At the beginning of the class I saw her sitting in the background. It would not be as ugly as it was by that infernal bump, almost like a horn, rose into the sky right in the middle of his forehead. Never before had gone to class. It was of those people who go unnoticed. Argentina spoke of literature that day. The main theme was Osvaldo Lamborghini and its influence on new generations of Argentine writers. As often happens in these courses, students are silent, do not ask, why the insistent questions of Amalia, as it was called women's antlers, irritability woke his comrades, angry that their contributions were nearly as frequent as mine, differing from my reading about the author.
- I do not think Lamborghini is sadistic con el lector para que éste reconozca el goce que experimenta al leer sus descripciones, Sade era un provocador, pero artista al fin y al cabo. El argentino no se lo considera, no creo que su fin sea que el lector ejerza una reflexión posterior.
- Yo compararía a Lamborghini con Burroughs, no con Sade, contesté. Ambos escriben de manera casi impulsiva. Pero está claro que Fiord busca, además de la crítica política, cierto rechazo en el lector. Rechazo que también es atracción. Porque su narrativa es lo más parecido al infierno que jamás se ha escrito. Y a la gente le gusta que le vapuleen. Le produce rechazo y excitación. Y cuanto mayor sea el horror, mayor is the attraction.
- César Aira said Lamborghini compulsively writing, no editing, no retouching, was a spring. Maybe it's a mistake to teaching reading his writings.
And every time he spoke, his voice hoarse tore my theories, forcing them to catch up with their own, armed for a war of words to which every teacher unafraid. So after surviving the class came up to me this young woman, first forcing me to look at her face without having to hide my eyes in the keeping of another face clouded.
- How really think that it is based on Lamborghini Aira? I believe that no two writers more different. The second style has echoes of the first yes, but he concludes it.
- Well, I said, looking Aira sometimes impact.
- although this impact is softened. It is a rush too, but do not know, a flood subsided, which seeks the complicity of the reader in some way.
- How would you define then Aira?
- A writer sane, very sane, pretending to be damned, rather than assume their status as narrator. A narrator with shades but narrator Ricardo as the reviled Piglia for example.
When next thing I knew there was no one in class and she and I were chatting about books alone. Or rather she talked. I do not want to say that this knowledge would be higher than mine, only more fervent yes. For a moment forgot his horn, and dissipated after his beloved lines Pizarnik, or drowned in ponds gaucho Berre by Arlt. Borges fragments memorized, recalled the date on which Cortazar went to Paris, and the exact day that drew Maga in winch an immortal destiny. And I found myself enjoying his words, silent duel with mine como rara vez lo había hecho anteriormente. Dos horas después llegó el momento de irse cada uno a su casa. Me despedí de ella y al darla dos besos mi frente se encontró, de nuevo, con ese cuerno que parecía devuelto a su rostro, seco, horrible y desfigurado.
Llegué a mi casa. Mara, mi mujer no me puso buena cara aquella noche. ¿Dónde has estado? No la mentí. Hablando con una alumna de literatura argentina . Su reacción fue la esperada. Que bien, te parece normal. Tienes obligaciones. Te esperábamos desde hacía horas. Y tras empapelar sus celos en el manual oficial del marido y padre responsable, cedió a mis explicaciones para, una vez calmada, wonder what Bajina and tell me she was pretty? laughed and went to play with my kids. The eldest, Reuben, was 8 years and had read The Little Prince, by forcing I guaranteeing his eternal hatred for Saint Exupery and perhaps to literature in general. Spend one hour with them, rolling on the floor, building Lego castles and pretending to be a vampire who was going to suck blood. After bedtime I was with Mara. His anger had evaporated. Those cases were those that made me see the woman that was capable of carrying a blinded immature like me to smile when one of my grand teaching texts, pale copies of any one armed with a minimum of talent.
Ruben's birthday is now. We could give him a trip to the Warner. For now forget the complete works of Faulkner or any of your writers, said laughing. And I laughed too, perhaps because of inertia, perhaps because it actually made me laugh he said. Sometimes it is difficult to discern one from the other. Then we went to bed. He dreamed of a railway station where I was walking hand in hand with someone close to me, maybe my father, when suddenly, I awoke with a start with a sore head. I went to the kitchen for a paracetamol. After the bathroom, I needed to urinate. I did, in total state of drowsiness. I would wash hands when, through the mirror I saw something weird in my face. A small lump appeared timidly in my left temple.
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