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

— Just because you know his ancestry doesn’t make you his owner, you jumped-up whore!

— Are you going to make a moral issue of it, Mary Poppins? I’m not the one who dedicates every day of her life to corrupting kids.

— Look at yourself. You’re a mess! Haven’t you heard of clothing?

— Haven’t you heard of a mirror? Or do you think looking at yourself means bowing your head whenever you see a reflective surface?

— Fucking Olympian slut among whores!

— Fucking bitch! Dowdy old cheesecloth-wearing Calvinist …

— Whore of Babylon! Fucker of multitudes!

— Miserable nun! So easily found out by a pathetic copyist, and now he’s going to ruin you …

To prevent the duel [between the two] going on [indefinitely], James once more intervened. But when he did, it seemed Christine was no longer our only opponent. Accompanying her was a short man with his fringe combed forward. Like Moe from the Three Stooges.

— Onanist altar boy …

— Let’s resolve this issue once and for all — said James.

— Doing so would require us to be reasonable. Lower the weapon, my dear — said the man with the fringe. Then he turned to address us—: Forgive poor Chrissie’s want of eloquence; she’s rarely well-spoken when she’s nervous … but within a society of which we’re all members …

— I’m sure he’s not a member — interrupted Christine, pointing at me—. I’ve never seen him before, Woodrow …

— He must be an invited guest, then — retorted Woodrow, before continuing his explanation. But he was interrupted again [by something unexpected]. Bambi leapt behind the sofa, and

NO. St. Mawr was by no means where she thought. Dragged on longer than expected.

Early

The Referent

Xochimilco Diary

[Her strict sonnet]

Sodomy / allegations

#???

Contre-rejet

A sonnet Nicasio challenged me to write ,

Not about me — a thing completely alien

A concept too remote to penetrate—

But about the things I see, the laws that govern

Outer spaces. The first law discourages

Me to love a man who only gives me bitter

Looks. But being full to rupture with desire

I let a trickle fall upon these pages .

For the small space between the gut and heart

Is like a city state whose frowning prince

Forbids desire’s polluting influence .

Yet, a silent blush [frown] is all he need impart

To silently renounce [confirm] the looks he gave ,

And I’ll write a different sonnet to my love .

Elena Siesta, Errands

Then include a proto-prologue / procto-prologue

XOCHIMILCO DIARY

Sunday, March 23, 1100 hours. Solstice, Xochimilco.

We should’ve arrived early for the celebrations, but Luini and Zi Benno didn’t want to. So we’ll have to wait until after one p.m. to witness the (second) Grand entrance of the Great Chihuahua of Xochimilco.

Aída and Hernán were waiting for us at the exit of the metro station. Then we took Hernán’s car (driven by Aída) to our destination. Some cajolery, talk of the festivities. And then: “This is something our rivals would never think of doing (Hernán knew we’d spent the previous evening at Sherman’s, Septimio Mir’s executor) because they’d say it’s … what’s the word they use over there?” We concluded the word they use is “vulgarian” (but we [three] neglect to add that we’d already suggested the same word to “his rivals” the previous night).

11.15. At the pier. Last minute doubts dispelled by Aída or Hernán. Exploring the boat, Luini was delighted to find a large table flanked by long benches. Then he thought he hit the jackpot when he saw that Hernán brought eighteen bottles of beer, five bottles of tequila, two of rum — apt, since we now comprised a naval crew — and [thrown in for good measure] a bottle of sangria.

[11.18. Rum, sodomy, and the lash , we cheered. We threatened.]

11. (20, see below). Beautiful, detailed notation by Aída on pulque and the agave plant. We all cracked open a beer, except Luini, who moved tentatively for the sangria. Once finished, he seized the bottle of tequila, and poured himself a reckless measure.

11. (23, prime numbers). Toast finished. Zi Benno (after yielding to his obsessive compulsion of applying lip balm to prevent his lips from cracking) steered the conversation towards topics of interest to him … “In what language did Traven write?” he asked. “German,” answered the room. Zi took a seat. “How weird,” said Luini, who held that B. Traven and Arthur Cravan were one and the same, and that he decided to remain a célibataire when he was in Mexico (the reason he never traveled to Buenos Aires to meet up with his betrothed, Mina Loy). No doubt Cravan became Traven in Mexico, and that it was Traven’s shadow we see cast over Marcel Duchamp’s journals.

Aída was put at ease by her husband’s comment (a comment she herself should have made): “But then, at some point, the bachelor must’ve emerged from the shadows. He has a legitimate daughter who looks after his estate in Mexico City.”

“Estate?” asked the room. He meant the author’s royalties and copyright.

11.28. After some idle talk by Luini, the day’s first nautical incident. Our boat was almost swept under the hull of a very large, very luxurious yacht (“when describing a boat, should I refer to the draft?” I’ll ask Captain Bonzo once I’m back in Buenos Aires). Its occupants (crew would be an exaggeration) hardly noticed the incident. In fact, they seemed to be getting on with having a good time. We signaled them to pass us by.

“What a bunch of shitheads!” said Luini [with his usual impertinence] after they were gone. “It wasn’t that big, no bigger than the billiards table inside. Speaking of which, let’s have a game.” “It’s a snooker table,” said Zi emphatically, the only time I’d heard him speak so emphatically, which caused my admiration for him to grow. “If it wasn’t that big,” interjected Hernán, “you wouldn’t have noticed that it nearly capsized us.”

11.33. Got back on track. Before long, finished first bottle of tequila (thanks mostly to Luini’s animal thirst). Hernán tried to recall last the time he played snooker. “It was in the Hirsute in San Diego, no … the Champlines, no, no … in the Venusón in Guadalajara!” We asked what that was. “Was? Is ” said Aída, who then proceeded to explain: “the largest and most densely populated brothel from Acapulco to Laredo, I’ll have you know. Tell them Hernán.” So Hernán continued the hyperbole. We seemed to be in Brazil, where I’m from, where everyone’s prone to exaggeration. “Not very often,” Hernán hastened to add [confess]. “But I used to go once in a while.”

11.40. Then Zi remembered that he was supposed to go see it the last time he was in Mexico. Not for pleasure, [he assured us] (none of us suspected otherwise), but because he was invited to the Guadalajara Book Fair and the Venusón wasn’t far from where he was staying. But while in Guadalajara, he also intended to pay a visit to a convent that apparently houses the best preserved mummies in the world, because the previous time he went, way back in 1985, when he was accompanied by a friend, Quatrocchi, a sinologist — whom he introduced to me one morning during their visit in the Colegio de México — he was in a rush and didn’t get a chance to go either to the Venusón or the convent …, so they planned to go last year …, because he thought that would be his last ever time in Mexico …, and once again forgot …, about both! Only when he was on the plane back to Buenos Aires, did he remember …