Читать книгу The Art of Flight - Sergio Pitol - Страница 15

DIARY FROM ESCUDILLERS ³

(At the end of 1968, I left the Mexican embassy in Belgrade, where I was carrying out my first diplomatic mission. I refused to continue to collaborate with the Mexican government after Tlatelolco. I returned to Mexico and found the atmosphere to be unbreathable. A female friend promised to help me find a job in London as a translator at The Economist, which was about to begin publishing in Spanish. It was almost certain that I would begin working in October. I would be able to spend the summer in Poland as a guest of Zofia Szleyen. My attendance at a conference on Conrad, I thought, would allow me to obtain a visa. I stopped in Barcelona to deliver the translation of Cosmos, by Gombrowicz, to Seix Barral, which I had almost finished, thinking it would only be a matter of a couple more weeks’ work. I arrived in Barcelona on June 20, 1969, at midnight, at the Francia station. I did not know the city. I asked the taxi driver to recommend a pleasant and moderately priced hotel. He took me to a place out of this world, which ended up being a hostel on Calle de Escudillers. I was planning to wait there for some money that was being sent from Mexico to continue my trip, as well as the invitation to the conference in Warsaw, or the personal invitation from my friend Zofia, without either of which I would not be able to obtain a Polish visa. Instead of the three weeks I intended to spend in Barcelona, I stayed three years. The memory of those times, of wonderful friends, of constant surprises still moves me today. My time there, in spite of the initial snags and a few spectacular surprises that at the moment seemed like the impending Last Judgment, only to end up disappearing into the air, constituted a daily exercise of freedom.)

BARCELONA, 22 JUNE 1969

One A.M. It’s raining. My tiny room traps all the noise from the neighborhood. A very acute depression this afternoon…tremors. I’ll never drink again. It must be the hangover from a monstrous cognac drunk, or some horrid liquor they passed off as cognac. After I settled into the room I went out and toured all the city’s bars near the hostel. Limitless excitement about the city’s nightlife. I walked without stopping along La Rambla and Escudillers, driven by curiosity or rather by the necessity to become acquainted with what will be my neighborhood for the next few days. I still haven’t been able to tackle Cosmos. I wrote two letters. One to Neus, another to Díez-Canedo, giving them my address for the checks I’m expecting. The trip to Spain was very exciting. As the train approached the border, I heard songs of the Fifth Regiment, which some teenagers were singing in the compartment next to mine. To interrupt the climax I made small talk with a plump, toothless French girl seated across from me. Collioure, Perpignan, Argelès, names I heard spoken so many times by Don Manuel Pedroso, by Max Aub, Garzón del Camino, Ara and María Zambrano: a crescendo of excitement. By the time I arrived at the border, I would forever hate the French girl, who was missing two front teeth, because of the contempt she expressed for the Spaniards and their songs. “To us they’re primitive, they think they’re going to save the world with their songs, no matter what they do, they’ll always be primitive,” smiling as she said it, her lips creased like the Mona Lisa, hiding her oral cavity.

Yes, my neighborhood is bustling, which is fine, although it seems like they go overboard just a bit. Something tells me this isn’t my city. I find it excessively noisy, deafening, and insane in its hyperactivity. The guardia civil stopped two hippies this afternoon beside my hotel and beat them mercilessly. A group of them walk along La Rambla frequently; a mix of intelligent and delicate faces with others that are excessively barbarian: young people of both sexes decked out in Afghani, Indian, or Nepalese blouses and jackets, alongside others who barely cover their flesh in rags; Germans, English, French, Scandinavians; they barely speak to Spaniards. They hang out in the Dingo, a bar located beside the Plaza Real, which is also beside my hostel. My room, because of its modesty, takes me back to Vittoria, Rome, 1961. Apparently, I’m neither maturing nor making progress.

23 JUNE

No, I do not get this city. Yesterday afternoon I went to the movies. I did the same today. Double feature: one of the movies was the really ancient Ahí está el detalle, with Cantinflas. A way of escaping reality, it seems, of blotting out the racket where I live. I’m starting to feel a bit like a coward. I walk a lot, but I never leave La Rambla or Escudillers. My biggest entertainment: watching the expressions and habits of the exotic hippies, who also never leave the Plaza Real and its surroundings, and who usually hole up in the Dingo. Racket, scandal at all hours, enough to drive anyone crazy! I should have changed hotels the day after I arrived; instead I sent everyone this address, and now I have to grin and bear it until my correspondence gets here. You can get by here on a few pesetas a day.

7 JULY

Terrible insomnia. I fall asleep around seven or eight in the morning, which causes me to stay in bed until evening, and I wake up furious that I’ve wasted the day, which makes it impossible to have any kind of normal work schedule. I visited Pepe and María del Pilar Donoso. We talked at length about friends from Mexico, about Pepe’s illnesses, the novel he’s writing. The plot, which he explained in broad terms, is fascinating. I ask them about their life in Barcelona, and they respond vaguely, as if they wanted to avoid the subject. New friendships: a young married couple, both writers; he works at Seix Barral; she’s finishing university. The extreme seriousness they’ve established between themselves surprises me. Last night I finished my revisions of Cosmos, by Gombrowicz. I’m in a panic, at wit’s end. My money situation is getting dire. The trip to Warsaw appears uncertain. Not many letters from Mexico. Today I’m going back to Jean Franco’s book. The hippies are an enigma to me, an amazing phenomenon. The only thing I knew about them came from the press. I saw them in London a few months ago, but there the city absorbed them, despite openly shooting heroin in the metro and public toilets. In Barcelona they stand out from the rest of the city, its customs, Spain, even in this neighborhood that is the height of obscenity, but an obscenity of another kind, that has taken centuries to create. This mix of multiple nationalities, unlike anything else I’ve ever seen, is a novelty I still haven’t been able to digest. I exchanged a few words in the Dingo with a hippie with hellishly dirty, iodine-colored hair. They walk around in groups; in general they’re boring and sullen. This one seems more independent, more upbeat, and bordering on a sense of humor. I’m starting to get used to Barcelona; but to be completely comfortable I’d need a more obvious element of foreignness, like other European cities I’ve lived in. A greater distance from the language and customs could help me adjust to the paralysis I’m experiencing.

WEDNESDAY, 9 JULY

I woke up today at three in the afternoon, yesterday at four thirty, which is definitely not normal. I work until two in the morning and then I’m completely tense for five or six hours, unable to sleep, not even able to read. In this way, time seems to dissolve in my hands. A waste that reminds me of the worst times of my life, the most squalid I’ve ever lived, and even worse. I haven’t seen any of Barcelona, I don’t know it. Actually, what has made me this way, paralyzed, frozen, is my lack of resources, perhaps even the expectation of an impending departure. I feel sick. I’ll inquire about a doctor that’s not too expensive. On Monday I’ll receive a partial payment for translation of Cosmos. I have to finish the Jean Franco translation in twenty days. Is it crazy to stay in Barcelona, in this hovel, in this disgusting neighborhood, drowning in debt?

11 JULY

Today, at noon, I witnessed a murder, just two meters from me, on the corner of Los Caracoles. Both the murderer and the victim were probably a little over twenty. I mean, I think he killed him. He plunged a knife into his stomach. Afterward, the hotel owner’s nieces, the girls who do the cleaning, asked me: “Did a lot of people gather around? Did they catch the thug? He didn’t get away, did he?” I didn’t know what to tell them, I still don’t know for sure what happened. The only thing I remember is that the guy who was stabbed fell against the wall, then, looking more surprised than anyone, tried to throw his body forward, but wasn’t able to. Instead, he doubled over like an accordion that was closing. Did I really witness them pull the bloody knife from his body, or am I making it up? My memory is blurry. I kept walking. I went inside a secondhand bookshop, where the smell of mold made me queasy. I’m sure I bought Jacob’s Room, by Virginia Woolf, in an edition by Janes that I wasn’t familiar with. But the truth is when I got back to my room I didn’t have it.

SUNDAY, 20 JULY

I saw a live broadcast of the first men on the moon. They looked like giant pandas. It was as if I were not seeing them. There was no element of surprise because I had already read about it in my childhood, but in a more attractive form, in Verne and in Wells. I had also seen it happen with more glamour in the movies. Today makes a month since I arrived, and I still don’t know Barcelona. Brutalizing work. Activities this month: translations of Gombrowicz and Jean Franco. Permanent lack of money. Friendship with the De Azúas. Little news from Mexico. Too many movies and weekly visits to the Donosos’ home. Urgent needs: a few days at the beach, clothes, books, money, friends, a doctor.

22 JULY