City (9 page)

They photograph the
Waterlilies.

How touching. A crutch hurled at the enemy's cannons. Fifty-millimeter lenses launched in a nosedive, kamikaze retinas against flotillas of fleeing waterlilies. No flash is permitted by the pitiless dictates of the regulations: they take pictures, searching for human shots—impossible—and making adjustments with humiliating kneebends, contortions of the upper body, oscillations past the center of gravity. They are supplicants for any glimpse, trusting perhaps in the miraculous chemical aid of the darkroom. The most poignant—of all, the most poignant—announce their defeat by interposing between lens and waterlilies the mortifying bodily presence of a relative, who is generally placed—as in a symbolic gesture of surrender—with his back to the waterlilies. For years afterwards, he will greet guests and friends, from the wall above a chest of drawers, with the tired smile of a cousin shipwrecked, years ago, in a pond of
nymphéas, hélas, hélas.
Thus the wily old painter carries them off, lost in their impossible task of gazing at a non-existent gaze, overwhelmed and vanquished, simply devastated by his skill, by him, his waterlilies, colors, damn brushes, the view that he sees, never to be seen again, water, waterliliiiiiieeeeees. I would still hate him today, for that reason. Prophets are not forgiven for obscure prophecies, and for a long time I thought he was of that breed, the worst of all, evil masters, I was convinced that the view he imagined was worthless, being inaccessible to others and reserved for him—that he had been unable to make it visible. That was why he was despicable, for if you took away the optical acrobatics—that mad excursion beyond point of view, in search of the infinite—if you took away that pioneering adventure in sensibility, what remained was a sea of out-of-focus waterlilies, an overextended essay on impressionism, this noxious pimp's technique, in which the average bourgeois intelligence looooooves to recognize the irruption of the modern, electrified by the idea that here was a revolution, and moved by the idea of being able to love it, even though it's a revolution, noting that it hasn't hurt anyone—
new for you,
at last a revolution conceived expressly for young ladies of good family, free sample of the emotion of modernity in every box—ugh. You couldn't help hating him, for what he had done, and I hated him every single time I went into the two rooms of the Orangerie, in Paris, emerging defeated, every single time, for twenty years. And I would hate him still today—that vain desecrater of curved surfaces—if, on the afternoon of June 14, 1983, I hadn't happened to see someone—a woman—enter Room 2, the larger room, and, right before my eyes, see the
Waterlilies
—see the
Waterlilies
—thus revealing to me that to do so was possible, not for me, perhaps, but in principle, for someone in this world: that view existed, and there was a where that was the beginning of it, the parabola, and the end. For years, in fact, I had watched women there, suspecting instinctively that if there was a solution a woman would discover it, if for no other reason than the objective complicity between enigmas. Naturally I observed beautiful women—above all, beautiful women. This woman separated herself from her group, Oriental woman, big hat partly hiding her face, strange shoes, she left the group and headed towards a wall in Room 2—she had been in the middle of the room, at first, with her group of Oriental tourists, all women—and she separated herself from them, as if she had lost the tie that bound her to them, as if a singular force of gravity were now drawing her towards the waterlilies, the ones displayed on the eastern wall, where the curvature is greatest—she let herself drift towards the waterlilies, suddenly assuming the motion of an autumn leaf—she fell pendulumlike, swaying with opposing and harmonically contorted movements—I like to say: curves— two wooden crutches pressed under her armpits—her feet soft black clappers broken inside playing phocomelic steps—a shawl over her shoulders—invalid's shawl—the arms badly shriveled— she seemed a splendid-exhausted moth, and I watched her—as if she had arrived after a long migration, exhausted, splendid. She gained every inch with immense difficulty, yet did not seem to know the hypothesis of stopping. Every movement spiraled around the axis of her deformity, and yet she proceeded, rolling out tremors interpretable as steps, and so she advanced, a patient snail, inseparable from the illness that was her abode—a strip of spittle, behind her, marking the trajectory of that grotesque walk—the embarrassment of the others crossing over it, grinding out shame and irritation, in search of escape routes for their eyes, but it was hard to stop looking at her—you couldn't look anywhere else—there were a lot of people, there was me, and at a certain point there was only her. She got just close enough to graze the waterlilies, then she began to slide along beside them, replicating the curve of the wall, enriching it with kinetic vocalizations, the curved line crumpled into a scribble that at every jolt became wearier, as, at every instant, the distance, no less indefinite than the waterlilies, adjusted itself, because dispersed by that movement in a thousand directions, exploded in that body without a center. She went around the entire room like that, getting closer and moving away, jerked by the drunken pendulum that marked time within the tempo of her illness, while people moved aside, careful not to disturb even the most unexpected evolutions of her progress. And I, who for years had tried to look at those waterlilies, who had never succeeded in seeing anything but rather kitschy and, above all, deplorable waterlilies, let her pass by me and suddenly I understood, without even observing what she was doing with her eyes, with total clarity I understood that she was seeing—she was the gaze that those waterlilies were portraying— the gaze that had forever seen them—she was the exact angulation, the precise point of view, the impossible eye—her stumpy black shoes were it, her illness was it, her patience, the horror of her movements, the wooden crutches, the invalid's shawl, the rattle of arms and legs, the pain, the force, and that singular drooled trajectory in space—lost forever when she reached the end, stopped, and smiled.

From June 14, 1983, the life of Prof. Mondrian Kilroy inclined to melancholy, consistent with his theoretical principles that, based on an analysis of Monet's
Waterlilies,
had determined the objective superiority of the state of pain as the
conditio sine qua non
of a superior perception of the world. He was convinced that suffering was the only way to get beyond the surface of the real. It was the curved line that evaded the angular structure of the in-authentic. Moreover, Prof. Mondrian Kilroy had a happy life, without serious troubles, sheltered from the caprices of misfortune. Thus things were problematic for him, given the theoretical premises set out above, and made him feel inexorably inadequate: in the end his only cause for suffering was the pain of not having pain. The victim of a banal theoretical-sentimental short circuit, Prof. Mondrian Kilroy slid little by little into a nervous depression that at irregular intervals brought on memory loss, attacks of vertigo, and random mood swings. It happened that he surprised himself crying sometimes, without definite reasons or justifications. For a certain period he enjoyed that indulgence, but he wasn't such a slave to his own theories as not to feel, every time, a little ashamed. One day, while he was weeping—completely gratuitously—in Classroom 6, he saw the door open, and a boy came in. It was a student of his, named Gould. He was famous at the college because he had graduated at the age of eleven. He was a prodigy. For a while he had even lived there, at the college, right after that unfortunate business about his mother. She was a beautiful woman, a blonde, very nice. But she wasn't well. One day her husband had taken her to a clinic, a psychiatric clinic. He said that there was nothing else he could do. It was then that the boy had ended up at the college. No one really knew what he had understood, of the whole affair. No one ever dared to ask him. He was a well-behaved boy, no one wanted to frighten him. Every so often Prof. Mondrian Kilroy looked at him and thought he would like to do something for him. But he didn't know what.

The boy asked if he wanted a tissue, or something to drink. Prof. Mondrian Kilroy said no, he was fine. They stayed there awhile. The boy was studying. There was a nice light, which came from the windows. Prof. Mondrian Kilroy stood up, took his jacket, and started for the door. When he passed the boy, he touched his head with his hand, and murmured something like You're a good boy, Gould.

The boy said nothing.

14

“Hi.”

“Hi,” said Shatzy.

“What can I get you?”

“Two cheeseburgers and two orange juices.”

“Fries?”

“No, thanks.”

“It costs the same with fries.”

“It doesn't matter, thanks.”

“Cheeseburger, drink, and fries, that's Combination No. 3,” she said, pointing to a photograph behind her.

“Nice photo, but we don't like fries.”

“You could have a double cheeseburger without fries, Combination No. 5, which costs the same.”

“Same as what?”

“A cheeseburger and an orange juice.”

“A double cheeseburger costs the same as a single cheeseburger?”

“Yes, if you take Combination No. 5.”

“Incredible.”

“Combination No. 5?”

“No. We want single cheeseburgers. One each. No double cheeseburgers.”

“Whatever you say. But you're throwing away money.”

“That's all right, thank you.”

“Two cheeseburgers and two orange juices, then.”

“Perfect.”

“Dessert?”

“Do you want cake, Gould?”

“Yes.”

“Then add one piece of cake.”

“This week, for every dessert you order you get a second one free.”

“Splendid.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“But you
have
to take it, they're giving it away.”

“I don't like desserts, I don't want it.”

“But I
have
to give it to you.”

“Why?”

“It's the special of the week.”

“I see.”

“So I
have
to give it to you.”

“What do you mean you have to give it to me, I don't want it, I don't like it, I don't want to get big and fat like Tina Turner, I don't want to wear XXL underpants, do I have to wait until next week to get a cheeseburger?”

“You can always not eat it. Take the free dessert and just don't eat it.”

“Then what do I do with it?”

“You can throw it away.”

“THROW IT AWAY? I don't throw away anything, you throw it away. Hey, go ahead, you throw it away, OK?”

“I can't, they'd fire me.”

“Christ . . .”

“They're very strict here.”

“All right, OK, forget it, give me the cake.”

“Syrup?”

“No syrup.”

“It's free.”

“I KNOW IT'S FREE BUT I DON'T WANT IT, OK?”

“Whatever you want.”

“No syrup.”

“Cream?”

“Cream?”

“There's cream, if you want.”

“I don't even want the
cake,
how can you even imagine that I want CREAM?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I do: no cream.”

“Not even for the kid?”

“Not even for the kid.”

“OK. Two cheeseburgers, two orange juices, one cake with nothing. This is for you,” she added, holding out toward Shatzy two items wrapped in clear paper.

“What the hell is that?”

“Chewing gum. It's free, inside there's a sugar marble, and if the marble is red you win ten more pieces of gum, if it's blue you win a Combination No. 6, free. If the marble is white, you eat it and that's the end. Anyway, the rules are printed on the paper.”

“Excuse me a moment.”

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“Let's say just for fun I take this damn chewing gum, OK?”

“Yes.”

“Let's say, even more for fun, that I chew it for a quarter of an hour and then I find a blue marble inside.”

“Yes.”

“Then I bring it over to you, all covered with saliva, and put it down here, and you give me a fat, fried, hot Combination No. 6?”

“Free.”

“And in your opinion, when would I eat it?”

“Right away, I think.”

“I want a cheeseburger and an orange juice, get it? I wouldn't know what to do with three pieces of fried chicken plus a medium fries plus a buttered corn on the cob plus a medium Coke. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'D DO WITH THEM.”

“Usually they eat them.”

“Who? Who eats them? Marlon Brando, Elvis Presley, King Kong?”

“People.”

“People?”

“Yes, people.”

“Listen, would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Take back the chewing gum.”

“I can't.”

“Put it aside for the next obese person who comes by.”

“I can't, really.”

“Christ . . .”

“I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry.”

“Really.”

“Give me the chewing gum.”

“It's not bad, it's papaya flavor.”

“Papaya?”

“The exotic fruit.”

“Papaya.”

“It's this year's fashion.”

“OK, OK.”

“That's it?”

“Yes, dear, that's it.”

They paid and found a table. Hanging from the ceiling was a TV monitor tuned to the food channel. Questions appeared on the screen. If you had the right answer you wrote it in the proper space on the paper placemat and gave it to the cashier. You could win a Combination No. 2. Just then the question was: Who scored the first goal in the World Cup final in 1966?

Geoffrey Hurst.

Bobby Charlton.

Helmut Haller.

“Three,” murmured Gould.

“Don't even try it,” Shatzy hissed at him, and opened the package with the cheeseburger in it. On the inside cover appeared a flaming red patch. On it was written “CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU HAVE WON ANOTHER HAMBURGER!” And in smaller letters: “Bring this coupon to the cashier immediately, you will receive a free hamburger and a drink at half price!” There was another sentence, written on the diagonal, but Shatzy didn't read it. She calmly closed the plastic package, leaving the cheeseburger inside.

“Let's go,” she said.

“But I haven't even started,” said Gould.

“We'll start another time.”

They got up, leaving everything there, and headed for the door. A man in a clown suit, with a cap displaying the restaurant's logo, intercepted them.

“A complimentary balloon, miss.”

“Take the balloon, Gould.”

On the ball was written I EAT HAMBURGERS.

“If you tie it to the door of your house you can enter the SUN-DAYBURGER contest.”

“Tie it to the door, Gould.”

“Every Sunday there's a drawing, and one house with the balloon is chosen and a truck delivers 500 bacon cheeseburgers to the door.”

“Remember to clear the front walk, Gould.”

“There is also a 75-gallon-capacity freezer on special deal. To store the bacon cheeseburgers in.”

“Naturally.”

“If you take the 100-gallon capacity you also get a microwave.”

“Splendid.”

“If you already have one you can get a professional hair dryer with four speeds.”

“In case I should want to shampoo the bacon cheeseburgers?”

“Pardon?”

“Or shampoo myself with ketchup.”

“Excuse me?”

“They say it makes your hair shiny.”

“What, ketchup?”

“Yes, haven't you ever tried it?”

“No.”

“Try it. Also béarnaise sauce isn't bad.”

“Seriously?”

“Gets rid of dandruff.”

“I don't have dandruff, thank goodness.”

“You'll certainly get it if you go on eating béarnaise sauce.”

“But I never do.”

“Yes, but you wash your hair with it.”

“Me?”

“Of course, you can see from the dryer.”

“What dryer?”

“The one you have tied to the door.”

“But I don't have one tied to the door.”

“Think hard—you put it there when the four-speed microwave flew away.”

“Flew away from where?”

“From the freezer.”

“From the freezer?”

“Sunday, don't you remember?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Do I look like someone who's kidding?”

“No.”

“Correct. You have won 100 gallons of balloons, and they will be delivered to you in cheeseburgers. See you, bye.”

“I don't get it.”

“It doesn't matter. See you, OK?”

“The balloon.”

“Take the balloon, Gould.”

“You want red or blue?”

“The child is blind.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“That's OK. It happens.”

“Do you want to take the balloon?”

“No, he'll take it. He's blind, not stupid.”

“Shall I give him red or blue?”

“Don't you have vomit color?”

“No.”

“Odd.”

“Only red or blue.”

“Go for the red.”

“Here.”

“Take the red balloon, Gould.”

“Here, take it.”

“Say thank you, Gould.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Do we have anything else to discuss?”

“Excuse me?”

“I guess not. Goodbye.”

“Good luck on Sunday!”

“Thanks.”

They left the restaurant. The air was cold and clear, as if cleansed by winter.

“It's a shit planet,” Shatzy said softly.

Gould stood there, still, in the middle of the sidewalk, with a red balloon in his hand. On it was written I EAT HAMBURGERS.

“I'm hungry,” he said.