Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [55]
“Did you vote?” I asked him.
“I don’t vote,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in it,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I won’t participate in a corrupt system,” he said. He said it like he’d said it many times that day.
“Does Teresa vote?” I wondered.
“Yes,” he said, but it sounded like he wasn’t sure.
“And Carlos?” I asked, as if I knew all about Carlos.
“Carlos is a Marxist,” Arturo said, picking up one of the volumes of Tolstoy and flipping through it.
“A Marxist,” I repeated. “How long have you known Carlos?” It occurred to me that I didn’t know if there was an active Communist party in Spain.
“Forever,” he said, still looking at the book. “But Carlos votes.”
I don’t know why I was surprised: “Really?”
“Yes, but he votes for the wrong side on purpose,” he explained.
“He votes for the PP,” I exclaimed in disbelief.
“He votes to exacerbate the system’s contradictions,” is what I guessed Arturo said.
“That fucker,” I said in English. Arturo looked up at me. “He votes to make things worse,” I confirmed in Spanish.
“Yes,” he said, and repeated the thing about contradictions as though he’d said it many times that day. “Carlos wants a revolution.”
“What kind of revolution?” I asked, making no effort to contain my disdain.
“Don’t worry about Carlos,” he said, smiling again. “Teresa doesn’t love him.”
“I’m not worried,” I lied. “He should vote for the Socialists,” I said.
“Carlos doesn’t believe in socialism,” Arturo said. “If the Socialists win, we’re having a big party at Rafa’s. If the PP wins, there will be more protests. Maybe riots. Teresa wanted me to tell you, and to say that you should come with us.”
I thought about saying I was busy, but said, “O.K.”
“We’ll pick you up at nine either way,” he said. And, as he stood to leave, “If you’re going to stay in Spain, you should get a phone.” I wondered what he meant by “stay.”
The Socialists won. The American media were furious, claiming the Spanish had been intimidated by terrorism. Outside I heard people cheering. A little before ten the buzzer rang and I went downstairs and Teresa was there. She kissed me on the lips and I felt in love with her. We walked together to the car, where Arturo was waiting. It took us a long time to get beyond the city. Arturo talked to Teresa the whole drive, something about how Pedro Almodóvar had said on TV that the PP was planning a coup, but I might have misunderstood. When we finally arrived at Rafa’s expansive house I asked how Rafa made his money. They laughed. I said I meant how did his family make its money. Teresa said something about banks. And your own family, I asked, tentatively. Arturo said they didn’t make it by writing poetry and we laughed. Then Teresa said she had told me already, didn’t I remember. I hesitated and said yes, I remember now. She might have told me the first night I met her. Or she might have told me at various points and I failed to understand her Spanish. Or she might have been lying about having told me. We went inside.
Beautiful people were there again, a few of whom I recognized from the gallery or Teresa’s apartment. Everything was a little changed, a little charged. For whatever reason I thought again of the photographs of Teresa’s distant family. I didn’t know how to compose my face, if indifference tinged with vague disdain was still the right expression. If I could have smiled Teresa’s inscrutable smile, I would have. One of the paintings was covered with black felt. It didn’t look like a covered painting from the nineteenth century; it looked like contemporary art. People were talking about politics, or everything seemed suddenly political.