Geography of Rebels Trilogy. Maria Gabriela Llansol

15 —

      Following those unexpected visits, Ana de Peñalosa began to write a letter she called “Text Submitted to the Sun”; she wrote slowly, with a carefully drawn handwriting that was part of the square of writing. Of the text

      bathed by the sun

      because she dedicated herself to this work regularly, at the same time, in the same place, and in almost the same position, vocables and certain expressions began to stand out, which she questioned with her meditative thinking: “on the abandoned plain,” “blindly at the lost skies,” “only son.” She sounded out the text to herself, her mouth almost closed and, at times, lifted her head to the open window, believing that the beating of words and oars was approaching. She took a sip of water, returned to the vibration of her hushed murmur; and, as she felt an increasingly acute pain from not being able to accompany them into exile, she wrote to her interlocutor: “If I were to die now.” to Friedrich N. received the letter.

      Place 16 —

      Zarathustra was the place he inhabited and the cat he possessed. At the edge of the desk he had a book that loosed an anathema upon him, Friedrich N. He opened its pages and submerged his face. He also had Ana de Peñalosa’s writing and many more papers, among which it had been

       said

       that The Book of Communities

       should include Nietzsche

       but I believe that, in the future,

       it will become difficult to write

       because Nietzsche is a man

       of the book. Black mustache,

       hair. Those capillary adornments

       stop me from proceeding.

       I see his eyes smashed between

       his mustache and his forehead.

       I could only let myself be taken

       by his eyes if they were

       deep. Lewis Carroll.

       I place my hand in his eye sockets.

       My hand enters and floats:

       it is the river that Saint John of

       the Cross and Thomas Müntzer

       descend in their boat.

       N. calls them and they disappear,

       meditative.

       N. undresses, is nude, only

       hair, mustache, pubic

       hair. He receives a robe from

       Ana de Peñalosa’s hands. He covers

       himself with it. In front of the

       mirror he submits to a

       mustache trim and a haircut, they

       pass a blade over his skull which

       is now completely bald.

       He looks at me and tells me

       I may begin to write. I thank him for

       his compassion and sit down in

       front of him studying the

       robe, the white of the book and

       the boundless white. I cannot imagine

       the tone of his voice, nor the character

       of his writing. That stiff body

       is impenetrable and it will

       ultimately repel me. I walk

       around him, I greet him, I hit him in

       the face. He takes me by the hand

       unangered, unshakeable in his

       compassion. He opens one of his

       books and the two of us copy what

       is written there, as if it were a text

       still unwritten. I practice,

       the heat of his hand doesn’t distract

       me from what we’re doing. I stare

       into his eyes and know I won’t be

       able to even utter their color. I feel

       powerful and, at the same time, sleepy.

       I fall asleep on his hand, but in that

       sleep I still feel its impetus,

       searching for the place where

       it is going

      a cave with stained glass windows in the depths from which different sounds emerged and spread out

      silence could be heard in contrast with the lapping water, the skeleton of a bird had landed on the boat’s stern and had immediately grown feathers and become the body of a living bird.

      We began to look at him intently and I remembered to call him Friedrich N. so he wouldn’t abandon my sons. He lifted his wings and I saw his haughty eyes, which occupied his entire head, where there was no longer forehead. His cat was nearby, fur bristling, and its aureole of greenery rose into the air toward the cave’s entrance. I gazed at the bird’s eyes. I smiled. John leapt into the boat, began rowing with his hand immersed in the water. The bird took flight and swooped down over the bow, reuniting us for the birth of exile.

      Place 17 —

      When Ana de Peñalosa heard that Friedrich N. had received her letter she thought again about Saint John of the Cross and Thomas Müntzer.

      The cat had lain down on her lap for a few moments because,

      soon,

      the fire of the day

      would be consumed.

      In the caves where they were living, Saint John of the Cross and Thomas Müntzer had become unaffected by the persecutions: water circulated at the opening and the boat moored to the rock plunged its seasoned hull into the vibrations of thought.

      The bird circled around John. He landed on his hand and an intense cold rose in the water, covered it with frozen particles — the thicknesses of the texts were looking at one another.

       It is a glacial day. We haven’t given up:

       we are still alive. I must make

       an effort to write. What pleasure

       in our hands; we warm our fingers

       to write.

       This cold day can only be compared

       to one other day.

      Place 18 —

      I read a text and I cover it with my own text, which I sketch at the top of the page but which casts its written shadow over the entire printed surface. This textual overlap comes from my eyes, it seems to me as though a thin cloth floats between my eyes and my hand and ends up covering like a net, a cloud, what has already been written. My text is completely transparent and I perceive the topography of the first words. I concentrate on Saint John of the Cross when the text speaks of Friedrich N.

      he left the prow of the boat; his small body walks here; he pierces them with his bright-sharp eyes; he roams freely in the garden; he settles on the plants that Ana de Peñalosa watered this morning.

      They then sat down near each other, a text on their knees, the breeze descended and impelled the words to the next body. Ana de Peñalosa did not have a book, she had thrust the needle into the fabric and contemplated the wandering of the fish

      I embroider and think I know how to embroider; I don’t know how I made this association but shortly thereafter I reflect. Knowing and seeing. I can choose the colors, I chose the colors of the threads which are reddish-pink and red, and