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1、Woven, Sirby John Berger April 2, 2001 I am in Madrid and waiting for my friend Juan, a sculptor, who will be late, I think. Juan works in a small garage, like a mechanic, lying on his back, as though underneath a car; he looks at his watch only when he crawls out and gets to his feet. We have agree
2、d to meet in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. There are two exotic trees and, leading off this lounge, a bar named after Velzquez. (I doubt whether he drank much.) The walls and the ceiling are painted a whitish yellow, not what the paint manufacturers call ivory but the true color of elephants tusksmu
3、ch closer to the color of old teeth. The ceiling is as high as three elephants standing on one anothers backs.As soon as you come off the street and the double glass doors swing shut behind you, you are aware of the deafness of money. Its not an empty silence, but a silence of seclusionlike that of
4、the depth of an ocean. The wide, carpeted staircase is palpably quiet, and in the lounge the voices of the people talking are muted. Two waiters, carrying tinkling trays of glasses full of champagne, wear white gloves. The seclusion, here, prompts me to remember the clamor of shanty towns and the ev
5、erlasting racket in prisons.The first guests are arriving for an evening reception. A reception is being held to launch the new Venezuelan economy, which, evidently, now depends on Spanish investors. The guests, mostly in their thirties, have surf-riding smiles, controlled eyes, and a way of tilting
6、 themselves forward which makes me think of the figureheads once carved on ships. In the muted quiet, cameramen and journalists are waiting for the stars who have been announced ahead of time.Not far from where Im sitting, three hotel guests, who appear to have nothing to do with the reception, have
7、 installed themselves on two sofas and a deep armchair, as if they were at home. Perhaps they are at home. Perhaps they never leave their home and, like snails, carry it with them.The waiters and the cameramen are respecting their claimed territory. On the floor between the two sofas is a large Chin
8、ese carpet, and the man of the trio, who is also the youngest, is pacing slowly, smoking a Cuban cigar.Those invited to launch the new economy are allwomen and menagents of promotion. I wonder if it is the imaginative effort of promotion which obliges them to lean forward in the way they do. I imagi
9、ne some of them, at the end of a long day, catching a glimpse of themselves reflected in a glass, when this leaning forward then provokes a kind of paralyzing panica fear of falling forward, flat on ones face! (Like the panic sometimes visible on the faces of those suffering from Parkinsons.) This e
10、vening, however, they are confident as they lean forward to take the glasses of champagne from the trays offered them by the waiters with white gloves.For the man with the Cuban cigar, smoking appears to be a way of slowing down the processor, possibly, his awareness of the processof things getting
11、steadily worse.A young woman, seated on an upright chair opposite me, is reading a book. Like me, she is waiting for somebody who is late, though she looks toward the door more frequently than I do. I suspect she is waiting for a lover and is beginning to doubt that he will turn up this evening. The
12、 mounting crescendo of her disappointment is expressed by the ever briefer glances she accords to the book. Suddenly she slaps it shut, gets to her feet, and walks out between the camera lights set up for the stars.I see a man coming down the wide staircase, a room key dangling from his lightly clen
13、ched fist. From the way he holds the key, it could be a bird he has in his hand. He is wearing a checkered cap, tweed jacket, plus fours with heavy woollen socks, and brogues. His name is Tyler. His first name escapes meprobably because I remember that it signified a lot. His first name, whatever it
14、 was, evoked the mystery that surrounded himabove all, the mystery of the defeat he had suffered. I always addressed him as sir. I dont think I would have noticed him coming down the staircase if it hadnt been for my unexpectedly meeting my mother, in Lisbon, a few months previously. I hadnt given T
15、yler a thought for years. And the last place that might have triggered a memory of him would have been the Ritz. The meeting with my mother had led to my observing things differently.I met her in the Praa da Alegria, the Square of Joy. A small public garden with elms, palms, and jacaranda trees, ver
16、y old-looking. Chickens were pecking for worms on the grass. There was a flowery plaque celebrating Alfredo Keil, who wrote the music for the Portuguese national anthem. An old woman with an umbrella was sitting very still on one of the benches. I thought she was watching the chickens. Then she got to her feet, turned, and walked toward me, using her umbrella as a stick. I instantly recognized my mother.What are you doing here? I was amazed.
