Home Life Style 'Time of silence', by Luis Martín-Santos

'Time of silence', by Luis Martín-Santos

December 21, 2023

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I look through the binocular with hatred. The blue light illuminates the preparation again and the immobile mitosis, coagulated by formalin, has all the appearance of voracity. “Don’t go, Amador, I’m not done yet.” “Well.” “You have an obligation to be with me or any other investigator until we leave, until the investigation is concluded.” “Well.” “Don’t believe that nonsense about the legal day.” “No sir.” “Do I work a legal day?” “No sir.” “I’m still looking for mitosis.” “Oh.” “Until I can’t take it anymore.” “Hey,” I say. “Say,” he says. “Let’s see if you can tell Muecas to bring his mice and I’ll see if they’re the same ones and maybe I’ll buy them from him or maybe I’ll report him for theft.” “They are the fetén.” “Well, let him come, and soon.” “Will not come.” “Because?” «Because of the theft report; The Deputy Director fired him before. It’s not the first time. Before they were cats. When they put the wires in their heads and they forgot and he went and sold them again, until when they went to put the wires in they found the old ones all rusty. Of course, mitosis is worse, because they die no matter what you do. But cats endure like beasts, even if they get nervous. They bit Muecas and the daughter’s eye almost popped out. But they endure.” “Well, tell him to come.” “Will not come. El Mediodoble believes that he went to the Americas. If he sees it again, he sinks it. “He never comes since he said he had emigrated.” “And how did he take my mice then?” «No, if I gave the couple to them. Well of course. And if not, how would I know they were the Feten? “Oh.” «Besides, there were many then. They died like rats every day. That’s when the polyvinazo dogs were so brilliant.” «I would tip you, Don Óscar.» “Well of course.” “Hey,” I say. “Say,” he says. «We will go to his shack tomorrow.» “How happy he will be.”

There are cities so crazy, so lacking in historical substance, so brought and carried by arbitrary rulers, so capriciously built in deserts, so sparsely populated by a graspable continuity of families, so far from a sea or a river, so ostentatious in the distribution of their diminished poverty, so favored by a splendid sky that makes them forget almost all their defects, so naively content with themselves in the manner of fifteen-year-old girls, so comprehensively acquired for the prestige of a dynasty, so endowed with treasures – on the other hand — that those not achieved in their time can be forgotten, so projected without passion but with concupiscence towards the future, so detached from an authentic nobility, so populated by a selfish people, so heroic at times without knowing for sure why but in an elemental and physical way like that of the young peasant who jumps across the river, so intoxicated with themselves although in truth the liquor with which they are drunk has nothing intoxicating, so unsuspected in other times arrogant over foreign capitals endowed with of two cathedrals and several major collegiate churches and several enchanted palaces – at least one enchanted palace for each century -, so incapable of speaking their language with the straight, plain intonation that the towns located to the north two hundred kilometers from it give it, so surprised by the arrival of a gold that can turn into stone but perhaps turns into carriages and trunks of horses with golden trim on a black background, so lacking in an authentic Jewish quarter, so full of serious men when they are important and nice when they are important. They are not important, so turned away from all nature – at least until the electric train and the chairlift were invented elsewhere -, so agitated by ecclesiastical courts with relaxation to the secular arm, so little visited by authentic individuals of the race. Nordic, so abundant in clumsy theologians and lacking in excellent mystics, so full of ditties and authors of comedies of manners, of comedies of entanglement, of comedies of cloak and dagger, of café comedies, of comedies of point of honor, of cute cover-up comedies, low-brow comedies, French salon comedies, cafe comedies not comedy dell’arte, so flaunted by double-decker buses that emit smoke, the blacker the better, on sidewalks where people in raincoats go the days of cold sun, which do not have a cathedral.

It is necessary, before these cities, to suspend judgment until one day, until suddenly – or perhaps little by little although this is hardly credible – a thing takes shape that we guess is present and that we do not see, until that crawling substance now on the ground it solidifies, until those who now laugh sadly learn to look face to face at a mediocre destiny and leave the large round or elliptical constructions of reinforced concrete empty to retreat into the narrow privacy of their homes.

Until that day arrives, with the trial suspended, we will limit ourselves to entering the dark taverns where a stuffed bull’s head with glass eyes appears above the bottles, to strolling until very early in the morning along the Calle del Nuncio or the Ball where you stumble upon the severed roots of what could have been a completely different city, to contemplate in a large square the naive roll of the soldiers on Sundays while the birds commit suicide one by one in the great empty belly of the horse, to follow the hasty steps as if going somewhere of a small and nervous woman at night, to hug drunks who resign from reality, to contemplate the graceful posture of a guard when a woman who is taller than him passes by, to ask a taxi driver with yellow cat eyes how it is possible to make a scam in a clothing store, to frequent a nightclub until the giant doorman in the green uniform knows us and lets us pass without entry, making an affectionate face at us , to spend the entire afternoon in a cafeteria without the waitress smiling at us once, to pretend to drink and drink little, to pretend to talk and not say anything, to pretend to go to the movies by going to the bedroom pension with its red quilt, to visit the museum of paintings with an English girl and realize that we do not know where any of the paintings she knows are except the Meninas, to invent a new literary style and to propagate it for several nights in a café until it becomes completely confused, to start friendships that will not accompany us to the grave and loves that will not last us until the night, to visit a student dance where the ladies enter for free, to calculate how many lighter stones a dwarf sells on a corner, to discover how many tickets for the subway does a woman sell with a breast-fed child on a winter morning, to guess what the economic law is that allows the match girls to sell the cigarettes one by one and with the product sufficiently feed their lovers, to think what it would be the crazy idea that drove all the blind people out into the street even on those days when the snow falls hard and at night only those who were going to the premiere have gone out, to try to imagine how—My God—how this whole town lived in which they themselves They say—they will know why—that they were the years of hunger.

In this way we will be able to understand that a man is the image of a city and a city is the inverted insides of a man, that a man finds in his city not only his determination as a person and his reason for being, but also the multiple impediments and the invincible obstacles that prevent him from becoming, that a man and a city have relations that cannot be explained by the people whom the man loves, nor by the people whom the man makes suffer, nor by the people whom the man exploits bustling around him, putting pieces of food in his mouth, spreading pieces of cloth over his body, placing leather artifacts around his feet, sliding professional caresses over his skin, mixing refined drinks before his eyes. behind the shiny bar of a counter. We will also be able to understand that the city thinks with its brain of a thousand heads distributed in a thousand bodies although united by the same will to power thanks to which the sellers of tap firecrackers, the thugs at the back doors of the convents, the profiteers of the generous whoredom , the entrepreneurs of merry-go-rounds without an electric motor, the bullfighters who are solemnly hired for the capeas of the towns of the surrounding desert, the car guards, the ball boys of the clubs and the infinite shoe shiners are included in a radiant sphere, not Lecorbusier, but radiant by itself, without the need for architectural efforts, radiant by the brilliance of the sun and by the radiance of order so gracefully and harmoniously maintained that the number of common criminals continually decreases in its annual percentage according to the most reliable statistics, which the Man is never lost because that is what the city is for (so that man is never lost), that man can suffer or die but not get lost in this city, each of whose corners is a perfected waste collector, where man cannot get lost even if you want to because a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand pairs of eyes classify and arrange you, recognize and embrace you, identify and save you, allow you to find yourself when you thought you were most lost in your natural place: in prison, in the orphanage , in the police station, in the asylum, in the emergency operating room, that the man—here—is no longer from the town, that you no longer seem from the town, man, that anyone would say that you are from the town and that it would be better if you had never Come from the town because you’re like from the town, man.

Life can be hard but, sometimes, the townspeople have such tight flesh and how well they know how to walk or make gestures or laugh madly when nothing provokes laughter or shudder as if from voluptuousness, when the only thing that happens is that it does sunshine and the air is clean. That deceptive beauty of youth that seems to cover the existence of real problems, that grace of childhood, that turgidity of nineteen years, that possibility of the eyes shining when one has still endured misery and scarcity for only three or four decades. and effort, many times confuse and make it seem that everything that is truly very bad is not so bad. There is a beauty made of grace rather than beauty, made of agility and rapid movement, in which it may seem that it is only liveliness that is already beginning to be rapacity and in which the hypnotic fixity of the gaze may mistakenly be assumed to be more due. to the vigor of desire than to the scarcity of satisfaction.