a virtue as the natural result of his ignorance).
He left the café with the firm intention of beginning to
write immediately, without giving it any more thought (it was as if he had
already done all the necessary thinking), and he couldn’t wait to go home, sit
down at his desk and get to work. With a delicious sense of anticipation, he
savored the half-lie he had told the publishers: none of his notes had been made
with a view to any kind of publication, but he had so many that the writing
seemed a pure formality; he need only copy them out, string them together
somehow, and allow them to form a book. Th e time
had come to reap the benefits of his inveterate, impractical habit of holding on
to every piece of paper that came into his possession. And if he needed anything
more, as he supposed he would, for example an overall tone to unify this
disparate material, a rhythmic pulse to make it all cohere in a single volume,
he didn’t have far to look, because he’d decided, right from the start, to
imitate the delivery and syntax of the Voices, which, now that Caricias had
explained away their terrifying power, were reduced to the roles of bodiless
muses and nocturnal signaling. Th inking of the
girl, Varamo remembered that he had arranged to meet her at dawn. He had just
enough time to write his book before then, and to spend it writing was an ideal
solution, because if he went to sleep he was bound to wake up at midday and miss
his date. Th e excitement of writing had
dispelled his sleepiness. He’d be there on time and surprise her by having mixed
up all the keys more thoroughly than she could have imagined. One stone could
always kill two birds. Or three, because he felt that he had finally succeeded,
by serendipity, in exchanging the two hundred bad pesos for two hundred good
ones.
But when Varamo looked at his watch he saw that it wasn’t
even midnight yet and became worried that he might have too much time. He could
go for a walk instead of heading straight home, as he had initially intended to
do. Th at would be a good way to clear his mind
and gather his thoughts, or rather to scatter them productively. In any case, he
had to make a detour, so as not to go past the Góngoras’ place and risk bumping
into someone he didn’t want to see. So at the first intersection he turned
toward the city center, and let his steps lead the way, while his mind drifted
off into a pleasant reverie. Th at very night
(though it seemed like years ago already) there had been talk of the
possibility, or the threat, that Colón would cease to be Colón, that the city
would leave the city, and he had feared that he would be abandoned, cut off from
the world in which he had always lived. Now, seeing the nocturnal cityscape
opening all around him like an abstract model in black and gray, his fears
vanished into the far reaches of the sky, forever. As long as he stayed, the
city would too. No one could take it away from him. When he began to write, in a
few minutes’ time, every sentence would be a spell to ensure the eternity of
Colón. His perfect solitude was interrupted by the appearance of a slow-moving
car at a distant intersection, traveling as steadily as a star tracing its arc,
or the hands of a watch. Th e rally drivers were
still setting off, it seemed. A little further on Varamo saw a second car, on a
different street, heading in the opposite direction. Th e cars, with their constant velocity and crisscrossing paths, were
also contributing to the city’s permanence. How could politics compete with
those geometries? Suddenly, in the midst of his sublime distraction, he came to
the main square with its esplanades: before him lay a deserted panorama, with
the moon up above, the palm trees standing still, the dark ministries, and a
lone car creeping along like a windup toy. Varamo couldn’t believe that sleep
had robbed him of this spectacle night after night. Such are the writer’s
privileges, he thought, already nostalgic for
He left the café with the firm intention of beginning to
write immediately, without giving it any more thought (it was as if he had
already done all the necessary thinking), and he couldn’t wait to go home, sit
down at his desk and get to work. With a delicious sense of anticipation, he
savored the half-lie he had told the publishers: none of his notes had been made
with a view to any kind of publication, but he had so many that the writing
seemed a pure formality; he need only copy them out, string them together
somehow, and allow them to form a book. Th e time
had come to reap the benefits of his inveterate, impractical habit of holding on
to every piece of paper that came into his possession. And if he needed anything
more, as he supposed he would, for example an overall tone to unify this
disparate material, a rhythmic pulse to make it all cohere in a single volume,
he didn’t have far to look, because he’d decided, right from the start, to
imitate the delivery and syntax of the Voices, which, now that Caricias had
explained away their terrifying power, were reduced to the roles of bodiless
muses and nocturnal signaling. Th inking of the
girl, Varamo remembered that he had arranged to meet her at dawn. He had just
enough time to write his book before then, and to spend it writing was an ideal
solution, because if he went to sleep he was bound to wake up at midday and miss
his date. Th e excitement of writing had
dispelled his sleepiness. He’d be there on time and surprise her by having mixed
up all the keys more thoroughly than she could have imagined. One stone could
always kill two birds. Or three, because he felt that he had finally succeeded,
by serendipity, in exchanging the two hundred bad pesos for two hundred good
ones.
But when Varamo looked at his watch he saw that it wasn’t
even midnight yet and became worried that he might have too much time. He could
go for a walk instead of heading straight home, as he had initially intended to
do. Th at would be a good way to clear his mind
and gather his thoughts, or rather to scatter them productively. In any case, he
had to make a detour, so as not to go past the Góngoras’ place and risk bumping
into someone he didn’t want to see. So at the first intersection he turned
toward the city center, and let his steps lead the way, while his mind drifted
off into a pleasant reverie. Th at very night
(though it seemed like years ago already) there had been talk of the
possibility, or the threat, that Colón would cease to be Colón, that the city
would leave the city, and he had feared that he would be abandoned, cut off from
the world in which he had always lived. Now, seeing the nocturnal cityscape
opening all around him like an abstract model in black and gray, his fears
vanished into the far reaches of the sky, forever. As long as he stayed, the
city would too. No one could take it away from him. When he began to write, in a
few minutes’ time, every sentence would be a spell to ensure the eternity of
Colón. His perfect solitude was interrupted by the appearance of a slow-moving
car at a distant intersection, traveling as steadily as a star tracing its arc,
or the hands of a watch. Th e rally drivers were
still setting off, it seemed. A little further on Varamo saw a second car, on a
different street, heading in the opposite direction. Th e cars, with their constant velocity and crisscrossing paths, were
also contributing to the city’s permanence. How could politics compete with
those geometries? Suddenly, in the midst of his sublime distraction, he came to
the main square with its esplanades: before him lay a deserted panorama, with
the moon up above, the palm trees standing still, the dark ministries, and a
lone car creeping along like a windup toy. Varamo couldn’t believe that sleep
had robbed him of this spectacle night after night. Such are the writer’s
privileges, he thought, already nostalgic for
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