6

Pabst and Kamtchowsky agreed that in terms of aesthetic obsessions, the return of pure sensibility ran parallel to heresy. The truly sad things of this world had become so exacerbated that the tale of the Ugly Duckling was now a minimalist iteration, a myth of origin that gave structure to the tragedy lived by the many millions who had eyes to see and thus knowingly stood observed and demoted (by themselves and the rest of the world) on the basis of homeliness. Modern songbooks were full of delicate hymns to the certainty of intrinsic patheticness, to self-consciousness regained as mirrors. This is precisely the story of Pablo’s childhood. The disquieting mirrors in his desperate soul weren’t tucked away at the end of some psychic hallway—they covered the walls of the very living room. And the evidence they provided made intercourse—the possibility of intercourse—unthinkable. The Spanish word for mirror, espejo, shares a root with the word species; the mirror shows each species for what it is, and lays bare the shoddy reasoning that has led each to think itself unique. Pablo recently wrote a blog post confessing all this, and a number of other things as well. He promised that he would soon post a few homemade snuff films starring individuals (“see charts below”) who had systematically denied him attention and affection, then headed off to bed.

Elton John’s “Sacrifice” was ranked first on Pabst’s list of best possible background songs for the humiliation of the chronically adolescent individual. His distrust of anyone younger than himself was positively canonical. Little Kamtchowsky quickly became suspicious of them as well—she hewed instinctively to the latest sociological trends. The two often shared the vertiginous impression that all conversation was but a prelude to some new prejudice—and to the extent that one was conversing with the right people, this prejudice would be ever riskier, ever more outrageous, ever more decadent.

Kamtchowsky often picked her nose in public, and the habit had given her a special ability to sense furtive glances in her direction. This evening, she and Pablo were headed to a goth party in Suipacha y Viamonte, where they hoped to test a number of their pet theories. She was wearing a black flared skirt, socks with polka dots, and Mary Janes. He was wearing Puan-gray trousers, three T-shirts one on top of another, and had his ever-present, notebook-stuffed rucksack hanging from his shoulder. In sum, then: two researchers doing fieldwork in the city.

Pabst had often observed that the sexual conduct of standard adolescents gave evidence of a strikingly peculiar numerical discontinuity. In their first relationship they had intercourse once or twice with a given partner; their second relationship was much the same; but from there they jumped straight to six-person orgies. What sort of exponential function did this imply? Could one derive from such behavior a logarithmic calculus of generational disdain for the nobler sentiments? His own sexual history had been devoid of courtly love the same way weapons of mass destruction have been cut short of deploying their powers in full; both had only been able to exist as threats. And yet, Pabst never fully abandoned the project of emotional reciprocity, the fest of blowing and catching kisses on air. With astonishing speed, the current sociological hypothesis had dissociated itself from that which only comes after years of heartbreak, and its similarity to Rousseau (his work as portrait) encourages one to demonstrate that sexual conduct pertains specifically to the precise facet of the individual that allies itself only with the will of the majority. Pabst had addressed the topic on his blog as follows:

“In effect, the concrete development of the common self on one hand and of the general will on the other both presupposes and implies—as a logically necessary postulate rather than as a historically real act—the existence of the social contract.”

Their hypothesis duly established, they were still a good ways from the entrance, the crowds had already grown thick, and it seemed fairly unlikely that the bouncer would let them in. Every five minutes Pabst had to push his eyeglasses back up the bridge of his nose; the oily film covering his skin had them perpetually sliding down. He was nervous, and thought it unreasonable that someone as good at taking tests as he was should have to put up with being grilled by the ignorant galliform at the door. To console himself, he chewed through a series of syllogistic mantras:

–So, the human brain is designed to establish relationships only within small groups, and seeks constantly to reproduce the feeling of being “just amongst us.” All attempts at socialization are intended to recreate within us a series of previously successful patterns of empathy, because . . . Aha! Because the only real human instinct is to flee into the forest depths. If this weren’t the case, why would the State expend so much effort teaching us to love that which is social, and why such frantic insistence on the amorous-gregarious nature of the glorious Fatherland? Social training is an operating system composed of customs designed to minimize the panic one feels at finding oneself completely surrounded. Social aristocracies are brought into existence as a form of technology that enables the elite to tolerate the proximity of others, as another way to address the need for human contact felt by the I while simultaneously protecting it from the unwashed hordes via membership cards and club protocols. The presence of the bouncer ensures that the favored group will stay small. The charm exuded by the elite is the Ersatz of an evolutionary defect related to our genetic inability to be alone, which is to say, to rid ourselves of our fear of the forest—and to do so with sufficient speed.

The later it got, the more intense grew the couple’s desire not to be turned away at the door. But they knew how imprudent it would be to push forward with so little evidence of worthiness at their disposal; average adolescents would only reveal the hidden diamond of their conduct to those who dare to share the same dream of sweaty skin, black light, and crystal meth. Kamtchowsky heard Pabst sigh, noticed his trembling hands, and decided to buck him up.

–The whole concept of the urban tribe is both fallacious and stupid, she said. All of these people want exactly the same thing: a simple straightforward fuck. Or else a lucid fuck, one they won’t feel the need to try to forget tomorrow morning. And it’s easier to fuck someone who dresses the same way you do, albeit not so much because of some alleged empathy based on textile preferences—the fact is, you’d fuck anyone willing to fuck you. The key, then, is to maintain a strict policy of defrauding your own conscience, which has no way of knowing that you’d be perfectly happy fucking anyone at all. Deciding with whom to associate on the basis of fabric color and texture allows your conscience to verify empirically that in fact you are not fucking absolutely everyone, but only a select few. That is, it’s not so much that the modern self has broken down and now finds itself at the mercy of much stronger unconscious forces, but that it perpetually designs ever more sophisticated strategies for maintaining control. And in this case, the chosen means of control requires that one mimic a tactical strategy of unknowing.

Kamtchowsky had one lip curled, as if a pane of glass were pressing against her face. From that point on she would take recourse to this same expression whenever she needed to express surprise, disdain, or anal dilation.

–Hey, said Pabst, the select few are checking you out.

–You’re the one they’re checking out.

–Does it matter?

The girl waving to them was a redhead with a cute little turned-up nose, big eyes, bright blue eyeshadow. Beside her was a boy with a friendly smile and short curly blond hair swept up in a half-crest. Both had that indefinable glow that all beautiful people exude so effortlessly whenever they smile.

Pabst and Kamtchowsky fell silent and tried to breathe normally as they watched the couple approach. The girl was wearing a short vintage dress, the cloth patterned with little pine trees in lilac and green. From closer up, they saw that her dress was almost translucent, and that her nipples were almost as attentive as her smile.

–Hi! she said to Kamtchowsky. Aren’t you the girl from the documentary?

–Well . . .

It was a simple question, but Kamtchowsky couldn’t think of the answer, and decided at last just to close her mouth.

–How’s it going? Don’t you remember me? Rotstein introduced us one day maybe halfway through the film festival—the day they were showing that new Fassbinder film, the one named after a woman . . . Monika, maybe?

Kamtchowsky took a symbolic step backward so that Pabst could join in, which he did, as laconic and solemn as ever:

–Summer with Monika is a Bergman film. Martha is the Fassbinder.

–Oh, that’s right! Of course!

The girl shot a glance at her watch, a cute little number decorated with the Swiss flag.

–Anyway, we’ve got some time before the party gets going. Would you guys let us buy you a drink?

The Research Commission agreed to allow a quick break at the downtown apartment that Mara and Andy shared—Kamtchowsky and Pabst didn’t learn their names until a nervous silence in the elevator, one that gave Mara the opportunity to seem carefree and solvent while Andy smiled ironically in the background. The apartment had high ceilings, and living room walls with curves instead of corners. A coquettish window gave onto an intersection that was silent at this time of night. A mirror ball hung in the center, its red and blue lights flashing across the black-and-white photographs that covered the walls—a series of extraordinary images of Buenos Aires.

The room’s centerpiece was a gigantic photomontage. In it, the rocket-shaped Kavanagh Building had been turned on its head and embedded in the roof of the Álzaga-Unzué mansion. Next to it slumped a hotel (the Hyatt, or maybe the Four Seasons) that had been digitally retouched to make it look as if an enormous fire had destroyed the side that gave onto Cerrito y Alvear Avenue. A low-angle shot showed the landmark Rulero Building collapsing onto the 9 de Julio Expressway; another showed the Alas rotated forty-five degrees, looming like a massive gargoyle about to slam into the Hotel Catalinas Suites. The National Congress building had been reduced to charred ruins, its dome riddled with holes. There were also two photographs of automobile accidents. One had taken place on the infamous Curve of Death where Figueroa Alcorta swoops beneath the train tracks, a dotted line overlaid to show the path of someone who had run wounded into the trees, then collapsed and died. The other had occurred out toward the boardwalk near La Mosca Blanca, along a shortcut that runs from the wrecking yard to Retiro.

As the guests contemplated her work, Mara put a hand on her waist and launched into an appropriately languid commentary:

–I wanted to push the accident theme a little harder, but at this point it’s already kind of a cliché, right? Because of Crash, I mean. It’s all . . . you know. Anyway.

–Crush is a dead soft drink and nothing more, said Pablo, drawing closer to study a series of blurred images of the Río de la Plata. In places the surface of the river had been sliced into geometric shapes, as if whole buildings were drifting crosswise in the current, architectural skeletons of rebar and concrete. Then his gaze was drawn to a blurry mass covered with blood and loose grass beneath a bridge.

Andy returned from the kitchen bearing drinks. He was wearing a batik shirt, and thanks perhaps to the magic exuding from the rest of his persona, which had apparently been carved exquisitely by hand, the shirt managed to look almost good on him. He sat down on a beanbag chair and folded his legs into the lotus position, gave them all a tranquil gaze, and cracked his neck joints. Pabst turned his eyes skyward like a scandalized priest, but Kamtchowsky couldn’t look away from this trim modern Buddha on his ground-bound throne, not even when she realized that he was staring right back at her.

–Excellent, isn’t it, he said.

He moved his head in slow circles, a sort of auto-massage.

–What?

–The drink, I mean. Isn’t it great?

Kamtchowsky managed a hm! of agreement.

–It’s called an “Andy Wants . . .”

–A what?

–An “Andy Wants Dot-Dot-Dot . . .”

–And what exactly does Andy want? asked Pablo, more than a bit irritated.

Andy spoke as if from some tawny beach in Thailand:

–You’re supposed to complete the sentence in your head, with thoughts of your own. Like a fill-in-the-blank, you know, those exercises they gave us in English class.

–I know what fill-in-the-blanks are.

–Okay. And you also know what thoughts are, right?

Pablo propped himself up against the wall by slapping his sweaty hand flat against the gigantic photograph of the blackened remains of the Hyatt. All of the morbid admiration that kept his relationship with Kamtchowsky erect was based on that old chestnut of natural selection, according to which ugly people are inevitably more intelligent than beautiful people, because they’ve had to develop more sophisticated means of obtaining things. This pull-string Ken doll was not only destroying the theory as far as Pabst himself was concerned; he was also torching the cherished prejudices that Pabst and Kamtchowsky had shared up on that quiet, serene hilltop where, their cheeks caressed with greasy pizza crumbs, they were occasionally able to dream of superiority.

–Actually, no, said Pabst. I haven’t the faintest fucking idea what thoughts are, nor–

–The stuff dreams are made of, said Andy, smiling, his sudden English almost Etonian, and yet, what is this quintessence of dust?

Pabst noticed an emphasis on the word “dreams” as Andy had looked him up and down.

–. . . Nor what’s in this drink, nor who the fuck you are . . .

He almost added, Nor what planet people like you come from, but caught himself in time. At least he’d nailed the British accent on “fuck.”

–Hold on! said Andy, rising to his feet. Nobody shouts at anybody in here. Nobody gets to be Toshiro Mifune—not me, not you, nobody. Mara’s apartment is . . . well, it’s Mara’s apartment. Nothing but good vibes allowed.

Pabst sighed in relief. From that point on, the mockability of “good vibes” became something of a talisman for him. He was happy to see that Kamtchowsky had found an interesting object on the floor to stare at, even if it happened to be invisible to him, and made her bow her head somewhat ashamedly (and perhaps this was how she went about disapproving of Andy’s vibes? One could hope!). Then Mara stepped out of the shadows, and gently corrected her boyfriend:

–Andy, the vibes here aren’t just good. They are excellent. Absolutely and extremely excellent.

She laughed, turned and put her hand on Kamtchowsky’s shoulder.

–I think you guys are the best.

Kamtchowsky was by now fairly drunk, and felt like she was going to throw up.

–Really? she said. What’s so great about us?

She lifted her head and opened wide her caca-colored eyes. Mara smiled as if about to caress a child’s hair. She went to speak, laughed instead, looked at Andy as if hoping he’d step in. Then she scratched her head charmingly.

–I’m not very good at explaining things. Let’s see . . .

Andy seemed to be cheering for her silently.

–Look, Andy’s my boyfriend and I also think he’s a really special person. That seems obvious, right? Well, it is and it isn’t. Hold on.

In two quick hops Mara reached the corner of the room, and pressed a pair of buttons on the wall; the maelstrom of disco lights quieted, the reds and blues fading to a glow of rose and orange. The entire space was now lit warmly, deliciously. It felt like being inside an apricot.

–Close your eyes! said Mara.

Pabst and Kamtchowsky squinted, then obeyed, leaning into one another like tipsy soldiers. Mara wrapped herself in a vaporous shawl dotted with tiny silver stars, twirled like a fairy godmother, and planted a kiss on Kamtchowsky’s open mouth. The moist lips, the smell of grape-and-strawberry lip gloss, Kamtchowsky shivered, and now the bewitching, the meandering, the soft, slow, fleshy tongue. For several long moments Kamtchowsky kept her eyes closed, and concentrated on mimicking these luscious movements, but now she could hear Pabst bleating from where he lay struggling beneath Andy atop a floor cushion.

–What are you doing? shrieked Pablo, now clutching the cushion to his chest. Get off of me! What are you doing?

Kamtchowsky unwound her scarf and straightened her skirt, embarrassed by Pabst’s shrill outburst. She glanced at Mara, hoping to find her way back to that extraordinary mouth, but the moment was gone. Pabst was still howling hysterically, his incredulity now incontrovertible. “They brought us to their apartment to pin us down and fuck us because we’re ugly—they think that because we’re ugly we can’t say no!” he shouted, giving voice to his refusal to allow this lack of equal opportunity to result in his intentions begin taken for granted. Pabst defended his independence from the social dictates of what one should do or seek; sleeping with any given gorgeous human being was something he could luxuriously indulge in rejecting.

Even so, Kamtchowsky was baffled by Pabst’s analysis of the situation. She dried the saliva at the corners of her mouth, wondering if there was any easy way to re-interpret the situation that didn’t make her feel so unabashedly stupid.

–Yes! continued Pabst. They think we’re desperate because we’ve never fucked anyone who isn’t as ugly as we are! Because no one else will fuck us! They think we’re dying to touch them but we . . .

He seemed to be on the verge of tears, but in fact he just had a runny nose. Andy stood nearby, his shirt half-open, his hair artfully mussed. When he shook his head to deny what Pabst had said, it was a most beautiful, taciturn gesture.

Kamtchowsky took a deep breath. She was, after all, an important young woman: only a few weeks before she’d been offered a job running the Young Jewish Cinema segment of the Independent Film Festival.

–So, I guess there’s just the one question, she said. Why do you want to sleep with us?

Mara and Andy looked at each other for an instant; they were ready to confess.