with a lie so good he’ll even have to doubt his own suspicions? Or doesn’t she care? Or does she think that she doesn’t have to cover things up? And why hasn’t she asked him what he’s been working on today? With every hour that goes by he sees more clearly that either he has to begin painting, without stopping, and with an energy that clearly he neither possesses nor desires to create, or when the day comes to hang the canvases, he won’t have a single one, and he will not be opening a single bottle of champagne at a single opening.
•
“You know what?” says Helena as they peel oranges. “I went to the theater with Hester yesterday, and we saw a show that was so good that even you, who claim not to like theater, and never want to go, even you . . . ”
He’s put off by the way she’s pulled Hester out the hat to let him know that she didn’t go with Hipòlita. It’s as if she were taking him for a fool. Heribert supposes that now Helena is waiting for him to say, “Hester? Weren’t you going out with Hipòlita?” And then she would say, “Hipòlita? No.” And then if he continues to question her, she will act surprised and say, “Did I say I was going with Hipòlita? I meant Hester.” Considering how clever Helena is, he can even foresee a more detailed ending, to make it more believable. “I always slip and mix up one name for another, and I say Hester when I mean Hipòlita or Hipòlita when I mean Hester. I do it all the time.” But Heribert has another idea: not to act surprised at all, and calmly to ask her, “Oh, what did you see?” If she doesn’t realize he’s caught her in a lie when he says this, at least she’ll be intrigued. Or does she think he’s forgotten the whole episode? Or believed the story? It’s no use calling Hester on some pretext and subjecting her to subtle questioning because she’ll have been tipped off that she is last night’s alibi. What outcome is he really interested in? Not knowing what to say, and not yet having said anything, he sets the knife and the peeled orange on the table, gets up from the chair, and says he’s going to the bathroom.
•
He lines up all the blank canvases he has in the studio and examines them. What if he showed just that: white canvases, without the slightest trace of a human hand? It’s been done. Minimalism. And anyway, if he signs them he will have placed a few strokes of his own. He could not sign them. Someone must have done that, too. Is there anything original left to do? Even halfheartedly filling up all the walls of an exhibition isn’t new. Do you really have to do something new? Why? What is more important, to be honest or to be original? Out of honesty, people often refused to be original. And out of honesty people often fall silent rather than open their mouths only to hear their own voices. Will he be able to tell when he opens his mouth and nothing interesting comes out?
Helena’s voice floats up to him:
“I’m leaving. See you later.”
It seems to him that, in the past, she would always tell him where she was going when she left, to the gallery or to do this or that, or to see this or that person. Or maybe she had never done anything of the sort, and now he just imagined she had. He hears the front door close. He puts on his jacket, and as he goes down the stairs he tries to calculate how many times he’s done that this year. On the table next to the door there are two brochures: one from Chevrolet and another from Ford.
This time he has no trouble spotting her. She’s standing in front of the windows of a shoe store. Heribert hangs back by a telephone booth and watches her out of the corner of his eye. There’s a drunk hanging onto a mailbox, and a girl (dressed like an old-fashioned secretary) is trying to mail a big stack of letters (and looking afraid that the drunk may attack her). The phone in the phone booth rings. Heribert looks at Helena, who’s still looking at shoes, but has gone on to
•
“You know what?” says Helena as they peel oranges. “I went to the theater with Hester yesterday, and we saw a show that was so good that even you, who claim not to like theater, and never want to go, even you . . . ”
He’s put off by the way she’s pulled Hester out the hat to let him know that she didn’t go with Hipòlita. It’s as if she were taking him for a fool. Heribert supposes that now Helena is waiting for him to say, “Hester? Weren’t you going out with Hipòlita?” And then she would say, “Hipòlita? No.” And then if he continues to question her, she will act surprised and say, “Did I say I was going with Hipòlita? I meant Hester.” Considering how clever Helena is, he can even foresee a more detailed ending, to make it more believable. “I always slip and mix up one name for another, and I say Hester when I mean Hipòlita or Hipòlita when I mean Hester. I do it all the time.” But Heribert has another idea: not to act surprised at all, and calmly to ask her, “Oh, what did you see?” If she doesn’t realize he’s caught her in a lie when he says this, at least she’ll be intrigued. Or does she think he’s forgotten the whole episode? Or believed the story? It’s no use calling Hester on some pretext and subjecting her to subtle questioning because she’ll have been tipped off that she is last night’s alibi. What outcome is he really interested in? Not knowing what to say, and not yet having said anything, he sets the knife and the peeled orange on the table, gets up from the chair, and says he’s going to the bathroom.
•
He lines up all the blank canvases he has in the studio and examines them. What if he showed just that: white canvases, without the slightest trace of a human hand? It’s been done. Minimalism. And anyway, if he signs them he will have placed a few strokes of his own. He could not sign them. Someone must have done that, too. Is there anything original left to do? Even halfheartedly filling up all the walls of an exhibition isn’t new. Do you really have to do something new? Why? What is more important, to be honest or to be original? Out of honesty, people often refused to be original. And out of honesty people often fall silent rather than open their mouths only to hear their own voices. Will he be able to tell when he opens his mouth and nothing interesting comes out?
Helena’s voice floats up to him:
“I’m leaving. See you later.”
It seems to him that, in the past, she would always tell him where she was going when she left, to the gallery or to do this or that, or to see this or that person. Or maybe she had never done anything of the sort, and now he just imagined she had. He hears the front door close. He puts on his jacket, and as he goes down the stairs he tries to calculate how many times he’s done that this year. On the table next to the door there are two brochures: one from Chevrolet and another from Ford.
This time he has no trouble spotting her. She’s standing in front of the windows of a shoe store. Heribert hangs back by a telephone booth and watches her out of the corner of his eye. There’s a drunk hanging onto a mailbox, and a girl (dressed like an old-fashioned secretary) is trying to mail a big stack of letters (and looking afraid that the drunk may attack her). The phone in the phone booth rings. Heribert looks at Helena, who’s still looking at shoes, but has gone on to
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