An Ana Cristina César poem

Postscript

I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy blue picture postcards.
In a minute I'll hand out some beautiful glossy postcards.
This is the leather suitcase that keeps the famous collection.
Look at my hands, empty.
My pockets are also empty.
My hat is also empty. Look.
Nothing up my sleeves.
I'll show you my back, I turn around.
As all of you can see, there's no illusionism here,
no cheating behind your backs, no tricky games with light.
The suitcase rests on the chair here.
I open the suitcase with this master key in ceremonies of this type, if you forgive the joke.
The first thing we find in the suitcase, on top of everything else, is—guess—a pair of gloves.
Here they are.
Suede.
Fancy stuff.
I put them on—left hand… right hand…
a perfect fit.
This reminds me of…
A young artist wandering astray by himself in the elegant Berlin of the Belle Époque who in vain is looking for pleasure. A noisy group of skaters go by, and a woman in white lets her glove drop, a glove with six padded buttons, white, long, perfumed.
The young man runs, grabs the glove, but can't decide whether he should accept the challenge or not. In the end he decides to ignore it, puts the glove in his pocket and returns to his hotel walking down dimly lit streets.
But I'm drifting from the purpose of this evening.
If there's time left I'll let you know the end of this fantastic story in which even Neptune 's chariot, a gigantic grinning bat that always flees, and an ocean of foliage appear.
Who's to say that this isn't that same glove?
Yet we don't have only one here, but a pair; it is delicate and in sharp contrast with the black suit.
Does the leather suitcase keep any toiletries?
No, my friends.
As all of you can see now as I slightly rotate the chair where it rests, the suitcase contains nothing but paper… postcards… dozens, maybe even hundreds of postcards.
Strange suitcase!
And now, pay attention.
With my gloved hands—one moment, let me button one… now the other… gingerly… this is no scam… I adjust the cuffs, like this…—now, with these hands, at random, I take the first postcard, I contemplate it for a second under the light… there's a reflection… but I see here a drowned girl under the rush… I'm handing out the first postcard, please pass it around… second postcard: the Avenida Atlântica… pass it around… a Cadillac in Acapulco … Carmen… the Pompidou Center … a church in Alabama … a castle seen from the Orient… two cupids wearing sunglasses… the jewelry thief and the duchess… and this one here is Fred Astaire in Lady Be Good , or he won't make art, honey… nostalgic… and a Marilyn, and here the beach in Clacton with bingo and fish and chips… Air France 's Boeing… streetcars going up the hills of San Francisco … a polar bear in the Barcelona zoo… Salome… London … another Salome… pass them around, pass them around.
Dear friends, this is a suitcase, not a hat full of rabbits.
We have enough postcards to last all night.
Alexandria … Beirut … Prague … Be Mysterious... A picture by Paul… Gaugin, followed by What's the matter, you're jealous?
A naughty question in a sly tone, just like that, sunbathing at the beach.
And others of museums over here:
The eye like a strange balloon rising up to infinity;
On the horizon, the angel of certitudes, and in the somber sky, a questioning gaze;
Lady in despair;
The blood of Medusa;
The evil mothers;
I close the door on myself;
The kiss;
Another kiss;
Jealousy again;
and now the real Wuthering Heights,
followed by a curious sports race,
some pornography, and a godfather named Cicero.
Dear friends, I have no idea where this is going.
I'm passing these postcards around quickly.
Notice these pockets attached with an elastic band, oh I almost forgot to say that you can and should turn them around to check whether any words are scribbled there, take this one for instance “When might we have an esquisite time again?”, exquisite with an s, or this one here, “Post 6, where I spent my childhood and adolescence, how has it changed!”, or this other one, listen, “I'm still trying to send you a piece of where I am but it's always missing.” And another with tiny letters: “I've calmed down, I distracted myself, I don't think as much, penso a te.”
I think the end is in Italian.
Go on reading, go on, the most part might be blank.
Excuse me.
I have to go but I'll be right back.
I've got something in my eye, a little speck: when I return I'll keep pulling out postcards from the bag, and who knows, when the time comes, I might tell you the end of that true story, but before I leave I should take off my glove, leave it here on the back of the chair.