Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [66]
I was surprised one afternoon when I returned from El Retiro to see mail sticking out of the mailbox I almost never checked; it was a flyer for the panel. My nervousness was compounded by how serious it looked, including photos of the foundation’s guests: Javier Torres, a novelist and book critic for El País, whose headshot made him look like a presidential candidate; Elena López Portillo, professor of literature at UCM, who looked distinguished, gray headed in front of her bookcases; Teresa Solano, translator, poet, visual artist, and curator, who was pictured squinting and smoking and engaged in conversation; and Francesc Balda, a thirty-something Catalan novelist and political journalist, handsome, also smoking, facing the camera, shaved head. Two fellows working in relevant fields would join the panel, the flyer said. I stood there looking at Teresa’s picture for a long time, letting it sink in. I had not mentioned the panel to her because I was afraid she would insist on attending, but that didn’t explain why she hadn’t mentioned it to me; I saw her almost every day. I felt her inclusion was an act of aggression, an attack on me from María José, who wanted to humiliate me in front of Teresa; Teresa wanted to humiliate me in front of the foundation. I was furious and felt betrayed, but I was also disconcerted to discover, to be discovering so late, that Teresa had a reputation that could justify her presence in such company; according to the internet, Balda and Torres were famous, López Portillo was the world’s leading authority on several Spanish poets, and then there was Teresa; why hadn’t I ever Googled her before? She wasn’t famous, but she had a forthcoming book of poems, her translations from Catalan and French had appeared in the major periodicals, and she had won various prizes for emerging writers. Visual artist? I knew she had published translations, but I didn’t know about the forthcoming book; we had never exchanged a word about her poetry, and it somehow never occurred to me to be curious about her standing in the literary circles, whatever they were.
When I finished reading about Teresa, I set out immediately for her apartment, a thirty- or forty-minute walk from Huertas. When I had returned from Barcelona, I had feared the worst, that Teresa was through with me, and for the first couple of days I could not find her at her apartment or the gallery. Finally she came by my apartment with new drafts of her translations; she betrayed no anger or irritation or newly established distance. Now that it was heating up, she was wearing a tank top and I could see her dark shoulders and the back I’d wept down. I apologized again for getting lost and told her how embarrassing the whole thing was. She said she had been worried and irritated but insisted, largely with her smile, that it was no big deal. When she asked me what poet I met up with, I gave her a name I had found on the internet and was relieved when she said she’d never heard of him. I said it was an awkward, boring conversation, and that I wished I’d returned with her. In fact I had awoken early and taken the first train back to Madrid. From that time on I saw Teresa almost every afternoon and often spent the night at her apartment; while we continued to kiss and fool around,