Two months later the Other Boy published an article on Cuban theatre which didn’t mention my name or work, as if I’d never existed or it were impossible I might ever exist again… I then understood there was nothing doing, or that I could do nothing but retreat into my shell, like a persecuted snail. And I let the curtain fall. I gave in and took every punishment: first, factory work, then library work, forgot theatre and publishing, trips and interviews, was transformed into a nobody. And I assumed my role as a live ghost, performed with mask and all for so long, that what you see as a white mask is now my very own face.
“Really?” the Marquess said and added, “Come with me,” and the Count followed him through the livingroom, across the bedroom and down the passage to the room which reeked of damp, ancient dust and old papers. The dramatist switched on the light and the policeman found himself surrounded by books, from the floor to the highest point of the ceiling, books the number and quality of which was incalculable, in dissimilar bindings and volumes, in various sizes and colours: books.
“Take a good look, what can you see?”
“Well, books.”
“Yes, books, but as a writer you must know when you are seeing something more. Look, that one there is the edition of Paradise Lost which I stole with illustrations by Gustave Dore. Now I’ll ask you something: who would know the name of Milton’s neighbour, a very wealthy man, much feared in his time, and one who perhaps one day accused him of some barbarity or other? You don’t know? Of course: nobody knows or should know, but everyone remembers who the poet was. And was Dante a Guelph or a Ghibeline? You don’t know that either, do you, but you do know he wrote The Divine Comedy and that his reputation is greater than that of any politician of his time. For that is what is invincible… And now I’ll tell you why I brought you here!”
And he walked over to one of the shelves and took down a red folder tied with ribbons which one day had been white and now lay under several layers of dust.
“I’ll tell you this, Friendly Policeman, because I think I owe it to you, as I owe you an apology for my excesses with you… Herein are eight plays written in my silent years, and the other folder you can see contains a 300-page essay on the re-creation of Greek myths in Western theatre in the twentieth century. What do you reckon?”
The Count gestured: shook his head.
“And why is all this hidden away? Why don’t you try to publish it?”
“Because of what I said before: my character must endure silence till the end. But that’s the character: the actor did what he had to do, and that’s why I keep writing, because, one day, as with Milton, they’ll remember the writer and nobody will even recall the sad functionary who repressed him. They wouldn’t allow me to publish or direct, but no one could prevent me writing and thinking. These two folders are my best revenge, do you understand me now?”
“I think so,” replied the Count, and caressed the typed pages of his story and realized right then that he didn’t know where he should take it. Perhaps it was only a story for three readers: himself, Skinny Carlos and Alberto Marques, and yet that was enough for him. No, he didn’t feel a need to expose himself further, or have pretensions to literature: just do it, for the Marquess was right: those pages contained what was invincible.
“I also want to apologize, Alberto. At times I must have been too rough with you.”
“Oh, my honey chil’! You’re an angel! You don’t know what it is to be rough with me. Look, if I tell you… Better not, forget it.”
The Count smiled, remembering the stories he’d heard about the Marquess’s erotic adventures, in that very house. Well, whatever they say, he is a pansy, that’s no lie, but I like the man, he concluded.
“Come on, let’s sit down,” the Marquess suggested and they went back to the sitting room, as the Count lit a cigarette.
“I must admit I’m the one who’s now arse over tit,” the policeman said as he returned to his seat and position on that stage set. “But all these confessions have reinforced an idea I’ve been harbouring for two or three days: you know something you’ve not told me and which could help explain Alexis’s death. Will you tell me now or must I interrogate you?”
“Ah, so you think there’s more to it… I get the full bloodhound treatment now, do I? So you want to know more?” the Marquess persisted and, not waiting for a reply, he raised one of his arms so his dressing gown sleeve created a space where, like a spectacular magician, he could put in a hand and pluck something out to show the Count. “You want me to tell you what Alexis said to Faustino to cause him to react that way? But I shouldn’t tell you, because when Alexis told me, and he did tell me, he made me swear on the Bible that, whatever happened, I wouldn’t tell anybody. And I never have… That’s why I’ve gone silent, right?”