… Do me a favor, call Frau for me, I need my injection, if she says she already gave me one, then you do it … you should do something besides just taking down my dictation, do something concrete to earn this story, so you’ll be telling it, so you’ll become the author … but do me a favor now, call Frau for me, I need my injection, I’m afraid I’ll start complaining, and heroes can’t complain, they just turn to the gods, or drop dead without a word, just strike them in the heel, me, I don’t have any gods, and my heel’s up to my balls, I’m slowly being devoured, you’ve seen it … Hurry up, call Frau for me, and then I’ll tell you something in the style of old Ernest, that old bastard Ernest, who saw so much in life before pointing a double-barrel shotgun at his heart, I’m sure you’ll like my story, it makes sense, writer, because you like literature, call Frau for me …
You’re like Pinocchio with a belly ache, Tristano said and imitated her: hii-ick. Marilyn hiccupped twice, you’re awful, she said, it’s true, I had my own paradoxical affair: my heart was so full of this frustrated love for you, there was very little room for a man in my life, and that paradoxical situation was, paradoxically, the only one that worked for me, Clark. Don’t call me that, Tristano answered, I already told you, I’m not Clark anymore, I’m Tristano now, and I don’t understand the comparison you’re making, Guagliona, but the fact is, Cary fucked you again and again and I can’t, and maybe that’s what love is to you, Guagliona, you’ve traded the clapper for the bell, and now what is it you want from me — a child? — it’s getting late, you’re longing to desire something, but time in life isn’t in step with the time of desire, a hundred years can go by in a single day, so look for someone else, the time for Tristano has up and gone.
… I think I promised you an episode in the style of old Ernest, I’m not sure if you like his writing, but I should tell you about Pancuervo first. You’ll want to know what that is. It’s a remote place in Spain where the rain stays mainly in the plain. And no one goes there. But Tristano’s life crossed paths with Pancuervo …
… who knows when it’ll go by, the girl said, here in Spain they drop the crossing bar as if the train’s arriving in five minutes, though it might not get there till tomorrow, that’s how this country works. There should be a train for Pancuervo, the man said, but maybe there aren’t more trains for Pancuervo, kaput, and maybe Pancuervo doesn’t exist, it’s a place you invented … The sun was ruthless, but inside the small café, the air was still tolerable. The curtain of beer bottle corks rippled in the warm breeze and produced a sound like Asian music. They ordered something to drink, the owner was a small, pot-bellied man with a mustache like a sad eyebrow. Strange, he said, that man has a barber’s mustache but owns a café, his mustache is all wrong. Why? the girl asked, he needs a specific kind of mustache? He sipped his beer, sure, he said, take a look at people’s features here, it’s a lesson in anthropology; in my diary, I’ve drawn a series of mustaches in various categories; there’s a whole world of mustaches in this country, take the Civil Guard: they’ve got this kind. He drew a mark on his napkin. Lawyers have this kind instead. Another mark. Judges have this kind, almost like lawyers, but not quite. University professors have this kind if they support the regime and this kind if they don’t. Landowners have this kind, and this is the mustache of the great Spanish landowner who backs the Generalissimo. Whose own mustache is like so, practically like the others, but only the Generalissimo wears this kind, so you recognize it right off … if you really think about the story of our century, it’s a story of mustaches, the German’s little clipped mustache, the Russian’s big peasant mustache … Il Duce was hairless altogether, like we Italians are, we’re only hairy in our souls, like me, but you have no idea, my girl, you think you’re hairier than I am, and you’re a hill without a blade of grass. I’d like you to grow a mustache, the girl said, at your age, it would suit you. The man smiled. So I’d look more like Clark Gable, he said, sorry, but I’m not a movie star, and I’m not your partisan comrade anymore, and stop calling me Clark — got it? He signaled the café owner who was nodding off behind the bar.
Dos más, he said, pointing to a bottle of beer. Anyway, I had a hunch I’d see you again, the girl said, that I’d see you one summer night, like I predicted in my letter. What letter? he asked, I never got any letter. The girl had a vague, lost air about her, as though she were watching the flies buzzing around. My letter didn’t include that June night, when you brought me to the pensione, she said, we didn’t really come together at the pensione. But I did fuck you all night, the man said, so plenty of coming together. You’re so crass, she said. And lucky for us, you’re very refined, the man said, and your point? That tonight, we’ve really come together, the girl said, but men will never understand, you men don’t understand these things. We don’t get metaphysics, the man said. And he started laughing quietly, trying not to. Clark, please, she said. Don’t call me Clark, he said, I’m not Clark anymore, I told you already, I’m Tristano, that’s what I want, my name’s Tristano now. Tristano’s so fake, the girl answered, so artificial, I don’t like it, it’s someone else’s name, maybe your brother, you always told me you had a brother and you never told me his name, maybe it’s your brother. The man smiled and started squiggling on his wet beer glass with his finger. Now you get it, he said, I’m my brother. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled away: he wanted to draw on his glass. Tristano, she said, yesterday you told me there are all different ways and levels of falling in love, and we’d feel less guilty if each of us took half the blame. He swore. Stop being so crass, she said, it doesn’t suit you; you know, Cary never tried to hold on to me, he loved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me, he grew so terribly sad, but you see everyone as plotting against you, and you take your revenge in your own way, and always up the ante. The man dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He read to her: because Cary never tried to hold on to me or see me again, he loved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me … he grew so terribly sad, and I was the cause of that pain, understand? He looked at her. Excuse me, my dear, he said, but you’re repeating yourself, they’re the same exact words from this letter, we’re in Spain, the crossing bar is down, the train might never come and the schedule’s off, and you, off-schedule, are repeating some loudspeaker warning about a canceled train — why? Because Cary was unhappy, she said, and I was really in love, that’s why: for me, it was like finding a home at last, and one night he phoned me, he said, please come, I need you, for me, it was like finding a home, I’m a poor drifter, American, an East-coast girl from a lower middle-class family, with a notary for a father and an idiot for a mother, you wouldn’t understand, Clark. Don’t call me Clark, the man said, and cut the bullshit — your father’s Sicilian and emigrated to Brooklyn, and the Americans took him with them when they landed in Sicily because he could provide contacts with the right godfathers — you know what I’m talking about — they sent you both on missions, you each had your specific duties, and as for Cary, well, I don’t know, he’s a sinister character, but that’s your business, it’s your life. He was the one freedom I allowed myself, the girl said, and you only live once. The owner came to clean the table and flicked the flies away with his rag. The train left, he said, it arrived and left again, perhaps you two didn’t realize, it was the train for Pancuervo. Freedom’s a supple word, the man said, you know, Guagliona, I keep asking myself if it’s the same word when I use it, maybe so, but a word in one person’s mouth is different in the mouth of another. The girl checked her watch. Clark, she said, what freedoms are you defending? The man looked out the window. The landscape was bleak, the hills were like white elephants. Let’s do an already-been-there, he said, you’re not the one who has to have an abortion, not to mention, my seed’s never taken hold — and it’s late besides — I’m the one who has to have an abortion, you know, I’m starting to think I was confused over the freedom I defended, and I’ve come with you to understand it better, why you’re trying to pull me into this ugly business, you’re all pretty simple, but that doesn’t make you any less dangerous, you’re all so simple you think if someone didn’t support communism, then Francisco Franco’s fine, and I really want to understand what your Marshall Plan consists of, if this is what it’s about. It does benefit me, personally, Marilyn said, I found a do-gooder, his seed’s taken hold, and I have no intention of getting an abortion — sorry to change the ending to your little story alla Hemingway. More bullshit, I’m sure, Tristano said, you’ve gone round the bend. He slapped some coins on the table. Maybe I’ll go home, he said, I’m not enjoying this little charade. She took his hand. You never get it, she said, it’s like you close your eyes at all the important parts — it’s true — it’s bullshit — but I need you, I need you to protect me, please, Tristano, I need you to protect me.