At long last, he leaves.
And only then can José perch on the edge of the bed and tell Carlos why he has come. The novel, of course. Now that the strike is finally over, a wide array of possibilities will open before them, and they cannot pass them up. So they must answer the letters, which have just arrived — did he not say that already? Six of them, no less, six envelopes that languished a month in the hold of one of the ships. It takes Carlos a few moments to realize that José has already read the letters, that for the first time he has not waited for him — that he hasn’t even brought them with him. He hasn’t brought them, and Carlos has to say that it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter, that he forgives him for that too.
“Since you were sick…”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll bring them to you.” José pats the sheets and, below them, Carlos’s knees. “I forgot them, but don’t worry, I’ll bring them. You’ll see!”
But that’s not even the best part. Even better is the fantastic idea he had the other day and couldn’t wait to tell him about. He was thinking about the novel and suddenly remembered Schneider’s seven hundred writing tips, specifically one of the few that hadn’t been expunged from his memory by the fire. The one that talked about the middle pages of every novel and how something extraordinary had to take place in them.
“I remember,” says Carlos, propping the pillow up behind him so he can sit up.
“Well, it occurred to me that that’s exactly what’s needed to pique the Maestro’s interest: a little action. The novel has been rather dull so far, don’t you agree?”
“Dull?”
“I mean, nothing much has happened. Of course that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Schneider said that at the beginning of the second act the story always drags a bit — gets a little slow, let’s say. The same thing has happened with us: weeks with those letters rotting in the port. But now…”
“Now what?”
“Now the action begins! The strike, to be precise. We had it right there in front of our noses, and we didn’t see it. Don’t you realize? You yourself said it the other day: you were saying that Georgina would sympathize with the workers. Maybe she’d even go down to scope out the port, don’t you think? And that’s when the action takes off. Police repression! Stampede! Georgina in peril! She could even get injured — why not?”
“And what the hell does that get us?”
“What do you mean, what does that get us? For starters, a rip-roaring chapter. And then, imagine the Maestro’s reaction… his transatlantic friend at death’s door! That would awaken anyone’s emotions, you must admit. Poets’ muses are always on the verge of croaking. That’s probably why they’re muses. And maybe that’s what Juan Ramón needs to make up his mind…”
Carlos asks for a cigarette. His mother has forbidden him to smoke during his convalescence, but to hell with that. He needs a cigarette. And he also needs a moment to reflect — the time that it takes José to stand up, fetch his coat, take a cigarette out of his case, light it.
“It’s just a suggestion, of course,” José continues before Carlos has exhaled the smoke from his first drag. “I know Georgina is your thing. But I thought it might make a splendid chapter. Georgina would also talk about the workers and how worried she is about their situation. It fits her personality, don’t you think? The concern for people in need. You could put in those things you were telling me in the port. All that stuff about twenty soles a day…”
“Two soles.”
“Whatever. What do you think? Don’t tell me there’s not any material there.”
Carlos feels his blood beating against the stitches of his wound and tastes the acrid smoke in his mouth.
“Yes… I guess it’s not a bad idea,” he murmurs.
Gálvez scratches his ear.
“It was actually Ventura’s idea, you know? He and I… well, let’s say he’s going to give us a hand with the novel. As long as you have no objections, of course.”
“Ventura?”
“You don’t remember him? You must know him. Ventura Tagle-Bracho… the fellow with the pipe.”
Ventura — of course. Carlos remembers having seen him at the club a few times, with his pipe and his somewhat rough manners. He especially remembers the way Tagle-Bracho always looked down at him from the disdainful heights of his last name, whose hyphenated sonority could intimidate even the Gálvezes. He doesn’t like Ventura. But fortunately he remembers his mirror mimicry exercises in time and almost effortlessly pulls off what looks like perfect assent. Only his hand betrays him: an involuntary movement, brusque and contemptuous, that drops cigarette ash on the bed.
“I knew you’d agree! That chap has marvelous ideas, you’ll see.”
“I didn’t know he enjoyed literature,” Carlos says slowly, careful not to erase the expression from his face.
“He’s not exactly an expert on the topic, that’s for sure. Indeed, I don’t think he’s all that interested. But you should hear the ideas he has… Incredible ideas, Carlota! You’re going to love them!”
José laughs, even pats him on the knee again. Carlos thinks of the mirror and, with a bit of effort, laughs too. His laugh is discreet, expectant, as if it were full of hollow spaces, as if it were prepared to cease at any moment so José can finally describe the sort of ideas he’s referring to. But he doesn’t.
~ ~ ~
◊
Madrid, February 17, 1905
My dear friend:
How dreadful your letter, and how I trembled as I read it! The paper still clutched in my hand, I saw you in my mind’s eye as if in a dream, dragged along in that awful tumult you rendered so eloquently. The lack of bread creates savage beasts. And equally savage and heedless was your decision to so expose yourself to danger! Tell me, would imperiling yourself make these letters arrive more quickly or make that terrible strike finish more rapidly? For a moment, before our very eyes, you became a full-blown anarchist. A modern-day Bakunin, with a lump and a bruise as your trophy. A fine bother you’ve given us! For once — though it will not serve as precedent — I must acknowledge that your father is not entirely wrong. Do not give me that look; I agree with him. You are a little girl who must be looked after and chided. Yes, chided! Does that provoke your indignation? But a falling-out and a friendship lost are inevitable when a person insists on risking her life for such a trifling thing as a handful of my letters. Instead, let’s make up and you tell me whether you are still in any pain from that injury you suffered, the thought of which causes me keen anguish! Are you sure you haven’t minimized the seriousness of the incident to protect the nerves of your friend, who is so concerned about your health and life?
Now that my heart has stopped racing, I reread your letter, which despite its horror is also quite beautiful. I pause several times, entranced, on these captivating lines: “From the breakwater they seemed to form a single body, as if they were a monstrous living thing spilling down the docks and wharves, its skin scaly with hats and faces.” Or this one, no less beautifuclass="underline" “Above the agitated faces, the bodies of the first horsemen came into view. There aloft, they might have been at the bow of a ship that cut through the swell of workers, who shouted and scattered in all directions.” Ah! Do you realize that you, too, are a poet? Even if you do not write slim volumes of verse, there are many other ways to make poetry; one is a poet in the way one looks at things, and you — and I say this with all sincerity — truly have that quality. These letters are poetry! And I, who hope to continue to receive them for a long time to come, must beg of you to promise that you will never embark upon such madness again. Do so for your father, who loves you so much, or even — if you will forgive my boldness — do so for this humble servant who, here on the other side of the Atlantic, anxiously awaits swift news of your recovery and new examples of your poetry…