3 minute read
By F. Guzzardi
The Director and the Saleswoman
What do you think about it now? Do you still think about yourself? What pretension would I have if I added another detail to the shopping bag, not a little for those who are well? Are you well? You, I mean, artificial gymnastics, sweat-free, do you think you’ve ever been farther away than you are now? Turn on the light (synonymous with opening the way or the mind), but she lies, said the actor who stumbled into love as soon as he got off the stage. It was clear, however, that this was the name given to all heartbeats that went beyond a specific frequency, the one that usually passes between a “cappuccino” and a kiss, between a goodbye and an attraction.
Attracting, magnetizing, sticking, gluing, what drama was foreseen before that fusion of gazes? The director had only imagined it, yes, the last scene always succeeds to everyone because the muscles of the neck are more and more relaxed, as after an orgasm, you can say things of an unprecedented madness or nothing, almost meditating on the void. The life of the Saleswoman who applauded at the end of each act was also empty. A unique spectator, perhaps paying (in the sense that she suffered from it) and regretting everything, even the last visit to the gynecologist. She, who had never betrayed anyone with her looks, suddenly turned the script upside down and began to cry, as artists do in the face of beauty, because, they say, “there is nothing better than feeling envious of the works of others.”
“You amaze me, madam!” Conversely, do not think you can contemplate having paid for a ticket. Contemplation is a divine (another?) gift. Divinity exists in madness, and what greater madness is there than that which agitates the devourer of the stage?”
The director stopped talking, but the woman’s breath had also shortened. It never happens, love at night, after a day of porterage, and it was not the right time either, so much so that the saleswoman squeezed her legs after taking a position in the front row. She already knew that the artist was going to spit a few lines in her face. It happens when you’re in the front row; it happens when you pay for the ticket.
It was the middle of the night, then, as often happens in invented stories, the woman apologized again and did so politely, as it always behaves, considering the late night. “You, doctor, are a clear example of unexpressed talent”! And she said it as she stuck out her tongue but not as a sign of mockery or even with sexual undertones; only she was about to vomit because of the wine she was not used to. “And you often come at this time”? The director asked, embarrassed, and then burst into laughter, joined by the sneer of the frightened saleswoman.
And yet, the theater vibrated with all that could have been. In the distance, you could hear some notes of that alternative author, yes, one of those avant-garde musicians dedicated to alcohol and women. Deafening, as did the lady in elephant fur (it seemed) with caviar diamonds (poetic license). Expressionless, the cashier was chewing gum.
