the current anticommunist phobia, you would be right to a point.”
“Then can Berlioz’s Faust be presented here with no justification beyond being what it is?”
“Yes, it can. Don’t divert attention from something we understand
very well. The sacred isn’t alien to terror. Faith doesn’t redeem us from death.”
“Then you’re also a believer?” The conductor smiled in return.
“In Mexico even we atheists are Catholic, maestro.”
Atlan-Ferrara stared at the young musician-bureaucrat offering this counsel. This Mexican wasn’t blond, distant, slim: absent. He was dark, and warm; he was eating a tortilla with meat, cheese, mustard, and jalapeño peppers, and his intelligent raccoon eyes darted into every corner. He wanted to get ahead, that you could see. He was going to put on weight very fast.
No, it wasn’t him, Atlan-Ferrara thought with a certain leaden nostalgia. He wasn’t the long-sought, long-desired friend of the conductor’s early youth.
“Why did you leave me behind on the coast?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”
“I don’t understand you. You interrupted our weekend. We were there together.”
“You would never have given yourself to me.”
“And so? I thought my company was enough.”
“Was mine?”
“Do you think I’m that stupid? Why do you think I accepted your invitation? Because my uterus was in an uproar?”
“But we weren’t together.”
“No, not like now …”
“And we wouldn’t have been.”
“That’s true, too. I told you that.”
“You had never been with a man.”
“Never. I told you that.”
“You didn’t want me to be the first.”
“Not you, not anyone. I was different then. I was twenty. I lived with my aunt and uncle. I was what the French call une jeune fille bien rangée. I was starting out. Maybe I was confused.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was a different person, I tell you. How can I be sure about someone I no longer am?”
“I remember how you stared at the photo of my friend.”
“Your brother, is what you told me.”
“The man closest to me. That’s what I meant.”
“But he wasn’t there.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Don’t tell me he was there.”
“Not physically.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Do you remember the photograph you saw on the mantel?”
“Yes.”
“He was there. He was with me. You saw him.”
“No, Gabriel. You’re mistaken.”
“I know that photograph by heart. It’s the only one I have of the two of us.”
“No. You were alone in the photograph. He had disappeared.” She looked at him with curiosity, to keep from showing alarm. “Tell me the truth. Was that boy ever in the photo?”
“Music is an artificial portrait of human passions,” the maestro told the group under his direction in Bellas Artes. “Have no illusion that this is a realistic opera. I already know that you Latin Americans cling desperately to logic and reason—concepts totally foreign to you—because you want to escape the supernatural
imagination that is your heritage—though not inevitable, and especially to be scorned in the light of a supposed ‘progress’ that you will never achieve, make no mistake, through embarrassing, slavish imitation. For a European, you see, the word ’progress’ always, s’il vous plaît, appears in quotation marks.”
He smiled at the wall of solemn faces.
“Imagine, if it is helpful, that as you sing you are repeating sounds of nature.”
His imperious gaze swept across the stage. How well he played the role of peacock! He laughed at himself.
“An opera like Berlioz’s Faust, especially, can deceive all of us and make us believe we are listening to the imitation of a nature violently pushed to its limits.”
He stared hard at the English horn, until the musician was forced to look down.
“This can be true. But musically it’s of no value. Imagine, should you find it helpful, that in this terrible last scene you are
“Then can Berlioz’s Faust be presented here with no justification beyond being what it is?”
“Yes, it can. Don’t divert attention from something we understand
very well. The sacred isn’t alien to terror. Faith doesn’t redeem us from death.”
“Then you’re also a believer?” The conductor smiled in return.
“In Mexico even we atheists are Catholic, maestro.”
Atlan-Ferrara stared at the young musician-bureaucrat offering this counsel. This Mexican wasn’t blond, distant, slim: absent. He was dark, and warm; he was eating a tortilla with meat, cheese, mustard, and jalapeño peppers, and his intelligent raccoon eyes darted into every corner. He wanted to get ahead, that you could see. He was going to put on weight very fast.
No, it wasn’t him, Atlan-Ferrara thought with a certain leaden nostalgia. He wasn’t the long-sought, long-desired friend of the conductor’s early youth.
“Why did you leave me behind on the coast?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”
“I don’t understand you. You interrupted our weekend. We were there together.”
“You would never have given yourself to me.”
“And so? I thought my company was enough.”
“Was mine?”
“Do you think I’m that stupid? Why do you think I accepted your invitation? Because my uterus was in an uproar?”
“But we weren’t together.”
“No, not like now …”
“And we wouldn’t have been.”
“That’s true, too. I told you that.”
“You had never been with a man.”
“Never. I told you that.”
“You didn’t want me to be the first.”
“Not you, not anyone. I was different then. I was twenty. I lived with my aunt and uncle. I was what the French call une jeune fille bien rangée. I was starting out. Maybe I was confused.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was a different person, I tell you. How can I be sure about someone I no longer am?”
“I remember how you stared at the photo of my friend.”
“Your brother, is what you told me.”
“The man closest to me. That’s what I meant.”
“But he wasn’t there.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Don’t tell me he was there.”
“Not physically.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Do you remember the photograph you saw on the mantel?”
“Yes.”
“He was there. He was with me. You saw him.”
“No, Gabriel. You’re mistaken.”
“I know that photograph by heart. It’s the only one I have of the two of us.”
“No. You were alone in the photograph. He had disappeared.” She looked at him with curiosity, to keep from showing alarm. “Tell me the truth. Was that boy ever in the photo?”
“Music is an artificial portrait of human passions,” the maestro told the group under his direction in Bellas Artes. “Have no illusion that this is a realistic opera. I already know that you Latin Americans cling desperately to logic and reason—concepts totally foreign to you—because you want to escape the supernatural
imagination that is your heritage—though not inevitable, and especially to be scorned in the light of a supposed ‘progress’ that you will never achieve, make no mistake, through embarrassing, slavish imitation. For a European, you see, the word ’progress’ always, s’il vous plaît, appears in quotation marks.”
He smiled at the wall of solemn faces.
“Imagine, if it is helpful, that as you sing you are repeating sounds of nature.”
His imperious gaze swept across the stage. How well he played the role of peacock! He laughed at himself.
“An opera like Berlioz’s Faust, especially, can deceive all of us and make us believe we are listening to the imitation of a nature violently pushed to its limits.”
He stared hard at the English horn, until the musician was forced to look down.
“This can be true. But musically it’s of no value. Imagine, should you find it helpful, that in this terrible last scene you are
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