… I’d like to speak of this memory, but it’s so faded now, I can still just recall the eyes: blue, I think they were … that’s what the Greek poet says … he got it right … he wrote poems about the voice and lost his own … died of throat cancer … great poems … he liked men … if Tristano had met him … if their lives had coincided, if he hadn’t loved women exclusively, if that’s what he liked, a man like that, he could have loved him the way that poet wanted to be loved, because he was so fond of him … too many ifs: you can’t do life over … but I was speaking of eyes, luckily everything becomes a tune when you reach the point where all you can do is stare at the ceiling … j’ai la mémoire qui flanche, je me souviens plus très bien de quelle couleur étaient ses yeux, étaient-ils verts ou bleus?… Tristano got a letter once, maybe one day I’ll tell you more, there were words to a song in that letter, too, but it was a letter that was just a voice, like those the Greek poet heard … And maybe faraway faraway in time, maybe one day in someone else’s eyes, you might find a little something of my eyes …
In the entranceway, Tristano could already tell he was there. He’s whimpering, he said, do you hear him, Rosamunda? It was one of those real dog days of August, like they can have in Spain, and the city was deserted. Sunday, everyone gone, far away from that intense heat that settled into the stones, the asphalt, a phantom city, the museum phantom-like as well, solitary, the first paintings, like ghosts floating through a dream. Ooo, he called softly. The main hall repeated, Ooooooo, and was welcomed by the empty halls. And he remembered a white village on the coast, a wedding banquet, his mother holding his hand, the smile on the face of the parish priest and his mother saying, I hope it’s all right, Don Velio, that we’re not getting married in the church, Tristano wanted it this way — not that he has anything against priests — we’re only just getting married now because he’s been so ill, he was held prisoner in Austria and then he caught the Spanish flu, he thought he’d never come back, but he did come back a number of years after the war was over, and that’s when he learned he had a son, a little boy now, but we’re so grateful you’ve come to lunch, Signor Curate, it’s so kind of you, sir … He approached a jovial-looking prelate, but he was a painted prelate, oily, fat, and merry for centuries. Tristano whispered into Guagliona’s ear, Rosamunda, I never told you, my father’s name was Tristano and I was never baptized. But I was, Rosamunda whispered back; up in the mountains, I know you thought I was unflappable, a real female soldier, but I wasn’t, because I’m a good Christian, and I know you shouldn’t desire anyone else’s woman. I know you never desired women — you’re a good Catholic, after all, even if you are Protestant — you’ve always desired another woman’s man. They continued in the empty gallery; Tristano led the way like a tour guide with no one to guide, and headed up the stairs. Don’t bother with the other paintings, he said, they don’t concern us — not today — maybe you’ll come alone some other day and look around at all the beauty here, that will be your faded springtime, but today we’re going to visit the yellow dog — can’t you hear him crying? — I think he’s dying of thirst, let’s get him some water, who knows how many people walk by him all year long, and look at him indifferently, like you do a dog, and don’t give him even a drop of water, but today’s the day, not a soul around, I think the guard’s even asleep in his chair, if I were the director of this museum, I’d insist there always had to be a fresh bowl of water in front of that dog, but museum directors don’t care what their paintings want, are just concerned with doing their job, they don’t give a shit if this dog goes on suffering forever, like the painter wanted … The guard was sleeping, as Tristano had predicted. They went in, and the dog stared at them with the imploring eyes of a little yellow dog buried up to the neck in sand, put there to suffer so we would know for
sæcula sæculorum how creatures with no voice suffer, and that’s all of us, really, or nearly all. Guagliona looked at the dog, then she turned away, leaned against the wall, and hid her face on her arm. It’s unbearable, she said, I can’t look. It’s just at the sand baths, Tristano said, the painter’s having him take a sand bath. Please stop talking, she said. You think electroshock in the nuthouse is any better? he said, you know, it was only a little lost dog, a foundling, I’m sure, a figlio di enne enne, father unknown, wandering around the outskirts of the city, a bag over his shoulder, a mouthful of bread, sleeping in cardboard boxes, not even going to the dog barber, in other words, really down and out, and so the painter decided to do something useful for society and for his prince, he came by with the snare of his palette, caught the dog, and buried him up to the neck in sand: now you’ll learn, stray dog, no more biting anyone, the streets are calm, the citizens can sleep in peace and the monarch is happy. He was cruel, Rosamunda said, a cruel painter. No, Tristano corrected her, he was kind, he was only cruel to himself, he was a loose dog. The gallery felt oppressive, smelled of mold and people’s breathing from the day before. I wish there was air conditioning, she said. Oh, come on, Rosamunda, Tristano said, we’re talking about Spain now: the Caudillo doesn’t give a shit about modernity — or about you Americans — he’s thinking about defending the West from communism, and sooner or later, just wait, someone will say this, and you think he gives a shit about air conditioning? — he’d settle for the cool of the vestry. They sat down on the floor. Tristano looked the dog in the eye, Guagliona glanced at him now and then, Tristano wasn’t sure what to say, and he asked himself why he’d brought her to see that painting … You know, writer, if Tristano had the gift of prophecy, he’d have told her that one day they’d see that dog again, he’d have said, Rosamunda, one day you’ll recognize that dog, and also, it’s not male, it’s female, it’s hard to tell the sex of a dog buried in the sand, but I know it’s female … Tristano didn’t have the gift of prophecy, though, and that’s why I’m telling you what I should have sensed, because certain signals need to be understood at the right time, and not when you’re dying … You feel okay? Rosamunda asked. Like I’m dying, he answered, like I’m dying. Well, you don’t seem like it, she whispered, your color’s good and after lunch you were brave enough to do it three times in a row, after devouring a whole platter of Madrid tripe. Tristano ordered her to stay put, stay where you are, Guagliona, my girl, he went over to the yellow dog, he dropped to his knees, arms sagging, like a puppet with its strings cut, one day in a restaurant outside of time and space, they served me love like cold tripe, and I told the missionary cook, thank you, but I would have preferred my tripe warm, tripe wasn’t a dish best served cold, I didn’t eat it, I didn’t want a different dish, I paid the bill and left. What are you talking about? Rosamunda said. It’s something Frau reads to me, he answered, but it’s not worth getting stuck on the details, it was a Pindaric flight, not important, I was talking about something to come, not last night. Then he straightened up and stood at attention in front of the dog. Commander Clark, he said, I’ve brought you the water you needed. He had a calabaza hanging from his belt, one of those empty gourds Castilian shepherds carried for fresh water, and he set it down in front of the painting, stepped back, and saluted. Let’s go, Guagliona, he said, it’s getting late, and the guard will want to close this cemetery.