Salvador is at the end of the line. A roman noir, really noir. A brilliant Argentinean, poet, ex-terrorist remembers some of his past as he tries to move forward, anguished and on the borderline. A tortured soul looks for a flower in the desert, and writes sonnets in his most lucid moments.
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El Drama
At war with the heavens the form’s intent.
Upon the dark-lit scene the comet’s fall
Etched on the player’s masks of mineral,
The chorus murmurs of occult portent.
Beneath flowing costumes the tare latent,
Red satin, purple silk, ethereal
Lures and perfumes, the myth corporeal,
Rites of passage abysmally silent.
Therein the anguish; a single victim
With brazen eyes and twisting hands would dare
The vision of future devastation.
Past wounded lips the rage of breath a whim,
A floral logic, a smothered nightmare,
A slow venom in the varnished fiction.
Excerpts from the Story
I don’t know why I am doing this; it seems senseless, standing here on the sidewalk; move back out of the light, lean against the building wall. There was a girl, sixteen, short black hair, dressed in black, short skirt and black tights, a little ring in her eyebrow and her little nose, heavy mascara and red lipstick, soft ripe body. The first thing she said was that her mother when looking at jewelry was always treated with distrust by the sales people. She shows off her large ruby ring but that doesn’t help; even the amulet with a large costly green stone from Africa. Her father’s girlfriend is conservative she says, long hair down her back.
Smell of gasoline and exhaust. Old cars and trucks with noisy motors, curtain tassels across the top of the windshield, statue or photo of Jesus on the dash. Occasional note of ranch music from a radio. A dull white Chevrolet pickup pulls up. These studs get out and start to unload it. The one closest to me has a long scar running down the back left side of his head, from a cut or burn, and long greasy black hair. They are arguing about what to take next. The other guy moves something and an old armchair slides and drops, which angers the first guy. There’s another armchair there and an old coffee table with a battered top. I start slowly walking. There are entrances to clubs, a man out front tempting clients. The sidewalk isn’t crowded yet; later it will be like Pigalle in Paris. Affiches of the strippers and dancing girls, Gloria, Barbara, Rosa, long black hair and fiery eyes, Indian blood and tanned skin, pale and white, negligee and garters in red and black. The man watches me look at the poster of Rosa.
“Hey man, her show starts in fifteen minutes.”
I look at him.
“She’s the best. You’ll like her.”
“Another night.” I move on. “See you later.”
It is like time has stopped here. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Escape to where you can.
They come here from towns, El Socorro, Soledad, San Felipe, San Lusito, desperately trading off the sun, starry sky and earthen floor. This place délabré, pale and dirty. Strip and swivel their hips, drag their sex across the stage, touching themselves; purse their lips, profile, eyes darting fire, dusty beauty, lust over emptiness; in their gestures the force of hunger, muscles contracting, controlled contortions, pulse of light, dancing for silver, cliquetis des bracelets, a piece of silk.
A hooker sees me, coming towards me. She is wearing a silver belt.
“Hello gringo.”
“Good evening, kitten.”
“You speak Spanish?”
“So it seems.”
“Oh.”
“Come closer, let me see you.”
“. . .”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen señor.”
“The girl is very pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“How much for the night?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Let me see if you are good.”
Bend over and kiss her. She kisses back. My hand goes up her skirt between her legs. She still kisses.
“I’ll give you twenty for the night.”
“Thirty.”
“I am poor.”
. . .
I wake in my room; thin walls letting in sounds around me, mid-morning light through the window. An image passes, a woman, passes; it’s a picture. . . a name, Rosa. I remember now the club and the affiche. Then a blank. Think back. Nothing. It is hard to say when something is missing. I think it started when I was coming to Los Angeles. I dreamt there was a remue-ménage in one of the streets, a large boulevard, people in cars, lined up like for a parade or waiting to cross the border. I felt almost like I was on some mission from school; at any rate I enter a black sedan somewhat down the line. Then I see these people like police at the front, and from behind another group comes, like they are looking for someone; the group coming from behind looks more menacing. Then they know and they come up to the car I am in and open the back doors. Their rifles are unshouldered and ready. I have put up my hands in fear. Then I turn around and see a dark man in a white shirt, like an official, and he gets out of the car and they take him away. Then as a denouement, sort of a way to wrap up the dream, I get out of the car and go to the group that was in front, like I was from them and I understand from one of them that I was lucky, that sometimes they keep them for hours or days as hostage.
. . .
Buy some books. In the room reading. Go out to eat, a taco, burrito. The noises of the street are fading; the light from the street lamps pulsates on the pavement, cars and passing figures; the sidewalk cement feels like a reef rasping the soles of my shoes; the walls of the buildings are like cliffs holding in the torrent of people like slaves fulfilling a plan. An old man, tanned, wrinkled face and silver hair appears before me: “This is the reality; you were living a dream. The air is thick with poison; look at these poor slobs, eyes red with fear and worry, mouths moving, gulping air, tortured, their arms flaying, backs twisted with the weight of years.” He waves his hand and his eyes take in the scene, “parasites, islands of rot and decay, oozing phlegm and bile. Try to remember.” His eyes pierce mine, he turns and walks away. Scratched the surface, the aesthetic patina. I say, you don’t know everything; memory is anguish, like sucking on an empty tit.
I dreamt I was undercover, like with the military. It is time for me to get out. It is late evening and dark; I am on the edge of this field, like part of a compound. I am trying to think how to get out, which way to go. Tomorrow early in the morning there is going to be some sort of pass, but then I would be on my own. I think about leaving now and imagine alternative routes. I think that out in the forest it would be nothing for them to shoot me, that I wouldn’t get very far; I think I need someone to come in to get me out, that I can’t do it on my own, but they can’t send anyone. Then a man is there, stocky and tough, a soldier, and he hands me a heavy automatic pistol; I weigh it in my hand. We are talking; he is concerned about my leaving the next morning; after that it would be too late, but he doesn’t think it would be safe. I know him and he still has business to take care of which is perhaps why I hadn’t considered his help. He says how about we do it now, how do you feel about going for a drive now. I say, like we take the car now? Yes, I could probably get you further towards safety than otherwise. I understand like to town or almost, and I think again about going into the forest.
I’m with two women, like we have been out on the town; now we are in this room, maybe five meters square. One leaves, she won’t stay, like my girlfriend. She goes out the door. The other says she wants to smoke a joint. Now it’s like she hasn’t left and she is smoking a joint, sitting on this couch. It seems like another woman is there or maybe it is just me. I have a really intense need to make love, and the woman is smoking this joint, and then she’s leaving. I say don’t leave. She has taken off her blouse and I go over to her.
. . .
I break away from the police and start running. My sister is doing a job, a robbery, down the road about a mile. I am talking to someone as I am breaking away and running and they are telling me where it is, saying not a big job. I understand a restaurant or donut shop, then finally understand a blue restaurant that I see down the road on the right, sky blue with a tall steep roof. I keep running. The police are busy with a diversion and right now I seem to be in an alley. I look back and my sister is back there and she is running after me, like she had helped me escape. Then she has caught up with me and we will be clear.
. . .
While buying mangoes at the market my vision crosses that of a woman.
Long black hair, pale white skin.
Our vision meets on some middle ground.
Black sun setting into molten earth.
No end to the darkest night.
Insides twist and burn like whipped flames.
The rustle of dead leaves in the wind,
singed, dry and dusty air.
Lips, painted carmine, of raw flesh.
Crimson depths. The eyes are naked black windows, fierce weapons.
I take a short acrid breath;
She turns and disappears.
Emptiness, a whispered name,
Rosa, Rosalyn, Renata, forgotten
as the wave of reality engulfs me again, clanking of carts and the hawker’s screams, chants of a thousand voices.
. . .