as she gets, she realizes she is not. Beauty makes her miserable.
— I think she was sad because Rey came to the party, and she realized he still controls Leen. That made her sad — she feels used by both of them as if they are playing games with her. She doesn’t know where she stands with Rey and Leen. Somewhere in between.
— I feel for Rey. Suppose we had a fight and you tell Mona, because you need to confide in somebody, and Mona tells you:
— Leave him and come live with me.
Rey feels betrayed by Makiko. I would have felt the same with Mona.
— It’s not as if this were the first time. She broke her sister and Cano apart. Now, she lives with Leen and her sister.
— Misery loves company.
— Just be for real, baby. I don’t wanna be hurt by love again. Are you just for the thrill? I’m flexible. But just be real. I don’t wanna be hurt, hurt by love again.
— Be careful, Suzana. I see it in her face. She is already writing her next fragment. Word for word. And Tess, the tape recorder, will catch everything she misses. I already know. One takes the photo of feelings. The other one quotes the nuances. You can’t win.
— I don’t care. Take it. Take it all.
— She’s stealing my muse. Don’t pay attention.
— I already know she likes what you’re saying. She’s already writing it.
— I don’t care. Take it. Take it all.
— And what about painters? Goya and Velázquez. You think all their models liked how they are portrayed? And no one stops you from taking photos.
— You don’t even change names. Nothing is sacred. Not even friendship. You’re like Truman Capote.
— I’m not frivolous. I’m doing a portrait of reality. If I am observing the funeral of a famous man, I must talk from the point of view of the widow, with no distance from sorrow, the journalist, with distance enough to appeal to the masses with melodrama or soap opera, and the artist with the most distance so I can objectify it, but I should also become the dead man. Only if I am all of them — dead man, widow, journalist and artist — can I become Velázquez and paint Las Meninas.
— Angles of realities.