A reflection on how literature can help us interpret life and, at the same time, contrive to make us arrive too late for it.
Eire maintains that it was a magnificent summer afternoon, sunny and breezy.
Ourense was stirring from the torpor of the afternoon heat, but Eire did not care for siestas, or at least he never seemed to find the right moment for one.
Eire maintains that he had chosen that café in Santa Eufemia Square because it was modern and had powerful air conditioning, but also because, hanging in the centre, there was a Murano glass chandelier, somewhat disproportionate to the modest dimensions of the place, of course.
Eire maintains that on this occasion he had not yet visited Lisbon, and that was because he had just returned from Paris, laden with books and honours, which left him in rather good humour with life.
Eire maintains that he was due to meet his sister and his nephews that afternoon, who were coming from A Coruña, and that, since they had warned him they would be late, he had decided to go out and read in a café, as it was far too hot to remain at home.
Eire maintains that the café was empty, as was almost the entire square, and that he imagined the whole city must have gone off to the beach or to one of the countless thermal spas in the province, including the pigeons that usually wander between the Church of Santa Eufemia and the Cathedral, carrying back and forth all the news of this small provincial capital.
Eire maintains that he chose the best little table, beside the window, ordered a tea and there began Jane Rogoyska’s latest novel, Hotel Exile, published by Salamandra.
Eire maintains that he had chosen that book because it told the story of one of his favourite hotels in Paris, the Hotel Lutetia, that hotel which appears in so many period novels and where, although Eire had never managed to stay, given its lofty prices, he had at least managed to end up the previous week, drinking late into the night on one of those evenings when everything seemed worth celebrating.
Eire maintains that, by the time his tea had grown lukewarm, he noticed that one of the tall, empty stools at the bar had been occupied by a young woman who could not yet have reached thirty, with long dark hair and wearing a tight satin dress that ended well before her knees even began to come into view.
He found the little brunette —who wore with evident pride the fruits of many hours spent stretched out on a sun lounger— delicate and slender, and although he could not yet see her face, he imagined it must be pretty, if only to match her attractive legs.
Eire maintains that he returned to his book, but that when he took another sip of tea, the young woman from Ourense had turned sideways on her high stool; the waiter she had been talking to had lost interest in her and, out of boredom, she was lightly swinging her legs with a charming ease, playing with her sandals and making them tap against the heels of her delicate feet.
It was as though she were kicking an imaginary beach ball through the air.
And it was precisely then that he finally saw her face.
Eire maintains that at that moment he remembered Milan Kundera’s Immortality; its opening, and how a coquettish gesture made by a woman at a swimming pool in Paris surprises and captivates the author so completely that, from that single gesture, he decides to construct an imaginary character, Agnes, and around Agnes an entire novel.
Eire maintains that he himself began to construct an imaginary character, but that a powerful voice within reminded him of the fortunes and misfortunes his escapades had already cost him in this life, and so he decided to return to his reading.
Eire maintains that, when he finished his tea, the beach ball was still there, floating back and forth through the air and endangering so many hours of painstaking work by the Venetian craftsmen.
And now there were also two pieces of smoky quartz which, furtively, from time to time sent their reflections in his direction.
Eire maintains that he then began to hear another voice, one asking him how he might make himself known to her, and to which an unexpected tribulation prevented him from finding an answer.
Eire maintains that he mentally reviewed his recent reading in search of some idea, some trick or some excuse with which to introduce himself with dignity, but he felt as though he had never read anything on the subject in his entire life; as though that moment were unique, something no one had ever written about before or, if someone had, the relevant treatise must surely have been kept on the forbidden shelves, among those books the Index reserved for the occult.
Eire maintains that, with great sorrow and no little effort, he was forced to admit that he had only one battle plan, and that it was a very bad one; it seemed more likely to have been conceived by a quartermaster sergeant than by a colonel, but he had no other.
Eire maintains that the strategy consisted of approaching the bar and ordering a drink, any drink, or better still a cocktail, something that would take a good while to prepare and provide him with a reasonable excuse to remain in that area, close to the playing field of that particular ball.
Once there, he would have only to allow the sphere to turn into a soap bubble and eventually burst on the tip of his nose, something that would surely happen if that was truly the siren’s desire.
And if the ball failed to transform itself into a coloured soap bubble directed towards his person, he could always withdraw with dignity and return, once again, to getting drunk on the terrace of the Hotel Lutetia.
Eire maintains that he did not even manage to reach the bar to place his order, for he had scarcely begun the journey when a woman’s arms were already around his neck and he found himself receiving a kiss. And, coming from him, the statement must be accepted as true, for it is not in his nature to depart from the truth, not even for charitable reasons and still less for the sake of personal glorification.
Eire maintains that the person who greeted him so affectionately was not the siren but his sister, who had just entered the café accompanied by his nephews, and that, after the initial warm greetings, they all returned to his table to order coffees and soft drinks, respectable and orderly choices, for which reason Eire abandoned his plan to order any sort of mixed drink and confined himself to asking for a very cold lemonade.
Eire maintains that his sister was carrying a novel in a bag, one her husband had just given her; that he asked to see it and discovered it was by Tabucchi; that, after praising it, he explained to his nephews that the first chapter of that novel was among the finest things written in modern literature and that, in case they never got around to opening the book themselves, he would proceed, without further circumlocution, to read it aloud to them.
Eire maintains that his voice, naturally loud and sonorous, resounded throughout the café, which, as has already been said, was empty, and that halfway through the reading the siren approached their group, or rather one side of it. There she remained for several long moments, rearranging the artificial folds that her dress drew across her hips; she pretended to look through the glass towards the deserted square and, shortly before he reached the end of his reading, said aloud that she was leaving, that the place was dead and that she was heading to another bar.
Which one? Alas! Eire maintains that he could not hear it, for his own narration prevented him from catching such divine words.
Eire maintains that, when he finished reading the final paragraph —and there was very little left— he caught sight of her once more, walking away across the square, and that he believes those final words, although formally addressed to the waiter, must in fact have been intended for him, because when he looked up he was able to confirm that there was no one at the bar.
Or at least that is what Pereira maintains.
Sorry, Eire.
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