foyer, her companion stopped me.
“Anna Pilar María Cortez, née Countess de Vega, invites you to dine with us,” he said with elaborate courtesy, and I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing how to refuse. Afterward, in the restaurant, she and I talked for several hours – like old, long-lost friends.
Some two months later I also met her husband – a dwarf with a womanly face, whose genes had already decayed from boredom several generations back. However, she was not spending that evening with him, but with the family’s secretary, her lover David, a very tall male specimen with the jaw line of a boxer, tiger eyes, and a shock of black hair. He was a regular Adonis indeed. Herds of Spanish girls flocked to him from all corners, stamping their hooves and swishing their tails. But David loved Anna faithfully, and she possessed him, like a piece of furniture or an automobile, keeping him on a short leash and patting her fan on his hand, gazing absently, almost through him, and only occasionally darting him the wild look of a willful, incorrigible proprietress. Yet this glance wasn’t so simple. The sensuality of despair or something even less innocent emerged from behind the looking glass. And it was obvious, if you got a good view: there was no joking around with that.
She had her oddities, the countess: the natural sciences excited her more than anything in the world – of course, in their popularized form. At least, she wasn’t like the majority – here I immediately gave her due credit. I felt at ease and entertained her until midnight with tales of chromosomes and stem cells. She listened to me as though to a preacher – with sparkling eyes, becoming all the more beautiful, clearly getting seriously turned on. David merely flexed his jaw muscles and looked at her, without interfering. I think later she kept him up all night.
I was also excited after the music and drank more wine than usual. Soon my speech was not so crisp, and my cheeks were on fire.
“My tongue is all tied up. Am I drunk?” I asked her in the middle of dinner.
“No, no, now I understand you better than ever!” she exclaimed, gazing in admiration that was almost genuine.
And I understood she was shrewder than I – by right of nobility cultivated over the centuries – and I came to trust her, to confide in her my doubts and beliefs. Later, she aided me more than once, but that’s beside the point here. Neither the Countess de Vega nor her lover David ever learned what happened the following morning. Though it was with them in particular that the main part of the whole story began.
Chapter 9
Here’s what happened: I wrote a poem. Twenty lines without rhyme, a spasmodic shout into emptiness and obscurity.
It was Saturday. Rain drizzled; the month of December was beginning. The countess from yesterday, I thought, didn’t I dream of her? I felt a pang in my chest – love of others sprang up before my eyes, as if only to dismay my heart.
On the screen was Magritte’s familiar painting. My friend in black stood, wings unfurled, behind a powerful lion. The embankment was reminiscent of something – for a moment, at half strength, only teasing. The lion had known me once but made no attempt to recall it. The weight of his solitude was immeasurable.
Then, for the first time in recent years, I shuddered in self-pity. I shuddered and began to seek shelter. I bared my teeth and grabbed a sheet of paper.
I met a certain man today.
On his back were wings attached.
He cared about them, covered them from bad weather,
Cleaned their dark feathers with a special brush.
I bit my lip and scooted the chair forward. My head spun from drinking the night before; I felt like sitting and leaning on my elbow. Of course, the picture was just an excuse. To tell the truth, I was blaming it for no reason. Yes, in it was parting, and no hope, but each parting is unavoidable in its own way, and the burden of the indifference of others is
“Anna Pilar María Cortez, née Countess de Vega, invites you to dine with us,” he said with elaborate courtesy, and I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing how to refuse. Afterward, in the restaurant, she and I talked for several hours – like old, long-lost friends.
Some two months later I also met her husband – a dwarf with a womanly face, whose genes had already decayed from boredom several generations back. However, she was not spending that evening with him, but with the family’s secretary, her lover David, a very tall male specimen with the jaw line of a boxer, tiger eyes, and a shock of black hair. He was a regular Adonis indeed. Herds of Spanish girls flocked to him from all corners, stamping their hooves and swishing their tails. But David loved Anna faithfully, and she possessed him, like a piece of furniture or an automobile, keeping him on a short leash and patting her fan on his hand, gazing absently, almost through him, and only occasionally darting him the wild look of a willful, incorrigible proprietress. Yet this glance wasn’t so simple. The sensuality of despair or something even less innocent emerged from behind the looking glass. And it was obvious, if you got a good view: there was no joking around with that.
She had her oddities, the countess: the natural sciences excited her more than anything in the world – of course, in their popularized form. At least, she wasn’t like the majority – here I immediately gave her due credit. I felt at ease and entertained her until midnight with tales of chromosomes and stem cells. She listened to me as though to a preacher – with sparkling eyes, becoming all the more beautiful, clearly getting seriously turned on. David merely flexed his jaw muscles and looked at her, without interfering. I think later she kept him up all night.
I was also excited after the music and drank more wine than usual. Soon my speech was not so crisp, and my cheeks were on fire.
“My tongue is all tied up. Am I drunk?” I asked her in the middle of dinner.
“No, no, now I understand you better than ever!” she exclaimed, gazing in admiration that was almost genuine.
And I understood she was shrewder than I – by right of nobility cultivated over the centuries – and I came to trust her, to confide in her my doubts and beliefs. Later, she aided me more than once, but that’s beside the point here. Neither the Countess de Vega nor her lover David ever learned what happened the following morning. Though it was with them in particular that the main part of the whole story began.
Chapter 9
Here’s what happened: I wrote a poem. Twenty lines without rhyme, a spasmodic shout into emptiness and obscurity.
It was Saturday. Rain drizzled; the month of December was beginning. The countess from yesterday, I thought, didn’t I dream of her? I felt a pang in my chest – love of others sprang up before my eyes, as if only to dismay my heart.
On the screen was Magritte’s familiar painting. My friend in black stood, wings unfurled, behind a powerful lion. The embankment was reminiscent of something – for a moment, at half strength, only teasing. The lion had known me once but made no attempt to recall it. The weight of his solitude was immeasurable.
Then, for the first time in recent years, I shuddered in self-pity. I shuddered and began to seek shelter. I bared my teeth and grabbed a sheet of paper.
I met a certain man today.
On his back were wings attached.
He cared about them, covered them from bad weather,
Cleaned their dark feathers with a special brush.
I bit my lip and scooted the chair forward. My head spun from drinking the night before; I felt like sitting and leaning on my elbow. Of course, the picture was just an excuse. To tell the truth, I was blaming it for no reason. Yes, in it was parting, and no hope, but each parting is unavoidable in its own way, and the burden of the indifference of others is
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