Onboard Diary

Henry Pierrot's logbook. Day 2.

We do not discern those eyes

Wednesday comes as it could have come the end of theChinese Year. I get exasperated about our meeting. I count on finding him before he finds me. To dragg him to my backyard.

I feel as Harry Lime. I mean as an impostor just about to get discovered. I'm not trying to compare black marketing peniciline with writing poems but I can't stop staring at the sewers obsessively. Will I be able to escape if the time comes? Where is the fabulous Big wheel in Madrid?

At four o'clock. We have arranged the meeting at four o'clock and Thomas Bernhard "Tala" is beating in my bag. No guns. Just that and a half empty packet of cigarretes and a new one, (just in case).

I try to be on time and I make it.

My favorite bar in Lavapiés is closed of course. I wait for N while I wait for them to open up.

I wait.

It will take him few minutes to go through Primavera St.

When he does it I instantly recognise him.

He's wearing a green jacket and a Russian beret.

As mi favorite bar is far from opening I decide to take him to the one next to it.

It will not be my second favorite bar. Nothing in common The atmosphere is so stuffy that asking for a coffee feels as playing Russian roulette with De Niro  in "The Deer Hunter"

N. doesn't drink anything I go for a coca-cola and I set a new record, two in 15 minutes.

The conversation goes on by his interest and my shame. The more he asks me the more I retract myself. Finally and maybe tired of my silence he goes on telling me the project.

His eyes shine as those of a werewolf.

He has managed to transmit every single of his efforts to make it happen.

I don't say it but I feel confortable in his universe.

We say goodbye and arrange another meeting after I read the script.

We hug.

(Thursday)

I've already sent hundred messages to my people explaining what is happening.

Almost all of them find my story hard to believe although they encourage me to participate.

To participate (yes) But how?

My shame comes up (again). What I think is that is entirely their project (even if it has to do with my poetic) Waht can I add?

I feel as devoted as thankfull. I wait joyfully for the script to come.

(Friday)

As he promised I get a copy of the script.I read it quickly where I work. The more I read the less I want to get to the end. I wished it would never finish.

Reading it carefully again at home, I close my eyes and I imagine the scenes till I manage to visualise them.

The images N. proposes are tuned with my likings.

I begin to understand our first conversation. It took me two days to visualise the entire movie and now I seem unable (i don't want) to get it out of my head.

I get intoxicated watching "Rosemary's Baby". I don't find anything more appealing among my collection. I recognise (for the first time) the old evil actress who plays the neighbour. I was sure I've seen her somewhere, is no one but Maude. Sometimes I feel embarrassed discovering these silly things while other people seem to be born with that type of knowledge.

While Rosemary sees herself involved in that houseviwes conspiration I find out something I'd like to comment with N about the script. Is that female role, I think I can give her more protagonism.

How?

I fall asleep and I don't dream. Although I don't suffer from any nightmare.

(Thursday)

We meet again this time to talk about the script and to meet the other two team members. Bruno Teixidor and Carola Rodríguez. It is sunny so I decide to change the meeting point. Well see eachother at the UNED terrace.

I bring my script copy and some notes.

I make it on time (again).

The sun is blinding us. But nobody complains. I talk with Bruno about the website and with Carola about my book. I find they are N's perfect complements.

Bruno seems to disagree with N about the script. Besides he shows himself tenderly threatening about our "love story". He says he's fed up with so many connections. He makes me laugh.

It's my turn.

The moment where I have to say something has come and I find myself trapped by my own words. I mumble I miss some visibility on the female role, some roundness on her character. I don't know how to defend my arguments nor I have the strength to impose my opinion. I find myself talking about the script as anybody passing by would.Vaguely and elusively. I talk (in general) as if I had my mouth full of wasps.Finally the sun wins me over and we leave. On my way back home I think about how sad it must have been for them to see me suffering from such a terrible aphasia.