Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [64]
“You went to the beach and you went to a museum,” she confirmed. It did sound outrageous.
“I went to the beach to think before looking for the hotel again.” I couldn’t remember the Spanish expressions for “clear my head” or “gather my thoughts.” “And I went to the museum because I thought you were maybe there.” It didn’t sound right. Of course she wouldn’t have gone to the museum. “I’m sorry,” I said. I wanted to defend myself but my Spanish was crumbling. Somehow switching to English would mean conceding everything.
“I have to go back to Madrid,” she said flatly.
“Why?” was all I could manage.
“I’m needed at the gallery,” she said. “The night train leaves in an hour or so. We should go to the station soon.”
I blinked at her. “I’m not going back yet,” I said to our mutual surprise.
She looked at me directly for the first time since I’d returned. “Why?”
“I might not be in Barcelona again and there is a poet here I want to see,” I lied. I did not want to stay without her, but I felt it would be humiliating to return with her now like a shamed child.
She stared at me. “O.K.,” she said eventually, making herself smile. “The hotel is paid for through tomorrow at five. I’ll see you in Madrid.” She kissed me quickly on both cheeks and left. She always left a room like someone who would be right back.
I took one of the longer showers of my project. I could not represent to myself the day I had passed; it was contentless and repetitious and thus formless; now, in the steam, it was fading. The exchange with Teresa had transpired with disorienting speed. I barely dried myself and lay down and smoked and was grateful to be too tired to ruminate for long. I thought of Levin sweating out his alienation in the fields. I thought of Picasso producing masterpieces in his sleep.
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In post–March 11 Madrid, there was a flurry of activity at the foundation; there were several panels with minor politicians and major professors and local journalists and one or two fellows about the bombings and their political effects. I never attended, but I skimmed the e–mails. When I got back from Barcelona, there was a message from one of María José’s assistants inviting me to join a panel about “literature now,” a panel that would involve another fellow and a few local writers and literary critics; I didn’t respond. I was still trying to formulate a way to excuse myself from the panel when, a few days after the first message, I received an e–mail from María José thanking me for agreeing to participate. The panel would be held in the foundation’s auditorium on such and such evening; she looked forward to seeing me.
My terror at the prospect of the panel dovetailed with my increasing anxiety regarding what I would do when I completed my research; there were only two months of the fellowship left. I was not a sufficiently published writer to apply for jobs teaching what was called “creative writing”; Cyrus was threatening to move into his parents’ basement in Topeka if things weren’t repaired with Jane; whatever appeal Brooklyn held was diminished by the work I’d have to do in order to subsist there; I was determined never to set foot in Providence again. I had intended to apply to PhD programs in literature, but I knew people who’d intended to do that for years; I’d never gotten beyond bookmarking a few university home pages. The idea of law school occurred to me repeatedly, involuntarily, often with a shudder. In order not to worry about the particulars of what I would do upon my return, I framed my decision as a choice between staying and going, as if that decision had to precede, was independent of, where in particular I would go and what, in either event, I would actually do. In the final phase of my research, as the days continued to lengthen and warm, I evaluated every meal, conversation, and walk in terms of whether or not it justified or invalidated staying on. I was at once more distant and more proximal to my own experience than ever before; on the one hand, my attention was redoubled: