Tango for “Irma la douce”

Here she was
upset by the fingering of gossips   
                                                  and by alarm clocks
Here she was much too sad at the end
her open hands under her neck and her dishevelled hair
                                         wild as the fibres on a coconut
looking all around her uncomplicated and admiring
“you sure look like a writer” she says to me
very softly in the darkness of a room with its bottle of gin   
                                                                      stereo
and plastic flowers of all colours
There they were and you couldn’t miss them   
                    of course it was
Sosa Beny Moré Gardel
the classics of tango and bolero
                                                  and the others
the same old Mozart and Beethoven
in sum all that one has learned to feel
and that really does seem
the only truly neat
                                        fitting way
to avoid the brutality of events
I felt distant trying
                                                   falsely
to cheer up the tired blood in my veins
and she wide-bodied almost covering the bed
                                        performing superbly
with what you could call her beauty
                                                   that is to say “her truth”
something made of heat power and strength
                                                   an overflowing
like a white mare with her hind legs
                                                           wide open
so that they become silver and begin to shine
in a glimmer of lights
                                                             unstable
a slit of light through the venetian blind
which goes up her legs and makes her body
                                                    as pale as avena        
and everything everything losing certainty and eternity
as if the light were really inventing
a new reality
The night was already over
she put a hand on my face and said “I am a tired woman”
her look so sweet that I felt myself go soft
                                                           without any squabbling
I wanted to move on and push up the blind
to let in the frankness of the day
                                                   the sadness all around
to break the mirage the deceptive magic spell
“why do you talk so my kitten those are the things
                                          that neurotic intellectual women say”
“I know but believe me I’m being completely serious”
and then as the most natural thing in the world
“I know that the error is in myself”
                                                she calls her life “error”
and she tells me about her musician husband
                                                                   a mafioso
sucking on his trumpet as if it were marijuana
until dawn
“no it’s not fun at all to be alone every night believe me”
and she went on talking and putting her TV-model bra and black
                                                         /suspenders
and saying “it’s outrageous” and “it’s stupid”
as if answering a known question
                                                    an inquisition in code
“yes I think this way is better”
                                                                           she adds
“no troubles or telephone numbers or love letters or anything”
“I like change, I like a free life”
                                                                             I say to her
“I have an absolute horror of possessions
and now you know my name and where I live so that we’re beginning
                                                                           to tie the knots
so that everything begins to end”
And I invent for her a so-so story
                                                 deeply provincial
or literature considered to be a perfect alibi
she didn’t cry or laugh
                                             she looked gloomily
in front of her as if there was a blank space there
it was obvious she didn’t know anything about Iago or Othello or
                                                                                    “Chéspier”
not even about Maupassant
and this ignorance led her to her childhood
                                                                 softly
“The world is like this” I sum up
                                       as if I were already going far away
in a gentle and cold manner
and I end with a sudden “people . . .”
that’s the vague imprecise word
                                      with which I have suddenly
decreed her end
Outside in the quivering light
the closed houses covered by a frozen vapour
                                                                     a blind
that opens like an eyelid only to be closed again
I try to touch once more
her scented navel her little tits squashed covered up
                                                              by a barrier
of buttons and tassles
trying to invent a  gesture an attitude a word
to dissolve in an amiable casual manner
                                                 this longlonglong sadness
                                                        like a blocked-up well
the enchantment broken
But one has to go one must not wait too long
she hid behind her dark glasses
                                                    tall distant already going
with that smell of rue-and-salt under the armpits of her sweater
and her living flesh tense under the skin
                                                    with love . . .
“Call me whenever you want to” she said as a farewell
Above the trees with leaves of silken down
a flag-blue sky began . . .

Tango for “Irma la Douce”

Tango for “Irma la Douce”

Aquí estuvo
sacudida por el manoseo las habladurías
                                                           y los despertadores
Aquí estuvo demasiado triste en el final
Las palmas bajo la nuca y el pelo desparramado
                                                agreste como barba de coco
mirándolo todo con simpleza y admiración
“cómo se ve que tú eres escritor” me dice
a mediavoz en la tiniebla de una cuarto con ginebra
                                                                              estéreo
y flores de plástico de todos los colores
Allí figuraban y no podían faltar
                                               claro está
Sosa Beny Moré Gardel
los clásicos del tango y del bolero
                                                                 y los otros
los Mozart y los Beethoven de siempre
en fin todo eso que uno no ha aprendido a sentir
pero que sí parece
lo único verdaderamente pulcro
                                               adecuado
para evadir la brutalidad de los sucesos
Yo estaba lejano tratando de animar
                                                                falazmente
la cansada sangre en las venas
y ella ancha casi tapando la cama
                                              funcionando soberbiamente
con lo que se podría llamar su belleza
                                                                  o sea su verdad
una cosa hecha de calor-poder-y-fuerza
                                                             un desbordamiento
como una yegua blanca con sus patas traseras
                                                                      bien abiertas
que se vuelven plateadas y empiezan a brillar
en un cabrilleo de luces
                                                                            inestable
una rendija de luz en la persiana
que sube por sus piernas e impone a su cuerpo
                                                            una lividez de avena
y todo todo perdiendo la certeza y la eternidad
como si la luz estuviera de veras inventando
una forma nueva
Ya la noche se había acabado
ella puso su mano en mi cara y dijo “soy una mujer cansada”
tan grata su mirada que me sentí ablandado
                                                                             sin luchas
quise adelantarme empujar la persiana
admitir la franqueza del día
                                                                    la circunstristeza
romper el espejismo el sortilegio engañoso
“por qué hablas así gatita esas son las cosas que dicen
                                                     las intelectuales neuróticas”
“lo sé pero créeme que hablo completamente en serio”
Y luego como la cosa más natural del mundo
“sé que el error está en mí misma”
                                                          llama “error” a su vida
y me contó de su marido músico
                                                                                  mafioso
chupando la trompeta como si fuera marihuana
hasta la madrugada
“no no es un programa estar sola todas las noches no creas”
y continuó hablando y vistiéndose un sostén modelo televisión y un liguero
                                                                                                        /negro
y diciendo que “qué barbaridad” y que “qué tontería”
como respuesta a una pregunta conocida
                                                              a una inquisición cifrada
“si creo que así es lo mejor”
                                                                                     agrega
“no hay complicaciones ni números de teléfonos ni cartas
                                                                          de amor ni nada”
“me gustan la vida libre y el cambio”
                                                                                         le digo
“le tengo un horror sagrado a las posesiones
y ahora ya sabes mi nombre y donde vivo para que se empiecen
                                                                        a amarrar los nudos
para que todo se empiece a terminar”
Y le invento una historia mediocre
                                               profundamente provinciana
o de la literatura considerada commo la coartada perfecta
ella no lloró ni se rió
                                                                  miró melancólicamente
frente a sí como si hubiera un vacío
evidentemente no conocía a Yago ni a Otelo ni a
                                                                    “Chéspier”
y ni siquiera a Maupassant
y esta ignorancia la conducía hacia la niñez
                                                                       dulcemente
“El mundo es así” concluyo
                                  como si ya me estuviese yendo lejos
de un modo gentil y frío
y termino con un instantáneo “la gente . . . ”
es la vaga indecisa palabra
                                                               en la que he decretado
de pronto su fin
Afuera en la tiembla luz
las casas cerradas envueltas en un vapor esmerilado
                                                                              un postigo
que se abre como un párpado y que luego se cierra
intento tocar de nuevo
su ombligo oloroso sus teticas apretadas forradas
                                                                     bajo un dique
de botones y flecos
tratando de inventar el gesto la actitud la palabra
que diluya en un aire amable casual
                                                  la tristeza largalargalarga
                                                                     de pozo ciego
el encantamiento muerto
Pero hay que irse no podemos esperar demasiado
se cubrió de vidrios oscuros
                                             alta lejana ya yéndose
con su olor ruda-y-sal bajo las axilas del suéter
con su carne viva templada bajo la piel
                                                                        con el amor . . .
“Llámame cuando quieras” me dijo a modo de despedida
Sobre los árboles con hojas de pelusa plateada
comenzaba un cielo azul-bandera . . .