— It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It only matters that she believes it’s true.
— You’re doing her no favor by humoring her. It’s all a lie. Encourage her to write about her past, but afterwards, show it to me, and I’ll chop her demons down to size. She has to confront reality in black and white. Look how she is always twirling her hair and rocking like a goosey girl. And yet, she is such a powerful public speaker. Perfectly calm. Sibyl, right, papi. It’s Doña Juanita’s fault for not letting her play with other children. We used to break into their garden and shoot birds with slingshots. I was the best shot. She used to watch us from the window. Doña Juanita wouldn’t let her come out and play with us. She used to dress in pastels and ruffles. Now look at her. I’m going to buy her a pink sweater from Ferragamo because she looks so pretty in cheerful colors. Why does she always dress in black like Hamlet, mourning ghosts? Playing the role of a village artist. Insecurity. Why does she have to pay $100 for a haircut? Insecurity. I’ll pulverize her delusions. Calling Lourdes a lesbian. It’s a shame that she has to define herself by projecting her sins onto others. She doesn’t like me. Because I tell her:
— Come here, you flaming fag, and look at yourself in my eyes.
— No thanks, Mumi, I have my own mirror.
— You could be free like me if you go to therapy.
— I don’t want to be like you.
— It’s not what you want to be. It’s what you are. You don’t want to accept yourself as you are.
— It is so if you think so.
— You think so. You think so.
— No, I don’t think so. But if you think so.
— I think so.
— Well, I am not if you think so. I am if I think so. Only, if I think so. Myself is not yourself. And it is not if you think so. Only if I think so. And I don’t think so. So, if you think so, in my book, it is not so. Not if you think so, it is not.
— It was a theater with plush red drapes. It was your first gig at Radio City, and you were playing a Mahler symphony on electric guitar. I was sitting alone in the first row with nobody behind me in the second row except for a petite woman. The rest of the hall was packed with restless, confused rockers who hadn’t heard anything like it, so they didn’t know whether to cheer or boo. I clenched my fists and focused all my good energy:
— Let it be great, please, let her bring the house down, blow the roof off, set the house on fire, oh please God, show us some love tonight, give us magic, fire, delight, and all the money in sight.
Suddenly shorty in the second row jumped to her feet and started singing in Mick Jagger’s raw voice. You were playing the guitar staring at the floor, and she turned her back to you to embrace the crowds, raising her fist, inciting them to sing along with her voice of oregano:
— Hey! Heeey-ho!
The rockers went crazy cheering and clapping:
— Look who it is!
— Heeey-ho! — she sang to the crowds.
— Hey-ho. Heeey-ho! — the crowds sang back to her.
I was rubbing my temples, and my head was bursting.
— Rain, rain, shower me.
— Hey! Heeey-ho! — she thumbed over her shoulder—Follow the music. Listen.
But when she pointed at you, you dropped the guitar and ran backstage. The crowds were screaming for her to sing without you.
— What happened? — she asked. We were fantastic.
— You were fantastic—I said. I loved when you gave the heys and the ho’s. You were the only one who understood. I must say, however, that when you sang to the audience, you turned your back to her as if she were your back-up musician. Wait here, I’ll talk to her backstage.
— What a lack of respect—you muttered. Yelling vulgarities.
— They loved her, and she loved you.
— Sorry seven times.
— You can ask me to say sorry seven times, fourteen times. But a woman you don’t even know, a woman who could make your career.
— Seven times—you insisted—on her knees.
But I knew you would accept her apology. She came backstage and embraced you.
— Excuse me, I didn’t turn my back on you. And if I did, it’s because I was feeling the music on my back, and I wanted to confront it face to face. Back to back. Front to back, back to front, inside. It was an injection of vitality, a shot of ho’s.
— How was that hey-ho?
— Heeey-ho! — she sang to you, took your hand and together you walked on stage. The fans stood up, whistling and screaming.
— Success. Success—I called my father—Full house.
— You sang? — he asked quietly.
— No.
— Did you play an instrument?
— No.
— Were you on stage?
— No.
— So what success is it for you? Skedaddle. Skedaddle before it is too late.
— What is he saying? — you yelped in the background—That I wasn’t a hit? Tell him who sang with me! A full house, tell him. Skedaddle? He should go skedaddle himself.
— I thought you said she wasn’t there—he said.
— I can’t skedaddle. People who skedaddle don’t win grants.
— What grants are you winning? Listen, I don’t want to tell you what to do, honey, but if I were you, I’d skedaddle, skedaddle as soon as I could.
— Exactly. That’s what you are, the buffer between the creator and the public. And to think I nearly blew it, running off the set. If it weren’t for you, the music wouldn’t have reached the people. Of course, I can’t forget about the celebrity who carried the melody that had no melody, because it was amorphous, and gave it a form of expression that the masses could understand. And you, backstage, talking to her, talking to me, you were the success. But there’s just one latch that doesn’t click. I swear, I would have not run off the stage. I would have invited her on stage to sing with me. Or I would have joined her in the audience so she would not hog the spotlight.
— Unabashed narcissism. It’s not you. It’s Tess. She doesn’t know who she is. The singer is her arrested libido telling her to turn her back on you, the composer. But the composer is her other self. She is all the characters in her dream. That’s why you don’t identify with the composer. Because it’s her personality. She is so defensive that she even guards herself against success, sabotaging herself under the pretext of dignity because she has no confidence in her creative power. Even a simple gesture — the singer turning to face the audience — makes her feel weak. It’s her weakness because you make her weak, and that’s why she disguises her weakness with your face. And the singer, who has an accessible voice of her own, seeks liberation from you. But her third ego — the only one she accepts and she recognizes as herself — is the mending one — that’s why it has her face. At the end, the voice of her father, the voice of her conscience, tells her: Escape from the only self that you dare to recognize as yourself. Develop your own voice. Why do you have to be her stage-hand and sell yourself short? Skedaddle.