Manual of Painting and Calligraphy (21 page)

C
ARMO CAME TO
visit me. However, before writing about his visit and our conversation, which will reveal little about me and a great deal about him, I feel it might be useful to turn back to the last pages, much too contrived for my taste, having foolishly allowed myself to indulge in virtuosity, which contradicts the firm rule I established to narrate the facts and nothing more. On earlier pages there might be other infractions of this rule, but they are minimal and stem from the author’s incompetence rather than from any deliberate contrivance. That these last pages might be deliberately intricate I cannot swear, but it is clear that at some point I became fascinated by word games, playing my violin on a single string and using extravagant gestures to compensate for the absence and elimination of any other sounds. I recognize, notwithstanding this self-criticism, that there is something ingenious about “one part of me is asleep, the other writing.” This is only a tiny and by no means risky somersault in terms of style, but I am pleased with the result.

Artifice has its merits: by means of artifice I was able to simulate the dream, to dream it, to live the situation and witness all this, while remembering things from the past with the expression of someone pretending to be asleep, who speaks in order to be heard while calculating the effect of what he is saying. I now see it as an expedient which gets me out of two lengthy explanations: how my parents managed to avoid having to rent out rooms, prospered somewhat and sent me to art school, and how I came to get married, the reasons for my marriage and its eventual breakdown. These are obviously chapters of my story. But are they really necessary? Art school did not make me a painter, nor marriage and fatherhood (something I omitted to mention) make me any different. It is not the external facts which are important but those seen from within, the dead bird, the hard smack and many other facts, all of them external but having already passed inside. If that was artifice, I can justify it and by pursuing it make it legitimate, if not for the sake of truth, for the sake of verisimilitude. I should make it clear, however, that those last pages were written when I was wide awake, and anything described there about dreams is not simply one dream confined to one night but the loose fragments of recurring dreams, some invariably repeated and, for present purposes, deliberately organized here into coherent incoherence. I know a fair amount about painting and now know enough about calligraphy to perceive (and try to put into practice) that the expression of incoherence demands a great deal of organization. I am speaking of expression, not simply about revealing oneself.

Carmo came to visit me. He turned up after dinner. He had startled me when he rang up to say he was coming, I had become so unused to hearing the telephone ring. From the tone of his voice I could tell he had something to confide. My suspicions were soon confirmed. Being someone’s friend is not easy. What I am trying to say is that we never really know to what extent we are genuinely someone’s friend. My friendship with Carmo was casual and relaxed. People meet once or twice, chat, perhaps confide in each other, become a little more intimate, then find they have become friends, are surprised they did not become friends sooner and take it for granted they will be friends forevermore. This was the kind of friendship I had with Carmo: not much to it. That we are any closer now I cannot be sure, but there is undoubtedly a qualitative difference (a nice adjective) in this sameness, even though the friendship may not last long, even though it may only have existed in order to exist no more.

Carmo arrived at my flat in a terrible state. He sat down wearily and sounded utterly dejected. It was inevitable: Sandra had given him his marching orders. At first, hoping to comfort him, I thought of telling him that here, too, things had been going badly. But I remained silent, aware that Carmo would find it difficult to bear the contrast between my serenity and his despair. Or, worse still for me, I would have to keep up this pretense of sharing his despondency. This promised to be quite an evening: two grown-up men, one of them well past his prime (forgive me, Carmo, but it happens to be true), weeping to the background music provided by Lalande’s
De Profundis,
cursing all the daughters of Eve and swearing that never again will he fall into their clutches. I simply gave him to understand that my relationship with Adelina had soured, so that Carmo could have a consoling foretaste of my own imminent separation. We must not despise people because of their weaknesses; no one feels healthier than when comforting the sick, no one stronger than when confronted by a weakling, no one more intelligent than when speaking to an idiot. From this moment onward Carmo began to calm down.

But things got off to a bad start. No sooner did I open the door than he collapsed dramatically into my arms, weeping his heart out. I pushed him toward the divan, poured him a drink and asked him, “Now then, what’s all this?” Bronzed by the sun, Carmo looked as if he were wearing a mask. I have never been one for summers by the seaside, for lolling about on the beach under a blazing sun. I reckoned Sandra must have worn him out: Sandra sunning herself on the beach, Sandra in the nightclub, Sandra in bed, and an exhausted Carmo pleading mercy for his weak heart and tired penis. I was guessing, but my guess proved to be right. “I’ve had enough, old chap.” This was Carmo. “It’s finished between me and Sandra.” Now then, my friend, why so proud, what is this “me and Sandra,” this “It’s finished,” when you’re the one who’s finished, perhaps for a short while, perhaps for longer, perhaps forever. This is what I was thinking as Carmo told me in his own words how he had managed to win over Sandra, her interest (interest? sheer lust). How good Carmo felt as he relived his moments of glory, erotic feats he refrained from describing in detail but hinted at, imploring me with his eyes to believe him, not to doubt him, smile ironically or, worse still, mock him. Nothing could have been further from my thoughts. Any man who has experienced life knows that middle age (and old age even more so) recompenses any loss of sexual vigor with experience in the art of making love. Why should things be different for Carmo? One need only consider the passion young girls in the flower of youth (in shade and sun) show to the point of indecency for older men who could easily be taken for their uncles or fathers. “It doesn’t surprise me,” I told him gravely. “Just think of Chaplin. Oona O’Neill was much, much younger, yet they fell in love. Lots of children, no fewer than nine of them.” Carmo became suspicious, or at least looked suspicious, but my words did him some good. And he delivered a solemn declaration: “No one could have been happier than we were.” He downed half the whisky as if he were drinking water and began brooding, his elbow resting on one knee, his fist to his forehead, his lips moist with drink as he sat there slouching in his usual manner. “But tell me, how did you two come to quarrel?” Carmo awkwardly raised his head: “There was no quarrel—we simply parted. Can’t you understand? It’s all over. Everything is over between us. Everything.” And, as one might have expected, Carmo broke down at this point. I tactfully left him on his own, passed quietly into the kitchen, washed my hands to give him time to pull himself together, then rejoined him in the room. Looking more composed, my aging friend was removing (painful, I concede) one last tear from the corner of his eye. His glass was empty. I poured him another whisky, then sat on the floor, resting my back against the divan. From there I could get a better view of my chaste Saint Antony with his sheepish expression of someone who is at a loss for something to do, once having lost his halo, book and Child Jesus. “Tell me all about it.” “Things couldn’t have been going better. The sea air was doing me good, I loved the dancing and felt as fit as a fiddle. I hadn’t felt so well in years.” Carmo felt what he had not felt in a long time, the resurgence of youth when one no longer expects it. I understand only too well, my friend. “I understand. And then?” “Then? What do you want me to say? Naturally, I began feeling weary, but didn’t let it worry me. The hardest thing of all was that during those last few days she began to sulk, to look at me resentfully. One evening she had clearly made up her mind to pick a quarrel and refused to accompany me to a nightclub. We spent the evening in the hotel. It was all very disagreeable. She sulked in silence. I was at a loss for words. At one point she got to her feet abruptly and, without waiting for a reply, announced she was going out to buy some cigarettes and left. I followed her out into the corridor, but I was wearing my slippers, I did not want to call after her or cause any embarrassing scenes. She returned at three in the morning in a state of great excitement. Of course I was awake and unable to get to sleep. She told me she had been walking on the beach all alone. I believed her. What else could I do? Next morning we were no sooner out of bed than she began packing her bags and told me she was going back to Lisbon. That I could stay if I wanted to. Naturally, I didn’t stay, what was there to stay for? We traveled back in the car, with me trying to make conversation, to force some explanation out of her, but it was hopeless. When she dropped me at the door I invited her in to talk things over, but she refused.” Carmo stopped speaking, took another sip and sighed, then resumed his silence. “And then?” I asked. “Well, I was already on the pavement when I looked back, waiting to see what would happen, and suddenly she leaned out of the car window and told me it would be best to end our affair once and for all. As far as she was concerned we were finished and there was no point in my insisting. I felt stunned. She drove off while I just stood there like a fool, not knowing where I was. You can’t imagine the state I was in when I got indoors. I tried ringing her number several times but there was no answer. Either she was still out or she did not wish to speak to me. That was three days ago. Yesterday I managed to catch her on the telephone and she began joking, telling me to put everything behind me, that we had had some good times together, but these things happen and there was no reason why we should not still be friends, and so on and so forth. You know what she’s like. The same old humbug.” The situation was clear and had been clear from the very beginning: another of Sandra’s little whims, another of Carmo’s little dreams fulfilled. Doomed from the outset, the dream would only last the duration of Sandra’s whim. Why was Carmo complaining? “And now? What do you want me to do?” “I don’t know, old chap. I can’t bear it. I feel like doing away with myself.” “Don’t talk nonsense, you’ll do no such thing. You know very well what Sandra is like.” Flying into a rage, Carmo interrupted: “I won’t allow you to say anything against her. You probably fancied her yourself and got nowhere.” “I’ve already told you to stop being an ass. I’ve never fancied her or shown the slightest interest. I was only trying to help you.” Carmo suddenly felt ashamed. “Forgive me, I’m afraid I lost my head and one thing leads to another.” He rattled the ice in his glass, took two quick gulps and, averting his eyes, said, “You could do something for me. Ring her, say you’re concerned, tell her you found me a bit low, that I took you into my confidence. You could telephone her right away, while I’m still here.” “But Carmo, it won’t do any good. I know Sandra and so do you. Once she has made up her mind there’s nothing to be done.” “I’m asking you a favor. Please help me.”

Carmo made this request with awesome simplicity, his tearful eyes staring at me with the expression of someone who is about to drown and knows it. At that moment I felt our friendship was worthwhile and sincere and I wanted it to continue. I got up, went to the telephone in the bedroom, looked up the number in my diary and dialed. I had heard Carmo follow me and I was aware he was lingering there in the doorway, clutching his glass with both hands, looking nervous and miserable. Poor Carmo! My heart went out to him, and I fleetingly asked myself why Carmo’s misfortunes should be so upsetting when my own situation left me unmoved. “Is that you, Sandra?” Carmo made no attempt to move closer. “Hello there. How are you? You never call me but I recognized your voice at once.” “How are things?” “Fine. Couldn’t be better. And what about you? Is Adelina still away?” “Yes, she is. And have you been on holiday yourself?” “I’m back, as you can see.” “I ran into Carmo yesterday.” “Oh.” “He told me you had broken up. He seemed very depressed.” “You men dramatize everything. What’s past is past. Okay, we slept together. But it’s over and done with. What a bore.” “I didn’t mean to annoy you. I only rang because I’m worried about Carmo.” “He’s not the only one to have suffered. Aren’t you concerned about me?” “Of course I’m concerned. But it’s Carmo who’s feeling depressed, not you.” “Mark my words, he’ll get over it. Men always do.” “I suppose you’re right.” “Did he ask you to ring me?” “Not exactly.” “I see—in other words, he did.” “Well, goodbye for now.” “Are you hanging up? Just when I wanted to have a chat.” “Some other time—I have one or two things to attend to.” “Don’t worry, I’m not going to seduce you. Although I might have a go one of these days. You’re such a pet.” “Good night, Sandra.” “Back to your painting, then, off you go.”

Carmo had drawn nearer without my noticing. He looked disheartened. “Did I hear the word ‘bore’?” All of a sudden I felt my patience running out. A man with the perfect desert, so effectively depopulated, so well and truly deserted, and now this. I nodded affirmatively and walked through the studio. Carmo came after me like a bull (God help me). I turned on him: “Will you never learn? I did warn you. There’s nothing to be done.” Carmo emptied his glass with a gulp, whisky dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grunted: “Slut, whore.” I drew away and told him, “Your behavior is disgraceful. A few minutes ago you were weeping your heart out. And tell me, was Sandra already a slut and whore when you went to bed with her? Or only after you slept together?”

The attack was brutal but produced results. Carmo sat down slowly, lit a cigarette (he usually smokes a cigar; cigarettes are reserved for moments of crisis, in private and at work) and said nothing more about Sandra. I went around the studio giving the impression that I was trying to tidy up the place and put my paints in order, wondering whether I should put these things in writing or pretend they had never happened. Carmo got up, excused himself and went into the other room. He returned, peeved but tranquil. I observed that he had washed his face and combed down the little hair he had left. The worst had passed.