Yo-Yo Boing!

— Okay, cómetela. Yo me comí cuatro. Tú sólo tienes una. The world is fine like this. It’s good for my stomach. I ate three. You watched me eating the fourth. And you asked for the fifth. I gave it to you. You asked. How kind. I ate four. Gave you one. Did you want to eat what I had — you had less than me — didn’t protest — are you hungry — why did you let me eat the other four — without saying a word — and now you even have the courtesy of asking permission — I am the boss because I didn’t mind eating the other four — I didn’t think about you — that’s what made me the boss — I am still hungry — are you satisfied — I gave you my olive — a pit of my appetite. The world is fine if you feel fine. I ate four. You only one. We are compatible. We ate five.

— Pum, Pum — Paco. Pum, Pum.

— She’s poetical, pero no tiene una Poética.

— Sí, sí, sí

— It’s chaotic. She’s looking for the order of chaos. Pero no tiene order tampoco.

— Sí, sí, sí

— Mira, ten cuidado con Xana. Le acaba de decir a Paco que tú no tienes una Poética

–¿Y qué dijo Paco?

— Se sonrió: sí, sí, sí

— Sí, no tiene Poética. O sí, tiene Poética

— No sé. Dijo: sí, sí, sí

— Como el estado libre asociado. Los puertorriqueños son puntos y comas. No pueden decidirse o por el punto o por la coma. Of course I don’t have una Poética, para ella, si no ha leído mi obra.

— Why do you care what she says.

— Why do you tell me what she says.

— Pum, Pum — Paco. Pum, Pum.

— Y las mías — no son bien suaves también.

— Yes, they are soft, but hers — touch hers, she really has soft hands.

— Y las mías son bien suaves.

— Yes, they are soft, but hers, sheer silk. She hasn’t washed a dish in her life.

— You’re not kidding.

— Spoiled. Spoiled rotten.

— Hey, dame la mano.

— Y por qué te tengo que dar la mano. Simplemente porque tú me la pides, sin estar seguro si hay una cierta amistad, algo que te indujo a pensar que yo te la daría, sólo porque tú me ibas a pedir la mano, yo te la iba a dar, no te la iba a negar, pero mi placer no es el tuyo, el tuyo está en mi mano, el mío en negártela. Tant pis. ça m’est égal.

— Y es bien cierto lo que dijo nuestra reina.

–¿Qué dije yo? Ya no me acuerdo.

— Sufre de la misma amnesia colectiva que sufre su pueblo.

–¿Qué dije? ¿Qué dije? Ya no me acuerdo.

— No te perdono lo que me dijiste. Yo sí lo recuerdo.

–¿Qué dije? Perdóname.

— No te perdono.

— Ahora te perdono. Si me dices lo que te dije. Por favor, dímelo.

— Ya lo olvidé. Lo tengo en la punta de la lengua.

— The chair I sat in, like a burnished throne, glowed on the marble, where the glass held by standards wrought with fruited vines. Yo estaba leyendo con cinco feministas. Ya habían leído tres de ellas. Y yo me preguntaba: ¿por qué no se sientan en la silla? Ellas me habían dicho, hay una mesa, y tras la mesa, una sola silla. Así es que no puedes leer con Tess. Sólo una se puede sentar en la silla. Pero ninguna de las tres se sentó. Leyeron paradas. Y el trono vacío — esperándome — from which a golden cupidon peeped out. Another hid his eyes behind his wing. Doubled the flames of seven branched candelabra. So I was very angry because they thought I could not read well without Tess, and when my turn came, I sat in the chair and stole the show. Now a woman complained:

— Stand up. We cannot see you.

— Madam—I answered—there is a throne here and I am going to sit on it.

— Pum — Pum, Paco, vamos a bailar.

— Después, Xana, ahora estoy fumándome este cigarro.

— Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

— I feel Croatian, surrounded by all these languages.

— And, and, when we were children, staying at the Archduke’s, my cousin, he took me out on a sled.

— You stole that sled from my diary. It was not my cousin’s, it was my brother Benny’s.

— No, she took it from Rosebud, Rosebud, the sled in Citizen Kane. What Orson Welles had lost was a sled — his childhood — in a big bonfire. La hoguera de las vanidades.

— The fire, the bonfire — I still see it — it is burning in flames my eyes. Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night, what immortal hand, or sight, build thy fearful symmetry.

— Oh, be drunk, be always drunk.

— Yes, be always drunk with fire.

— Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of a night.

— I see him coming.

— Fire, Mona, fire.

— Reflecting light upon the table as the glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, from satin cases poured in rich profusion, in vials of ivory and coloured glass unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, unguent, powdered, or liquid — troubled, confused and drowned the sense in odours, stirred by the air that freshened from the window.

— Yes, crack a window — it’s stuffocating. El aire no resbala por la chimenea. Y prende el fuego. Madera, madera. It’s Christmas.

— Well, she stole my diary. That was written in my diary. And down we went in the mountains, there, were you feel free.

— And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight.