The Unknown University (42 page)

We kept visiting those places for a long time.
We could have made love
elsewhere, but there was something about the route of public baths that attracted us
like a magnet.
Obviously, there was no shortage of other incidents, desperate guys
racing down hallways, an attempt at statutory rape, a raid we were able to avoid by
luck and cunning; cunning, Laura’s; luck, the bronze solidarity of bathers.
From the
sum total of all the establishments, now just an amalgam that gets confused with
Laura’s face smiling, we mined the certainty of our love.
The best of all, maybe
because that’s where we did it the first time, was Montezuma’s Gym, which we always
went back to.
The worst, a place a place in Casas in Casas Alemán conveniently
called The Flying Dutchman, which was the one that looked most like a morgue.
Triple
morgue: of hygiene, of the proletariat, and of bodies.
Not of desire.
Two memories I
still have from back then are the most ingrained.
The first is a succession of
images of Laura naked (sitting on the bench, in my arms, under the shower, stretched
on the divan, thinking) until the steam, gradually increasing, makes her disappear
completely.
The end.
Blank image.
The second is the mural at Montezuma’s Gym.
Montezuma’s eyes, bottomless.
Montezuma’s neck suspended over the surface of the
pool.
The courtiers (or maybe they weren’t courtiers) who laugh and converse, trying
with all their might to ignore whatever it is the emperor sees.
The flocks of birds
and clouds that mix together in the background.
The color of the pool’s rocks,
doubtless the saddest color I saw over the course of our expeditions, only
comparable to the color of some faces, workers in the hallways, who I no longer
remember, but were certainly there.

Tercera parte

POEMAS PERDIDOS

Part Three

LOST POEMS

LAS PULSACIONES DE TU CORAZÓN

La Belleza.
Tema de Composición.

Una muchacha abre los ojos, se levanta,

abre la ventana, sale al patio.

En el patio hay hierba y rocío y basura,

hay ruedas pinchadas, roídas

por ácidos, esqueletos de bicicletas,

grandes trancas podridas en el suelo.

La Belleza.
Tema de Composición.

La muchacha sale de la oscuridad

al patio, camina

tres o cinco pasos en dirección

a la cerca, levanta

los brazos, un escalofrío

la sacude, junta

las cejas en un gesto de disgusto,

se pasa el dorso de la mano

por la cara, vuelve

a la casa.
La Belleza.

Tema para una franja.

Un pedazo de algo

iluminado por una cosa

parecida a la luz.

Pero que no es luz.

Algo parecido al gris,

siempre que el gris fuera luz,

o que la muchacha

estuviera un poco más quieta,

o que pudiéramos ordenar por bloques

el granito y las arpilleras.

Tema de Composición.
La Belleza.

Un momento bucólico.

Todo el desorden se cuela

por una fisura llamada muchacha.

En ella hay dos o tres cosas

—dos o tres islas—

negociables.
Pero no

la razón o el desencanto.

Pese a todos los inconvenientes:

un paisaje sólido.

La muchacha pone agua

en la tetera, enciende el gas,

pone la tetera a calentar,

se sienta sobre una silla de paja

y mientras espera

tal vez piense

en la luz que se mueve

ganando y perdiendo baldosas.

La Belleza no suspirará: querrá verlo

todo.
Pero los regalos y la paciencia

son para ella:

cauce inevitable.

Tema.
Espacio donde los ojos luchan.

Espacio, palabra, donde los ojos

imponen su voluntad.

La muchacha sale al patio.

La muchacha toma té.
La muchacha

busca los terrones de azúcar.

A través de ese espejo ella busca

las colinas con costras de bosques verdes,

oscuros, los más distantes casi azules.

Tema de Composición.
El Oxígeno.

Prepara sus arpilleras.
Se sienta.

Hay rocas redondas como bacinicas.

Toma té.
Remoja

la taza en un lavatorio de porcelana

que está sobre una banqueta de madera

sin desbastar.
Bebe agua.

Luego bebe té.

Mira la lejanía: nubes.

Junto a ella emerge el esqueleto

de una bicicleta,

oxidado, pero firme aún el cuadro.

Tema de Composición.
Una bicicleta

que es la Belleza y no la muerte.

No la amante salvaje

—la muerte—

corriendo por las calles

del sueño

simplemente porque ya no queda nada

por hacer.
No los golpes

en la puerta de la cabaña abandonada.

La muchacha bebe té, lava

el vaso en el lavatorio, tira

el agua en el patio.

Luego entra en la casa

y tras un instante sale

con una chaqueta de lana

sobre la espalda.
Como una santa

atraviesa la cerca

y empieza a diluirse

entre los abrojos y la hierba alta.

Ése es el tema de la composición:

la Belleza aparece, se pierde,

reaparece, se pierde,

vuelve a aparecer, se diluye.

Al final sólo escuchas

las pulsaciones de un pozo,

que es tu corazón.

THE PULSING OF YOUR HEART

Beauty.
Composition topic.

A girl opens her eyes, gets up,

opens the window, goes out on the patio.

On the patio there’s grass and dew and garbage,

there are flat tires eaten away

by acid, bicycle skeletons,

big rotten bars on the ground.

Beauty.
Composition topic.

The girl comes out of the darkness

onto the patio, walks

three or five steps toward

the fence, lifts

her arms, a shiver

runs through her, she pinches

her eyebrows with a look of disgust,

wipes the back of her hand

across her face, returns

to the house.
Beauty.

Topic for a fringe.

A piece of something

lit by a substance

like light.

But that isn’t light.

Something like gray,

provided gray were light,

or the girl

were a little calmer,

or we were able to split up

the granite and burlap.

Composition topic.
Beauty.

A bucolic moment.

All disorder slips in

through a fissure called girl.

Within her two or three things

—two or three islands—

are negotiable.
But not

reason or disenchantment.

Despite all drawbacks:

a solid landscape.

The girl puts water

in the kettle, turns on the gas,

puts the kettle on to boil,

sits in a straw chair

and while she waits

perhaps she thinks

of the light as it moves

winning and losing tiles.

Beauty will not sigh: it will wish to see

everything.
But the gifts and the patience

are for her:

inevitable gully.

Topic.
Space where eyes battle.

Space, word, where eyes

impose their will.

The girl goes out on the patio.

The girl drinks tea.
The girl

looks for sugar cubes.

Behind that mirror she looks for

hills encrusted with green forests,

dark, the furthest almost blue.

Composition topic.
Oxygen.

She rearranges the burlap.
She sits down.

There are rocks round like chamber pots.

She drinks tea.
She soaks

the cup in a porcelain sink

on top of an unfinished wood

bench.
She drinks water.

Then she drinks tea.

She looks off in the distance: clouds.

Next to her the skeleton

of a bicycle emerges,

rusted, but frame still solid.

Composition topic.
A bicycle

that is Beauty and not death.

Not the savage lover

—death—

speeding down the streets

of the dream

just because there’s nothing left

to do.
Not the knocks

on the door of the abandoned cabin.

The girl drinks tea, washes

the glass in the sink, tosses

the water out on the patio.

Then she goes in the house

and after a moment comes out

with a wool coat

on her back.
Like a saint

she passes through the fence

and starts to dissolve

in the burrs and tall grass.

That’s the composition topic:

beauty appears, gets lost,

reappears, gets lost,

appears again, dissolves.

In the end you only hear

the pulsing of a well,

which is your heart.

NAPO

Allá va hacia su última campaña

Envuelto en nubes o en niebla

El careto serio como si masticara

Los grandes funerales la maroma definitiva

En el espacio negro de los campos

Donde desplegará su imaginación ya lenta

Envuelto en adoquines o en fajas de cemento

El gran ojo que tira las campañas

Hacia el olvido

Posdata
:

No te asustes soy el ojo de Napo arrastrando las nubes

Hacia la última campaña soy el ojo en el espacio negro envuelto

En neblina y misterios planificando la pesadilla (pero al mismo

Tiempo intentando escapar de ella) envuelto en un careto

Demasiado grave soy el ojo que tira las campañas

Hacia el olvido

NAPO

There he goes toward his last campaign

Surrounded by clouds or by fog

His mug serious as if chomping

The great funerals the definitive tumble

Into the black space of the fields

Where he will deploy his already slow imagination

Surrounded by cobbles or by cement girdles

The great eye that launches campaigns

Into oblivion

Postscript
:

Never fear I am Napo’s eye towing the clouds

Into the last campaign I am the eye in the black space encased

In mist and mysteries planning the nightmare (but at the same

Time trying to escape it) encased in an all too

Serious mug I am the eye that launches campaigns

Into oblivion