Read Online Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter by Mario Vargas Llosa - Free Book Online

his skinny wrist and murmured: “After an hour and a half of production, I deserve time out for refreshment.” As we walked over to the Bransa, I asked him if he always began work that early in the morning, and he replied that in his case, unlike that of other “creators,” inspiration was directly proportional to daylight.
    “It dawns with the sun and gradually grows warmer along with it,” he explained, musically, as a drowsy waiter swept the sawdust littered with cigarette butts and the refuse of the Bransa out from under our feet. “I begin to write at first light. By noon, my brain is a blazing torch. Then the fire dies down little by little, and around about dusk I stop, inasmuch as only embers remain. But it doesn’t matter, since the actor produces more in the afternoon and at night. I have my system all carefully plotted out.”
    He delivered himself of this peroration in utter seriousness, and I realized that he scarcely seemed to notice that I was still there; he was one of those men who have no need of conversational partners: all they require is listeners. Like the first time we’d met, I was taken aback by his total lack of humor, despite the puppetlike smiles—lips turning up at the corners, brow wrinkling, teeth suddenly bared—with which he embellished his monologue. His every word was uttered with extraordinary solemnity, all of which—along with his perfect diction, his dwarflike stature, his bizarre attire, and his theatrical gestures—made him appear to be an odd sort indeed. It was obvious that he took everything he said to be the gospel truth, and he thus gave the impression of being at once the most affected and the most sincere man in the world. I did my best to bring him down from the artistic heights on which he was holding forth so grandiloquently to the more earthly plane of practical matters, and asked him if he had found a place to live yet, if he had friends here, how he liked Lima. Such mundane considerations were of no interest to him whatsoever. Impatiently breaking off his flight of eloquence, he replied that he had found an “atelier” not far from Radio Central, on Quilca, and that he felt at home wherever he found himself, for wasn’t the entire world the artist’s homeland? Instead of coffee, he ordered a lemon verbena-and-mint herb tea, which, he informed me, not only was pleasing to the palate but also “toned up one’s mind.” He downed it in short, symmetrical sips, as though he had calculated the precise intervals at which to raise the cup to his lips, and the moment he’d finished it, he rose to his feet, insisted on splitting the check, and asked me to go with him to buy a map showing the streets and districts of Lima. We found what he wanted at an outdoor newsstand along the Jirón de la Unión. He unfolded the map, held it up to the light, studied it, and was pleased to note that the various districts of the city were marked off in different colors. He also asked for a receipt for the twenty soles the map had cost him.
    “It’s something I need for my work and my employers should reimburse me,” he declared, as we walked back to our respective offices. His walk was also quite odd: quick, nervous strides, as though he were afraid he’d miss a train.
    As we bade each other goodbye at the entrance to Radio Central, he gestured in the direction of his cramped little cubbyhole of an office as though he were proudly showing off a palace. “It’s practically right out in the middle of the street,” he said, pleased with himself and with things in general. “It’s as if I were working out on the sidewalk.”
    “Won’t all the noise of so many people and cars passing by distract you?” I ventured to ask.
    “On the contrary,” he reassured me, delighted at the chance to offer me one last edifying maxim: “I write about life, and the impact of reality is crucial to my work.”
    As I turned to leave, he waggled his forefinger to call me back. Pointing to