The Illogic of Kassel (33 page)

Walking toward the Hessenland, I stopped to contemplate the earth, air, and sky from within the darkness. And I remembered the dead, all the many people I’d known and loved who had died. And I also remembered that for the living there was only a gloomy path, to the grave, to the earth; there was no other route to any other world than what went by way of the grave. All the marvels of life—the nice colors, the charm and joy of certain days, family homes, unforgettable days, the sweet and gentle paths, the marvels of small and great art—everything was on its way to expire and disappear, everything was oblivion. The sun on high would pass away, and all the best emotions, and with them the eyes of men who cry. . . . It had really grown dark. I took refuge in the hotel, went into my room, went out on the balcony, waved for the last time to Sehgal’s invisible room, came back into mine, that enclosure that hadn’t even provided me with a thinking cabin.

One hour later, I was sitting on a plain chair in my room, my bag packed, totally ready to embark on that return journey despite having so many hours left to wait. My computer was in its case. And I was there in the chair as if petrified, as if in hell. The invisible impulse, the effect of the breeze, seemed to have reached its end. I looked toward the black hole that had originated inside myself, and it showed me my own face. As if with my brain I was going through this zone without a bit of good humor; it was a region with no jokes at all. I wanted to go back to the world, although it had perished some time ago and was no longer within my reach. I had been trapped inside Piniowsky since the moment he was born in me. I was a victim of my own mask. It was no longer possible to have any opinion on the world. Every axiom of my life had turned out to be false, it felt, and I didn’t see anything, there was nothing, I was nothing; everything was, from top to bottom, a false illusion. The invisible impulse had vanished entirely.

I barely moved from the chair the whole night, thinking of all the dead I’d once known and who had gone with an inadmissible ease. I spent the night in this misty humorless zone thinking that what was happening to me was going to stay with me forever. But at dawn, everything changed: at first just slightly; then, in a more dynamic way.

At seven on the dot the taxi arrived. I went downstairs with my suitcase and my laptop. At reception, as I’d imagined, Alka was not there; she probably hadn’t set her alarm. It was obviously too early for her. The day looked splendid, magnificent, marvelous. Stealthily and slowly, the black taxi slipped through the deserted streets, and for a moment, I feared I might encounter the image of young Kassel leaning against a rough wall, weeping in silence for the end of Europe.

But no. Kassel too, like all the dead I’d once loved, had disappeared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The taxi driver was Chinese. I was grateful for this last detail from the curatorial team. Even his Chinese cap had meaning, and noticing it led me to understand that I was back in a zone of luminosity and joy.

Art was, in effect, something that was happening to me, happening at that very moment. And the world seemed new again, moved by an invisible impulse. Everything was so relaxing and admirable, it was impossible not to look. Blessed is the morning, I thought.

Copyright © 2014 by Enrique Vila-Matas

Translation copyright © 2015 by Anne McLean and Anna Milsom

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

This edition is published by arrangement with Enrique Vila-Matas c/o MB Agencia Literaria S.L.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First published in 2015 as New Directions Paperbook 1307

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Vila-Matas, Enrique, 1948–

[Kassel no invita a la lógica. English]

The Illogic of Kassel / Enrique Vila-Matas ; translated from the Spanish by Anne McLean and Anna Milsom. — First American Paperback edition.

“A New Directions book.”

ISBN 978-0-8112-2149-8

ISBN 978-0-8112-2436-9 (e-book)

1. Authors — Fiction. 2. Spanish — Germany — Fiction. 3. Arts — Exhibitions — Fiction. 4. Arts, Modern — Fiction. I. McLean, Anne, 1962– translator. II. Milsom, Anna, translator. III. Title.

PQ6672.I37K3713 2015

863'.64—dc23                                2014046891

New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

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