Yo-Yo Boing!

— You know, I’m really angry. Now, tell me, did she or didn’t she dare to say that the Castrato was on a higher level than me.

— Is that what you heard?

— She said it, didn’t she?

— Maybe she meant in voice. You do have a deep voice.

— I heard what she said, but she didn’t hear that I said I loved the Castrato. His aahaaaa it’s like, it’s as if he’s drowning or swallowing his tongue.

— Sounds to me like he’s taking it up the ass.

— Yes, yes that’s it. That’s it. I adored his voice. It’s a swollen bird. A bird dying and crying frail, not Niagara Falls, no, no, no. Then, out of the blue, she says:

— You have Picasso’s eyes, intense.

I figure, so I don’t have the Castrato’s soul, but I do have Picasso’s eyes. Not bad. Not bad. And then she says:

— You’re very powerful. That’s probably why Makiko compared your expression to Hannibal the Cannibal in Silence of the Lambs.

Don’t you see a contradiction in all her arguments? I can’t hate her. She loves me. I always thought I was like Picasso. Cow eyes. Mooooo. No wonder, the cows loved me. I swear, they were trying to tell me — looking deep into my eyes:

— what a beautiful voice you have.

— what are you doing here?

— how come you understand us so well?

Their big black eyes gazed into mine as I sang:

— with the sound of music

I extended the sound, until the vowels vibrated inside their eardrums, inside their bellies. They were melting, swaying, dripping, almost milking while swinging their tails in harmony

— with the sound of music

with songs they have sung

for a thousand years

It was magical. The word years started their tails again. They crowded closer, penetrating my eyes, and letting me know that they listened, understood, and most of all, respected with silence and devotion.

— I know I will hear what I’ve heard before.

I was invoking the spirits to come and get me. I knew I would hear — music, poetry — like I heard before, with the same love mounting over a fountain of passion — water, water — I was thirsty, and the mountains so full of yerbas, árboles, pelos, pelos puntiagudos y escarbando sus rodillas, los montes profundos — que muchas piedras y raíces y margaritas y aguas y rizos, rizos de ramas, tallos, ramitas bien débiles, tan débiles, is that the word, endebles, y algunas tan fuertes — y yo pisando el lodo, enfangando mis tennis y mirando las nubes bajar y bajar hasta encontrarse perdidas, no, suspendidas, algodones, la ramita moviéndose, y el pájaro sembrado en ella cantando, y las vacas mugiendo, y ahora una de ellas en conjunto con toda la armonía del universo dice sí, sí, sí, sí, sí. Baja y sube la cabeza, afirmando que sí, porque sí, señor, me gusta cómo canta.

— Yes, we’ll hear it again. Don’t you agree?

— I doooo.

— Lo afirmamos.

Y entonces, reclinándose, como si la música no fuera con ellas, se pusieron a comer yerba.

— Tú ves, ni caso que te hacían.

— I thought you believed me.

— Yeah, but they immediately forgot you and went for the grass.

— I made my impression. They paid attention until the sound of music wet their appetite. What better than that. When I left, they were happy, content, to eat their grass as if nothing had happened, and I continued singing on my road, and they continued on theirs. I did it my way, and they did it theirs.

— I have the most beautiful dream on the tip of my tongue. Woody Allen appeared in flesh and blood in the middle of a crowd. Everyone was dressed in black tights and we formed a midnight train.

— Was I there?

— You were the second car and I was the third. The train was circling slowly behind Woody. I was getting impatient. This won’t get us anywhere. I squeezed your waist and shoved you ahead, so instead of chug-chugging in circles, we bolted straight through the crowd, and all of a sudden, it was only Woody, you and me. We were schmoozing. Actually, he was doing all the talking.

— I couldn’t do what I wanted in Husbands and Wives. The director repressed me.

— Lame excuse. He was the director.

— What he meant is that he didn’t think it’s his best work. I agreed.

— I have writer’s block and you’re making it worse. You’re dreaming my fears. You know this isn’t my best work.

— It wasn’t you, it was Woody, and he was relating to me, in confidence, about his work.

— Cut! — Woody said.

— Just like the one Paco Pepe had with Fellini.

— You always want to one up me.