“You think the way I do.”
“And what is it that you think?”
“I don’t know; I couldn’t answer that question either. I should have said said that you
feel about things like I do. You looked at the scene like I would have done in your place.
I don’t know what you think, nor do I know what I think, but I know you think like I do.”
“But then don’t you think about things when you design your paintings?”
“Beforehand I thought about them a lot, and I constructed them in the way you would
construct a house. But not that scene; I thought I ought to paint it without knowing why.
And I still don’t know. In reality, it has nothing to do with the rest of the painting, and I
even think that one of those idiots made me think about it. I am stumbling around in the
dark, and I need your help because I know you think like I do.”
“I’m not sure what you think.”
I began to be impatient, and I answered curtly: “Didn’t I tell you I don’t know what I
think? If I could tell you with clear words what I think, it would be almost like thinking
clearly. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
I was silent for a moment and thought about it, trying to see clearly. Then, I added:
“I suppose it could be said that all of my previous work is more superficial.”
“What previous work?”
“My work previous to the window.”
I concentrated for a moment, and then I said:
“No, it’s not that exactly, not that. It’s not that it was more superficial.”
So what was it then? Until now, I had never really thought about that problem. Now I
realized that I had painted that scene in the window like a somnambulist.
“No, it’s not that it was superficial,” I added, like I was talking to myself. “I don’t
know, all this has something to do with humanity in general, you know? I remember that
a few days before I painted it I had read that in a concentration camp someone asked for
something to eat, and they made him eat a live rat. Sometimes I think that nothing makes
sense. On a miniscule planet that for millions of years has traveled toward nothingness
where we are born in the middle of pains, we grow, we struggle, we sicken, we suffer, we
make others suffer, we shout, we die, and others die, while people are being born to go
ahead and start this useless comedy all over again.”
Was it really like that? I continued to wonder about the idea of the lack of meaning.
Could our life be only a series of anonymous shouts, in a desert of indifferent stars?
She was still silent.
“That scene of the beach frightens me,” I said finally, “although I know that it is
something more profound. No, what I mean to say is that it represents me, profoundly.
That’s it. It’s still not a clear message, but it profoundly represents me.
I heard her say:
“A message of desperation, perhaps?
“Yes,” I agreed, “it seems to be a message of desperation. You see how you think the
way I do?”
After a moment, she asked:
“Do you believe a message of desperation is commendable?”
I looked at her with surprise.
“No,” I answered, “I don’t think that. And what do you think?”
She waited a long time without saying anything. Finally, she turned her face to look at
me fixedly.
“The word commendable has nothing to do with me,” she said as if she was answering
her own question. “What matters is the truth.”
“And do you think that scene is realistic?” I asked.
“Of course it’s realistic,” she answered almost cold-heartedly.
I looked at her stern face and her stern expression. “Why that sternness,” I wondered.
“Why?” Perhaps she felt my anxiety and my need of togetherness, because for a moment
her expression softened and seemed to offer me a bridge; but I knew it was a transitory
and fragile bridge, stretched out over an abyss. With a different tone of voice I added:
“But I don’t what you gain by seeing me. I do harm to everyone who comes near me.”
X
We agreed to see each other again soon. It made me ashamed to tell her that I hoped to
see her again, or that I wanted see her always, and that she should never ever leave me.
In spite of the fact that I have a good memory, I every now and then I have inexplicable
gaps. Right now I don’t know what I said then, but I remember that she responded that
she had to go.
That same night I called her on the telephone. A woman answered, and when I told
her that I wanted to speak to Maria Iribarne she seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then
she said she would go and see if she was there. Almost immediately I heard Maria’s
voice, but with an almost business-like tone that made my heart miss a beat.
“I need to see you, Maria,” I said. “Since we left each other, I have thought about you
constantly, all the time.”
“I stopped, trembling. But she didn’t respond.
“Why don’t you say something?” I asked her with increasing nervousness.
“Wait a moment.” she answered.
I heard her set down the phone. Then a few moments later I heard her voice again, but
this time it was her real voice. Now, she also seemed to be trembling.
“I couldn’t talk then,” she explained.
“Why not?”
“There too many people coming and going here.”
“Then how come you can talk now?”
“Because I closed the door. When I close the door, they know that they shouldn’t
bother me.
“I need to see you, Maria,” I repeated insistently. “I’ve done nothing but think of you
ever since this morning.”
She didn’t respond.
“Why don’t you say something?”
“Castel…” she began hesitantly.
“Don’t call me Castel,” I shouted indignantly.
“Juan Pablo…” she said then, timidly.
I felt an indescribable happiness began with those two words.
But then Maria was silent again.