I was half reclining, my legs stretched underneath the chair in front of me, perplexed, having lost the sense of place and time—was I searching for something that wasn’t there, but that seemed to be there nonetheless? my writing journal was still on my knees, open, the first page was scrunched, a little dirty, marred with ink, and there were even a few sentences illegibly scribbled on it… just as, when I went on a plane trip, after putting away my handbag and camera in the compartment above the seat, I would settle in with the calmness and contentment of someone who occupies his seat without paying a slight attention to the flight attendant, and with the enthusiasm of someone about to do something very important, I would take out my journal with the intention of writing down a random thought that had just crossed my mind, start by jotting down the date and place, as if that in itself would mark the entrance into a new world, but then gradually the sound of the engine, and the time that failed to pass, would diminish my excitement, I would slowly drift into a restless drowse filled with noise, following the panting sound of a fireplace that spread its radiating glow and warmth in the distance, while the ghostly images forming on the walls would turn, disappear;
they had been speaking for a while in dull, monotonous tones despite the diversity of languages, people with thunderous names; I had heard about them from the papers, announcement leaflets, anecdotes circulating among the intellectuals; they would get up from the big long table that was nearly as wide as the blackboard, place their notes on the podium, leaf through the pages, sometimes turn left toward the Chair of the panel who was sitting at the other end of the table, a man with a slightly ragged, dirty beard, his head resting on his hand, deep in thought or perhaps already half asleep, who made hand or eyebrow gestures to this or that person—there was still time, the speaker could continue with his paper, twenty minutes, five minutes, after which, predictably, the Chair would have to interrupt—
nearing his conclusion, the speaker would raise his voice, take a deep breath, look at the audience, immediately accelerate, utter the last sentence or what seemed to be the last sentence in one breath, the dynamic young woman sitting next to me, who was either busy with her notes or with the recording machine, would occasionally glance up from beneath her eyelashes, as if somewhat indifferent, while the wave of fragrance from her loose hair and armpits diffused into the air, conquering, discomforting even, I would feel I had to write down the final conclusive statement: there is a history… memory, historical truth, duty to memory, free interpretation of historical events, what is history without memory? everything could have been razed to the ground, lost, disappeared, etc., etc., something along those lines, generalizations that sounded more like aphorisms, descriptive, elementary maxims, capitalized words that, with their luminous aureole, would define, concretize, deepen a vague, undefined, unstable reality;
all the speakers had tried to gain the fluctuating attention of the audience; sometimes they would depart from the paper’s main topic in the last part of their speech, they would try wearing memorable clothes, apparently they entrusted the role of impressing the crowd, of keeping their audience awake, to the outfit, noting the inevitable finale, at which their voice, having reached a certain pinnacle, would bow down; this was followed by several more or less sparse rounds of applause, erupting, then ceasing;
each speaker would leave the podium and sit down behind the long table, pour some mineral water from the plastic bottle into a paper cup, raise it to his mouth, clear his throat; he would watch the audience from the distance of his half closed eyes as people moved, dared to change the position of their bodies, cough, whisper a few words to their neighbors, sneeze, smile, shake their heads or simply stand up and leave the room, go to the bathroom or out for a cigarette break, disturbing the others, saying hello to acquaintances, friends, sometimes distant relatives whom they would meet only at such places,
ah, you’re here too, isn’t it interesting?
sure, indeed, certainly… certainly…
meanwhile, the Chair was inviting the next speaker, standing ceremoniously behind the podium with the orderliness of a pontiff whose main mission is to guard the economy of time, making a few appropriate, polite remarks about the previous presentation, noting that it was indeed a truly important work in the context of the conference, leaning toward the audience with the feigned intimacy of a salesman, as if conversing with each individual person,
everyone in the audience certainly agrees with me, bon, without exaggerating… we can say, very… important claims… we are most… grateful to the Professor… or esteemed Counselor,
there were variations in his tone, a few minor observations, which could have been easily dismissed despite the obvious effort to complicate the speech; he would slightly raise his neck with the persistence of someone who has valiantly agreed to carry a heavy burden, gesticulate a greeting with his hand to someone familiar, smile indulgently, the solemn smile of a national benefactor,
hey, là bas,
there is a crack of alcohol, a greasy hiccup in his voice,
please, turn off your… cell phones!
he would raise his right hand, tired as if from repeating, pointing to the greenish board, wasn’t it written there, please turn off your cell phones? some people would lower their heads, their hands searching for their phones, checking the settings, while the Chair addressed the group of people who had been crowding in front of the door at the back of the auditorium, those who were standing, helping them find seats, over there, to the right, come near, come closer, proposing that some of them go up to the mezzanine, there’s lots of room, there are seats, always the same old confining seats made of oak with backs that have faded, lost their varnish;
we were required to follow the analysis for several years, one or two hours per week, happiness, according to… , creation and its forms—thought and space, the happiness, hic et nunc, that, which every… will refer to,
the scholar sat in the dark cell, partly illuminated by the light coming from the narrow window, his head bowed, thoughtful, while the winding staircase next to him spiraled up, as he continued his meditation, heading to new places, the screen would turn into a mental stage that widened as we learned how to connect, moving beyond all the axioms, pieces of evidence, proofs, conclusions, in order to enter another world, completely different from the one that I had entered when I heard, for the first time, the sound of the metro in the labyrinths of an underground station;
and there was still the end of History, after which everything returned to the beginning, a kind of recorded fairy tale, which every living person would read, and the events? they were more or less colorful incidents,
the bald man was elucidating it, coloring it with contemporary hues; a system of sound beneath the city—the endless, continuous process that had its own course and that had undergone a gradual inflection, a thesis, an antithesis that had been repeated in the previous century, had drowned already; he was collecting his papers, the unopened books that he had produced from his worn satchel, rare, heavy books that made an impression, as would a hermetic Hegelian sentence; as soon as the noise erupted, the almost invisible door at the front, to the right, would open and the custodian in his white apron would appear, examining those who were present through his myopic glasses, moving back and letting the professor disappear with thundering footsteps in the hallway; then we would hurry, a few of us would fall behind—tying a tie, filling a tobacco pipe—we would all head to another hall just like this one, but slightly different, a colonnade with a row of statues of forgotten philosophers at the entrance, windows that opened into collateral yards but that were always shut tight, an idyllic fresco on the ceiling above the pushing and jostling crowd, the same smell of mice, of antiseptic, of knowledge, the smell of a place that has been kept locked, a thick, oily smell that lingers on in every corner and that goes deep into the crevices of the same seats and stairwell, the wide, amphitheater-style stage, on which one day a student—an imposter—would jump and make noise with his feet, friends..! a heavy smoker’s cough, a fist banging on the table asking for attention, comrades..!