Luis Chitarroni - The No Variations - Diary of an Unfinished Novel

I scanned her from head to foot (or hoof) and judged her well-endowed, despite her very angular features and aloof expression being under a thick layer of what looked to me like makeup removal cream. Two tightly braided blond pigtails fell across her naked, pallid shoulders. She had a distant though penetrating look, as if she were pointing a sword at a louring horizon. And her eyes seemed to communicate [directly] to my gut which forwarded the message to my brain.

— You seem a lot younger than the person Hugo described, and much less handsome. There, there, don’t be discouraged. I’m Bambi — she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

Then she slid into the large, medieval chair opposite mine and crossed her legs tightly, which made a loud, near-comic, and abrasive sound — which called to my mind Rita Renoir and Benny Hill. Then she took up a scone and began gnawing at it like a mouse with those perfectly formed, lipstick stained incisors. (Was there an urticant substance in that red lipstick? My left cheek was burning.)

— Our mission is simple — said Bambi — as you will soon discover. You mustn’t tell Hugo I told you. But everyone’s supposed to think you are the one who bought the horse and that I am your wife; that you are a Spanish gentleman — Mr. Rico — established in London, and that the horse is for your— our —daughter.

I said I knew nothing, not even who this Hugo was.

— Fortunately, he’s not aware of this, she said. For a Spaniard, your English isn’t bad, Mr. Rico …

I said I intended to improve it. But from the start, Bambi acted as judge of my every word and gesture. And although my opinion of her was to change completely [my presumptions about her were to change] in the course of our evening’s adventures, only now do I know (having not been fully aware of it then) that everything I said and did from the beginning onwards was said and done only to please her.

— We have to wait for Hope, who’ll be here soon. She’s going to take us where we need to go. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time to spare. You don’t mind waiting while I finish getting ready?

She took three or four steps towards the china cabinet, chose a small bottle, unscrewed the top, and extracted a small brush. Then she took three or four steps backwards, like a funambulist, watching her balance in her hoof-like shoes.

— You will be amazing, Mr….

I said my surname.

— Don’t worry about that. Just keep calling yourself “Mr. Rico” so we don’t get confused before the adversary.

I said that, for convenience, she should call me by my first name (which I repeated). And that there’s no need for the “Mr.”

— You must be patient with me. I’m not good with names. Now regarding St. Mawr, it may seem like an incredibly strange society to you. And since you’re ignorant of so many things, I presume you don’t know that it’s a totally non-profit, extremely permissive, heterodox society, and that although they meet in secret, the reasons they meet aren’t exactly simple: you see they love keeping secrets, Mr. Rico, and I’m not exactly the most tight-lipped of people. Quite the contrary, in fact: I’m the kind of person who likes to share them, to spread them far and wide … As a result, Mr. Rico, I attract a lot of attention, you know? So remember, the Society of St. Mawr is a permissive, heterodox, non-profit organization. I couldn’t be a member if this wasn’t the case.

There was a picture on the wall that was directly in [purposely put within] my line of sight: it depicted a little man standing with a crumpled figure resembling a dragon at his feet, looking out towards a kingdom on flames. Fleeing in the opposite direction, as if to avoid his gaze, as if to disdain his courageous triumph, was the aery silhouette of a fairy or princess. Behind her, a winged chariot — like in Marvell’s poem — seemed to be sweeping away her footprints as she fled, while a young child, a cherub, looked on in amazement.

I asked her about the risks.

— No risks, Mr. Rico. I promise. Hugo would warn us if there was any danger. We’ve been devilishly secretive, and moreover, deliciously perverse.

I asked her if she meant to say “perceptive.”

— I said perverse, Mr. Rico, and that’s what I meant. But at least you’re listening to what I’m saying.

She carefully passed the brush over the nail of her left ring finger. Then I feared she’d suggest we go to her room — for whatever reason, not necessarily sexual — where I’d have my suspicion confirmed that it was still kept as it was when she was a teenager, as if she — a grown woman — were reluctant to let go of her adolescent angst, her maudlin existential search for a self: something depicted all too often in contemporary cinema and literature, and symptomatic of a soulless age.

To break the silence and allay my fears, I sought sanctuary in a casual question: did she know any other Spanish people?

— Of course I do, many; and Latin Americans too. They are, as Hugo says, “my specialty.” I know quite a few words in Spanish, or en castellano —she mispronounced (which the italics should indicate without the need of a footnote) — but I couldn’t give an entire speech in the language, your language. You’d have to help me with that. I know “medianoche” and “destino” and “corazón” and “certeza.” And, let me see, I also know “la hostia,” “carajo,” “matador,” “después” … and the phrase “apaga y vamanos.” O yes, and “color quebrado, color quieto” … and let’s see, what else … did I say “después”? … And, by the way, I also know Triste’s parents’ names.

— It’s a pity my friend isn’t here. He’s an Argentine linguist, and he hates Spanish almost as much as you do …

— Ah, Argentines. After the Falklands War — the Maldives War, I mean — someone suggested I should “make friends with an Argentine.” And so I did. I even moved in with him. And we often visited the Tate Gallery and the British Museum. He knew everything about Turner and Constable, you know: in fact, he was one of those people who seem to know everything. Which reminds me of a compatriot of yours, Mr. Rico, from Barcelona: he was my best friend when I was living in Banyalbufar. He’s an architect and wanted …

I interrupted her to say I was from Valencia not Barcelona.

Then Mrs. Prothero entered to announce that Hope had arrived.

— Don’t worry about it, Hester: Hope’s always a little early. If she were ever on time, she wouldn’t be Hope.

And once Mrs. Prothero withdrew, Bambi continued addressing me as if she — Hester Prothero — was now overhearing our conversation:

— If she didn’t trust me, Mr. Rico, if she didn’t take words at face value, you and I wouldn’t be enjoying this intimate exchange in such a nice house. Well, it was nice until you arrived. Come, sit on my lap.

I already said that my desire was to please Bambi. I didn’t need any prompting. But when she slapped her thigh so hard it emitted a sound that made me start, I was ready to obey her every whim. Suddenly, I saw a mass of fur move towards her, and leap onto her lap. An eerie creature, it looked like something from another planet.

— Falina’s been my companion for years, Mr. Rico. I’ve never been able to manage without a companion, or a mascot, if you will. Falina’s an award-winning Cornish Rex, you know, and she’s very well-trained. Before her, I owned a little pug — since I like both cats and dogs — and before that, a Frost Point Siamese called Procol Harum.

So the trophies, medals, and rosettes all belonged to her pets. Animals: creatures of that other kingdom. I was so caught up with everything she said, it was like I was of sense and feeling dispossessed .