TE22 Potpourri

Manuel Baixauli

UNKNOWN

ALGHERO May, 1965. They were set to meet up at ten in the morning in front of a bicycle rental stand on the promenade by the sea. Touring bikes with baskets, racing bikes, bikes with training wheels for little kids, tandembikes. Signs in Italianand English. Artur Bosch had gotten up at seven. Showered and shaved, he put on a burnt sienna suit and a black tie and left the hotel. Long before ten, Artur Bosch was wandering around the promenade enjoying the fresh air. There weren’t many people, just those exercising, running mostly, or cycling, heading out of the city toward the coves or heading back from there; also a few retirees on their way to the fish market. Artur headed there himself and spent a few minutes contemplating boxes filled with gleaming fish and mollusks, until the vendors’ solicitousness started to make him feel uncomfortable. He entered a tiny bar, where a customer sitting at the bar conversedwith awaiter. Artur said good morning, sat at a table, orderedacappuccinoandacroissant.Whilehewaited, hepaged through a local Italian newspaper. Like someone watching a fewminutes of a soap opera without knowing the characters or story lines, the news he read didn’t affect him, he struggled to understand what interest anyone could possibly have in it. The waiter and the customer continued their conversation without looking at him. Twenty minutes later he left the bar, sated, and headed to the bike rental stand, where even though he was early, the owner of the apartment was waiting for him. A short, 89

not. I usually can tell at first glance.”

The Master’s house, which we reached along a dirt road, was enormous and slightly rundown. It must have been years since it was last painted. The Master invited Mateu in for a drink. Mateu would have gladly accepted if he hadn’t sensed fatigue and disinterest in the tone of the invitation. Before leaving, Mateu gave the Master a card with his number on it, in case he ever needed it. The Master didn’t offer his. The Master had said the same thing about Mateu’s drawings that he’d said about his paintings twenty years ago. Hadn’t his style evolved? Hadn’t he gone beyond what he’d achieved as a young man? Why wasn’t he interested in his work? Did he lack talent, like the young woman’s father? I like the style , he’d said. It’s a shame they’re figurative, that limits their effect. Mateu spent the whole drive home trying to interpret those words. * * * Two days later, at one in the morning, Mateu was suddenly awoken by the repeated ringing of the telephone. He answered in fear. It was the Master. “I know: I’ma bastard for calling at this time of night, but I had no choice. Listen: I need to read more by Crisòstom. Those articles I read in your car are keeping me up at night.”

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