Yo-Yo Boing!

— My whole party ruined. My whole table burned.

— Echale más paprika a su pavo. Y más Coca-Cola al arroz ahora que está ocupada.

— My whole dinner ruined. My table cloth in flames, in flakes. Ruined.

— Absurdo, te das cuenta, a nadie se le ocurrió apagar los candelabros.

— Sería apagar la magia. Y la fiesta no ha comenzado.

— Alguien está tocando. Abre.

— Jonathan, you’re late.

–¡Qué viva el Imperio de los Sueños!

–¡Qué viva Jonathan Brent!

— Qué viva Paco Pepe!

–¡Qué viva Kiko!

–¡Qué viva Tess!

–¡Qué complejo tengo, coño! Tanto Imperio de los Sueños. Pero Paco Pepe, a ti te gusta más mi nuevo libro.

— Son dos cosas diferentes.

— Pero cuál te gusta más.

— No has caído. Estás creciendo continuamente.

— Pero yo quiero saber cuál es tu favorito. Dime, por favor, dime.

— Es algo que nunca te diré.

— Nunca sabré la verdad.

— Para el gusto se hicieron los colores.

— Pero, dime, Jonathan, how is it doing?

— Well, I don’t know if I should tell you this. Well, okay, they are bidding on the paperback rights.

— Who, Jonathan, who?

— I’m not at liberty to tell you this.

— Tell me, I won’t tell anybody.

— The Italians and the Germans want it. And even the Spaniards want to translate it into Spanish.

— It was written in Spanish.

— Does Yale have the rights in Spanish?

— It’s the only rights you don’t have.

— Did your publishers in Spain ever pay you?

— I know what you want — you want to eat me up. I sold you Manhattan for twenty-four bucks.

— And some glass beads.

— And now you want me to surrender Spain?

— They never paid you?

— Not a penny. But I read in El Licenciado Vidriera, it’s a problem that has existed in Spain since Cervantes’ time. They tell you they print one thousand copies, when they print five thousand — and then they reprint the second edition, and they don’t tell you that there is a second edition. I know what you’re thinking. Hey, don’t get any funny ideas.

— Don’t get excited. Suppose it only sells a few dozen copies, then the deals fall through.

— Who? I won’t tell anybody. Top secret.

— It begins with V.

— Vantage, Viking, Vintage. Is it Vintage? They published Joyce. That’s my first choice.

— It depends who offers me more. But maybe I’ll keep the rights. We won’t be able to sell as many copies as the commercial presses, but if we can unload a couple thousand copies a year, we’ll do all right in the long term.

— Keep your classics in stock. What would you have if you sold Gertrude Stein or Eugene O’Neill.

— Suppose they make me an offer that I cannot resist.

— How big is cannot resist?

— Shh, come, lend me your ear.

— That’s all? You can resist that.

— But this is poetry. It’s a nice offer.

— What a dramatic table setting.

— My whole party ruined.

— No, Mona, chance as collaborator. It was just a piece of cotton, and now it’s material for history. El mantel cuenta un misterio. Está experimentando la vida. Se ha quemado. So what? It’s beautiful.

— Is it better than mine? It is, isn’t it? Admit it. It is better than mine. Isn’t it?

— You tell me. Is that what you feel? Because then I’ll go with the better.

— She is a better painter than I am a writer. She is. She has to be. These four panels of a musical fugue come out of freedom and solitude. Nobody interferes with her muse. Oh, I am painly jealous.

— Plainly zealous.

— What? What is my kindered spirit saying? It was all so much hustle and bustle sculpting the body of Jane, cutting piece by piece, until I made her scream:

— Homo Poeticus.

You stole it from me. I told you I love it. It was my love you wanted. You stole my fire. I no longer have a muse. Go. Go with her.

If she is a better painter than you a writer it’s your duty to get on your knees and tell her:

— Mona, you outdid yourself. You outdid myself.

— I wish I could do as well and alone. Being free of these other voices that persecute me. The blue mask of Homo Poeticus—I gave you the second panel. You took it from me. It’s mine.

— Nerves of steel, lady, Homo Poeticus is mine.

— You flung the sketch in the garbage. I pulled it out. And because I wanted it, you desired it.

— It’s sexual bread. Feel it.

— A round puffy ass.

— If it’s sexual bread it’s like Mona. Give me some.

— What are these people going to think. Homo Poeticus was mine.

— Yes, but it was me who recognized it. I told you it was good. And you set fire to my desire.

— As if thunder could be stolen from the map of the universe.

— Yes, it can, and sometimes the imitation outdoes the original. And it all makes sense. Unguent. Perfume. Laquearia. In the dripping red panel. The fire, Mona, the desire.

— Cuántas aceitunas tú tienes aquí.

— Tengo cinco aceitunas. Me comí cuatro. Y me queda una. No te la voy a dar.

— Dámela, por favor.