Amalfitano’s response was feeble, to put it mildly. He talked about his daughter, about the vast skies of Sonora, about philosophers Padilla had never heard of, and about Professor Isabel Aguilar, who lived alone in a small apartment in the center of the city and who had been so good to them.
Padilla’s next letter, four pages typewritten on both sides, struck Amalfitano as melancholy in the extreme. He talked about his father and his father’s health, about the way he, as a boy, had noticed the fluctuations in his father’s health, about his clinical eye for his father’s aches and pains, spells of flu, attacks of weariness, bronchial infections, fits of depression. Then, of course, he didn’t do anything to help, didn’t even care that much. If my father had died when I was twelve I wouldn’t have shed a single tear. He talked about his house, about his father’s comings and goings, about his father’s ear (like a broken-down satellite dish) when it was he who was coming and going, about the dining room table, sturdy, made of solid wood, but soulless, as if its spirit had fled long ago, about the three chairs, one always unoccupied, off to one side, or perhaps stacked with books or clothing, about the sealed packages that his father opened in the kitchen, never the dining room, about the dirty lamp that hung too high, about the corners of the apartment or the ceiling that sometimes, on euphoric or drug-fueled nights, looked like eyes, but closed or dead eyes, as he always realized a second later despite the euphoria or the drugs, and as he realized now despite how much he would have liked to be wrong, eyes that didn’t open, eyes that didn’t blink, eyes that didn’t see. He also talked about the streets of his neighborhood, the little shops where he went to buy things when he was eight, the newsstands, the street that used to be called Avenida José Antonio, a street that was like the river of life and that he now remembered fondly, even the name José Antonio, which was so reviled but which in memory retained a trace of beauty and sadness, like the name of a bullfighter or a composer of boleros who dies young. A homosexual youth killed by the forces of Nature and Progress.
He also talked about his current situation. He had become friends with Adrià, Raguenau’s nephew, though no sex figured into the friendship: it was a kind of monastic love, he said, they held hands and talked about any old thing, sports or politics (Adrià’s boyfriend was an athlete and an active member of the Gay Coordinating Committee of Catalonia), art or literature. Sometimes, when Adrià begged him to, he read bits from The God of Homosexuals, and sometimes they wept together on the balcony, in each other’s arms, watching the sun set over Plaza Molina.
Raguenau, meanwhile, he had slept with. He gave a step-by-step account of the proceedings. Raguenau’s bedroom, awash in Caribbean blue and ebony, African masks and porcelain dolls (what a combination! thought Amalfitano). The timid nakedness of Raguenau, a touch ashamed, his belly too big, his legs too skinny, his chest hairless and flabby. His own nakedness reflected in a mirror, still acceptable, less muscle mass, maybe, but acceptable, more Greco than Caravaggio. The shyness of Raguenau curled up in his arms, the room dark. Raguenau’s voice saying that this was enough, he didn’t need to do anything else, this was wonderful, perfect, feeling himself being held and then falling asleep. Raguenau’s smile, sensed in the darkness. The phosphorescent red condoms. Raguenau’s trembling upon being penetrated with no need for Vaseline, ointment, saliva, or any other kind of lubricant. Raguenau’s legs: now tensed, now seeking his legs, toes seeking his toes. His penis in Raguenau’s ass and Raguenau’s half-erect penis caught in his left hand and Raguenau moaning, begging him to let go of his cock or at least not to squeeze too hard. His laugh of joy, unexpected, pure, like a flare in the dark room, and Raguenau’s lips issuing a faint protest. The speed of his hips, their thrust unimpaired, his hands caressing Raguenau’s body and at the same time dangling him over the abyss. The baker’s fear. His hands grabbing Raguenau’s body and rescuing it from the abyss. Raguenau’s moans, his panting growing louder and louder, like a man being hacked to pieces. Raguenau’s voice, barely a thread, saying slower, slower. His crippled soul. But don’t misinterpret me, said Padilla. That was what he said: don’t misinterpret me, the way you’ve always done, don’t misinterpret me. Raguenau’s innocent sleep and his own insomnia. His steps echoing through the whole house, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the living room. Rageunau’s books. The Aldo Ferri armchair and the vaguely Brancusi lamp. The dawn that finds him naked and reading.
15
The clinic in Tijuana where Amalfitano took the AIDS test had a window that looked out onto a vacant lot. There, amid the rubble and the trash, under a blazing sun, was a stocky little man with a giant mustache who seemed to be the enterprising type and who was carefully assembling a kind of tent from a collection of sheets of cardboard. He looked like the red-bearded pirate from the Donald Duck cartoons, except that his skin and hair were very dark.
After Padilla let him know that he had the antibodies, Amalfitano decided to be tested, but in Tijuana rather than Santa Teresa, so there would be no chance of running into some university acquaintance. He told Isabel Aguilar and she decided to drive him there. They set out very early and made their way across a plain where everything was a deep yellow color, even the clouds and the stunted bushes scattered along the highway.
“At this time of day it’s all like that,” said Isabel, “the color of chicken broth. Then the earth shakes itself awake and the yellow vanishes.”
They had breakfast in Cananea and then they continued on to Santa Ana, Caborca, Sonoyta, and San Luis, where they exited the state of Sonora and entered Baja California North. Along the way Isabel told him about a Texan who had once been in love with her. He was a kind of art dealer, introduced to her by an art professor. This happened after she had ended her relationship with the mechanic. The dealer looked like a boor in his cowboy boots, string tie, and Stetson, but he knew a fair bit about contemporary American art. The only problem was that she had taken a dislike to him, spooked as she was by her previous relationships.
“Once,” said Isabel, “he came to my house and invited me to a Larry Rivers show in San Antonio. I just stood there looking at him and I thought: this guy wants to sleep with me and he can’t figure out how to say so. I don’t know why I said yes. I had no intention of sleeping with him, or at least I didn’t plan to make it easy for him, and the idea of a car trip to San Antonio wasn’t tempting, either, but suddenly something made me want to go, I felt like seeing the Larry Rivers and even the hours on the road seemed appealing, the meals along the way, the motel where we planned to stay in San Antonio, the excruciatingly monotonous scenery, the weariness of travel. So I packed some clothes, a volume of Nietzsche, and my toothbrush and off we went. Before we crossed the border I realized that the Texan had no interest in getting me into bed. What he wanted was someone to talk to (strangely enough, he had taken a liking to me). Basically, I realized that he was a pretty lonely guy and sometimes that got to him. The trip was very nice, not much to report, luckily things were clear from the start. When we got to San Antonio we checked into a motel on the edge of town, into separate rooms, ate fairly well at a Chinese restaurant, and then we went to the show. Well, it turns out that this was the opening and the press was there, a couple of TV cameras, lights, drinks, local celebrities, and-in a corner, surrounded by people-Larry Rivers himself. I didn’t recognize him, but the Texan said: that’s Larry over there, let’s go say hi. So we went up to him and shook hands. It’s an honor, Mr. Rivers, said the Texan, I do believe you’re a genius. And then he introduced me: Miss Isabel Aguilar, professor of philosophy at the University of Santa Teresa. Larry Rivers looked him up and down, from the Stetson to the boots, and at first he didn’t say anything but then he asked where Santa Teresa was, Texas or California? and I shook his hand, not saying a word, a little bit shy, and I said Mexico, the state of Sonora. Larry Rivers looked at me and said wonderful, Sonora, wonderful. And that was it, we said goodbye very politely and we moved on to the other end of the gallery, the Texan wanted to talk about the paintings, I was thirsty but I wanted to talk about the paintings, too, we spent a while drinking wine and eating caviar and smoked salmon canapés, and drinking wine, the two of us growing more enthusiastic about the show by the minute, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, I found myself alone, sitting at a table full of empty glasses and sweating like a mare after a wild gallop. I don’t have heart trouble, but suddenly I was afraid I’d have a heart attack, a stroke, whatever. I made my way to the restroom as best I could, and spent a while splashing off my face. It was a strange experience, the cold water never came into contact with my skin, the layer of sweat was so thick-even solid, you might say-that it blocked it. My chest burned as if someone had stuck a red-hot bar between my breasts. For a moment I was sure that someone had put some drug in my drink, but what drug? I don’t know. I can’t remember how much time I spent in the restroom. When I came out there were hardly any people in the gallery. A very beautiful woman, a Scandinavian blonde, maybe thirty-eight, was standing next to Larry Rivers and talking nonstop. I was amazed that Larry Rivers and a few of his friends were still there. The Scandinavian woman dominated the conversation, talking and gesticulating, but the strangest thing of all was that she seemed to be reciting something, a long poem that she illustrated with her hands, hands that were surely soft and elegant. Larry Rivers watched her carefully, his eyes half-closed, as if he were seeing the blond woman’s story, a story about tiny people in constant motion. Jesus, I thought, that’s nice. I would have loved to join them, but my shyness-or sense of propriety, I guess-prevented me. The Texan was nowhere to be found. Before I left, the Larry Rivers group smiled at me. On my way out, I bought the catalogue and took a taxi back to the motel. I went to the Texan’s room, but he wasn’t there. The next day, at the reception desk, I was told that he had left the previous night, and that before he left he had paid for everything, including my room and my breakfast that morning at the motel restaurant. I thought about eating all there was to eat, even eggs and ham, which I hate, but all I could get down was the coffee. What had caused the Texan to leave so rudely? I never found out. Luckily I had my credit cards with me. At two that afternoon I got on a plane to Hermosillo and from there I took a taxi to Santa Teresa.