only speak in Spanish.
“From now on, if that's what you like, I'm only going to speak in Spanish.”
She looks at me and smiles. I say it again in Hebrew and then in French so she can understand, but then I say it in Spanish.
“I'm going to break your gut, all over, I want to fuck you now, here, right now. Actually, that's not true, what I really want is to leave. And I thought this relationship was going to be something literary so my readers could think that wonderful things happen to me, and in the end it's nothing more than a night fucking with a child like all man in their forties who are frustrated with their wives do. Damn what an interesting writer I'm going to be! I'm not going to sell a thing like that, and well, it's not that I want to sell, what I want is to write and to write you have to sell books, to later write books that don't sell or to really write, this is becoming more difficult by the day.”
“Do you want more tea?” She asks in French.
I don't answer and she pours me more tea and I keep talking.
“You see, Gabrielle, the worst thing is that the more you are a writer and the better you are known, the less money you have, or it will be a curse as my sister says, a curse that someone put on us there in Morocco three generations ago and there is no way of getting out of it according to her, but what I say is that from now on if that's what you like, I'll only talk to you in Spanish.”
She comes closer to me, touches my lips with her finger and says shhh...
“Of course, I understood your story and I liked it very much, although it was very Kafkaesque.”
“Kafkaesque? But how can you say that if I have never read Kafka!”
“Liar, of course you have read Kafka.”
“Well, yes, but only a little, in my opinion he's a writer who's been read by way too many people.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think, well, I believe that each reader removes a part of the masterpiece and takes it forever, therefore if a book is read by many people there is nothing left in the book. Look at what happened to the Quixote. It is no longer a book, it is a shipwreck.”
“I don't understand.”
“It doesn't matter, but to me it doesn't seem Kafkaesque. And I want to make love.”
“Not today, today is a literary day, without sex.”
“Abstinence.”
Twenty-four hours and she's already like my wife. Was my performance so bad that she didn't want more?
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we will see, but not today.”
“Then I'm leaving, I'll come back tomorrow.”
“You only want me for sex.”
“It’s just that you are already acting like my wife.”
I’ve let it slip, in these situations it is completely forbidden to talk about one's wife.
“And how is your wife?”
Now I choose not to screw up or tell her that they look alike, or that they have the same name, or that she is French. Nothing.
“She's like all women.”
“And how is that?”
“I don't know, a normal woman. I've been married for many years, believe me that in ten years everything, absolutely everything becomes normal, even the greatest love, and it's been a while since we celebrated our tenth anniversary. I don't even want to remember. I'm leaving. I don't feel good. I'm leaving. I'll call you tomorrow.”
“I'll be waiting here at four.”
“Like today.”
“Yes, like today, and I bought a corkscrew. Tomorrow we can drink the bottle of wine.”
“Yes, the one that cost me fifty-six shekels instead of twenty-four.”
I totally messed up there and left. It was 9 p.m. so I went home. My wife wasn't there. It was better, that way we didn't have to talk. I went to sleep before she returned and became all chatty.
I lie in bed, but I can't sleep.
Maybe all this is a simple illusion, so what? Isn't it why they pay us, sometimes, to write illusions, to imagine? Then what do I care if all of this is true if it is real or not? The problem is that I have already said that everything was real, but that could also be
“From now on, if that's what you like, I'm only going to speak in Spanish.”
She looks at me and smiles. I say it again in Hebrew and then in French so she can understand, but then I say it in Spanish.
“I'm going to break your gut, all over, I want to fuck you now, here, right now. Actually, that's not true, what I really want is to leave. And I thought this relationship was going to be something literary so my readers could think that wonderful things happen to me, and in the end it's nothing more than a night fucking with a child like all man in their forties who are frustrated with their wives do. Damn what an interesting writer I'm going to be! I'm not going to sell a thing like that, and well, it's not that I want to sell, what I want is to write and to write you have to sell books, to later write books that don't sell or to really write, this is becoming more difficult by the day.”
“Do you want more tea?” She asks in French.
I don't answer and she pours me more tea and I keep talking.
“You see, Gabrielle, the worst thing is that the more you are a writer and the better you are known, the less money you have, or it will be a curse as my sister says, a curse that someone put on us there in Morocco three generations ago and there is no way of getting out of it according to her, but what I say is that from now on if that's what you like, I'll only talk to you in Spanish.”
She comes closer to me, touches my lips with her finger and says shhh...
“Of course, I understood your story and I liked it very much, although it was very Kafkaesque.”
“Kafkaesque? But how can you say that if I have never read Kafka!”
“Liar, of course you have read Kafka.”
“Well, yes, but only a little, in my opinion he's a writer who's been read by way too many people.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think, well, I believe that each reader removes a part of the masterpiece and takes it forever, therefore if a book is read by many people there is nothing left in the book. Look at what happened to the Quixote. It is no longer a book, it is a shipwreck.”
“I don't understand.”
“It doesn't matter, but to me it doesn't seem Kafkaesque. And I want to make love.”
“Not today, today is a literary day, without sex.”
“Abstinence.”
Twenty-four hours and she's already like my wife. Was my performance so bad that she didn't want more?
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we will see, but not today.”
“Then I'm leaving, I'll come back tomorrow.”
“You only want me for sex.”
“It’s just that you are already acting like my wife.”
I’ve let it slip, in these situations it is completely forbidden to talk about one's wife.
“And how is your wife?”
Now I choose not to screw up or tell her that they look alike, or that they have the same name, or that she is French. Nothing.
“She's like all women.”
“And how is that?”
“I don't know, a normal woman. I've been married for many years, believe me that in ten years everything, absolutely everything becomes normal, even the greatest love, and it's been a while since we celebrated our tenth anniversary. I don't even want to remember. I'm leaving. I don't feel good. I'm leaving. I'll call you tomorrow.”
“I'll be waiting here at four.”
“Like today.”
“Yes, like today, and I bought a corkscrew. Tomorrow we can drink the bottle of wine.”
“Yes, the one that cost me fifty-six shekels instead of twenty-four.”
I totally messed up there and left. It was 9 p.m. so I went home. My wife wasn't there. It was better, that way we didn't have to talk. I went to sleep before she returned and became all chatty.
I lie in bed, but I can't sleep.
Maybe all this is a simple illusion, so what? Isn't it why they pay us, sometimes, to write illusions, to imagine? Then what do I care if all of this is true if it is real or not? The problem is that I have already said that everything was real, but that could also be
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