— Why can’t I have it too?
— I used to read every book that fell in my hands. I’m an excellent letter writer. Maybe because I grew up in a boarding school three thousand miles away from any blood relative. May I see your palm. Amazing. A double life line. I see no sickness, but you actually live two lives. The second longer and more prosperous than the first. Maybe a new career.
— I’m psychic.
— Can we talk. After Last Temptation of Christ, Martin Scorsese went belly up. His agent sat him down, put both hands on his shoulders, and said:
— Look Marty, my man, ya gotta bite da bullet. Ya gonna hafta do other people’s films til ya can afford to do ya own.
Which is what Marty did, or rather I did for him for three years like The Grifters which was milk and water except for the grace of Anjelica Huston. Well, as planned, he made enough money from Cape Fear so as not to have to produce other people’s films anymore, and that’s why I’m out of a job. I was too successful. Now, I’m thinking, I’m forty-two years old and I have to go back to Van Couver and depend on my parents, who I don’t really know because I grew up in a boarding school three thousand miles away.
— Stay in New York. This is your place.
— You think so. I was very happy in London where I lived ten years as a literary agent. I have an apartment there which I am subletting. Plus I am not a citizen. Marty is writing letters for me so I can get a green card. I cannot ask him for more favors.
— I see you here.
— You think so. There is no business here. Ask Suzana, the movie industry is in California. That’s where I met Marty. I said, I’ll tell you a sad story and a happy story. If you think the sad story is sad, and the happy story is happy, then we can work together. And we did, swimmingly, for three years. Maybe all this is happening so I can get to know my parents before they die.
— You’ll make it. You need to fill your tanks in Canada and come back here and start scouting raw material.
— You think so. I’m tired of working for other people. I want to work for myself.
— They sound like frogs and chickens, ducks and hens.
— New York es una lata de resonancias y una lata de atardeceres y sonidos — resounding — resounding — resounding.
— Crude is the word, raw.
— Como una zanahoria. Una zanahoria cruda.
— 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 in 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, the name of parents — 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.
— Un día, Esquilo, calvo, y ya viejo, iba caminando por la arena, en Sicilia, mirando el mar, y un gavilán, que había cogido una tortuga para comérsela, pensó que su calva era una roca, y abrió la boca, y tiró con toda su puntería la tortuga contra la calva de Esquilo.
— Se rompió la tortuga.
— Como la cáscara de una nuez. Y mató la tragedia con una comedia.
— Qué risa, el relincho del destino. El cabreo de una cabra. El Alpha y el Omega. La risa de la burbuja cuando se queda pegadita a la salada arena, y la moja.
— Un día, yo iba caminando, y escuchaba los taladros, taladrando las calles, pensaba, estos acueductos, son un peligro, si están zafados, la tierra me traga. Y cuando les sacaba el cuerpo a los acueductos, pasó un ciclista. Qué miedo — por poco. Qué anormal. Debería haber una ley contra los ciclistas. Son un peligro. Corren sus bicicletas por las aceras, se comen las luces, se le meten por el medio a uno. Y todo porque tienen que mensajear la vida. De prisa, y a toda velocidad, relampagueando el aire. Pronto. Pronto. Pero en una de esas otras urgentes urgencias, yo abro la puerta de un taxi, y se cae la bicicleta de otro ciclista, mensajero de la muerte.
— Are you all right?
— Yes. No problem.
He got up groaning and wheeled his crooked bike out of traffic. Serves him right. ¿Por qué se meten? — entrometidos, los mensajeros, intermediarios. Happy to be alive — and hearing all the ruckus. Radios. Klaxons. Taladros. Sirens. Between the growling in my stomach and my dreams — pa, pa, bum, bum, 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 infatigable, poniéndome dura, el viento fuerte me pega duro como un látigo con nudos, me obstaculiza la entrada, la salida, regresar es más tarde, más tarde, lo dejamos para después, cuando tengamos más tiempo, después tendremos menos horas, y en qué sentido tendremos más tiempo, porque tendremos menos horas, tendremos más tiempo, sólo si lo sabemos aprovechar, y no perdemos el tiempo, perdiéndolo, lo ganamos. Then out of the blue falls un ladrillo de construcción enfrente mío. 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.
— Frotar una calva trae suerte. Acariciarla. Para que el destino de Esquilo, en esta maligna tierra, no se repita.
— 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.