— That’s my greatest fear.
— And mine. What is mine. I’ll tell you myself. To be here. In this very room watching you looking for those hands five years from now. I know they’re here somewhere—that’s what you’ll be saying, revolting all my gavetas with your hot hands saying—You see, I’m a researcher, still searching.
— Me sacaste de quicio. Instead of letting me finish Don Quijote. Sancho could be inspiring me to inspire you, but no, I have to look for worthless trinkets. What do you want them for anyway? Don’t you have anything else to do?
— Si no te callas, ya verás.
— You’re probably sitting on them.
–¿Las manos?
— The ballpoints. Get off the bed. I have to check the matress. Ouch!
— I’m stuck. After five years in the same scene I wrote five years ago. Didn’t I bite your ass to calm you down? It worked like a shot.
— Mona’s curse. My greatest nightmare after five years. Tú te crees que hay derecho que cuando estoy concentrándome en el esquema, precisamente en ese preciso momento en que surge la imagen, aquí estás tú abriendo las gavetas del mismo escritorio en que trabajo, y no sólo claquiteando las gavetas sino preguntándome: ¿dónde están las tijeras?
— Yeah, where are the scissors? I have to cut the add out of the paper. And I need the glue for the envelope. Look, I saved the film schedule for you. What time are you planning to go?
–¿A qué viene esa pregunta?
— I need to know when you’re going so I can use the phone. I’ve got agencies to call.
–¿Para qué?
–¿Para qué tú crees?
–¿Para trabajar? Tú no comes ni dejas comer. O tú quieres comer pero no quieres que los otros coman.
–¿A qué hora puedo hacer las llamadas?
— A ninguna hora en que yo tenga que concentrarme. Me quitas la intensidad, la densidad.
— Y por qué no te vas a ver Cries and Whispers, Autumn Sonata — a double feature for $6.
–¿Tú no crees que ya he perdido suficiente tiempo?
— Nunca se pierde el tiempo. Necesitas un outlet: cries, whispers. Necesitas estallidos, bombas, fuegos artificiales, popcorn, música, diálogos. Necesitas algo del gangsterismo. A fatal attraction. A crime of passion. Y esto debe ser en el mismo instante en que yo entro al baño. El suspenso creado por la música lenta, enigmática, cerebral — Hitchcock, Welles — y de repente la ruptura. Un cuchillo de doble filo enterrado en tu estómago, abriéndote una zanja. A blood-curdling scream. Una ola de sangre se levanta de la bañera y lava tu cuerpo y tu frente, estrago, rompe la concreción, se mete por la intriga y por la duda, zigzagueando like a serpent over the white tile floor. My expression remains calm, steady. One thing is what is happening to you and another is the indifference of my face — who cares if I kill you — I do it like a duty. No mercy, no compassion. Blood Simple.
— Now you want to kill me off. Esto es lo que me jode de ti, siempre cambiando el plot.
— Well, one of us has to go.
— Not me. Why not you. You’re the one who is fucking my head.
— Blowing your mind.
— No, my murderer, you’re killing me.
–¿Qué le dijo el mármol al escultor?
— Qué sé yo.
—¡Estás destrozándome!
— Pero si lo que yo estoy haciendo es una obra maestra.
—¡Mis cimientos están temblando! ¡Se me caen los cantos! ¡Ayúdame!
— Pero estoy sacándote el alma, dándote un cuerpo, encontrando tu forma, por eso te rompo por aquí, por allá.
—¿Y si te equivocas y me cortas un dedo?
— Chance as collaborator.
— Gracias a Dios que el mármol no piensa. Dejar que a uno lo rajen, y sin protestar, y sin saber a dónde va a parar el experimento. Y si en vez de transformarse en una escultura, se convierte en una pila de polvo.
— Va a salir una obra maestra. No seas tan negativa.
–¿Me lo juras?
— Te lo juro. That’s what Leni Riefenstahl thought when Fraus chopped her first film into one hundred pieces. She threw a catfit because he ruined it. But when she calmed down, she analyzed his editing. Leni had five doors, one door closing after another until they were all closed. It lacked simultaneity and surprise. What Fraus did was this. The first door starts closing to a certain point, then the next door takes over the action, closing a lil’ more, and the third takes over where the second left off, and the fourth where the third left off, and the fifth completes the action, the shot and the scene. Five doors become one big slam, continuity without repetition. Even though Fraus had the wrong pace, he had the right idea. He knew just what she needed to do. Look at this scheme:
Woman beats dog
Dog nips woman
Woman plays dead
Dog barks help
Neighbor kills dog
— You mean Pinola.
— I don’t mean, no, I don’t mean. Whomever. Many neighbors, many masters. Who cares if it’s Costi with a rifle or Pinola with a pistol. The neighbors see the woman dead and kill the dog.
— What does she do next?
— Jumps up and down shrieking: Murderer! You killed my poor little dog! Who’s the ultimate victim?
— The neighbor.
— The dog, the dog — died a martyr to save his mistress even though she beat him.
— The woman, now she misses her dog even though he bit her. And when the neighbors see her, she is bleeding on the floor. And what do you see?
— I see, I see, a beaten woman — lost and found, yelling — because her dog is dead. She is beaten by the dog and the neighbor. Who do you think should play her role.
— Me, of course, she is me. You, of course, the beaten dog.
— I haven’t even started to nip at you.
— Can you imagine when the neighbors come.
— Were you the ones arguing last night?
— No, why?
— It must have been the other neighbors. With these cardboard walls, I can’t tell if the hullabaloo comes from your flat or the west side.
He is very violent, isn’t he?
— Who?
— Who else?
— Well.
— It must be trying on your nerves.
— I can’t wait to see you hit the floor. Make it real. Drop. Drop. Dead.
— And then you, poor fool, believing, barking: Auuuu! Auuuu!
— Who is it?
— Pinola’s at the door.
— Watch out. It might be Costi with a rifle. Shut up and you won’t get shot. This is a wonderful plot. I love it.
— And then you’ll scream:
— You killed my poor little dog!
— And what if I kill him out of revenge.
— Then you’re not a victim. You’ll go to jail.
— I’ll bring charges against him for breaking and entering, let alone the use of a deadly weapon on a helpless pet.
— Lo hizo por defenderte.
— Me defendió matando lo único que quiero.
— You love me.
— Yes, I do. But kill him before he starts barking again at me: Auuuu! Auuuu! So much time wasted on your tongue. You think I hear what that mouth is sputtering. Not a voice, not a sound. Static. The lips flapping with spit bubbles popping on the tip of the tongue, repeating:
— Pipa, you are doing fine. I’m convinced, this is the road.