we got into a fight - and made a gesture with my hand, to show him that there was no one next to me, so yes, I was alone. It didn’t occur to me to say it out loud.
He let me pass, and then whispered a few words I didn’t catch into the microphone. Maybe he was warning his colleagues inside that a suspicious character was coming in and they’d better keep an eye on him. I descended a ramp and found myself in a strange place. It was a real garage, though obviously without cars. The floor was covered with porphyry building blocks, and scattered throughout the space were those mushroom-shaped heaters you find in bars so that people can be in the open air even in winter. It was fairly cold all the same, so although I unbuttoned my jacket I didn’t take it off.
There were a lot of people there. My first thought, as I entered, was that it was like some vaguely surreal film set. Groups of very well-to-do but left-wing ladies. Groups of unmistakably gay young men and women. Groups of people
of different ages, dressed to display the fact that they were artists. A few politicians, a few would-be intellectuals, a few young black men, a few Japanese. No one I knew.
It was such a weird mixture that it immediately put me in a good mood. I thought I would take a quick look at the works, in order not to be unprepared, and then look for the food. And Natsu.
On a small table, close to the entrance, there were catalogues. I took one and leafed through it as I moved closer to the walls. The title of the exhibition was The Elementary Particles .
I wondered if it was a reference to the novel by that Frenchman. I hadn’t liked the book, but I assumed it was meant to be a clue to understanding the works.
From a distance, the paintings on display were reminiscent of Rothko. All things considered, they weren’t bad. I went up to one of them. I was examining it, trying to grasp the technique, when a voice behind me made me jump.
“Are you Piero’s boyfriend?” He had orange hair and looked like an Elton John clone. A local Elton John, judging by the accent.
No, friend, you’re more likely to be Piero’s boyfriend, whoever the hell this Piero is.
“No, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. You must be confusing me with someone else.”
“Oh,” he said, with a sigh that could mean anything. Then he looked me up and down and asked, “Do you like Katso’s work?”
“Who?”
Katso was the artist, it turned out. Elton explained that he had thought up the title of the exhibition and had written the critical introduction to the catalogue.
Oh, excellent. I’d glanced at it and hadn’t understood a word.
I didn’t say that, but he read my mind, and without my asking started to explain his introduction in detail.
I couldn’t believe it. There were at least two hundred people there, and this character had buttonholed me. I’d have liked to signal to someone to come and save me, maybe by knocking Elton on the head, but I didn’t know anyone.
After a while I noticed that people were moving in groups towards the side of the garage furthest from the entrance. The movement you always get at parties when the food is ready.
“I think there’s something to eat,” I said, but he didn’t even hear me.
He was unstoppable now, having launched on a metaphysical exegesis on the works of Katso.
“Spudlicating, humbo,” I said. Complete gibberish, just to make sure he wasn’t listening to a word I said. And it was true: he really wasn’t. He didn’t ask me what “spudlicating” meant, or even what a “humbo” was. He was too busy talking about archetypes and the way certain artistic manifestations condensed the scattered fragments of the collective unconscious.
I condensed my scattered fragments and said excuse me - only because I’m such a polite person - turned and headed towards the food.
People were crowding around a long table. From a room immediately behind it, waiters emerged with trays full of sushi, sashimi and