Rex by Jose Manuel Prieto Read Free Book Online Page B

toward her throat, with my feet firmly on the floor, imbibing the light her necklace radiated. Incredibly beautiful there on her breast. Obsessed with that necklace to the point that I’d searched through the fashion magazines they had lying around the house as instruction manuals for life in the West, scrutinizing the jeweled breast of every fashion model, Spanish or Greek, burnished skin glistening over the clavicle, neck tendons taut, for a gem like that one, the same size as that one. And finding not one, ever. Most of them, the best of them—it was easy to see from the design and the very bright colors—were just cut crystals.
    I could think of nothing to say to her. I said:
    â€œAnd yes, Nelly, it is something I have thought of. To surpass the objectives of a princely education, or rather, ignore them entirely. What sense in learning a foreign language if, once within that other world or universe, you’d only be fatally drawn in again by the magnet of the Book? Better to focus on it, for it’s the same in all languages, impervious—as the Commentator perversely affirms, though of course without referring directly to the Book—to the fire of translations. Constructed on the solid foundation of a universal language, a primordial speech. All nuances, all distinctions, all subtleties within it. A Theory of Everything, Nelly, a Book for all days. I don’t wish for, could never have wished for a better education for myself …”
    â€œ
Solntse
,” she interrupted me. She went over to the window and set her hands on the frame like a bird alighting there to await her husband, who was not coming, scanning the horizon from there. “Wouldn’t you like to go out for a stroll?”
    And she turned toward me.
    Her face.
    Having stood back, the maker of that face, at twenty weeks’ gestation, to study the precise placement of the cheekbones’ brief elevation, the almond frame of the eyes. Rotated one second of arc downward at the inner corner and one second of arc upward at the outer, like wings. I was afraid to look her full in the face: the dangerous fascination voltaic arcs exerted on me when I was a child. But I couldn’t help throwing a look at the white-hot point, the acetylene flare hurtling toward me, the nucleus of a star expanding outward in a sphere. And in the center of that sphere, birds and bands of angels.
    Her throat.
    The stones around her throat.
    â€œA walk? With all my heart!”
3
    I imagined, Petya, that we were off to withdraw some money, that our little jaunt had to do, finally, with matters related to my paycheck. Progressing happily down the Paseo Marítimo. Without a monocle, it’s true, to bounce along on my chest. A monocle that would speak as clearly as the Writer of the happiness that suffused me, the soft purity of the morning. The hotels along the beach, the yachts with their colorful banners, the blue and white striped awnings of the beach clubs, the money we drew in with every breath, that perfumed the air of that city by the sea.
    But picture this, Petya: a gentleman with a lady by his side and, with them, a dwarf. A rather different image from the one I’d had in mind, an image that can be read or glossed with no other significance but this: the dwarf was Batyk, who’d insisted on coming with us and whom I call a dwarf in the literal sense of a physical dwarf, not a moral dwarf. And not at all, never, in the allegorical sense to which the Commentator alludes with deepest hypocrisy in order to justify his own imposture: the sense of newcomers who, however small or dwarflike they may be, can see farther because they’re perched on the shoulders of the giants of the past.
    The same went for Batyk, on my shoulders, though it would be more correct to say on the Writer’s shoulders, feeling him walk along behind me, paying attention to what he was seeing from that height, without understanding a thing. As when, to