With the exception of Ejo Takata, I had always lived among human beings who were incapable of being themselves, who always wanted to have what others had, who creating facades, copied values, schemed to obtain diplomas, danced for pay in a barbarous carnival. I’m not saying I felt superior to them, but I certainly felt like a foreigner — not in some other country, but in strangeness, the unreal zone of the unadapted: “to be in the world, but not of it.” This was of no help to me, for my soul, like an exhausted bird flying over the scene of a disastrous deluge, could find no place to land. If I learned to die as an intellectual, no place in the illusion could harbor me. Reality — that which is without beginning or end — seemed impalpable, indifferent, with no relation to my life, a life that was 99 percent antisocial. At that moment, sitting upon those absurd burlap sacks, I understood that the Tigress, queen of the world of imitation, could, through her poisonous machinations, become the guide who would give me the necessary maturity to build a temple in the dimension of mirages.
When I entered her dressing room, she was wearing only panties of minuscule size and was occupied with the task of putting black dye on the long hairs on her legs. “I want them to see that I’m not another Indian but the descendant of Spaniards!”
I sensed that in her feline mind I was conquered prey. Now I was so much hers that she didn’t bother to hide her tricks from me. It was not a female seductress that I saw before me, but a cold strategist.
“We’re going to bring down the house and give them the scoop of the year! You are an avant-garde director whose audience never amounts to more than a thousand people, but the critics praise you because they believe that everything European is worthy of admiration. For me, they have only derision. What I do seems contemptible to them. Yet my audience is never less than five hundred. I think we must unite our forces. Using all your talent, you shall direct me in a theater piece which will please the people. We’ll create a brilliant and lavish production of Lucretia Borgia. You’ll have a percentage of the profits. You’ve never made a peso with your obscure, incomprehensible films. With me, you’ll be rich. Is it a deal?”
The prospect of directing her fascinated me. “It’s a deal!”
“I knew you’d like the idea — but we must proceed carefully. We don’t want to rush our car down a slope that drops us off a cliff. If we offer this me-and-you cocktail too suddenly, it would be undrinkable, both for the pop audience and for the intellectuals. We must file and smooth the rough patches, creating a huge sense of expectation. I don’t mean an artistic one — that wouldn’t bring any audience at all; I mean a sexy one. Fame is nothing; notoriety is everything. Only scandal brings success. I’m going to propose something outrageous now. I’m telling you in advance not to worry, your life will be in no danger, because the caliph will know it’s all fake and will agree to the plan. What we shall do is announce that we have fallen in love and are going to get married!”
“Er, I regret to say that although the idea seems excellent, we can’t just do it like that. You see, I’m already married.”
“Who do you think you’re dealing with? I have my sources. Your wife, Valerie, wants success as an actress. You are her sun; she orbits around you. If you promise her a good role, with her name in huge letters on the marquee, she’ll do anything you ask of her.”
“Anything but divorce. And I don’t want that either.”
“Nor do I! Don’t you get it? The whole thing from A to Z will be fake. When we announce that the great avant-garde theater director is divorcing his wife for the vulgar Tigress, the newspapers will eat it up. During the rehearsals, your wife will fake a suicide attempt. You and I, in our extravagant compassion, will help her out of her depression by offering her the role of a witch, the enemy of Lucretia. And we can count on people’s morbid curiosity to fill the theater; they’ll want to see our tormented triangle acted out on stage. We’ll rake in the profits as you’ve never imagined!”
“When should we announce it?”
“Next week, in a big hotel on Reforma Avenue, all the journalists will be celebrating Press Day. Because the hotel offers free dinner and drinks in exchange for the publicity, all the scroungers are bound to be there — reporters, editors, photographers, critics, TV and movie stars, athletes — in short, the cream of the shit of the Mexican media. Right in the middle of the festivities, we’ll drop the bomb!”
Valerie and I went over the Tigress’s plan point by point. The first obstacle we had to overcome were the doormen, five guerillas who absolutely demanded a photo ID of every guest. The Tigress had obtained one for herself and one for me, because we were known artists. Valerie, however, was still unknown, and had no access to Parnassus. We decided to hide her in the trunk of the limousine. The plan was for her to lie there for an hour until the time was right. This was made even more difficult by the Tigress’s insistence that Valerie wear a plaster cast on her leg to appear with a limp.
Inside, obscure reporters wandered around with a bored air. For once, they instead of “stars” were the ones being honored. Nevertheless, there was a constant clicking of hidden cameras, like a chorus of crickets. The stars were there, walking around with a false ease, aware constantly of being reduced to images.
When the Tigress and I entered together, hand in hand, they all froze for a minute then got on with their farce, trying to hide their curious glances at us behind a ridiculous air of indifference. No one seemed to notice us, but we knew we were center stage in their minds. I was dressed in a very sober black suit, but my companion wore a brazenly transparent chemise; leather spike heels eight inches long, her naked legs sporting her hairs, dyed bright silver for this occasion; and a skirt covered with green, white, and red sequins — the color of the Mexican flag. The skirt was so short that every swishing step she made revealed her crotch. In order to hide the intimacy of her real vagina, she wore a specially made shell covered with what seemed to be pubic hair. Glued to her vulva, it suggested that any possibility of penetration was forbidden. This detail inspired a cynical explosion of flashbulbs.
We took our seats in the most distant corner. This was Press Day and the tacit agreement was that no journalist was supposed to try to interview us. Nevertheless, they walked back and forth in front of us like hungry dogs. An hour passed. Only the bones of the banquet were left on the table. Cheap rum had replaced the good drinks. The guests were now beginning to weave and stagger as if on an ocean liner in heavy weather. The sound of voices, which had been clear before, thickened into a gelatinous rumble. This was the moment the Tigress had chosen for Valerie’s entrance.
She duly appeared with her leg in the cast, holding two crutches. Her dress was ordinary and full of stains, her hair was greasy, her face was without makeup, and her eyes were full of artificial tears. She seemed plunged into deepest sadness. Like a wounded crow, she made her way across the room, directly toward us. In an instant, the alcoholic fog lifted. As Valerie arrived at our table, she let a crutch fall. In the deadly silence, it bounced loudly on the floor. Then she took me by the hand and began moving her lips. Her voice was so low no one could hear what she said (in reality, she was reciting multiplication tables), but everyone believed she was imploring me. I moved my lips in reply, gesturing with my hand toward the Tigress. Of course they interpreted this as my telling her that I loved the other woman. Valerie collapsed onto a chair. I gathered her crutches, helped her up, and accompanied her to the door, and she exited the scene. Then I came back to my chair next to the Tigress and pretended to break into tears. Still showing her crotch, she took my arm and left with me, practically dragging me along. Hardly had the door closed when we heard a deafening uproar of voices break out behind it.