When they ask me if “splitting open the Korean’s head on the back of my canvas hides an aesthetic intention,” I look up and pretend to think. That’s something I learned from watching other artists talk on TV. It’s not that I don’t understand the question, it’s just that I’m really not interested. I have legal problems, a lot of legal problems. Because I don’t know how to tell the difference between Koreans and Japanese, or Japanese and Chinese, and every time I see one of any of them, I grab him by the hair and start to slam his head against the concrete. Aníbal got me a good lawyer and he’s claiming “insanity,” which is when you’re crazy, and it’s much better in the eyes of the law. People say I’m racist, “a hugely evil” man, but my paintings sell for millions, and I’m starting to think about what my mom always said, which is that the problem with the world is that it’s in a great crisis of love. And also that, when it comes down to it, these are not good times for very sensitive people.
THE SIZE OF THINGS
All I knew about Enrique Duvel was that he came from a rich family and that, though he was sometimes spotted out with women, he still lived with his mother. On Sundays, he cruised around the plaza in his convertible, withdrawn or self-absorbed, never looking at or greeting any of his neighbors, and then he would disappear until the following weekend. I’d kept the toy store I’d inherited from my father, and one day I caught Duvel in the street, peering dubiously in through the display window of my shop. I mentioned this to Mirta, my wife, who said that maybe I’d gotten him confused with someone else. But then she saw him herself. Yes, on some afternoons, Enrique Duvel stood outside the toy store for a while, looking in through the window.
The first time he came inside, he seemed irresolute, as though he was ashamed and not at all sure what he was looking for. He stood by the counter and scanned the shelves behind me. I waited for him to speak. He played with his car keys for a bit, and finally he asked for a model-plane kit. I asked him if he wanted me to gift wrap it, but he said no.
He came back several days later. Again, he looked in the window for a while, then came inside and asked for the next model plane in the series. I asked him if he was a collector, but he said no.
On successive visits, he moved on to model cars, ships, and trains. He came almost every week, leaving with something each time. One night, I went outside to close the store’s shutters and there he was, alone in front of the window. It must have been around nine at night, and there was no one out on the streets. It took me a minute to recognize him, to understand that this trembling man with a red face and weepy eyes could really be Enrique Duvel. He seemed scared. I didn’t see his car, and for a moment I thought he’d been attacked.”Duvel? Are you all right?”
He made a confused gesture.
“It’s best if I stay here,” he said.
“Here at the shop? What about your mother?” I instantly regretted my question, afraid I’d offended him, but he said, “She locked herself in the house with all the keys. She says she doesn’t want to see me again.”
We looked at each other a moment, not quite knowing what to say.
“I’d best stay here,” he repeated.
I knew that Mirta would never agree, but by that point I owed the man almost twenty percent of my monthly earnings, and I couldn’t just turn him away.
“But you see, Duvel . . . there’s nowhere to sleep here.”
“I’ll pay for the night,” he said. He went through his pockets. “I don’t have any money on me . . . But I can work. I’m sure there’s something I can do.”
Though I knew it wasn’t a good idea, I brought him inside. It was dark when we entered. When I turned the display lights on, their reflection gleamed in his eyes. Something told me Duvel wouldn’t sleep that night, and I was afraid to leave him alone. I saw a towering stack of boxes full of toys that I hadn’t had time to sort through, and I imagined the rich and refined Duvel—the sometime subject of Mirta’s girlfriends’ gossip—stocking my empty shelves overnight. Giving him the task could bring problems, but at least it would keep him busy.
“Could you deal with those boxes?”
He nodded.
“I’ll explain in more detail tomorrow. You just have to organize the items by type.” I went over to the merchandise. “The puzzles with the puzzles, for example. You can see where they go, and just put everything together, there, on the shelves. And if—”
“I understand perfectly,” Duvel said, interrupting me.