Marks of Identity by Juan Goytisolo

Author:Juan Goytisolo [Goytisolo, Juan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781564784537
Amazon: 1564784533
Publisher: Serpent's Tail
Published: 2007-01-01T13:00:00+00:00

With your friends caught up in the turmoil of politics, what were you doing?

The letter of introduction from a well-known South American Maecenas had opened the doors of the Parisian left-wing intelligentsia for you, and the welcome extended by that group of generous men and women had subtly flattered your vanity. You remembered your first meeting with Maurice Tessier (ascetic face, frank look, the modest gestures of a Roman prelate) in the offices of an important publisher on the Left Bank (the floor carpeted with moquette, the bookcases filled with expensively bound volumes, an attractive blond secretary leaning over her Remington), and the feeling that had paralyzed you then as you faced the passionate interest of your interviewer in what you had to say, was being revived by you now (taking advantage of a brief pause in Antonio’s detailed account) with an indulgent smile. (The Spanish cause is not as fashionable as before, and Tessier and his friends, you say to yourself, are no doubt working for the rebels in Angola and Vietnam.)

After an extensive conversation, he had given a telephone number to his secretary and was waiting for the girl’s signal before picking up his receiver: “Allô . . . Josette?” Absorbed, you were examining the tabernacle of that temple of culture, sanctified by the mute presence of many writers whom you had passionately admired in your youth and who, now enthroned in the pantheon of the immortals, were still there, watching over the order and good management of the House, scrutinizing intruders and guests from the austere position of their photographs. “Oui. C’est un jeune intellectuel de Barcelone. . . . Un garçon tout à fait révolté contre le Régime. . . . Son expérience est des plus intéressante. . . . Oui, il parle français. . . . Nous pouvons lui organiser une rencontre avec les Cazalis. . . .” Tessier was speaking with a well-modulated voice and the grave faces of the masters’ photographs on the wall seemed to be in remote agreement with his words, giving life to their frozen and inert expressions with the fleeting halo of a smile or a satisfied and swift wink of intelligence.

You went out onto the street dizzy with happiness, still overwhelmed by the hypnotic influence of that autonomous and coveted universe, with the glowing feeling that you had the key to the door and a lifetime seat at the banquet. (Your actor’s instinct had somewhat seasoned the story of your experience, and listening to the crises of your incipient autobiography, you had fallen into the trap of your own sentimental trick.)

A few days later (it was around the middle of September, the leaves of the trees were already turning yellow), you went up the carpeted stairs that led to the Tessiers’ apartment and you rang the bell as your heart pounded. The master of the house had received you with a smile of complicity and had presented you to the guests seated around the dining-room table one by

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