— What happened? We were fantastic.
— You were fantastic. I loved when you gave the vuelos the e-e-elos. 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.
— Perdón siete.
— 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.
— Siete veces—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 vuelos.
— How was that vuelo?
— Vue-e-e-elo—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? Jualara. Jualara 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. Jualara? He should go jualara himself.
— I thought you said she wasn’t there—he said.
— I can’t jualara. People who jualara 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 jualara, jualara as soon as I could.
— Exacto. Eso es lo que tú eres, la intercesora entre el creador y el público. Y pensar que por poco lo jodo todo, yéndome del escenario, si no es por ti, la música no llega a los oídos del pueblo. Claro, tampoco puedo olvidarme de la famosa que se llevó la melodía que no tenía melodía, porque era amorfa, y le dio una forma de expresión para que el público la entendiera. Y tú, tras bastidores, hablando con ella, hablando conmigo, fuiste tú el éxito. But there’s a 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. Jualara.
— No les escuches. Tú lo hiciste todo posible.
— Pero no creaste la música. Jualara. Ni cantaste. Jualara. El público aplaudió a la compositora y a la cantante. Pero no te aplaudió a ti. Y te dice que eres la intercesora pero la intercesora fue la cantante. Jualara.
— Pero tú fuiste the power behind the throne.
— Do you want to be behind the throne or on it.
— You are a star either way.
— Don’t patronize her. Her self-esteem is low enough. Always sacrificing. You want to be a translator? Being a translator is a noble business if you’re Baudelaire translating Poe. But you still have to write Flowers of Evil. Or are you expecting her to write all your poems for you. Your name will always be in a smaller font. Why should you sacrifice. I see how much you have inside. Don’t let your hunger eat you up. She takes your friendship for granted. You don’t envy her, you don’t feel jealousy, you don’t feel anything dark inside your heart, when you see that she’s shining because you are her cheerleader with twinkling eyes. You clap, they clap. If I had you, I’d have Leo Castelli by now. I need a Tess.
— Go ahead and take her.
— I could not exploit her like you do. I would encourage her to finish her Ph.D. Find her own voice. She is your emotional crutch. If you don’t write, you blame her, you spill your coffee, you blame her, you bite your tongue, you blame her. Poor thing, she’s too young to know any better.
— I wonder why she thinks you’re so easy.
— Don’t step in her snare. You’re attacking me to defend yourself.
— You think that if you had a Tess you would have a show at the Whitney. You think Van Gogh was Van Gogh because he had Theo. Theo was Theo because he had Van Gogh.
— You need to do some soul searching. Don’t let yourself be swayed by her every need, cater to your own needs. Establish a reputation with people who can pay you. Octavio Paz, García Márquez. Build a career. Why be un escudero. Nobody can squeak a peep because tú sacas tu escudo y la defiendes. But artists need to feel frustration in order to create beauty. Unrecognized, she strives, pampered she dies. Cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos. Y créeme. Te los va a sacar.
— Yo no soy un cuervo. Yo no tengo ojos. Yo soy ciega. Yo soy muda. Yo soy sorda.
— Indefensa palanca de un cangrejo. De muerta mosquita nada. Has picado a muchos y no te creemos más el cuento de la poesía pura. Eres una ambiciosa. Pero la poesía, la poesía ha sido siempre el arte del ocultamiento. Vislumbra en la oscuridad. Y crea en la tiniebla. Sacarla de las tinieblas la hace ciega. Salir a la luz, deja ver las costuras. Nadie quiere ver la historia de las heridas, lo que importa es el mito, la trascendencia y la oscuridad.
— No wonder—I thought. A black cat had crossed my path. I was on my way to Iris Pagán’s house for a reading that night. There she told me that a dead man was hanging on my neck.
— Tienes que frotar por todo tu cuerpo desnudo un trozo de carne cruda.
— Sangrante—agregué.
— No te suelta.
— Yo, un muerto.
— Hace daño. Te carga la espalda.
— No lo siento.
Pero, la carroña comenzó a hacer escantes con mis sesos. Por la noche, no podía pegar un ojo. Te lo conté.
— Tienes que botar el pedazo sangrante en un paquete con veinticinco peniques.
— Dónde.
— Sobre los rieles del tren.