magazine, astounds one with a thou-
sand memories of pursuits in life's
interiors by happenstance.
with his always stirring delicacy,
over at The New York Review just
now, on the seeming ineradicability
of human affections as the default
mine of prospecting artists, especi-
ally in language. He's reviewing a
distinctive Spanish novel I've been
waiting to read in translation, and
another that is news to me. We don't
have a more exemplary companion to-
day of the instinct, one would almost
call it, to mine for words responding
to interiors. In his enthusiasms and
reticences it's natural to remember
A woman in a red dress began to sing
a jazz song in Portuguese and all the
faces at all the tables close to us
looked over at the bandstand, which
was bright with lights. She was cool,
the woman in the red dress, she closed
her eyes and whispered the song into
the microphone. Susan looked around,
and I could see her wondering what
to make of this; she had no idea
who these people were.
No one from the government was here, and that seemed reasonable. Señor Canetto was opposed to the government. No one from the op- position was here either, and that was reasonable too: the opposition was fragmented and in disarray. No one from the military was here, and that was reasonable too: the military was in everyone's bad book. These men here tonight, I thought, could easily be waiting in the wings to take power. I whispered something like this to Susan, but she shook her head.
"There's something missing. I don't
know what it is, but it is missing,"
she said and drew on her cigarette.
Colm Tóibín
The Story of the Night
Henry Holt, 1996©
