Yo-Yo Boing!

— 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.

— I think she was sad because Rey came to the party, and she realized, he still controls Leen. That made her sad — she feels used — by both of them — as if they are playing games with her — she doesn’t know where she stands with Rey and Leen. Somewhere in between.

— I feel for Rey. Suppose we had a fight — and you tell Mona, because you need to confide in somebody — and Mona tells you:

— Leave him, and come live with me.

Rey feels betrayed by Makiko. I would have felt the same with Mona.

— It’s not as if this were the first time. She broke her sister and Cano apart. Now, she lives with Leen and her sister.

— Misery loves company.

— Just be for real, baby. I don’t wanna be hurt by love, again. Are you just for the thrill? I’m flexible. But, just be real. I don’t wanna be hurt, hurt by love again.

— Be careful, Suzana. I see it in her face. She is already writing her next fragment. Word for word. And Tess, the tape recorder, will catch everything she misses. I already know. One takes the photo of feelings. The other one quotes the nuances. You can’t win.

— I don’t care. Take it. Take it all.

— She’s stealing my muse. Don’t pay attention.

— I already know she likes what you’re saying. She’s already writing it.

— I don’t care. Take it. Take it all.

— And what about painters? Goya and Velázquez. You think all their models liked how they are portrayed. And no one stops you from taking photos.

— You don’t even change names. Nothing is sacred. Not even friendship. You’re like Truman Capote.

— I’m not frivolous. I’m doing a portrait of reality. If I am observing the funeral of a famous man, I must talk from the point of view of the widow, with no distance from sorrow, the journalist, with distance enough to appeal to the masses — whether melodrama or soap opera, and the artist with the most distance so I can objectify it, but I should also become the dead man. Only if I am all of them — dead man, widow, journalist and artist — can I become Velázquez and paint Las Meninas.

— Angles of realities.

— Exactly, points of view, that’s what makes the personal general. A myriad of experiences — however minute, petite, personal — who cares.

— I believe in seizing the moment.

— Look at her eyes. She’s a Cheshire cat.

— Take it now, baby, but be for real. A thrill. Just let me know. But he didn’t. He was afraid. Men are afraid. They don’t follow through.

— Why is it?