Visceral Realism

Joaquin Font, El Reposo Mental Health Clinic, Camino Desierto de los Leones, on the outskirts of Mexico City DF, March 1977. Sometimes I think about Laura Damian. Not often. Four or five times a day. Eight or sixteen times if I can't sleep, which makes sense since there's room for a lot of memories in a twenty-four-hour day. But usually I only think of her four or five times, and each memory, each memory capsule, is approximately two minutes long, although I can't say for sure because a little while ago someone stole my watch, and keeping time on one's own is risky.

When I was young I had a friend called Dolores. Dolores Pacheco. She really did know how to keep time. I wanted to go to bed with her. I want you to make me see stars, Dolores, I said to her one day. How long do you think stars last? she said. What do you mean? I asked. How long does one of your orgasms last? she said. Long enough, I said. But how long? I don't know, I said. A long time. You ask funny questions, Dolores. How long is a long time? she persisted. Then I assured her that I had never timed an orgasm, and she said pretend you're having an orgasm now, Quim, close your eyes and imagine that you're coming. With you? I said, seeing my chance. Whoever you want, she said, just imagine it, all right? Let's do it, I said. Fine, she said, when you start, raise your hand. Then I closed my eyes, imagined myself screwing Dolores, and raised my hand. And then I heard her voice saying: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, and unable to keep from laughing anymore, I opened my eyes and asked her what she was doing. I'm timing you, she said. Have you come yet? I don't know, I said, it's usually longer. Don't lie to me, Quim, she said, most orgasms are over by four Mississippi. Try again and you'll see. And I closed my eyes and at first I imagined myself screwing Dolores, but then I didn't imagine myself with anyone. Instead, I was in a riverboat, in a white, sterile room very much like the one I'm in now, and from the walls, from a hidden megaphone, Dolores's count came dripping down: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, as if someone were radioing me from shore and I couldn't reply, although deep in my heart all I wanted was to answer, to say: do you read me? I'm fine, I'm alive, I want to come back. And when I opened my eyes Dolores said: that's how you time an orgasm, each Mississippi is a second and no orgasm lasts more than six seconds. We never ended up fucking, Dolores and I, but we were good friends, and when she got married (this was after she graduated) I went to her wedding, and when I congratulated her I said: may your Mississippis be full of joy. The groom, who had been an architecture student like the two of us, but was a year ahead, or had graduated a little while before us, overheard me and thought I was referring to their honeymoon, which of course they were going to spend in the United States. A long time has passed since then. It's been a long time since I thought about Dolores. Dolores taught me to time things.

Now I time my memories of Laura Damian. Sitting on the floor, I begin: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six Mississippi, and Laura Damian's face, Laura Damian's long hair, settle in my vacant mind for fifty Mississippis or one hundred and fifty Mississippis, until I can't stand it anymore and I open my mouth and-ahh-let my breath out all at once or I spit on the walls. And I'm alone again, I'm empty. The echo of the word Mississippi bounces around in my cranial vault, the image of Laura's body destroyed by a killer car fading again, Laura's eyes open in the sky of Mexico city, no, in the sky of Colonia Roma, Colonia Hipodromo-La Condesa, Colonia Juarez, Colonia Cuauhtemoc, Laura's eyes illuminating the greens and sepias and all the shades of brick and stone of Coyoacan. And then I stop and take a deep breath or two, as if I'm having an attack, and I whisper go away, Laura Damian. Go away Laura Damian. And then at last her face grows dim and my room isn't Laura Damian's face anymore but a room in a modern asylum, with every modern convenience, and the eyes watching me are the nurses' eyes again and not Laura Damian's (she has eyes in the back of her head!), and if no moonface of a watch glows on my wrist it's not because Laura has taken it, not because Laura has made me swallow it, but because it's been stolen by the lunatics you see running around here, these poor Mexican lunatics of ours, these ignoramuses who strike out or cry but who don't know a thing.