see that you have a dirty mind from the way youâre smiling), something in the way he measured words so well, with exactly the right nuances and shading, with more wisdom and delicacy than he ever showed stringing colored beans together. People say that there used to be sorcerers in Andalusia who could make flowers and birds burst forth from the sky simply by naming them. Believe me, it was the same with Alejandro. When he told you something, you found yourself following his stories as if they were taking place in front of your own eyes; you could
see
it all happening. That was why it came as no surprise to me to learn that he had written a masterpiece.
Look, Terradillos. Compare him to anyone else. To Berens, letâs say. Have you read any Berens, did you ever hear him reciting his stuffâbefore he went crazy, I mean? A prize for his first book, some other prize for the second. Here in Spain they loved him, because he was like a modern Bécquer. Even before the days when it became fashionable to award prizes to friends or because of publishing politics, everyone knew that the autumn wouldnât go by without Berens getting an award. But he was nothing compared to Alejandro.
I let him stay at Gorostizaâs flat just for a couple of months, to get him acclimatized to Madrid. Because this was still, for the most part, a fearful city, cloaked, mute, drawn in on itself, not wanting to see anyone. When I was a young girl, I found it hard to believe that anything could ever bring down the great mountain of filth, of fetid candles and rotten vegetables, bestowed on us by that dwarf, our Franco. I told myself that if Alejandro could cope with all that in a shared flat, my house was going to seem like paradise to him. That was how, one holiday weekend, I brought him back to live with me.
No doubt youâve heard about how I found the manuscript. On several occasions Iâd asked Alejandro to show me something that he had written, for I knew he
must
have written something; he had poetry in his blood. He always said no, that he wasnât a writer and I should leave him alone. I bought him a typewriter, hoping to tempt him. I left him on his own, gave him space, to see if solitude would stoke his inspiration. Nothing. He didnât take the typewriter out even once, and solitude seemed not to inspire himâat least not to write. In fact I once came home earlier than I had said I would and found him in bed with the geisha from the flat next door (who I knew was a slut the day I saw her open the door with her kimono undone and her tits hanging out). Obviously I forgave him.
The thing is (forgive this digression), Alejandro had a vocation to share everything: food, readings, ideas, sex. If you put a plate of food in front of him, he insisted you try a little, too. If he was reading a thriller, heâd call you over and read aloud some paragaph he liked. If an idea occurred to him in the middle of the night, some piece of nonsense, heâd wake you up to tell you about it. And, as far as he was concerned, a bed was not a place in which to sleep alone. He said that only selfish people masturbate.
One morning, when Alejandro had gone to his spot on Calle Goya, I found an old bag full of what looked like dirty laundry. I opened it. There it was.
In Praise of Lying
, in clear, handwritten characters. There was no name on the title page, but I knew straightaway what this was. I read it all the way through. It was hours later that I finished the last page, with tears in my eyes, I swear on the memory of my father, God bless his soul. There was something there, formed of vowels and consonants, to which the word
literature
scarcely does any justice. Even when you give it a capital
L
.
I put all the things back as they had been and set off for the office with the manuscript. I called Urquieta, who must have thought that I wanted something else. I told him that I had to see him. He arranged to meet me in his
see
it all happening. That was why it came as no surprise to me to learn that he had written a masterpiece.
Look, Terradillos. Compare him to anyone else. To Berens, letâs say. Have you read any Berens, did you ever hear him reciting his stuffâbefore he went crazy, I mean? A prize for his first book, some other prize for the second. Here in Spain they loved him, because he was like a modern Bécquer. Even before the days when it became fashionable to award prizes to friends or because of publishing politics, everyone knew that the autumn wouldnât go by without Berens getting an award. But he was nothing compared to Alejandro.
I let him stay at Gorostizaâs flat just for a couple of months, to get him acclimatized to Madrid. Because this was still, for the most part, a fearful city, cloaked, mute, drawn in on itself, not wanting to see anyone. When I was a young girl, I found it hard to believe that anything could ever bring down the great mountain of filth, of fetid candles and rotten vegetables, bestowed on us by that dwarf, our Franco. I told myself that if Alejandro could cope with all that in a shared flat, my house was going to seem like paradise to him. That was how, one holiday weekend, I brought him back to live with me.
No doubt youâve heard about how I found the manuscript. On several occasions Iâd asked Alejandro to show me something that he had written, for I knew he
must
have written something; he had poetry in his blood. He always said no, that he wasnât a writer and I should leave him alone. I bought him a typewriter, hoping to tempt him. I left him on his own, gave him space, to see if solitude would stoke his inspiration. Nothing. He didnât take the typewriter out even once, and solitude seemed not to inspire himâat least not to write. In fact I once came home earlier than I had said I would and found him in bed with the geisha from the flat next door (who I knew was a slut the day I saw her open the door with her kimono undone and her tits hanging out). Obviously I forgave him.
The thing is (forgive this digression), Alejandro had a vocation to share everything: food, readings, ideas, sex. If you put a plate of food in front of him, he insisted you try a little, too. If he was reading a thriller, heâd call you over and read aloud some paragaph he liked. If an idea occurred to him in the middle of the night, some piece of nonsense, heâd wake you up to tell you about it. And, as far as he was concerned, a bed was not a place in which to sleep alone. He said that only selfish people masturbate.
One morning, when Alejandro had gone to his spot on Calle Goya, I found an old bag full of what looked like dirty laundry. I opened it. There it was.
In Praise of Lying
, in clear, handwritten characters. There was no name on the title page, but I knew straightaway what this was. I read it all the way through. It was hours later that I finished the last page, with tears in my eyes, I swear on the memory of my father, God bless his soul. There was something there, formed of vowels and consonants, to which the word
literature
scarcely does any justice. Even when you give it a capital
L
.
I put all the things back as they had been and set off for the office with the manuscript. I called Urquieta, who must have thought that I wanted something else. I told him that I had to see him. He arranged to meet me in his
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