We never manage to get past the problem between us. It’s always there beneath the surface. Catastrophe looms. It’s not relaxing for us to be together. We study each other, measure our words, speak in generalities, talk about the weather, talk about family, talk about our work, talk about politics, and almost never talk about ourselves, he striving to keep the conversation on neutral ground, and I tongue-tied, testing ways to obliquely introduce my demands. Most of the time I don’t address them head-on. When I do, he lets a second or two go by, his displeasure evident in the longer silence, in his change of expression, and if I persist, there might be a confrontation. Confrontations are always the same: after my initial complaint, he parries with an excuse, I ratchet up the pressure, he defends himself heatedly, and I respond in kind until it becomes impossible to take things any further without making a scene and we’re silent for the rest of the meal. When we leave the restaurant, either each of us goes his own way, or, if I’m feeling remorseful, I walk him to the Metro trying to pretend that nothing has happened.
And we part. Upset, both of us. I let off steam at home and he probably works out his frustration by subjecting the friend he met in Brazil to an afternoon of ill humor. Though sometimes he must not be able to avoid talking, it’s hard for me to imagine that he tells her everything; he can’t want to make trouble. A vicious circle — my father, the friend he met in Brazil, and me; the grudges of each constantly feeding off those of the others.
After a fight, I know that it’s on his mind for days, but I have no idea to what extent it affects his life. I suffer the effects hugely. I work myself up; I egg myself on. Alone, I envision revenge; when I’m out, I’m carried away by euphoria. I talk more than ever, I drink more than ever, I’m always the last to leave, I contrast myself to him in the arrogance of my youth. But if I feel vulnerable, at a loss, I do none of this, instead lapsing into a state of tortured apathy; sometimes I cry. Or I alternate between the two states, euphoria and prostration. Or I throw myself into writing as if I’m competing with him in a stupid race.
The rope is always taut. There’s never a slackening of tension. He suffers and I suffer, but we can’t let it snap, can’t do without each other.
More often than I should, I think about his death. I wonder whether anything will have changed by then. I wonder whether he’ll be capable for once of acting according to the convention between fathers and sons. What will happen to his things? What will happen to his paintings? If he can’t do right by me while he’s alive, he won’t do right by me in death either. And I get angry. Especially because I know that he’s simply blind to the risks. He takes it for granted that everything will turn out right without any effort on his part. I get angry because he doesn’t realize that if, as he argues, his failure to comply with his paternal responsibilities has some unfathomable cause rather than being due to neglect or disregard, he should at least make sure that what he has to leave — his paintings, his belongings — will reach my hands.
He says that the friend he met in Brazil covers most of their common expenses, but I do the math and it seems to me that ever since he gave up renovation work, he makes enough from painting to support himself.
He says that the friend he met in Brazil put down more money on the house where they live, but I include as part of his contribution all the unpaid work he’s done for her and all the sought-after paintings by other artists that he’s sold, paintings that back in the day he was savvy enough to buy or that were given to him by their more established creators.
He says that the friend he met in Brazil is generous with him, but I’m convinced that while his own money is frittered away on their daily necessities, she’s saving for herself. If the family car breaks down, it’s he who buys the next one. If there are repairs to be made at home, he pays for them; ditto if they take a trip. As I see it, she squeezes him, controls him, and manipulates him, but my father doesn’t realize it, and what’s worse, since he’s oblivious to how the money is used, he feels permanently in debt. It doesn’t surprise him, or at least he doesn’t show it, that she makes him sign papers. It doesn’t surprise him, or at least he doesn’t show it, that they’re always short of cash.
All of this, accurate or not, runs repeatedly through my head when I’m frustrated with him; and because it’s my view of things and not his, if at any point I make some mention of it, he gets irritated, cuts short the conversation, and obliquely accuses me of self-interest. What he refuses to see is that what I want is for him to stop feeling indebted, because it’s his indebtedness that comes between us. What he refuses to see is that even when I talk about money, what I’m really talking about is feelings. What he refuses to see is that I need to have proof that I matter to him.
I don’t trust anything, and that’s also part of the problem between us.
There’s only one area, in fact, in which there is no risk of conflict: I’m proud that he’s a painter; I admire his work. Where it’s concerned, I’m always ready for a temporary truce. He knows this and appreciates it, and in his own way he takes advantage of it. If he has a show coming up and we’re not on terrible terms, he often asks me to come to his studio. He suggests it timidly, but he makes it plain that I’ll be letting him down if I don’t come. It’s not a tactic to bring us together; I think he really does value my judgment. I deduce this from the unhurried way he shows me the paintings, waiting silently to hear what I have to say, taking his time to respond. It’s a tradition that dates back to his crisis, when I insisted that he return to painting and I even permitted myself to be tough on the initial results. I’m careful, I never offer a solely negative opinion, but I don’t hide what I think.
One afternoon I mention that almost all his paintings repeat the same compositional scheme, with a figurative motif — usually a photograph taken from a magazine, distorted and painted over — around which the space of the painting arranges itself. I refer to it in passing, but it makes an impression, since the next few times he makes joking reference to the figurita central, as I innocently called it, and some time later his painting evolves toward a fractioning of the canvas that, by multiplying the centers, puts an end to the very notion of center.
I like it that he’s a painter. I admire him, I visit his studio, I tell him what I think about his paintings, I help him maneuver the biggest ones out the window when the handler from the gallery comes for them, but I’m not entirely impartial either. It’s in my interest to foster that complicity. I sense that he doesn’t have it with the friend he met in Brazil, and I don’t want to fail him as I imagine that she fails him.
And meanwhile, life goes on.
In 1991 I spend two weeks in Mexico with a friend who’s attending a writers’ conference.
In 1991 I steal books from bookstores.
In 1991 I dress in vintage blazers and I almost always wear a scarf knotted around my neck, something that he misses no chance to make sly fun of when he sees me.