room was a captain who had been one of Wieder’s teachers at the academy. He remained inside. Wieder shut the door behind him (the captain had left it ajar) and stood there smiling, with an air of growing satisfaction. In the living room, some of the guests asked what on earth had got into Tatiana. She’s just drunk, said a voice that Muñoz Cano didn’t recognize. Someone put on a Pink Floyd record. How can you dance when there are no women? It’s like a fags’ convention here, someone said. You’re not supposed to dance to Pink Floyd, it’s for listening, came the reply. The surrealist reporters whispered to each other. A lieutenant proposed they all go and find some whores straight away. Muñoz Cano says that at this point he felt as if they were outside, under the night sky, deep in the countryside, or at least that is how the voices sounded. In the hallway the atmosphere was even more tense. There was hardly any talking; it was like a dentist’s waiting room. But who, wonders Muñoz Cano, has ever seen a dentist’s waiting room where the
rotten teeth
(sic) are standing in line?
Wieder’s father broke the spell. He made his way forward politely, addressing each officer by name as he excused himself, then went into the room. The owner of the flat followed him in. Almost immediately he came out again, went up to Wieder,seized him by the lapels, and for a moment it looked as if he would hit him, but then he turned away and stormed off to the living room in search of a drink. Now everyone, including Muñoz Cano, pressed into the bedroom or tried to. There they found the captain, sitting on the bed. He was smoking and reading some typed notes that he had torn off the wall. He seemed calm, although ash from his cigarette had dropped onto one of his trouser legs. Wieder’s father was contemplating some of the hundreds of photos with which the walls and part of the ceiling had been decorated. A cadet who happened to be present, though what he was doing there no one could explain (perhaps he was the younger brother of one of the officers) started crying and swearing and had to be dragged out of the room. The surrealist reporters looked disapproving but maintained their composure. Muñoz Cano claims to have recognized the Garmendia sisters and other missing persons in some of the photos. Most of them were women. The background hardly varied from one photo to another, so it seemed they had all been taken in the same place. The women looked like mannequins, broken, dismembered mannequins in some pictures, although Muñoz Cano could not rule out the possibility that up to thirty per cent of the subjects had been alive when the snapshots were taken. In general (according to Muñoz Cano) the photos were of poor quality, although they made an extremely vivid impression on all who saw them. The order in which they were exhibited was not haphazard: there was a progression, an argument, a story (literal and allegorical), a plan. The images stuck to the ceiling (says Muñoz Cano) depicted akind of hell, but empty. Those pinned up in the four corners seemed to be an epiphany. An epiphany of madness. In other groups of photos the dominant mood was elegiac (but how, asks Muñoz Cano, could there be anything “nostalgic” or “melancholy” about them?) The symbols were few but telling. A photo showing the cover of a book by Joseph de Maistre:
St. Petersburg Dialogues
. A photo of a young blonde woman who seemed to be dissolving into the air. A photo of a severed finger, thrown onto a floor of porous, grey cement.
After the initial hubbub, suddenly everyone fell silent. It was as if a high voltage current had run through the flat leaving us dumbstruck, says Muñoz Cano in a rare moment of lucidity. We stared at each other as if at strangers; our faces were still recognizable, of course, but different somehow, despicable and expressionless like the faces of sleepwalkers or idiots. Some guests left without saying good-bye, but among
rotten teeth
(sic) are standing in line?
Wieder’s father broke the spell. He made his way forward politely, addressing each officer by name as he excused himself, then went into the room. The owner of the flat followed him in. Almost immediately he came out again, went up to Wieder,seized him by the lapels, and for a moment it looked as if he would hit him, but then he turned away and stormed off to the living room in search of a drink. Now everyone, including Muñoz Cano, pressed into the bedroom or tried to. There they found the captain, sitting on the bed. He was smoking and reading some typed notes that he had torn off the wall. He seemed calm, although ash from his cigarette had dropped onto one of his trouser legs. Wieder’s father was contemplating some of the hundreds of photos with which the walls and part of the ceiling had been decorated. A cadet who happened to be present, though what he was doing there no one could explain (perhaps he was the younger brother of one of the officers) started crying and swearing and had to be dragged out of the room. The surrealist reporters looked disapproving but maintained their composure. Muñoz Cano claims to have recognized the Garmendia sisters and other missing persons in some of the photos. Most of them were women. The background hardly varied from one photo to another, so it seemed they had all been taken in the same place. The women looked like mannequins, broken, dismembered mannequins in some pictures, although Muñoz Cano could not rule out the possibility that up to thirty per cent of the subjects had been alive when the snapshots were taken. In general (according to Muñoz Cano) the photos were of poor quality, although they made an extremely vivid impression on all who saw them. The order in which they were exhibited was not haphazard: there was a progression, an argument, a story (literal and allegorical), a plan. The images stuck to the ceiling (says Muñoz Cano) depicted akind of hell, but empty. Those pinned up in the four corners seemed to be an epiphany. An epiphany of madness. In other groups of photos the dominant mood was elegiac (but how, asks Muñoz Cano, could there be anything “nostalgic” or “melancholy” about them?) The symbols were few but telling. A photo showing the cover of a book by Joseph de Maistre:
St. Petersburg Dialogues
. A photo of a young blonde woman who seemed to be dissolving into the air. A photo of a severed finger, thrown onto a floor of porous, grey cement.
After the initial hubbub, suddenly everyone fell silent. It was as if a high voltage current had run through the flat leaving us dumbstruck, says Muñoz Cano in a rare moment of lucidity. We stared at each other as if at strangers; our faces were still recognizable, of course, but different somehow, despicable and expressionless like the faces of sleepwalkers or idiots. Some guests left without saying good-bye, but among
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