Yo-Yo Boing!

— Para el gusto se hicieron los colores.

— Pero, dime, 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 twenty-four bucks.

— And some glass beads.

— And now you want me to surrender Spain?

— They never paid you?

— Not a penny. But I read in El Licenciado Vidriera, it’s a problem that has existed in Spain since Cervantes’ time. They tell you they print one thousand copies, when they print five thousand — and then they reprint the second edition, and they don’t tell you that there is a second 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. El mantel cuenta un misterio. Está experimentando la vida. Se ha quemado. So what? It’s 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 kindered 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 second 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. The fire, Mona, the desire.

— Cuántas aceitunas tú tienes aquí.

— Tengo cinco aceitunas. Me comí cuatro. Y me queda una. No te la voy a dar.

— Dámela, por favor.

— Okay, cómetela. Yo me comí cuatro. Tú sólo tienes una. The world is fine like this. It’s good for my stomach. I ate three. You watched me eating the fourth. And you asked for the fifth. I gave it to you. You asked. How kind. I ate four. Gave you one. Did you want to eat what I had — you had less than me — didn’t protest — are you hungry — why did you let me eat the other four — without saying a word — and now you even have the courtesy of asking permission — I am the boss because I didn’t mind eating the other four — I didn’t think about you — that’s what made me the boss — I am still hungry — are you satisfied — I gave you my olive — a pit of my appetite. The world is fine if you feel fine. I ate four. You only one. We are compatible. We ate five.

— Pum, Pum — Paco. Pum, Pum.

— She’s poetical, pero no tiene una Poética.

— Sí, sí, sí

— It’s chaotic. She’s looking for the order of chaos. Pero no tiene order tampoco.

— Sí, sí, sí

— Mira, ten cuidado con Xana. Le acaba de decir a Paco que tú no tienes una Poética

–¿Y qué dijo Paco?

— Se sonrió: sí, sí, sí

— Sí, no tiene Poética. O sí, tiene Poética

— No sé. Dijo: sí, sí, sí

— Como el estado libre asociado. Los puertorriqueños son puntos y comas. No pueden decidirse o por el punto o por la coma. Of course I don’t have una Poética, para ella, si no ha leído mi obra.

— Why do you care what she says.

— Why do you tell me what she says.

— Pum, Pum — Paco. Pum, Pum.

— Y las mías — no son bien suaves también.

— Yes, they are soft, but hers — touch hers, she really has soft hands.

— Y las mías son bien suaves.

— Yes, they are soft, but hers, sheer silk. She hasn’t washed a dish in her life.

— You’re not kidding.

— Spoiled. Spoiled rotten.

— Hey, dame la mano.

— Y por qué te tengo que dar la mano. Simplemente porque tú me la pides, sin estar seguro si hay una cierta amistad, algo que te indujo a pensar que yo te la daría, sólo porque tú me ibas a pedir la mano, yo te la iba a dar, no te la iba a negar, pero mi placer no es el tuyo, el tuyo está en mi mano, el mío en negártela. Tant pis. ça m’est égal.

— Y es bien cierto lo que dijo nuestra reina.

–¿Qué dije yo? Ya no me acuerdo.

— Sufre de la misma amnesia colectiva que sufre su pueblo.

–¿Qué dije? ¿Qué dije? Ya no me acuerdo.

— No te perdono lo que me dijiste. Yo sí lo recuerdo.

–¿Qué dije? Perdóname.

— No te perdono.

— Ahora te perdono. Si me dices lo que te dije. Por favor, dímelo.

— Ya lo olvidé. Lo tengo en la punta de la lengua.

— The chair I sat in, like a burnished throne, glowed on the marble, where the glass held by standards wrought with fruited vines. Yo estaba leyendo con cinco feministas. Ya habían leído tres de ellas. Y yo me preguntaba: ¿por qué no se sientan en la silla? Ellas me habían dicho, hay una mesa, y tras la mesa, una sola silla. Así es que no puedes leer con Tess. Sólo una se puede sentar en la silla. Pero ninguna de las tres se sentó. Leyeron paradas. Y el trono vacío — esperándome — from which a golden cupidon peeped out. Another hid his eyes behind his wing. Doubled the flames of seven branched candelabra. So I was very angry because they thought I could not read well without Tess, and when my turn came, I sat in the chair and stole the show. Now a woman complained: