21 years have passed since Siri Hustvedt’s stay in Barcelona when, invited by the Institution of Catalan Letters, she lived on one of the floors of the Casa de les Lletres, next to the Post Office. There he was trying to make progress on a new literary work, although it must not have been easy to concentrate. Her husband, Paul Auster, and her daughter, Sophie, took advantage of the opportunity to come and see her and share, from time to time, the 60 square meters of that fifth floor named Carlos Barral which in the middle of the tar summer fiery wasn’t exactly cool. Then there were all those interview requests to which the American writer graciously agreed, even if it was to talk about myths and legends, or especially to talk about them.
On each of those occasions there was a risk that the long shadow of the charming intellectual with a penetrating gaze would steal the limelight from him. Because at that time, Auster was quite an idol in Barcelona while she – who, if we must be frank, seemed much more interesting – had yet to make her own place on the essay and fiction shelves.
It was best that he didn’t show up. You had to take advantage of visiting Granada or any other place on the Peninsula to make an appointment with Hustvedt. And yet, pam!, Auster would suddenly appear and stare and half-smile at the reporter expecting a fan reaction, or at least one of bewilderment… because it was obvious which of the two would matter more to the newspaper.
The author of El palau de la luna seemed to be amused by the situation. “Hello, how is it going? I like his face, I photographed him in his studio in Brooklyn a few years ago”, I managed to say jokingly. At that moment, Hustvedt took her handbag and, with good judgement, proposed to go down to the bar to continue the interview. The image of Auster leaning against the narrow-eyed banister of the staircase watching us both walk away without inviting him to participate was that of the alpha male who has been bitten and who deep down refuses not to be irresistible
Ugh, no one expected full feminism to be a simple practice in life, but it’s hard to imagine a journalistically painful moment like the one in which it was necessary to choose between Paul and Siri.
