Santiago Gamboa - Necropolis

I turned my attention to the garden and, right at the end, beyond a stone wall, the image of some distant buildings reminded me of what was happening outside. In all this time I had not heard any explosions, but I assumed that even in wars people do not shoot all the time. I went to one of the balconies and looked at the city — the cube-like sandstone houses, the acacias and jacarandas, the wall, the minarets, the sky filled with crescent moons and towers — through the evening mist.

On the other side of the garden, between the bushes, I saw José Maturana. He was waving his arms in the middle of a group of people. It stuck me that it was going to be very difficult for the next speaker. I noticed that Marta was also watching him and thought: now there’s a good subject for her newspaper. I told her that and she asked, do you think it’s all true? I don’t see any reason to doubt it, it’s a story that may seem unusual to us, but in Miami, in those neighborhoods that are like a jungle, it may be the most normal thing in the world, a life like any other. She studied him for a few moments and said, there’s something about the way he moves that confuses me, but I still don’t know what it is; as I listened to him I had the feeling it must all been have a dream, but I don’t know, don’t pay any attention to me. I looked again, but Maturana had already gone. Don’t you think his scars and tattoos are real? the proof of his story is on his body. . Marta had already stopped listening to me, she was now taking notes, with great concentration, so I went back to the garden in search of dragonflies and robins.

It was getting toward evening and the delegates were chatting and laughing, some drinking coffee, and others already warming their engines with white wine or beer. I caught the fact that the round table Tendencies in Autofictional Narrative , chaired by the Congolese Theophilus Obenga, professor at the Sorbonne, had been a great success. I saw him on the way to the bar and heard him say: “Life is above all a narrative, the truths of reality create very clear links of language, which are then stored in the memory and are transformed into experience.” I looked for José Maturana again, but he was not there. Marta, holding a cup of coffee, said to me: I have to get straight down to writing but I don’t want to miss dinner, they say there’ll be a few words by the honorary president of the ICBM, would it disturb you if I work in your room? Of course not, it’s Room 1109, here’s the key.

When I was alone, I looked around the throng and spotted Supervielle, so I went up to him and asked him about the afternoon’s debate. It was really good, friend, weren’t you there? I said no and he started to tell me about it: you know, there’s a sentence in Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground , which says: “Man is a fickle creature of doubtful reputation, and perhaps, like a chess player, he is more interested in the process of reaching his objective than in the objective itself,” I don’t know if you remember it. . I shook my head and Supervielle continued: that’s what we were discussing, my friend, that simple yet profound way of reading experience, what drives a person to make one decision and not another at a specific moment? to get off a train, get on a boat, cross the street? What there is at the end of a life is irrelevant, it isn’t the result that makes a life exceptional, but the path trodden, am I being excessively obscure? There are great lives that don’t get anywhere, but what does it matter? That’s not a paradox. I’m reminded of a text by a twelfth-century Persian poet, The Conference of the Birds, I assume you don’t know it? I did know it, but I preferred not to contradict him. Anyway, it’s all about Simorgh, King of the Birds; everyone’s looking for him, everyone would like to find him because they believe that when they do they will be better and happier. A group of birds decides to leave for the mountain where the king has his home. They meet with many obstacles along the way and many turn back or die; only a group of thirty noble birds reaches the summit where Simorgh lives, but when they get there they realize that the throne is empty, the King of the Birds doesn’t live there but within each one of them, he has their face, his soul is that of a bird wearied by flight, the flight of a bird searching for Simorgh. The story I’m going to tell in my talk is about chess and that kind of life, that’s why I don’t want to go deeper into this, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, I assume you’ll be there? Of course, Monsieur Supervielle, it will be an honor.

I drank two more coffees as I walked up and down the corridors, hoping that José Maturana would appear, I wanted to congratulate him on his story that morning, about which, of course, I had already made a few notes. To tell the truth, it had overwhelmed me.

Not meeting anybody, I realized I was in one of those pockets of time that are typical of conferences, moments when nothing is happening, so I decided to go up to my room to rest and see what Marta was doing. I knocked at the door several times but nobody opened. Had she left? was she asleep? I asked the cleaner to open it for me. Just as I was about to lie down on the bed, I heard the bathroom door open and Marta came out, stark naked, wrapped in nothing but a cloud of steam. She had a nice body, with smooth white skin, pear-shaped breasts, a shaved pubic area, and a piercing in her vagina, a silver ring through one of her labia.

I thought you’d gone, I said, I knocked but you didn’t hear me, wait a minute, I’ll go out so you can get dressed in peace. Marta walked past me and bent over her heaped clothes. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me if you see me, does it bother you? I shook my head. She sat down and lit a cigarette. I asked her about the article, have you written it yet? No, she replied, to tell the truth, I only had a few notes, and I don’t know what it was, but they suddenly seemed empty and meaningless, or rather: they didn’t have the force I think a true story should have.

She took the towel from her hair and went and hung it on the handle of the bathroom door. Her breasts bobbed up and down as she passed me and I found myself with an erection, which I managed to conceal. From the bathroom she said, and what do you think about this war? I did not reply immediately, not sure of what to say, but she went straight on: or are you one of those pacifists? So I said: it’s just one more war, although it could well be a metaphor for all wars, the frustration, the discord, the hatred, the separation; but that’s just words, whereas bullets are quite real, they pierce the skin and damage organs, they puncture and maim. The most absurd wars are those that aren’t even of any benefit to those who win them, although that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when it’s necessary to fight them. Even knowing full well that nobody will win. There’s a perverse logic, a human destiny, that leads to war, and individuals can do nothing to stop it.

As I said this, I recalled images I had seen of the bombing of a church in Colombia with shrapnel-filled gas cylinders, a bombing carried out by the guerillas; I saw the mutilated bodies, the ground soaked with blood, the kind of thing that has been happening for centuries, although you never get used to it; I suddenly found it hard to breathe, and my eyes filled with tears, I was falling into one of those hypersensitive states all too common in convalescents, so I said, I’m sorry, but she came to me and said, cry as much as you want, there’s nothing more touching than a man crying; naked as she still was, she embraced me. I was afraid she would become aware of my erection, which was still there, but she did not seem to notice it, only hugged me tighter. One of my tears dripped onto her shoulder, trickled down her back and lodged between her marmoreal buttocks. The scene was like a Pietà, and was interrupted by some cries coming from the corridor; I thought at first that it was my neighbors, embroiled in another argument, but it was not them; these cries were more urgent and desperate, so I broke free of Marta and ran to the door.