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388 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 1, 1977
In those long-ago days, I was very young and lived with my grandparents in a villa with white walls in the Calle Ocharán, in Miraflores. I was studying at the University of San Marcos, law, as I remember, resigned to earning myself a living later on by practicing a liberal profession, although deep down what I really wanted was to become a writer someday. I had a job with a pompous-sounding title, a modest salary, duties as a plagiarist, and flexible working hours…
She was my Uncle Lucho’s sister-in-law and had arrived from Bolivia the night before. She had just been divorced, and had come to rest and recover from the breakup of her marriage. “She’s really come to look for another husband,” Aunt Hortensia, the biggest backbiter of all my relatives, had said straight out at a family gathering. I ate lunch every Thursday with my Uncle Lucho and Aunt Olga, and when I arrived that noon I found the whole family still in their pajamas, eating mussels in hot sauce and drinking ice-cold beer to get over a hangover. They’d stayed up till dawn gossiping with Aunt Julia, and finished off an entire bottle of whiskey between the three of them.
…a most unusual silhouette appeared in the doorway of the shack: a minuscule figure, on the very borderline between a man extremely short in stature and a dwarf, with a huge nose and unusually bright eyes with a disturbing, downright abnormal gleam in them. He was dressed in a black suit that was quite obviously old and threadbare, and a shirt and bow tie with visible stains, but at the same time he gave the impression of being extremely neat, fastidious, and proper with regard to his standard of dress, like those gentlemen in old photographs who appear to be imprisoned in their stiff frock coats and tight-fitting silk hats. He might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with oily black shoulder-length hair. His bearing, his movements, his expression appeared to be the absolute contrary of the natural and spontaneous, immediately mindful of an articulated doll, of puppet strings.
But at precisely 4:13 p.m., the fifty thousand spectators saw the totally unexpected happen, before their very eyes. From the most crowded section of the southern grandstand, an apparition suddenly emerged – black, thin, very tall, one enormous tooth – nimbly scaled the fence, and rushed out onto the playing field uttering incomprehensible cries. The people in the stands were less surprised to see that the man was nearly naked – all he had on was a tiny loincloth – than they were to see that his body was covered, from head to foot, with scars. A collective gasp shook the stands; everyone realized that the tattooed man intended to kill the referee. There could be no doubt of it: the shrieking giant was running straight toward the idol of the world of soccer, who, totally absorbed in his art, had not seen him and was going on modeling the match.
Do you think it’s possible to produce offspring and stories at the same time? That one can invent, imagine, if one lives under the threat of syphilis? Women and art are mutually exclusive, my friend. In every vagina an artist is buried. What pleasure is there in reproducing? Isn’t that what dogs, spiders, cats do? We must be original my friend.
How could he be, at one and the same time, a parody of the writer and the only person in Peru who, by virtue of the time he devoted to his craft and the works he produced, was worthy of that name?
That is what Contrafactus is all about. In everyday thought, we are constantly manufacturing mental variants on situations we face, ideas we have, or events that happen, and we let some features stay exactly the same while others "slip". What features do we let slip? What ones do we not even consider letting slip? What events are perceived on some deep intuitive level as being close relatives of ones which really happened? What do we think "almost" happened or "could have" happened, even though it unambiguously did not? What alternative versions of events pop without any conscious thought into our minds when we hear a story? Why do some counterfactuals strike us as "less counterfactual" than other counterfactuals? After all, it is obvious that anything that didn't happen didn't happen. There aren't degrees of "didn't-happen-ness". And the same goes for "almost" situations. There are times when one plaintively says, "It almost happened", and other times when one says the same thing, full of relief. But the "almost" lies in the mind, not in the external facts.
I write. I write that I am writing. Mentally I see myself writing that I am writing and I can also see myself seeing that I am writing. I remember writing and also seeing myself writing. And I see myself remembering that I see myself writing and I remember seeing myself remembering that I was writing and I write seeing myself write that I remember having seen myself write that I saw myself writing that I was writing and that I was writing that I was writing that I was writing. I can also imagine myself writing that I had already written that I would imagine myself writing that I had written that I was imagining myself writing that I see myself writing that I am writing.
„— Dumneata crezi că aș mai putea face ceea ce fac dacă femeile m-ar stoarce de vlagă? mă dojeni el, cu dezgust în glas. Crezi că se pot zămisli copii și povestiri în același timp? Că ar putea cineva să născocească, să dea frâu imaginației, dacă trăiește sub amenințarea sifilisului? Femeia și arta se exclud, prietene. În fiecare vagin e înmormântat un artist. Mai are oare vreun haz să procreezi? N-o fac și câinii, păianjenii și pisicile? Trebuie să fim originali, amice!”Llosa e original în construcția romanului său. Printre capitolele despre idila cu mătușa Julia (îi spune mereu mătușa, ceea ce e un pic ciudat) și treburile de la radio, include capitole – episoade – din creațiile radiofonice ale lui Camacho. Toate acestea par episoade pilot ale unor noi seriale, în care sunt introduse personajele, destul de pitorești, prin descrieri detaliate despre starea lor socială și talentele lor speciale – care explică și alegerea lor ca personaje –, despre familiile lor, despre cum au ajuns unde au ajuns. La un moment dat, dacă nu chiar inițial, personajul principal ajunge în „floare vârstei”, la 50 de ani, care, coincidență!, e chiar vârsta scriitorului. Toate sunt scrise bine (mult prea bine, având în vedere că Mario cel tânăr îl plasează pe Camacho doar cu o treaptă deasupra analfabeților!), cu un vocabular foarte diversificat și original, și se termină, inevitabil, într-un punct culminant, care să te facă să-ți programezi vizita lângă aparatul de radio și în ziua următoare. Oare ce se va întâmpla? Oare va apăsa sau nu pe trăgaci?! Inevitabil, din când în când, scribul introducere ironii și răutăți la adresa argentinienilor.