Semmant (8 page)

I caught his name on posters in European capitals, where he was wildly adored. When I could, I bought the best tickets – and sat and listened, almost not breathing. She was gorgeous, Mariana, with her famous cello, though I knew what was hidden beneath her dress, beneath her skin, in that delightfully indifferent heart, in her icy, hard soul. And perhaps, to spite her – no, him, to spite Mario – I whispered a mantra to myself: “Perfection is unattainable,” believing and not believing, probably hoping more than ever. And now I recognize: he’s one of the links. He also made a contribution – and a big one – to what happened later. Thanks to him, I developed a passion for music – and this helped me to get over the deadlock.

It was music that brought me to the Auditorio Nacional, where that evening, by coincidence, the Spanish queen had attended. No, I was not introduced to the queen herself, but her presence played an important role. I met the Countess de Vega – during the third week of my forced “vacation.”

At the Auditorio they were performing “Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1.” Playing the grand piano was one of those whose name I would spell in capital letters – he’s one of “us,” though not from the School. The performance was the same as always – magnificent. I sat in the amphitheater, where the clearest sound could be found, just three rows higher than Queen Sofia. Around her swarmed the usual commotion – bodyguards, a handful of relatives, members of wealthy families who had not come for Chopin at all. When all had ended and the applause abated, the group with the Crown quickly abandoned the hall. They passed very close by me – and I caught a whiff of something imperceptibly sad.

“We note how time marches on by how the queen grows older,” I muttered aloud; and a woman standing in front of me turned around and looked in surprise. I would say her glance was frightened and timid, which did not fit her haughty bearing. She quickly composed herself, though, stepped to one side, and disappeared. But later, in the foyer, her companion stopped me.

“Anna Pilar María Cortez, née Countess de Vega, invites you to dine with us,” he said with elaborate courtesy, and I just shrugged my shoulders, not knowing how to refuse. Afterward, in the restaurant, she and I talked for several hours – like old, long-lost friends.

Some two months later I also met her husband – a dwarf with a womanly face, whose genes had already decayed from boredom several generations back. However, she was not spending that evening with him, but with the family’s secretary, her lover David, a very tall male specimen with the jaw line of a boxer, tiger eyes, and a shock of black hair. He was a regular Adonis indeed. Herds of Spanish girls flocked to him from all corners, stamping their hooves and swishing their tails. But David loved Anna faithfully, and she possessed him, like a piece of furniture or an automobile, keeping him on a short leash and patting her fan on his hand, gazing absently, almost through him, and only occasionally darting him the wild look of a willful, incorrigible proprietress. Yet this glance wasn’t so simple. The sensuality of despair or something even less innocent emerged from behind the looking glass. And it was obvious, if you got a good view: there was no joking around with that.

She had her oddities, the countess: the natural sciences excited her more than anything in the world – of course, in their popularized form. At least, she wasn’t like the majority – here I immediately gave her due credit. I felt at ease and entertained her until midnight with tales of chromosomes and stem cells. She listened to me as though to a preacher – with sparkling eyes, becoming all the more beautiful, clearly getting seriously turned on. David merely flexed his jaw muscles and looked at her, without interfering. I think later she kept him up all night.

I was also excited after the music and drank more wine than usual. Soon my speech was not so crisp, and my cheeks were on fire.

“My tongue is all tied up. Am I drunk?” I asked her in the middle of dinner.

“No, no, now I understand you better than ever!” she exclaimed, gazing in admiration that was almost genuine.

And I understood she was shrewder than I – by right of nobility cultivated over the centuries – and I came to trust her, to confide in her my doubts and beliefs. Later, she aided me more than once, but that’s beside the point here. Neither the Countess de Vega nor her lover David ever learned what happened the following morning. Though it was with them in particular that the main part of the whole story began.

Chapter 9

Here’s what happened: I wrote a poem. Twenty lines without rhyme, a spasmodic shout into emptiness and obscurity.

It was Saturday. Rain drizzled; the month of December was beginning. The countess from yesterday, I thought, didn’t I dream of her? I felt a pang in my chest – love of others sprang up before my eyes, as if only to dismay my heart.

On the screen was Magritte’s familiar painting. My friend in black stood, wings unfurled, behind a powerful lion. The embankment was reminiscent of something – for a moment, at half strength, only teasing. The lion had known me once but made no attempt to recall it. The weight of his solitude was immeasurable.

Then, for the first time in recent years, I shuddered in self-pity. I shuddered and began to seek shelter. I bared my teeth and grabbed a sheet of paper.

I met a certain man today.

On his back were wings attached.

He cared about them, covered them from bad weather,

Cleaned their dark feathers with a special brush.

I bit my lip and scooted the chair forward. My head spun from drinking the night before; I felt like sitting and leaning on my elbow. Of course, the picture was just an excuse. To tell the truth, I was blaming it for no reason. Yes, in it was parting, and no hope, but each parting is unavoidable in its own way, and the burden of the indifference of others is unbearable at all times. Unbearable, but you carry it. Semmant was not responsible for this, much less Magritte.

At first we laughed, but not for long, alas.

Our talk went amiss – of its own volition.

He took out his flute, played a tune.

I recall no music colder than this.

Even the walls got icy; hair silvered with frost.

I could not move, could not leave: locked in a cage, as it were.

Like an army of others confined before me.

The shade of Mario flashed before my eyes, the shade of Mariana the heartless witch. I was sorry for myself even more, perhaps out of envy for new acquaintances who would not wake in solitude this morning. I was wistful at every thought, repulsed by myself. I knew what I wanted – I wanted a woman; but could anyone hear me at all? Pretentious cuties, empty-hearted babes, they were just putting on airs, trying to show off. They were all vacuous sluts, false, touch-me-nots!

“Where are you, Gela?” I whispered in an unruly tongue.

“Where are you, Gela, you red-headed bitch?

Look how much I suffer, while the words burn –

And oblivion devours all hated truths.”

No one’s calls can reach her. Indifferent she remains.

The day came to an end; centuries passed, down through the ages.

My companion’s fervor was gradually spent.

The words dried up, his feathers have grown dull.

So it happens often. Finally, he is gone.

I am free now – but will this last forever?

No one will let me know – indifferent are they all.

Wait, you wait for the answer, read it on the backs of cards…

Here the twilight has come. No one appeared next.

So, this means they forgot. I’m not that important.

“Mario, my foe, we deserve each other,” I murmured, staring at the screen. Some kind of melody was rattling in my head – cruelly-gently-hatefully. Indestructibly. I knew I would adapt to it.

The lion gazed back in reply, without blinking. He, with his wings, no face, stood, unmoving as before. Unlike me, he had nothing to say. Then I understood: the pity was not for me. Surely, I’m stronger – even though I’m hopelessly weak.

Seems to me, their act has not gone quite right.

I just wanted to ask them how to become immortal,

And discuss some other trifles as well.

No, they shouldn’t try with such grueling effort.

Even more so since I did not care!

Laughing at the frost in one’s hair is nothing new.

My evening is now quite fine, besides.

Snowfall outside the window, and Gela is right with me.

Drunk, redheaded, smelling of sin and vodka.

See those huge eyes with their whorish squint?

I could easily endure the ages here with her.

Ages, centuries… Give me time. I’ll figure this out.

I finished and exclaimed, “Bravo!” Then I bent over the keyboard and typed in what I had just composed. Let’s save it for the future to drive weakness away. Who, who would become my Gela? Would she know the taste of blood, as I occasionally imagine? It, I think, is even on my tongue sometimes.

All day afterward I was impressed with myself – that is, with my morning verse. Though the poem, I realize now, turned out so-so, rather feeble. However, I felt sorry for it – the same as I had been sorry for myself that morning. Its fate was oblivion, and there was no hope. Whether it was brilliant or bad made no difference. The lion knew this, no doubt. And the one with the wings knew even better.

Then, on Sunday, I remembered it, took a quick look, and liked it even more. As I was reading through the lines for the tenth time, my friend Antonio Daniel called. He was verbose and wasteful with syllables – just like his name. The reason for the call turned out to be petty: A.D. was just asking for money. I really wanted to read him the poem – because there was no one else. I sensed, however, that this would appear exceedingly foolish.

After hanging up, I turned away from the screen. I paced about the room a bit, sighed, and got to work. A new week was beginning; I had to prepare a short news summary.

With disgust and boredom I ran my eyes over the headlines. The world, regrettably, was not changing. Its way of life would suit colonies of the simplest creatures, possessing only mouths and reproductive organs. In every place imaginable, not stopping for a moment, a secret war was being waged without rules. Giant corporations battled each other, tearing out pieces – in yellow, black, and red waters, in Africa, Oceania, the jungles of the Amazon. Big money devoured little money; some stocks became fashionable and soared upward, then plunged, falling out of favor, helplessly getting flattened at the bottom. Billions changed hands in the meaningless, eternal race. The players, it seemed, were just killing time with this, to distract their thoughts and not reflect on the worst. There was no intrigue: just the stamping of feet, a rattling of chairs, and some commotion at the exit. Squabbling and a line at the cloakroom. Mixed up tickets and coats.

Screwing up my face and pursing my lips, I picked at the facts that stood out. I selected the most significant figures and a few of the closest dates. Then I devised a message in special language – this did not take much time.

The result was the usual data set – a mass of symbols and strange-looking words. I was about to send it to Semmant, but suddenly, obeying some inscrutable impulse, I opened my verses again, looked them over, and added them – right at the end of the file, which had not been designed for any lyrics. This was just a joke, the whim of the moment. A weak echo of yesterday’s revolt, if you will.

After I had done all this, I forgot immediately – about the poem and that chafing itch. Something seemed to lift from my shoulders; I wanted to be reckless and carefree. This I attempted and was somewhat successful – at least, I didn’t stick out much from the crowd that evening.

The silly comedy at the Cinesa Capitol made me really laugh. At times I just guffawed out loud, and the people around me shot back dirty looks. I dined modestly – a plate of
jamón
and
manchego
cheese, washed down with cheap red wine. Later, I wandered streets decorated for Christmas, stared at showcases full of all manner of rubbish. When I tired, I took a seat in a café at Saint Anne’s Square and set myself the task of getting seriously drunk. I managed this quite well; what’s more, I recall, I befriended some female tourists, two
inglesas
of indeterminate years, who got sauced on whiskey at my expense and disappeared into the Madrid night.

In a word, all went well. I returned home after midnight and threw myself into bed. I slept long, in a vicious, drunken stupor. Walking up to the computer before breakfast, I saw on the monitor a self-portrait by one of the old-school Dutch painters. It winked from an unobtrusive window in the corner – not taking up the whole screen, as usual. This seemed strange, but the strangeness was not huge. There was still some detail gnawing at my consciousness like a needle, but I couldn’t make it out and paid it no mind. Only after two cups of coffee did it dawn on me: Gela, the redheaded bitch! Could it really be?

I rushed to the monitor again and magnified the portrait window. From the picture, the artist himself looked out – a middle-aged man with a somber face. Behind it, placed carelessly, some of his canvases could be seen. And on one of them, the rightmost, a redheaded bacchanalian stood out – with a rather whorish squint in her eyes!

I understood: this should be considered a coincidence – but it was too subtle a coincidence. Too inventive, too sharply witty. The world is crafty, no doubt about it, but subtlety is usually not its strong suit. Subtlety is a feature of those who have a conscience and a soul, a quick mind, and a sense of tact. Subtlety is a feature of mine; and of Semmant as well.

I thoroughly studied all the details of the portrait; then I opened up the log of market transactions and was taken aback by the number of new entries. My super-cautious robot had woken from his slumber. Moreover, he had taken a strange step. Without any apparent reason, he had gotten rid of the short-term bonds that had recently piqued his interest. Instead, he transferred the money into the most conservative assets, the longest-term available on the market. This was not foolish, but radical – indeed, excessive. Impetuous and impulsive, undoubtedly: no matter how you looked at it, you couldn’t see it as the result of cold logic. Get securities that take a long time to mature and hold onto them
for ages
– the explanation was beyond fantasy, but there was no way around it!

I wonder what happens next, I thought, and this is what did: after keeping our capital in long-term assets for a week, Semmant switched everything back – decisively and quickly. In the first wave of local pessimism, when the price of safety jumped up, everything that had been purchased was sold in an instant.

“He was simply giving me a sign!” I said to myself, afraid to believe it. But what else did I have to believe in? Soon, our portfolio reassumed a normal look – and what’s more, the robot took this backward step almost without losses. What were losses, anyway, when the point was something else? The point was the signal that somebody had heard you!

For a few long days I walked about, pensive and a little lost. I was determined to continue the experimentation, but I felt the next step should not be an experiment, as such. It must be natural and sincere, yet my thoughts were in disarray – I didn’t know what to think or what to expect. Could it be the electronic brain had transformed into something not entirely electronic, or did it just appear that way? Had the artificial mind gone beyond the chalk circle, or was I just turning into a schizophrenic?

Over and over I tried to write something, but the words came out wrong. I felt they would not move anyone – not my robot, not even me. At times I wondered whether I should slip Semmant a poem written by someone else. I spent hours in bookstores, reading Eliot, Shakespeare, Pushkin, Rimbaud, Goethe, but each time I saw it wouldn’t fit. I needed something of my own; it should come from the genuine essence inside me. If I actually had such a thing.

My birthday was approaching – which I had sharply despised since my youth. It always reminded me of the ruthlessness of the countdown, of the armor becoming thinner by another micron. I waited for it with disgust, but this time it concealed an extra meaning. And it pushed me to the next step, which ultimately clarified everything.

Yet another acquaintance from the past, Fabrice Angloma, a divorce lawyer famous throughout France, turned up out of nowhere and wished me a
“joyous anniversary”
with a night call. I was glad to hear from him; we chatted for almost an hour – mainly about his life, which had fallen into a deep crisis. Fabrice’s wife had left him – a busty Swede named Monica, whom he loved ardently. “For another divorce lawyer,” he said bitterly. This affected him most of all. And, in fact, there was something unreal in this, a strip of some crafty Moebius, a spiraling everyday surrealism. I understood he was calling me because he had no one else with whom to share the news. He did not have Semmant; he was surrounded by obdurate, boring people. He was uninteresting to them – just as they did not interest him in the least.

Something shifted in my soul. This was all so familiar. Monica, too – the brevity of feeling, its shallow essence. It is always hurtful if the true emotional depths – the chasms, the fathomless oceans – have been just imagined by you alone!

Suddenly I felt a creative urge. This time I wasn’t sorry for anyone – not myself nor Fabrice Angloma. This was not a love story of others flashing before my eyes; here all was ordinary – the endless repetition, the senescence of eternal grief. It’s good that grief ages separately from you yourself, although even in youth you’re sometimes barely hanging on.

O, Alcinous, you have grown even darker

As I wandered amidst the storms,

Their price was wooden nickels

And a fable, the fruit of fancy…

Fabrice kept babbling something, but I understood: now it would work out. I broke the conversation off, and the next lines came to me right away:
“Yet, I have nothing to relate. The sea, / Alas, ever the same, a wave flickers…”
I rushed to the desk and began to write it down, breaking my pencils. “You have nothing to relate” when you want to talk and talk – this was so true, so precisely encrypted!