Yo-Yo Boing!

— I took you for dead. Not one second, not two, not three. Agony was climbing inside my head. Como una misma anormal — volveré a tener control sobre mí misma. Podré recuperar mi reposo. No, no estaba fuera de mí. No estaba dentro de mí. Me había ido de mí misma. Then you bellied up with a grin on your fat face. And I got so angry, I ran out, cold as it was, without any coat. I told you:

— Ahora si que se acabó. Now I really got your number. Don’t think I didn’t get it this time.

Me estaba tratando de recomponer o de ordenar. No quería perderme pero tampoco quería volver a verte jamás.

— Te puedes quedar con todo lo que importa es mi dignidad.

I can always start over, another day, another book. I didn’t want to come back. I had no keys, no money, no place to go. I could have stayed in the Plaza. I could have, should have, but would have lost my mind if I didn’t force myself to ring the bell, with my chin high, march inside and shut myself in my room. I didn’t want to talk to you ever again. But here I am. Ding. Dong.

— Perdóname.

— No more pardons. I’m sick and tired of you and I don’t want to hear your voice again.

— Okay. I won’t talk.

— But you continue.

— And you.

— Did you ever send out the manuscript?

— No, but I wrote the query letters to the editors.

— You see how erratic you are.

— I have my pace.

— You promised by Tuesday. It’s Thursday, what happened?

— What time have I had? Work absorbs my days, then your friends, my nights.

— Had you an iota of responsibility, you’d set priorities, which include, according to your promises, sending out the manuscript. You had todo el weekend, but no, you were exhausted. I understood, and I let you sleep. If my friends invite me to dinner you don’t have to tag along if you have a deadline. But deadlines strike no fear of death. You skip over them with a nonchalant shrug that staggers me. I need to party. Why should I deprive myself. But when I ask you:

— Did you correct my new fragment?

— What time have I had?

— I told you I would, but first I had to consult Jonathan Brent.

— What did he say?

— Get Susan Sontag to blurb it and send it to a small press, then send the next work to an agent who can promote you with big publishers.

— Sounds suspicious. Why can’t it go big now. I think he is setting you up.

— For what.

— To set us back.

— He said you’re ahead of your time so there’s no rush.

— Nice excuse, dilettante.

— I just won a major award people win when they’re Amaral’s age. Eighty years old. I’m twenty-five. I’m decades ahead.

— I’d never say that. You’ll never create my character without beholding my humility.

— Ten years wasted on an apprentice. You still don’t have your priorities settled.

— Priorities? If you didn’t ask Miguel Osuna to make you another coat we’d have resources to network.

— I have to dress up my characters.

— Now the script writing course is out of the question.

— One of us can still take it.

— I’ll take it and teach you how to make a script.

— Just like you prepared my manuscript. You just forget. Another day turned night. Limboland. Limboland. Where is your gold card? Did you ever find it? I bet you left it in a cash machine. It’s stolen. Cancel the card. What are you waiting for? No wonder the manuscripts are not prepared. Waiting for the deadline. Waiting for me to die. You should already be translating this work. My book needs your English.

— The dialogues are fine the way they are. I think we should dedicate to the structure.

— When do we start?

— This weekend.

— I have a dinner.

— Again? It’s the only time I have to work.

— You see, when Mishi had a party did I go? No. Did I want to go? Yes. Who didn’t want to go? Who?

— You could have gone without me.

— To come home and find you drunk as a skunk with the CD blasting Queen, dancing naked, shrunken and depressed.

— You should have gone.

— Well, I didn’t.

— That’s your choice. I’d love to be with my friends too, but I have responsibilities.

— Where are the hands?

— What hands?

— The glass ones you stole from Brascho’s flat. Estaban dentro del huevo de mármol with my ballpoints. ¿Dónde están ahora? Búscalas.

–¿No están allí?

–¿Dónde están?

— You’re sure they’re not there?

— You gave them away.

— I swear on your beloved brother’s grave.

— Don’t use my brother. Why don’t you swear, com’on, swear by your sick father. Did you give them away? To whom? They were with my pen refills that have also been stolen.

— We could be working. That’s why this book doesn’t progress. I have to be looking for unlucky charms. I’m glad they’re lost.

— Somebody broke into the apartment.

— Who’d steal the hands and leave the jewels?