2Winged lions. The medieval bestiary known as the Physiologus tells us that the winged lion is the symbol of the EVANGELISTS, who are often represented as the lion of Saint Mark or the bull of Saint Luke, as well. A happy coincidence. When I was location-scouting for PANIS ORIS INTUS ANIMAE MEAE, I’d chosen the lovely bridge that spans the Griboedev Canal, a few meters from Nevsky Prospekt. From there, one of the most beautiful views of Saint Petersburg opens out before your eyes.
3And what about the title? Not only does it include the word “soul,” it’s even in Latin. ANIMAE or “soul” was a concept as readily mass-produced as any other. Everything acquired another life within the easy world of now. I could make Saint Augustine a hero of frivolous culture, transform BREAD FOR THE MOUTH OF MY SOUL into a terrific marketing slogan, magnifying the story of his renunciation of paganism (the mirror image of my own conversion to the idolatry of the present) and taking his Confessions along with me to the top of the best-seller lists by publishing this ENCYCLOPEDIA to coincide with the launch of P.O.A.: a triple-decker cheeseburger. Obviously it wouldn’t be enough for my book simply to tell the truth about frivolity; I would also have to mint the idea anew, render it accessible, transform it into some gesture or characteristic that would make it easily and positively identifiable, a topic of fashionable conversation during TEA time.
4. . Borges, an Argentine writer, and therefore suspect. Quite surprisingly, I was Cuban. This earned me accusations of being a PSEUDO DEMETRIUS, an imposter. How could I pretend to represent the rich OCCIDENT? While this seemed a valid objection, it was, in fact, a serious error. An entirely OCCIDENTAL man, if such a thing exists, would never have discovered the important role that frivolity had played in discrediting the Doctrine, would not have perceived the ravages wreaked by FLUORIDE upon the old Russian soul. My adolescence spent in an essentially frivolous country, but one that had placed all its bets on the seriousness of the Doctrine, had endowed me with perfect mastery of the casuistries that an in-depth analysis of the phenomenon required. For on more than one occasion, fearful of having been contaminated, I had knelt to make my confession before the barred window of my own conscience and found myself full of love for (SWISS) CHOCOLATES. What I mean is that I’d never taken my eyes off that other side of life, even when I was bound hand and foot, and this dual existence had, over time, contributed to my discovery.
5. . Casanova de Seingalt. The author of the Nights of Saint Petersburg, Joseph-Marie, comte de Maistre, must also be mentioned here, if only for the coincidence of José(ph): JOSIK, JOSHELE, JOSEPH. (Russia had been waiting for me to introduce its citizens to the elaborate structures of my island’s literature. I’d lived long winters in its very heart, like Bowles in Tangiers: the desolate snow, the age-old despair of the dunes.)
PASARELA (or CATWALK). Here’s the final speech I managed to deliver on the roof of our hotel in YALTA, as filmed by LINDA. A very slow pan takes in the depth of the sky, a flotilla of cirrus riding out over the sea. A serene introductory moment, flooded with light, for by then we believed the danger was past and we were safe from the jaws of the ravenous pack, the bolt securely drawn.
I watch myself balance along the edge of the roof and come to a halt. With my back to LINDA, I study the landscape, the beauty of the view that expands in my lungs. I turn to the camera, arm extended, and say something we cannot hear, the beginning of a last discourse of farewell to the summer, the beautiful view, the play of shadows at twilight, words that fall into the void and die without being registered, because of some defect in the camera or some carelessness on the part of LINDA, who may have neglected to engage the sound button, I will never know.
It was my last lecture of the summer. I don’t recall a single point I made in this “presentation,” which now, owing to its muteness, has taken on far greater force than all the others I delivered that summer for — as I’d explained to LINDA — the truly wise teacher “preaches the doctrine without words.” I began with a broad circumlocution, addressing — or so it would appear — general definitions: the sun on the line of the horizon, the blue sea, the vastness my open arms sought to embrace. Then, rejecting the vague imprecision of the landscape, the natural order, my right hand sketched a circle of light around myself, the contour of the soles of my feet, my personal world. With my palm turned upward, fingers wide, I reviewed my clothing, the impeccable crease of my pants, the thick silk tie. This resplendent attire clearly demonstrated the immense sense of well-being that could be extracted from the neutral material of a few bodies, a summer like any other. I gave signs of satisfaction. My lips pronounced a single word three or four times, a word that, when I first watched the video, I couldn’t decipher. Until it dawned on me that I was speaking in Russian. Then I understood: “Хорошó!” “Horosho! Horosho!” (“Good! Perfect!”)
An affirmation followed by an ample parenthesis of my hands, my fingers, touching each other at the pads, outlining the shape of a narrow cell, the slope of a roof. My brows respond with astonishment, I close my eyes. . my mouth emits sounds of indignation with particular emphasis on the letters o and z. I speak without pausing for breath (now seated on the parapet). The bleary look in my eyes betrays the fact that I am on the verge of a serious bout of blindness. During a pause I see myself raise my head and rub my temples desperately, my eyesight gone. Very little illumination reaches the rooftop by now, only the oblique light of a sun slowly sinking. The white blur that is my shirtfront appears at evenly spaced intervals when I lean forward to underscore a phrase or stretch my chin away from my throat so that my words — highly profound sentences, important conclusions — can reach LINDA on the opposite parapet, from where she is filming me. The light’s fluctuation now seems rhythmic, imbued with unmistakable significance, and at a given moment it speeds up as if announcing the imminent advent of the tragedy, endowing the scene that will soon erupt with its desperate tempo.
My face undergoes an earthquake: I give a start, one, two, three times as the air transports the vibrations of a hail of kicks against the trapdoor. RUDI’S men have taken a long time to appear, but here they are, come to attack me and steal all my money. I stand and walk toward the camera but LINDA pans away for a second and we see the trapdoor jumping. Then comes the eruption, a black substance spewing forth. Five portions of magma, all in a state of inexplicable fury.
Then I reappear standing on the parapet. I slap my chest and let out a yell I have no trouble deciphering. “Over here, RUDI!” A move designed to distract him from LINDA. I pick up the bouquet of carnations and walk away, balancing along the narrow wall. Then I turn and offer the thugs a scowl of deepest disdain. I extend my right hand and hang a text in the air (as in one of La Khalodnaya’s silent films), a text that shines white against the deep blue of the sky: “One more step and I’ll jump!” These five little men (one of them wielding an AX) stop in their tracks, terrified: my suicide would greatly complicate their flight across the snowy mountains of the Caucasus. While their surprise lasts, I pretend to weigh my options and, finally, make a gesture of reconciliation: “We could reach an agreement, gospada.” I lower my eyes, arrange my face in an expression of resignation, and slowly take out my wallet. I make a show of counting the amount of our costly ransom, but suddenly straighten triumphantly, fling all my credit cards at them and shout: “No cash at all, muchachos.” Which I followed with a gale of Homeric laughter, a final ray of sun glinting against the barrier of my teeth.