Hopscotch: A Novel (Pantheon Modern Writers Series) by Julio Cortázar Page A
Authors: Julio Cortázar
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course, a certain Oscar Peterson, a certain pianist half tiger, half felt, a certain sad, fat pianist, a guy on piano and the rain on the skylight, all those things, literature, after all.
(– 153 )
19
“I THINK I understand you,” La Maga said, running her hand through his hair. “You’re looking for something you don’t know. I’ve been doing the same thing and I don’t know what it is either. But they’re two different things. What you were talking about the other night … Yes, you’re a Mondrian and I’m a Vieira da Silva.”
“So,” Oliveira said, “I’m a Mondrian after all.”
“Yes, Horacio.”
“You meant to say someone of a rigorous nature.”
“I said a Mondrian.”
“And didn’t it occur to you that behind this Mondrian there might lurk a Vieira da Silva reality?”
“Yes, but up till now you haven’t come out of the Mondrian reality. You’re afraid, you want to be sure of yourself. I don’t know … You’re more like a doctor than a poet.”
“Forget about poets,” Oliveira said. “And don’t try to hurt Mondrian with the comparison.”
“Mondrian is wonderful, but he doesn’t let you breathe. I always strangle a little bit inside. And when you start talking about the search for unity, then I start to see a lot of beautiful things, but they’re all dead, pressed flowers and things like that.”
“Let’s see, Lucía: are you quite sure what unity is?”
“My name is Lucía but you don’t have to call me that,” La Maga said. “Unity, of course I know what it is. You’re trying to say that everything in your life comes together so that you can see it all at the same time. Is that what you mean?”
“More or less,” Oliveira conceded. “It’s incredible how hard it is for you to grasp abstract ideas. Unity, plurality … Can’t you feel them without feeling the need for examples? Can’t you? Let’s see, now: your life, do you think it is a unity?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s pieces, things that happened to me.”
“But you in turn went through those things like the string went through those green stones. And speaking of stones, where did you get that necklace?”
“Ossip gave it to me,” La Maga said. “It was his mother’s, the one from Odessa.”
Oliveira sucked slowly on his
mate.
La Maga went over to the cot that Ronald had loaned them so that they could have Rocamadour in the apartment. With the cot and Rocamadour and the complaints of the tenants there was barely any living-space left, but nobody could tell La Maga that Rocamadour would have been better off in a children’s hospital. It had been necessary to go with her to the country the same day that Madame Irène had sent the telegram, wrap Rocamadour up in a bunch of rags and blankets, put him to bed, stoke up the fire in the stove, tolerate Rocamadour’s wailing when the time came for a suppository or a pill or the bottle which was useless in covering up the taste of the medicine he had to take. Oliveira made himself another
mate
and out of the corner of his eye looked at the cover of a
Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft
that Ronald had loaned him, wondering when he could listen to it without getting Rocamadour wailing and twisting. He was horrified by La Maga’s laziness in diapering and undiapering Rocamadour, the way she would sing at him to distract him, the smell that emanated from his bed, cotton, wails, the stupid assurance of La Maga that it wasn’t anything, that if she did what she should for her son he would be all right in a matter of days. It made no sense, it was all maybe, maybe not. What was he doing there? A month ago they both had had their places still, even after they had decided to live together. La Maga had said that they could save money this way, they only had to buy one paper a day, they wouldn’t waste food. She could iron his clothes, and heat, electricity … Oliveira had been about to admire that brusque attack on common sense. He finally
(– 153 )
19
“I THINK I understand you,” La Maga said, running her hand through his hair. “You’re looking for something you don’t know. I’ve been doing the same thing and I don’t know what it is either. But they’re two different things. What you were talking about the other night … Yes, you’re a Mondrian and I’m a Vieira da Silva.”
“So,” Oliveira said, “I’m a Mondrian after all.”
“Yes, Horacio.”
“You meant to say someone of a rigorous nature.”
“I said a Mondrian.”
“And didn’t it occur to you that behind this Mondrian there might lurk a Vieira da Silva reality?”
“Yes, but up till now you haven’t come out of the Mondrian reality. You’re afraid, you want to be sure of yourself. I don’t know … You’re more like a doctor than a poet.”
“Forget about poets,” Oliveira said. “And don’t try to hurt Mondrian with the comparison.”
“Mondrian is wonderful, but he doesn’t let you breathe. I always strangle a little bit inside. And when you start talking about the search for unity, then I start to see a lot of beautiful things, but they’re all dead, pressed flowers and things like that.”
“Let’s see, Lucía: are you quite sure what unity is?”
“My name is Lucía but you don’t have to call me that,” La Maga said. “Unity, of course I know what it is. You’re trying to say that everything in your life comes together so that you can see it all at the same time. Is that what you mean?”
“More or less,” Oliveira conceded. “It’s incredible how hard it is for you to grasp abstract ideas. Unity, plurality … Can’t you feel them without feeling the need for examples? Can’t you? Let’s see, now: your life, do you think it is a unity?”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s pieces, things that happened to me.”
“But you in turn went through those things like the string went through those green stones. And speaking of stones, where did you get that necklace?”
“Ossip gave it to me,” La Maga said. “It was his mother’s, the one from Odessa.”
Oliveira sucked slowly on his
mate.
La Maga went over to the cot that Ronald had loaned them so that they could have Rocamadour in the apartment. With the cot and Rocamadour and the complaints of the tenants there was barely any living-space left, but nobody could tell La Maga that Rocamadour would have been better off in a children’s hospital. It had been necessary to go with her to the country the same day that Madame Irène had sent the telegram, wrap Rocamadour up in a bunch of rags and blankets, put him to bed, stoke up the fire in the stove, tolerate Rocamadour’s wailing when the time came for a suppository or a pill or the bottle which was useless in covering up the taste of the medicine he had to take. Oliveira made himself another
mate
and out of the corner of his eye looked at the cover of a
Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft
that Ronald had loaned him, wondering when he could listen to it without getting Rocamadour wailing and twisting. He was horrified by La Maga’s laziness in diapering and undiapering Rocamadour, the way she would sing at him to distract him, the smell that emanated from his bed, cotton, wails, the stupid assurance of La Maga that it wasn’t anything, that if she did what she should for her son he would be all right in a matter of days. It made no sense, it was all maybe, maybe not. What was he doing there? A month ago they both had had their places still, even after they had decided to live together. La Maga had said that they could save money this way, they only had to buy one paper a day, they wouldn’t waste food. She could iron his clothes, and heat, electricity … Oliveira had been about to admire that brusque attack on common sense. He finally
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