Yo-Yo Boing!

— No sé como me atrevo escribirlo. Y no es por exorcismo, te digo. One of these days.

— Please don’t count the years. There is something in this that I am still looking for. Era Pancho Corzas.

— Está muerto.

— Todo el mundo piensa que está muerto. Pero no lo está.

— Murió en el 84. Antes que tu hermano.

— Te equivocas. Bianca también pensaba que lo estaba. Resulta que fue una escaramuza para pintar lejos del mundanal ruido. Mejor muerto. Así los pintores no lo envidiaban. Subía el valor de sus pinturas en Sotherbys y en Christies. Y además, mientras todos pensaban que muerto yacía, estaba vivo pintando sus mejores cuadros desde el 84 en Europa escondido. Vi sus pinturas — las que allá pintó—destacaban sus colores amarillos redondeados por sus alrededores y sucumbiendo ante los amarillos unos negros pintados con un Magic marker que tenía las marcas de la muerte.

— La que resucita será. Siempre he pensado que lo mejor se hace en el closet.

— Si hubieras visto la cara de Bianca cuando lo vio regresar con su boina francesa. Y abstemio. Inmediatamente de México me llamaron. Yo se lo conté a Iris Pagán.

— Before or after she died.

— After, and she told me she wanted to visit him and see his new series. I felt this dream had something vital to do with me.

— Maybe with joining the world again.

— What do you mean.

— Start working outside

— No, with my book. I thought the structure was capzising. It came back to life like Pancho with new visions.

— Este libro, yo siempre lo había pensado así, pero ahora cuando lo leo me convenzo más. Ya tienes todos los rinconcitos creados, ahora tienes que llenarlos de esculturas, de bagatelas, de diamantes. ¿Por qué apurarte? No hay prisa. Es una biografía. Y tu vida está comenzando. You can write other books, y este, keep it on our night-stand. Si lo publicas ahora — how many other dreams, thoughts, fights will come — and you can replace the worst with the best. And the best — it’s a matter of timing — when you continue living — you’ll realize—wait a minute, this fragment I wrote two years ago is obsolete. I’m talking about The Piano when I should be talking of the latest movie in town. That’s how time is. And you’re trying to conquer reality. How are you going to know it’s ended if you are still alive.

— And what do I do with the malicious people who come to me and tell me:

— Did you finish it?

— Almost.

— You have been saying that for years. Did your juices dry up? Watch out you’re losing credibility. And what about the grants you won to finish it.

— Most of it is complete.

— The penumbral zone of past impressions. But what about the future.

— Future editions can add future episodes.

— Wouldn’t it be wonderful to write a book all your life — a book that’s about your life with all the elements of a biography — but it’s not an autobiography. Not a Dream Play. Not a novel. Not a poem.

— A lifetime work in progress. It’s a terrifying concept. You would be amazed how many times I thought I was finishing it, when another idea struck my head, another thunderstorm hit, y otros pedazos caían en el saco sin fondo, y se formaban nuevas geometrías, nuevos cuadrados, otros cuartos que aparecían, y que yo tenía que decorar.

— A quarter to the left, first panel, a quarter to the left, second panel, a quarter to the left, third panel, a quarter to the left, fourth panel. And then, all of them, at the same time, a quarter to the right. And there you have it: musical fugue.

— But don’t they fall into the same order if you are turning all of them a quarter to the left, and then a quarter to the right.

— Look, look at them. Did they fall into the same order.

— No, but I don’t understand why not.

— Tess, honey, you understand. Explain it to them. They don’t have a logical bone in their bodies. They are poetic.

— Mona, would you like to be called artistic. No, you are an artist. She is a poet. And he is a philosopher.

— But they’re not logical.

— We are very logical. And don’t embark Tess in your same boat. Tess understands Paco Pepe and me. You say we are confusing.

— What logic is there in sprinkling paprika on my butterball turkey? I’m a maniac for order and cleanliness. That’s why I unzipped the gray cat’s coat.

— Paco Pepe believes in magic. He’ll sprinkle his magic powder and pour his magic syrup into the rice. You’ll see how it tastes.

— Tess, Tess.

— Just a moment, Makiko.

— What about the composition.

— Look, Tess, look.

— Fire, Mona, fire.

— El mantel is burning, burning, burning.

— Agua, agua.

— No agua. Use napkins. No agua.

–¿Y por qué no agua?

— No agua.

— Why not agua, agua?

— El fuego se quema con agua. La Mona esa habla de lógica. Pero que lógica tiene apagarlo con las servilletas.