Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques:
J'aurai des sursauts stomachiques,
Moi, si mon coeur est ravalé:
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques
Comment agir, Ô coeur volé?
It's Rimbaud. Which was a surprise. Relatively speaking, that is. The really surprising thing was that he recited it in French. Anyway, I was a little angry not to have guessed it, since I know Rimbaud's work fairly well, but I didn't let it bother me. Another point in common. Maybe we would make it out of that hellhole alive. And after reciting Rimbaud, Ulises Lima told a story about Rimbaud and some war, which war I don't know, war not being a subject that interests me, but there was something, a common theme linking Rimbaud, the poem, and the war, a sordid story, I'm sure, although at the time my ears and then my eyes were registering other sordid little stories (I swear I'll kill Julita Moore if she drags me to another dive like Priapo's), disjointed scenes in which brooding young delinquents danced with desperate young cleaning girls or desperate young whores in a whirl of contrasts that, I confess, heightened my drunkenness, if such a thing is possible. Then there was a fight somewhere. I didn't see anything, I just heard shouts. A pair of thugs emerged from the shadows dragging a guy with blood all over his face. I remember I told Alberto that we should go, that things could take a turn for the worse, but Alberto was listening to Ulises Lima's story and he ignored me. I remember that I watched Julita dancing with one of Ulises's friends, then I remember dancing a bolero myself with Luscious Skin, as if it were a dream, but still, it might have been the first time I'd felt good all night, in fact, it was definitely the first time I'd felt good all night. Next, like someone waking up, I remember whispering into my (dance) partner's ear that what we were doing would probably offend the other dancers and spectators. It's not clear what happened next. Someone said something rude to me. I was, I don't know, ready to crawl under a table and fall asleep or curl up on Luscious Skin's chest and fall asleep there too. But someone said something rude to me, and Luscious Skin made a motion as if to leave me and turn to face the person who'd spoken (I don't know what he said, pansy or faggot, I'm still not accustomed to that sort of language, although I know I should be), but I was so drunk, my muscles were slack and he couldn't let go of me-if he had I would've fallen-and he just shot something back from the middle of the dance floor. I closed my eyes, trying to remove myself from the situation. Luscious Skin's shoulder smelled like sweat, a strange acidic smell, as if he'd just walked away unscathed from the explosion of a chemical plant, and then I heard him speak, not to one person but to several people, more than two at least, and people were raising their voices. Then I opened my eyes, my God, and what I saw wasn't the people surrounding us but myself, my arm on Luscious Skin's shoulder, my left arm around his waist, my cheek on his shoulder, and I saw or imagined I saw the malicious looks, the stares of born killers, and then, rising in sheer terror above my drunkenness, I wanted to disappear, O Earth, swallow me up! I begged to be struck by lightning, I wished, in a word, never to have been born. How completely mortifying. I was red with shame, I wanted to vomit, I had let go of Luscious Skin and I was hardly able to stand, realizing that I was the object of cruel mockery and under attack at the same time. My one consolation was that the mocker was also under attack. It was essentially as if, having been betrayed in battle (what battles, what wars, was Ulises Lima talking about?), I was begging the angels of justice or the angels of the apocalypse for a great wave to appear, a great miraculous wave, that would sweep both of us away, that would sweep us all away, that would put an end to the ridicule and injustice. But then, through the icy lakes of my eyes (the wrong metaphor, since it was sweltering inside Priapo's, but I can't think of any better way to say that I was about to cry and that at the exact moment of "about to" had changed my mind, backpedaling, but that a distorting layer of liquid still glazed my pupils), I saw the mirific figure of Julita Moore appear intertwined with Cuauhtémoc or Moctezuma or Netzahualcóyotl or whatever his name was, and he and Luscious Skin stood up to the people who were making trouble, while Julita put her arm around my waist and asked me whether those sons of bitches had done anything to me and got me off the dance floor and out of that revolting dive. Once we were outside, Julita led me to the car and in the middle of the street I started to cry and when Julita helped me into the backseat I asked-no, begged-her to leave with me. I wanted the three of us to go and leave the others there, with their own evil kind. Please, Julita, I said, and she said for fuck's sake, Luisito, you're spoiling my night, don't start, and then I remember that I said or shouted or howled: what they've done to me is worse than what they did to Monsi, and Julita asked what the fuck they'd done to Monsi (she also asked which Monsi I meant; she said Montse or Monchi, I can't remember), and I said: Monsiváis, Julita, Monsiváis, the essayist, and she said oh, not seeming surprised at all, my God, the fortitude of that woman, I thought, and then I think I vomited and I started to cry, or I started to cry and then vomited-in Alberto's car!-and Julita started to laugh and by then the others were coming out of Priapo's, I saw their shadows in the beam of a streetlight, and I thought what have I done? what have I done? and I was so ashamed that I collapsed on the seat and curled up in a ball and pretended to be asleep. But I could hear them talking. Julita said something and the visceral realists replied. Their voices sounded cheerful, not hostile at all. Then Alberto got in the car and said what the fuck is this, it stinks in here, and then I opened my eyes and seeking his eyes in the rearview mirror I said I'm sorry, Alberto, I didn't mean to, I feel really sick, and then Julita got in the passenger seat and said my God, Alberto, open the windows, it reeks, and I said do you mind, Julita, there's no need to exaggerate, and Julita said: Luisito, it smells like you've been dead for a week, and I laughed, not much, but I was already starting to feel better. At the end of the street, under the lighted sign for Priapo's, shadows were roving, but not toward our car, and then Julita Moore rolled down her window and kissed Luscious Skin and Moctezuma or Cuauhtémoc, but not Ulises Lima, who was standing away from the car looking up at the sky, and then Luscious Skin stuck his head in the window and said how are you, Luis, and I don't think I even answered, I just made a gesture as if to say fine, I'm fine, and then Alberto started the Dodge and we headed out of Tepito with all the windows rolled down, on our way back to our own neighborhoods.
Alberto Moore, Calle Pitágoras, Colonia Narvarte, Mexico City DF, April 1976. What Luisito says is true, up to a point. My sister is an utter lunatic, yes, but she's charming, only twenty-two, a year older than me, and an extremely intelligent woman. She's about to finish medical school and she wants to specialize in pediatrics. She's no ingenue. Let's get that clear from the start.
Second: I didn't speed like lightning along the streets of Mexico City. The blue Dodge I was in that day is my mother's and when that's the case I'm usually a careful driver. The vomiting thing was completely unforgivable.
Third: Priapo's is in Tepito, which is like saying a war zone, a noman's-land, or the other side of the Iron Curtain. At the end there was almost a fight on the dance floor, but I didn't see anything because I was sitting at a table talking to Ulises Lima. There is no club in Colonia 10 de Mayo as far as I know; my sister will vouch for that.
Fourth and last: I didn't say Baudelaire. It was Luis who said Baudelaire, and Catulle Mendès, and even Victor Hugo, I think. I didn't say anything. It sounded like Rimbaud to me, but I didn't say anything. Make sure you get that straight.