And now, coming to the main subject, what interests us is what we might these days call the “versatile writer,” the writer capable of adapting to the tastes of the public without in any way renouncing his own creative magma, his individuality, do you follow me? I’ll give you an example: do you remember, a few years ago, there was a great explosion of historical novels about sects and secret societies in the Middle Ages and that kind of thing? I nodded, and he continued: that is the typical situation of which a “versatile writer” will take advantage, putting his own logs on an already blazing fire and making it burn gracefully, while keeping his own identity, of course, which will allow him to defend himself against the accusations and insults heaped on him by old, dyed-in-the-wool writers, who will brand him an opportunist, a sellout, a traitor, a whore, and all those things the resentful say, those who don’t sell, the fundamentalists who cling to tradition, you know who I’m talking about, well, anyway, that’s my idea of the “versatile writer,” the writer who is able to swim in the cloudy waters of popular taste without it being too obvious, without shouting it on the rooftops, without being seen at fashionable parties and getting his face in the papers, because that would be suspicious and counterproductive in the long run, it’s good to keep a high profile but not too high, better a two-thirds profile, a three-quarters profile, because anyone who’s always at the crest of the wave will fall in the end, I don’t know if I’m explaining myself well, number three on the bestseller lists here, a second prize there, a mention somewhere else, do you understand me? Perfectly, I said, and you’ve made me so curious that bright and early tomorrow morning I’m going to ask at reception for a computer so I can look at your catalog, and he replied, ah, my catalog, the Tiberias catalog! you’ll be surprised, the list of guests at the most exclusive council of the human spirit, the great literary party of the century, the one that has now finished and the one just starting; at this point, I raised my glass and said, well, then I propose a toast to the only one of your authors I know, Rashid, and he said, dash it, Rashid is a very special case because, without being really “versatile,” seeing as he persists in a confessional vein with touches of drama and humor, a literary stance that, in theory, might appear decadent and suicidal, yet has turned out to be very successful, his books are very popular and we never have any problem in selling the foreign rights, so for me he’s the exception that proves the rule, oh, God knows yes, at the end of the day nothing in this business is written in stone and that’s why one should feel one’s way, or rather, crawl one’s way.
Sabina Vedovelli was talking with three weary-looking men. The fattest of them was sweating profusely, his hair stuck to his forehead, as if somebody had thrown a glass of water in his face. Listening from a distance, I thought I caught the music of the Russian language. Suddenly the fat man gave a loud laugh and said, eta horoshó, which removed any lingering doubts. I assumed they were partners of hers, the porn industry having flourished in the former Tsarist empire, thanks, among other things, to the great beauty of their young women. I found myself looking at Sabina Vedovelli’s cleavage, which was like a maelstrom between her magnificent breasts, and just as I was about to fall into that ravine I saw something really extraordinary emerge from it, nothing less than. . the head of a small snake! a kind of periscope that appeared for a second, looked right and left, sank back down, and disappeared. Did you see that!!?? I asked Rashid, and he said, what? I felt disoriented, suspecting the wine I was drinking, my tiredness, even my illness. A snake just popped out from between Sabina Vedovelli’s breasts! I said.
Ebenezer Lottmann looked at me reprovingly, but said nothing. Rashid, as a way out of the impasse, said, oh, my friend, I see the Jerusalem syndrome has gotten to you, too many prayers create an electricity in the air that causes madness, but don’t worry, it passes, the best thing we can do is go as quickly as possible to the bar and get some more whiskey. He took his leave of his publisher with a nod and said in my ear, you’re going crazy, friend, when was the last time you had a decent fuck? But as we passed Sabina the little snake popped up again. The three Russians screamed and Rashid stopped dead. Half the room turned to look at Sabina’s fleshy promontories, and she, with a smug look on her face, took the thing out, a little rubber toy, which was greeted with shouts and laughter.
This strange bazaar of humanity seemed boundless. On the other side of the room was a mysterious-looking man trying to hide amid the velvet drapes. Seen from a distance, he looked like a medieval warrior from one of those “versatile” novels Lottmann had talked about. He was wearing a black cloak with a hood and only the lower part of his face was visible. His forearms were bare and covered with tattoos, giving them a brocade-like appearance; as I walked toward him, I could make out Roman crosses, the figure of a bloodstained Christ, Latin inscriptions in Gothic writing, an eye that looked like a sun shining over a remote fortified city, and I said to myself, here he is, the Templar, that was all this party needed, and I thought, maybe thanks to him this story will take flight and turn into a resounding bestseller, a Templar of our times! what an extraordinary stroke of luck! I hope he can be part of this narrative, I swear he’ll have a leading role, of course he will, the others will have to understand that, we’re all in the same boat, oh yes, it was time I became a “versatile writer,” and having a Templar on board was the best guarantee.
As I came level with him, these fantasies faded. I saw that one of the tattoos showed the helm of a boat, with the words, in Spanish, “God is my co-pilot,” and what I had thought was an armored breastplate turned out to be an elegant gray jacket, so I resigned myself, farewell Templar. This might well be the former evangelical pastor, so I asked him, are you from the Caribbean? and he pulled back his hood, revealing a pair of bulging eyes, and said yes, my brother, from right in the middle of the Caribbean, and how about you, if I’m not being indiscreet? I’m Colombian, I replied, and he said, oh, give me your hand, brother, Walter José Maturana, at God’s service and yours, in that order, with the Almighty first, yes indeed, and I replied, pleased to meet you; I turned to introduce him to Rashid, but Rashid was nowhere to be seen, and I thought: he must have gone back to the drinks table, I’ll catch up with him later.
The pastor, with his untidy gray beard, raised his index finger and said, I know who you are now, brother, you’re the novelist! the first thing I want to tell you is that I haven’t read your books, but when I saw your name it sounded familiar, so I started searching for it on the Internet, telling myself, I’ve heard it before somewhere, and then it came to me, a woman I had dealings with some years ago was a fan of yours, not because of a book but because of an article, something about mature women, she’d stuck it up on the wall and always said, if ever I meet the man who wrote this I’m going to smother him with kisses, starting with his dick, those were her exact words, and having heard your name mentioned so often, I’ve remembered it ever since, and now I’ve actually met you! oh God, life is amazing, isn’t it? you can’t imagine how important that article of yours was to her, and how it helped her, my God, the poor woman was trying to get down to two grams and clung to those words as if they were her last hope. Two grams of what? I said to him, and he replied, what do you think, my brother? two grams of smack, horse, don’t you get it? heroin, brother, when I received her into the Church she was on four sachets a day and she didn’t have any veins left, poor thing, she’d lost her looks because the smack rots your gums and your teeth fall out like seed from a rotten corncob, poor girl, nobody wanted to hump her anymore and that’s when the drama started, she was used to giving the dealers blowjobs or sleeping with them in exchange for coke and horse, but then they got bored with her and said, that’s it, Cinderella, go sell your pussy to junkies because we don’t want you anymore, either bring us money or the flow dries up, baby, the party’s over, can you imagine, the same guys who got her hooked in the first place just so they could fuck her when she was nice and pretty now left her in the trash, oh, brother, this world really is one big shithouse and stinks like rancid cottage cheese, because to add to that, when she went with junkies they gangbanged her, three or four of them at a time, and when she had the smack inside her the poor woman didn’t know what was going on, sometimes they even crapped on her, and I really mean that, she was like the living dead when I pulled her out of the garbage, I put Christ into her nostrils and if you saw her today, my friend, you’d be knocked out, even her mother who brought her into the world wouldn’t recognize her, she’s clean again, and by a miracle of the Lord, the Big Enchilada, the Man Upstairs, she doesn’t have anything nasty in her blood, because I tell you, with what they put in her she should have had AIDS the size of a Soviet ship, but anyway, Christ held out his hand to her, and she’s the woman who has your article hanging on her wall.