TE22 Potpourri

Manuel Baixauli

UNKNOWN

“ Chapeau !”

“More than once.”

“And?”

“Choose three.”

“They’re interesting.”

“You choose. They all work.”

“That’s not saying anything.”

Crisòstom took a big sip of wine.

“What do you want me to say?”

“You know why I like them?” he said. “They’re not obvious. I detest obviousness.” “I decided that the drawings shouldn’t be at the service of the text, but rather complement it.”

“That they’re shit.”

“I don’t believe that. They’re well-written, the style is very personal.” “ Interesting, personal . All you need to say next is evocative . Are you a literary critic?” “I’mmerely a reader, but I know the difference between strong and weak prose.” “You asked for three illustrations, one per article. I made five, so you can choose.” We moved the tea and wine to one edge of the table, I pulled out the drawings from the portfolio. Crisòstom looked at them carefully, one by one. 94 “Don’t butter me up. Show me what you brought.”

“We are in agreement on that.”

Crisòstom lifted his glass of wine and I my cup of tea and we toasted. He emptied his, I burnt the tip of my tongue. Half an hour later, after I had paid the check—he made no attempttostopme—wegotupandwalkedalong thepromenade toward the center of town. Crisòstom took me by the arm to keep his balance, and I had the impression that his instability was not only a consequence of the wine, but also a feebleness integral to his body. He told me that he lived in a penthouse apartment of a nine- story building, the tallest one in town, from which he looked out at the sea from every window. 95