— Most of it is complete.
— The penumbral zone of past impressions. But what about the future?
— Future editions can add future episodes.
— Wouldn’t it be wonderful to write a book all your life — a book that’s about your life with all the elements of a biography — but it’s not an autobiography. Not a dream play. Not a novel. Not a poem.
— A lifetime work in progress. It’s a terrifying concept. You would be amazed how many times I thought I was finishing it, when another idea struck my head, another thunderstorm hit, and other pieces fell into the bottomless pit, forming new geometries, new blocks, and other rooms appeared that I’ve had to decorate.
— A quarter to the left, 1st panel, a quarter to the left, 2nd panel, a quarter to the left, 3rd panel, a quarter to the left, 4th panel. And then, all of them, at the same time, a quarter to the right. And there you have it: musical fugue.
— But don’t they fall into the same order if you are turning all of them a quarter to the left, and then a quarter to the right.
— Look, look at them. Did they fall into the same order?
— No, but I don’t understand why not.
— Tess, honey, you understand. Explain it to them. They don’t have a logical bone in their bodies. They are poetic.
— Mona, would you like to be called artistic? No, you are an artist. She is a poet. And he is a philosopher.
— But they’re not logical.
— We are very logical. And don’t embark Tess in your same boat. Tess understands Paco Pepe and me. You say we are confusing.
— What logic is there in sprinkling paprika on my butterball turkey? I’m a maniac for order and cleanliness. That’s why I unzipped the gray cat’s coat.
— Paco Pepe believes in magic. He’ll sprinkle his magic powder and pour his magic syrup into the rice. You’ll see how it tastes.
— Tess, Tess.
— Just a moment, Makiko.
— What about the composition?
— Look, Tess, look.
— Fire, Mona, fire.
— The tablecloth is burning, burning, burning.
— Water, water.
— Not water. Use napkins. Not water.
— Why not water?
— Not water.
— Why not water, water?
— Water extinguishes fire. That Mona is always talking about logic. What is the logic of using napkins to put the fire out?
— My whole party ruined. My whole table burned.
— Quick, add more paprika to the turkey. And more Coca-Cola to the rice now that she is busy.
— My whole dinner ruined. My tablecloth in flames, in flakes. Ruined.
— Absurd, did you notice, nobody thought to blow out the candles.
— It would’ve blown out the magic and the party hasn’t even begun.
— Someone’s knocking. Get the door.
— Jonathan, you’re late.
— Qué viva el Imperio de los Sueños!
— Qué viva Jonathan Brent!
— Qué viva Paco Pepe!
— Qué viva kiko!
— Qué viva Tess!
— Damn, they’re giving me a complex. Always Empire of Dreams. Paco Pepe, don’t you like my new book better?
— They’re apples and oranges.
— But which do you prefer?
— You haven’t lost your touch. You keep growing.
— But I want to know which one you prefer. Please, tell me, please.
— I would never tell you that.
— Then I’ll never know the truth.
— There’s a style for every taste.
— Tell me, Jonathan, how is it doing?
— Well, I don’t know if I should tell you this. Well, okay, they are bidding on the paperback rights.
— Who, Jonathan, who?
— I’m not at liberty to tell you this.
— Tell me, I won’t tell anybody.
— The Italians and the Germans want it. And even the Spaniards want to translate it into Spanish.
— It was written in Spanish.
— Does Yale have the rights in Spanish?
— It’s the only rights you don’t have.
— Did your publishers in Spain ever pay you?
— I know what you want — you want to eat me up. I sold you Manhattan for $24.
— And some glass beads.
— And now you want me to surrender Spain?
— They never paid you?
— Not a penny. But I read in The Glass Graduate, it’s a problem that has existed in Spain since Cervantes’ time. They tell you they print 1,000 copies, when they print 5,000 copies — and then they reprint the 2nd edition, and they don’t tell you there is a 2nd edition. I know what you’re thinking. Hey, don’t get any funny ideas.
— Don’t get excited. Suppose it only sells a few dozen copies, then the deals fall through.
— Who? I won’t tell anybody. Top secret.
— It begins with V.
— Vantage, Viking, Vintage. Is it Vintage? They published Joyce. That’s my first choice.
— It depends who offers me more. But maybe I’ll keep the rights. We won’t be able to sell as many copies as the commercial presses, but if we can unload a couple thousand copies a year, we’ll do all right in the long term.
— Keep your classics in stock. What would you have if you sold Gertrude Stein or Eugene O’Neill?
— Suppose they make me an offer that I cannot resist.
— How big is cannot resist?
— Shh, come, lend me your ear.
— That’s all? You can resist that.
— But this is poetry. It’s a nice offer.
— What a dramatic table setting.
— My whole party ruined.
— No, Mona, chance as collaborator. It was just a piece of cotton and now it’s material for history. The tablecloth tells a mystery. Life is experimenting. So what if it’s burned? It’s still beautiful.
— Is it better than mine? It is, isn’t it? Admit it. It is better than mine. Isn’t it?
— You tell me. Is that what you feel? Because then I’ll go with the better.
— She is a better painter than I am a writer. She is. She has to be. These four panels of a musical fugue come out of freedom and solitude. Nobody interferes with her muse. Oh, I am painly jealous.
— Plainly zealous.
— What? What is my kindred spirit saying? It was all so much hustle and bustle sculpting the body of Jane, cutting piece by piece, until I made her scream: Homo poeticus.
— You stole it from me. I told you I love it. It was my love you wanted. You stole my fire. I no longer have a muse. Go. Go with her.
— If she is a better painter than you a writer it’s your duty to get on your knees and tell her:
— Mona, you outdid yourself. You outdid myself.
— I wish I could do as well and alone. Being free of these other voices that persecute me. The blue mask of Homo poeticus—I gave you the 2nd panel. You took it from me. It’s mine.
— Nerves of steel, lady, Homo poeticus is mine.
— You flung the sketch in the garbage. I pulled it out. And because I wanted it, you desired it.
— It’s sexual bread. Feel it.
— A round, puffy ass.
— If it’s sexual bread it’s like Mona. Give me some.
— What are these people going to think? Homo poeticus was mine.
— Yes, but it was me who recognized it. I told you it was good. And you set fire to my desire.
— As if thunder could be stolen from the map of the universe.
— Yes, it can, and sometimes the imitation outdoes the original. And it all makes sense. Unguent. Perfume. Laquearia. In the dripping red panel. Light my fire, Mona, my desire.