whom painfully I live."
So suddenly there we were, the three of us, sunk in timid or sullen silence, and María Font wouldn't even look at Pancho and me, although sometimes I looked at her or the watercolor (or to be more precise, stole glances at her and the watercolor), and Pancho Rodríguez, who seemed completely unaffected by María's hostility or her father's, was looking at the books, whistling a song that as far as I could tell had nothing to do with what Billie Holiday was singing, until at last Angélica appeared, and then I understood Pancho (he was one of the men who wanted to deflower Angélica!), and I almost understood Mr. Font, although to be honest, virginity doesn't mean much to me. (I'm a virgin myself, after all, unless Brígida's fellatio
interrupta
is considered a deflowering. But is that making love with a woman? Wouldn't I have had to simultaneously lick her pussy to say that we'd actually made love? To stop being a virgin, does it only count if a man sticks his dick into a woman's vagina, not her mouth, her ass, or her armpit? To say that I've really made love, do I have to have ejaculated? It's all so complicated.)
But as I was saying, Angélica appeared, and to judge by the way she greeted Pancho, it was clear (to me at least) that he had some romantic possibilities with the prize-winning poet. As soon as he introduced me, I was ignored again.
The two of them set up a screen that divided the room in two, and then they sat on the bed and I could hear them whispering to each other.
I went over to María and said a few things about how good her watercolor was. She didn't even look up. I tried another tactic: I talked about visceral realism and Ulises Lima and Arturo Belano. I also analyzed (intrepidly: the whispers on the other side of the screen were making me more and more nervous) the watercolor before me as a visceral realist work. María Font looked at me for the first time and smiled:
"I don't give a shit about the visceral realists."
"But I thought you were part of the group. The movement, I mean."
"Are you kidding? Maybe if they'd chosen a less disgusting name… I'm a vegetarian. Anything to do with viscera makes me sick."
"What would you have called it?"
"Oh, I don't know. The Mexican Section of Surrealists, maybe."
"I think there already is a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca. Anyway, what we're trying to do is create a movement on a Latin American scale."
"On a Latin American scale? Please."
"Well, that's what we want in the long term, if I understand it correctly."
"Who
are
you, anyway?"
"I'm a friend of Lima and Belano."
"So why haven't I ever seen you around here?"
"I only met them a little while ago…"
"You're the kid from Álamo's workshop, aren't you?"
I turned red, although really I don't know why. I admitted that we had met there.
"So there's already a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca," said María thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go live in Cuernavaca."
"I read about it in the
Excelsior
. It's some old men who paint. A group of tourists, I think."
"Leonora Carrington lives in Cuernavaca," said María. "You're not talking about her, are you?"
"Um, no," I said. I have no idea who Leonora Carrington is.
Then we heard a moan. It wasn't a moan of pleasure, I could tell that right away, but a moan of pain. It occurred to me then that it had been a while since we heard anything from behind the screen.
"Are you all right, Angélica?" said María.
"Of course I'm all right. Go take a walk please, and take that guy with you," responded the muffled voice of Angélica Font.
In a gesture of annoyance and boredom, María threw her paintbrushes onto the floor. From the paint marks on the tiles, I could tell that it wasn't the first time her sister had requested a little privacy.
"Come with me."
I followed her to a secluded corner of the courtyard, beside a high wall covered in vines, where there was a table and five metal chairs.
"Do you think
So suddenly there we were, the three of us, sunk in timid or sullen silence, and María Font wouldn't even look at Pancho and me, although sometimes I looked at her or the watercolor (or to be more precise, stole glances at her and the watercolor), and Pancho Rodríguez, who seemed completely unaffected by María's hostility or her father's, was looking at the books, whistling a song that as far as I could tell had nothing to do with what Billie Holiday was singing, until at last Angélica appeared, and then I understood Pancho (he was one of the men who wanted to deflower Angélica!), and I almost understood Mr. Font, although to be honest, virginity doesn't mean much to me. (I'm a virgin myself, after all, unless Brígida's fellatio
interrupta
is considered a deflowering. But is that making love with a woman? Wouldn't I have had to simultaneously lick her pussy to say that we'd actually made love? To stop being a virgin, does it only count if a man sticks his dick into a woman's vagina, not her mouth, her ass, or her armpit? To say that I've really made love, do I have to have ejaculated? It's all so complicated.)
But as I was saying, Angélica appeared, and to judge by the way she greeted Pancho, it was clear (to me at least) that he had some romantic possibilities with the prize-winning poet. As soon as he introduced me, I was ignored again.
The two of them set up a screen that divided the room in two, and then they sat on the bed and I could hear them whispering to each other.
I went over to María and said a few things about how good her watercolor was. She didn't even look up. I tried another tactic: I talked about visceral realism and Ulises Lima and Arturo Belano. I also analyzed (intrepidly: the whispers on the other side of the screen were making me more and more nervous) the watercolor before me as a visceral realist work. María Font looked at me for the first time and smiled:
"I don't give a shit about the visceral realists."
"But I thought you were part of the group. The movement, I mean."
"Are you kidding? Maybe if they'd chosen a less disgusting name… I'm a vegetarian. Anything to do with viscera makes me sick."
"What would you have called it?"
"Oh, I don't know. The Mexican Section of Surrealists, maybe."
"I think there already is a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca. Anyway, what we're trying to do is create a movement on a Latin American scale."
"On a Latin American scale? Please."
"Well, that's what we want in the long term, if I understand it correctly."
"Who
are
you, anyway?"
"I'm a friend of Lima and Belano."
"So why haven't I ever seen you around here?"
"I only met them a little while ago…"
"You're the kid from Álamo's workshop, aren't you?"
I turned red, although really I don't know why. I admitted that we had met there.
"So there's already a Mexican Section of Surrealists in Cuernavaca," said María thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go live in Cuernavaca."
"I read about it in the
Excelsior
. It's some old men who paint. A group of tourists, I think."
"Leonora Carrington lives in Cuernavaca," said María. "You're not talking about her, are you?"
"Um, no," I said. I have no idea who Leonora Carrington is.
Then we heard a moan. It wasn't a moan of pleasure, I could tell that right away, but a moan of pain. It occurred to me then that it had been a while since we heard anything from behind the screen.
"Are you all right, Angélica?" said María.
"Of course I'm all right. Go take a walk please, and take that guy with you," responded the muffled voice of Angélica Font.
In a gesture of annoyance and boredom, María threw her paintbrushes onto the floor. From the paint marks on the tiles, I could tell that it wasn't the first time her sister had requested a little privacy.
"Come with me."
I followed her to a secluded corner of the courtyard, beside a high wall covered in vines, where there was a table and five metal chairs.
"Do you think
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