Count the present days until today arrives (RELATIVE NOIR SUCCESS)

 

(If someone said that Alvaro Bard's wife, or rather, if I said that my wife Blanca had the same perfume, the same languid and constant breathing, the same carnal splendor as Natasha, my Russian lover, I WOULD BE LYING --- however, on that sunny morning, with the air conditioning on full blast, I fucked her methodically, without uttering a word, and without unnecessarily prolonging the act to the point where I ran out of energy to make coffee --- We had come to the coast of Bahia for me to present my fourth crime novel, the fourth of a relative success that never reached the climax promised by the relative success of the previous ones --- and it was incredible how that relative, unchanging success was freeing me from the extremely nervous enthusiasm of the bestsellers in my field in favor of that always serene expression of relative animal contentment on my face, the same one I had after making love to Blanca, or even to Natasha (in truth, the only difference between the two was an imaginary texture ripped from my egotistical experience of loving loneliness while writing or imagining 'things', never having any idea how to use them later, remaining a modest application of imagination to life to strengthen in Natasha's slender, blonde nakedness the idea of ​​money, which had been providing us with torrid, sweaty sexual encounters, whenever Blanca prolonged her closed, self-absorbed expression, completely displeased with whatever I had done or said, for more than a week indoors --- In the city outside, the fishing air of the morning in front of the sea invited us to the bakeries and cafes, and a joy that quickly became vague led me to start drinking very early (in Blanca's opinion, mainly): "Don't you think it's better to start at least after lunch?" ---- she asked --- No, I didn't: with two or three beers, the beautifully still universe of those beaches better retained its colors and hypnotic qualities, an air of greater leisure soon granted relief to my mind, tired of fighting the insistent suspicion of decadence that THEY (the newspaper critics) had been suggesting in each of my books (which at least suggested to mine ego that continued to be read with attention), and they sought to relocate me in the literary scene of Catalonia by talking about new authors (some kids whose "suspensions" smelled of diapers and ANIMI and MANGAS)--- anxious for the "evolutions" of their next books?); while the phrase "We need a higher level of literature in Catalonia today" in the clipping of the article I had in my pocket, still cowardly throbbing between my thoughts about what I would say later, since I had been scheduled to close the evening's event --- "Aren't you going to give me any details about tonight?" Blanca asked me, feeling a little tense in that beach kiosk, "No clue? Remember how this has always helped you, on other occasions. You can get a contract here and in other countries, carve out a niche, get rich" --- However, I intended to take advantage of the opportunity soon to free myself from the past, perhaps, from myself; not speaking exhaustively about myself (I'm an ex-policeman) and other writers present, but rather attacking the position of something indefinable that forced me to that feeling of standard responsibility, entangling me in the homogenizing meshes and conveyor belts of that factory of "continuers of tradition".