Yo-Yo Boing!

— You think so. I was very happy in London where I lived ten years as a literary agent. I have an apartment there which I am subletting. Plus I am not a citizen. Marty is writing letters for me so I can get a green card. I cannot ask him for more favors.

— I see you here.

— You think so. There is no business here. Ask Suzana, the movie industry is in California. That’s where I met Marty. I said, I’ll tell you a sad story and a happy story. If you think the sad story is sad, and the happy story is happy, then we can work together. And we did, swimmingly, for three years. Maybe all this is happening so I can get to know my parents before they die.

— You’ll make it. You need to fill your tanks in Canada and come back here and start scouting raw material.

— You think so. I’m tired of working for other people. I want to work for myself.

— They sound like frogs and chickens, ducks and hens.

— New York es una lata de resonancias y una lata de atardeceres y sonidos — resounding — resounding — resounding.

— Crude is the word, raw.

— Como una zanahoria. Una zanahoria cruda.

— It’s the last great European city. And the first great American city.

— And the capital of Puerto Rico.

— On the verge of collapsing.

— This city has always been apocalyptic. Since the turn of the century, when the subways were laid, the streets were gutted, tunnels gorged, people leaping, anarchic steps — from one muddy plank to another. Memory has few landmarks. Wear it down. Tear it down. Beethoven rolls around Central Park on rollerblades and motorcycles, and he’s a contemporary of Jackson and Madonna vis-à-vis walkmans. Every pair of ears picks its own noise. The dead are alive, alive and rolling around, like dice in Wall Street.

— Nobody is secure. Suing the president for sexual harassment. There is no authority that cannot go unchallenged. We could never have a queen. We would dethrone her. No respect. Not even for the dead.

— I was in a hurry, I took a cab. I was planning to walk but I always leave everything for the last moment. Where are the keys. Always, under my nose. But the moment I have to leave, I look at my watch, already five minutes late, oh, here they are. I rush out, but the elevator takes an eternity and stops on every floor. Traffic. Rush hour. The driver taking me the long way, the meter rolling. Why did he take the long way. We would be there already. What can I do. Sit back and relax. Out of the corner of my eye, I see, out the window, a drunkard has finished his bottle of rum, and he takes the bottle back over his shoulder, in slow motion — what is he going to do, throw it — where? I hear the crash of the bottle against the windshield. Freeze frame. What happened. Am I dead. That sound. A bomb in my face. The window shattered, diamonds showering the driver and me — frozen, silent. Am I dead or alive and quaking. I asked the driver:

— Should we go to the police and report him?

— As if they cared. I’ll take you to your destination. They mustn’t track your references, they mustn’t know who you are, they mustn’t trace your roots, and pinpoint you — there she is, now nail her to the cross of an address, name, portfolio, credit card, social security number, telephone number, the name of parents — they’ll cross examine you, they’ll dig into you until they dig your grave, and then they’ll bury you, shedding powder on your dirty face, and shedding tears on their evidence, wild cards, wild ducks, they’ll forget you were alive, and they’ll shed tears, tearing apart your grave. Grave is the world, torn apart under this dirty earth.

— Un día, Esquilo, calvo, y ya viejo, iba caminando por la arena, en Sicilia, mirando el mar, y un gavilán, que había cogido una tortuga para comérsela, pensó que su calva era una roca, y abrió la boca, y tiró con toda su puntería la tortuga contra la calva de Esquilo.

— Se rompió la tortuga.

— Como la cáscara de una nuez. Y mató la tragedia con una comedia.

— Qué risa, el relincho del destino. El cabreo de una cabra. El Alpha y el Omega. La risa de la burbuja cuando se queda pegadita a la salada arena, y la moja.