Romero de Torres and Matilde
We always arrived at the same
place but we had never dared to speak. We crossed paths in a hallway that
seemed increasingly narrower as our bodies approached. We looked at each other
and unassumingly smiled. It was not the obvious smile of external communication
but that, which recognizes its own sensuality, manifested at the crossing of
our sights. We did not say a single word. It was not necessary. Words in
matters of intrinsic manifestation have great limitations. I knew that I would
be able to see her again in a couple of days and under the same circumstances.
Those were the longest days of my life. We never again met in the hallway but I
reproduced it in my mind a thousand and one times. I returned again and saw her
drinking a cup-of-tea. I approached the table and with a mutual gesture we
agreed that it was okay for me to sit beside her. We did not say a single word
for a while; it was not necessary. Then, I said, should we walk? So we did,
through lonely streets that in her presence had turned into universal paths. I
walked and she moved with abandonment as if the streets were moving under her
feet. It was inevitable that every man who crossed her path duplicated the
hallway that I had forged in my mind. An obvious and necessary lie was needed
so we went to pick up a book in my studio. The unspoken excuse was acceptable
to both. We wanted to drown the unnecessary noises and eyes around us. Her
enigmatic skin was burning with anxiety. The corner of her eyes revealed a devouring
flame. Possessed by a primal dance her breast pierced her soul. She wore a red
silk blouse with the shadow of a cat in constant gaze, a bright color skirt
with geometric figures and cloth flats that left the top of her delicate feet
exposed. She flipped through a book of Romero looking for necessary descendants
in each sketch. She recognized her sensuality in the drawings, which were
suppressed in her by unnecessary morals. She felt like an ancient woman, as if
some old world was calling her, as if she brought in her Lucrezia's heritage.
Her tender and naïve breasts blushed insistently despite the moral challenges
they produced. Her bare waist contrasted her delicate white and anxious
fingers. Her hands lost in the search for truth. She carefully traced each
figure, and their contours emitted from them a familiar sensuality. After, we
talked about uninteresting things just to extend the time. Unexpectedly she
switched back and forth from subject to subject, always looking for a reason to
talk about Romero de Torres. Then we talked about pure love and transcendental
beauty and at last of corporal acts. As the air got thinner, we talked of
obscene expressions lovers murmur to each other. We had not yet delivered our
frivolous whispers, but we had thought them very loudly. I asked her, what are
the obscenities that you know? She blushed in the attempt to say it and her
body reacted accordingly with her thoughts. Her shoulders shrugged and her arms
pushed her breast to the center of her chest. We insisted that she should look
into our eyes. She repeated it several times and always became flush, as if
projecting her breasts’ fire in her cheeks. She armed herself with a pretend
seriousness and firmly penetrated my eyes with her gaze. Driven by a magnetic
energy her lips gave in. What an anxiety! With our clothes intact we moved
around the studio like great gladiators. Her dancing skills manifested in every
part of her body. Then, as if a storm had discharged all its waters, we were
facing each other again. Sitting in the same armchair and looking at each other
without understanding what had happened to the book. We looked at Romero de
Torres with crumpled pages and the spine facing down, mirroring our desires. We
laughed. Now, the conversations were not rudimentary but of dialectical order.
We rescued the faded images of Romero. This was about getting to the bottom of
our moral precepts, with no sense of guilt. What ethics, morality or principle
could stop her from feeling her very nature, and yet worse, make her feel
guilty. She shook her head and wanted to sin again with the same liberating
dynamism. Claiming the world as hers she stood up on the armchair as if she had
never been sitting and landed in front of my shoulders with opened arms, like a
majestic bird, delivering illicit words and inviting me to dance. Today I am
free; stop my flight if you dare, she said. I was stunned, willingly tied to
her neck like a silk scarf, but ready to undo the moral knot in her throat.
What a power in your sight and how profound is your skin, I said unexpectedly.
Neruda would have recited the first verse, Body of a woman... come back
unbroken and he would remain there for an eternity, repeating the same thing
over and over again. He could not retain her but he immortalized her in poetry,
as a universal woman. He had to wait until Matilde to unite them all in one.
But is better late than never. Crazed by unrestricted ardor, her body rose up
again like sheets on a line when a storm is about to come. As a winged dancer
she moved her innermost desired parts of her being. The storm had ended and
reality gave its way; we refocused our eyes, fully understanding the phenomena
and accepting the depths of the space and our affinities. Now the eyes were
truly looking though words and ink, converging, recognizing, and the
conversation had a beginning and end. Romero de Torres restored the crumpled pages,
straighten the spine, got Matilde by the hand, closed their covers, walked
away, and would never again be seen.
