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Authors: Alberto Manguel
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named her after the heroine of Carmen Laforetâs
Nada
and, in Andrea, there was certainly something of that novelâs rebellious and sensual protagonist. Andrea herself was more into the literature of the New World, and when we first met I donât know if it was my appearance or my passport that seduced her.
Andrea was rather small, with straight, short hair and something of an angora rabbit about her. Her Arabic eyes looked out from behind blue-framed spectacles. At that time my sexuality was more eclectic than nowadays: youth is willing to try anything. I confess that I fell in love with her immediately, as one is attracted to an anonymous traveler on an escalatorâa face picked at random among those in the opposite line.
My friend: Iâve already told you that I met Bevilacqua sometime after moving to Madrid. Andrea and I must have been going out for a couple of months by then. I was not much older than her; Bevilacqua, as I mentioned before, was ten years older than me. He was elegant and slender; Iâve always been a bit flabby and scruffy. Age and poise won out. Andrea must have felt that Bevilacqua was endowed with more prestige and a better lineage. Itâs true that along with the habitual expression of a slaughtered ram, a swatch of gray hairs lent him an aristocratic look, giving him the appearance of one of those characters that girls of Andreaâs age (if they like Latin American literature) lap up from the likes of Bioy Casares or Carlos Fuentes. On top of her desk, which was tastelessly adorned with little tropical plants and toy animals, I once discovered a framed photograph of a twentysomething Bevilacqua, in a French beret, arms crossed and looking like a prophet whoâs expecting God knows what. In the face of such competition, I beat an honorable retreat. I believe that Bevilacqua never fully knew how generously I had yielded him my place.
Andrea began by introducing Bevilacqua into the small artistic circles which were starting to flourish in Madrid, in dark, smoky basements that hoped to imitate, after a fashion, the
vie bohème
of Saint-Germain-des-Prés some twenty years earlier. She introduced Bevilacqua to a way of dressing that would set him apart from the lugubrious masses, and given his horror of clothes shops, she started buying him tweed jackets and silk bow ties. Finally, she decided that Bevilacqua should move in with her. More or less forcibly, she took his few belongings to her flat in the Chueca district and even offered to pay any outstanding rent. Andrea divided her wardrobe in two, offering the more spacious part to Bevilacqua (even though she had ten times as many clothes), and in a corner of the room, she set up a little table so that he would have somewhere comfortable to string his colored-bean necklaces. Next to the toolbox, she discreetly placed a reading lamp, a ream of paper, and a portable Olivetti.
Since the first time Bevilacqua had been introduced to her, Andrea had resolved that this writer (never mind that he was a writer of
fotonovelas
) should take up his pen again. That was her mission: to rescue her beloved genius from a Bartleby-style indolence. Andrea believed fervently in the magnificent, resounding work that Bevilacqua, terrified of revealing it to the world, must surely be carrying in the depth of his soul. Andrea would be his midwife, his keeper, his tutor.
Vila-Matas assures me that in the case of nonwriting writers, someone usually pops up who refuses to accept this creative silence and tries to provoke an outburst of all that has not been expressed. Rather than admit that the writer exists precisely because of what he does
not
produce, this person sees in the absence of work a promise of great things to come. Andreaâs relationship with Bevilacqua confirms the masterâs thesis.
Months passed, however, and Bevilacqua did not write. He spent every night stringing beans. Every morning he set off for Calle Goya, where he
Nada
and, in Andrea, there was certainly something of that novelâs rebellious and sensual protagonist. Andrea herself was more into the literature of the New World, and when we first met I donât know if it was my appearance or my passport that seduced her.
Andrea was rather small, with straight, short hair and something of an angora rabbit about her. Her Arabic eyes looked out from behind blue-framed spectacles. At that time my sexuality was more eclectic than nowadays: youth is willing to try anything. I confess that I fell in love with her immediately, as one is attracted to an anonymous traveler on an escalatorâa face picked at random among those in the opposite line.
My friend: Iâve already told you that I met Bevilacqua sometime after moving to Madrid. Andrea and I must have been going out for a couple of months by then. I was not much older than her; Bevilacqua, as I mentioned before, was ten years older than me. He was elegant and slender; Iâve always been a bit flabby and scruffy. Age and poise won out. Andrea must have felt that Bevilacqua was endowed with more prestige and a better lineage. Itâs true that along with the habitual expression of a slaughtered ram, a swatch of gray hairs lent him an aristocratic look, giving him the appearance of one of those characters that girls of Andreaâs age (if they like Latin American literature) lap up from the likes of Bioy Casares or Carlos Fuentes. On top of her desk, which was tastelessly adorned with little tropical plants and toy animals, I once discovered a framed photograph of a twentysomething Bevilacqua, in a French beret, arms crossed and looking like a prophet whoâs expecting God knows what. In the face of such competition, I beat an honorable retreat. I believe that Bevilacqua never fully knew how generously I had yielded him my place.
Andrea began by introducing Bevilacqua into the small artistic circles which were starting to flourish in Madrid, in dark, smoky basements that hoped to imitate, after a fashion, the
vie bohème
of Saint-Germain-des-Prés some twenty years earlier. She introduced Bevilacqua to a way of dressing that would set him apart from the lugubrious masses, and given his horror of clothes shops, she started buying him tweed jackets and silk bow ties. Finally, she decided that Bevilacqua should move in with her. More or less forcibly, she took his few belongings to her flat in the Chueca district and even offered to pay any outstanding rent. Andrea divided her wardrobe in two, offering the more spacious part to Bevilacqua (even though she had ten times as many clothes), and in a corner of the room, she set up a little table so that he would have somewhere comfortable to string his colored-bean necklaces. Next to the toolbox, she discreetly placed a reading lamp, a ream of paper, and a portable Olivetti.
Since the first time Bevilacqua had been introduced to her, Andrea had resolved that this writer (never mind that he was a writer of
fotonovelas
) should take up his pen again. That was her mission: to rescue her beloved genius from a Bartleby-style indolence. Andrea believed fervently in the magnificent, resounding work that Bevilacqua, terrified of revealing it to the world, must surely be carrying in the depth of his soul. Andrea would be his midwife, his keeper, his tutor.
Vila-Matas assures me that in the case of nonwriting writers, someone usually pops up who refuses to accept this creative silence and tries to provoke an outburst of all that has not been expressed. Rather than admit that the writer exists precisely because of what he does
not
produce, this person sees in the absence of work a promise of great things to come. Andreaâs relationship with Bevilacqua confirms the masterâs thesis.
Months passed, however, and Bevilacqua did not write. He spent every night stringing beans. Every morning he set off for Calle Goya, where he
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