militancy
Even now, even here, in this very passage, I confess it was not difficult to stop writing. It was much more arduous to find a pen, wrap my fingers around it, know that crooked words unreadable even by Ignacio were falling onto the page. Because as the world went black, everything that belonged to it was also left in the dark. Now there were voices that completed the unseen or that read to me tirelessly. I could fast forward or rewind them, interrupt them. Listening to borrowed novels suspended the anguish of not being able to write, it kept me from stopping to think about what I wasn’t writing, about what I would never write. But now Raquel was on the phone, like a friend, like the militant poet she was, supplied with pens and notebooks to write down dark verses in microscopic script. Raquel called me to order. What had I done with my unfinished novel? my general asked me. It must be thrown in with all my notes in some box from the move. While she waited, my mind went searching for the exact box in which I’d deposited the unfinished manuscript, the box that my hands had sealed like a coffin. I’d left the book half-finished and had no time frame to complete it. Raquel assailed me: at what point had I left off writing, how much more before I’d finish, and I couldn’t remember. My memory was another blackout. It’s impossible you’ve forgotten, she said, and I said nothing. You can’t give up, she insisted, and I: it’s not giving up, it’s an interruption, a temporary impossibility. Did you forget yourself, too? Raquel hammered away, trying to activate my memory or my wish to remember. To remember not the forgotten pages, but the identity my blood had drowned. You can only be yourself when you’re writing, said Raquel, as if she had to remind me, but I shot back — because this was a war and I needed to win a battle: maybe I wouldn’t be Lina anymore, maybe I was backing up toward the abyss. Maybe I’d have to start all over again. Of course not, raged Raquel. Of course I will, I barked at her, consumed by an anger that did nothing but confirm she was right. I didn’t want to start all over, I couldn’t be someone else now, much less someone who was not a writer. It was just that paper and screens were now a disadvantage. The smooth keys that had been erasing my fingerprints for years were now an enigma. I couldn’t even be sure it would be easy to go back to writing the same way once I was me again, if that ever happened. That novel is dead, I declared, and Raquel negotiated a maybe, maybe that novel is dead but there will be others. Because you don’t write, she said, with just your eyes and hands. So, for now, she added, as if giving her final order: right now, as soon as we hang up, start writing in your head.
dirt cheap
Ignacio was back in Santiago. Returning to a city he’d never set foot in. Returning like an unfounded rumor, like slander stuck to its victim for life. A taxi drove up very early to number 237. The door opened and first a foot appeared and second a leg and third Ignacio’s skull and then two big suitcases. His left index finger touched the doorbell, and someone must have opened the door for him. He went upstairs and dropped his baggage thunderously. It was his way of announcing himself: making noise, making enough of a racket to wake me up. He was brought low by uncertainty and a silence he didn’t know how to break. When he saw the swell of the pillow, he climbed fully dressed into the bed. It was criminally cold in the house and outside as well, under the dirty Santiago clouds, so thick the lightning couldn’t pierce them; only the rain got through, acid and occasional. It was deadly cold and he was sick. A little sick, just barely. Performing his cough, his fever, exaggerating his stuffy nose, he mumbled an are you asleep? and then curled into me. He blew his nose harshly to finish waking me up. How’d it go? I said, still sleepy and realizing he was over-acting his cold. I missed you, he said, and his voice was that of a plucked bird perched on ice in the south pole. My feet are like rocks. Come here, I whispered to him, my breath thick: put them against me. And I let myself be embraced and I let him put his cold hands between my breasts, let him explode my ears in kisses, I even let him saddle me with his false flu, feeling an infinite pity for Ignacio. You should have stayed there, I told him. You should also have stayed there, he told me. That’s true, I said, and here we are again, both of us. Like two idiots. Yes, what morons, but will you come back with me? Lina? I had to tell him yes, of course, because that’s what I was going to do, but I couldn’t compose an answer that was just right for him, not yet; we still had to finish sleeping and let the days and nights pass and the moon wane languidly. Why give definitive answers so soon? We would get out of bed in spite of Ignacio’s theatrical shivers and the mucous in his handkerchief, and then he would open before me his suitcase studded with locks, like a treasure chest. It was a treasure bought
a precio de huevo, as they say in Chile, dirt cheap: the price of an egg, but a rotten egg, an egg cracked in those days from the sudden Argentine bankruptcy. A huevada in the most Chilean sense of the word. A fuck-up by the politicians. A real shit storm, exclaimed Ignacio, indignant, moved, his cold getting a little worse. He’d gotten sick from anxiety and he coughed to clear it away, to clear his throat and convince me that it had undone him to see the city collapsed, but even worse to see its people digging rotten food out of the garbage. And not only the people who’d been miserable for ages and were more inured to disgrace and difficulty, but also the less prepared people, people who dress like you or like me, and he didn’t mean his wrinkled clothes or my slept-in underwear but rather the everyday clothes of the people who can buy them; the whole social-climbing middle class who scrupulously handed their money over to the bank, only to be suddenly left penniless. Left with nothing but a pile of unusable credit cards and the change in their wallets. And with disgust but also with previously unknown greed, the corners of their mouths twisting into an incomprehensible grimace, drooling a saliva that smelled of hunger, they stuck their hands up to the elbows into garbage cans, or they posted themselves at the exits of restaurants to fight over the leftovers. It’s an all-around collapse, added Ignacio between shrill sneezes. People are unemployed or have bad jobs or their salaries are frozen or they’re simply waiting for payment that doesn’t come. But people were still going to work, because it was better to wear yourself out than stay home sitting on your hands; better to wear out your eyes on the computer screen than doze in front of the TV, if they hadn’t cut off your electricity yet for lack of payment; better to do something than stand staring into the empty refrigerator feeling hunger pangs. And then I, continued Ignacio, so scrupulous with money, who never buy anything I don’t need and even less so now that we want to furnish the apartment, I who am terrified of ending up without cash in a foreign country…I, he repeated, talking as if to himself, I, who hold myself back from succumbing to temptation, from being consumed by consumerism (but sometimes you overdo it shopping, I thought, while you were making those declarations of principle). Well, I, I don’t know what you’re going to think of me, but I went out and spent everything I had. I blew the last cent of every dollar on me, I burned every Argentine peso treating complete strangers to beers or glasses of wine, and I paid the bills for people sharing my tables in run-down holes in the wall, in corner sandwich shops, in family-style steakhouses — because the Argentine cows aren’t in crisis — and I wore myself out leaving tips. And it seemed as if he was nearing the end of an astounding epic tale, but then he added, almost without air, his throat contracted, his nose stuffed up, that he had done it all with the stupid idea of stopping the collapse. You alone, with just some dollars? Like a second-rate conquistador with glass beads? Yes, yes, you’re right, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, he said, swallowing. I couldn’t help it, I went into stores like I was possessed and bought something, anything, it was all on sale, and the last thing I bought was this suitcase to carry all the gifts I was bringing you. I heard the sound of a cierrecler, a zipper, which Ignacio called a cremallera but some old Chileans with Arabic ancestry still called marruecos, and the metal teeth opened so Ignacio could take out all the clothes that had been “made in la pampa.” He hoped I’d like them, even if only by touch. Because this one, see how soft, was a long jacket of sheep leather. One hundred percent Argentine sheep, cut and sewn by desperate hands. Chosen from among hundreds of jackets that the store clerks had modeled for him with the vanity of a different era. They were all short like me. And dark, morocha, he said, or as they say in Buenos Aires, arrabales. And they had very black hair and were plump in spite of or because of their poverty. And while Ignacio was talking about those girls modeling for a small sales commission, he handed me two wool sweaters and a pair of fleece-lined leather gloves and a horse leather belt that pleased my fingertips, and a shirt that felt like cashmere but wasn’t. Merely cash, more like it, he told me. And it’s all black? All black, he said, the blackest black you can imagine.