Sometimes It Looks

2001, . 14:06 h.

Liliana arrives unannounced.

She has the notebook under her arm.

Ivan Walsh sees her come in and first thinks she is thinner. Then he thinks he should not think such things. They have known each other for years and he still has the absurd habit of registering the changes in her face before listening to what she says.

—I need you to look at something.

—Hello to you too.

Liliana leaves the notebook on a table.

Bernardo is making coffee in the kitchen.

She looks at him.

Only for an instant.

Ivan Walsh notices.

—He is Bernardo.

—I know.

Now Ivan Walsh looks back at Liliana.

—What do you mean you know?

—Juan Diego told me about him.

The sound of the cups stops coming from the kitchen.

Ivan Walsh opens the notebook.

There are two figures drawn in pencil.

One is seated. The other stands behind.

There are no faces.

—This is the idea he told you about —Ivan Walsh says.

—More or less.

—More or less?

Liliana sits down.

—He told me about a boy who is watched constantly. I did this.

Ivan Walsh turns the page.

There is another version. Now the standing figure has a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

In the next one it no longer touches him.

In the last, the boy is alone.

—This one is better —Ivan Walsh says.

Liliana points to the first.

—This is the one that interests me.

—It’s too clear.

—Clear about what?

—About what you want whoever sees it to think.

Liliana picks up the notebook.

—You always say that.

—Because you always do the same thing.

—What do I do?

Ivan Walsh searches for a word.

—You explain.

Liliana looks at him with an irritation he knows well.

—And you don’t?

—All the time.

—Well then.

—That’s why I know it gets in the way.

Bernardo comes in with three cups.

Liliana looks at him again.

This time he looks at her too.

—Are you a painter? —Bernardo asks.

—I try.

—Ivan Walsh says that too.

Liliana smiles.

—We painters are very modest when there are other painters around.

Bernardo puts a cup in front of her.

Then he sees the drawing.

His expression does not change.

That is precisely the expression that changes.

Ivan Walsh notices.

—What’s going on? —he asks.

—Nothing.

Bernardo moves away.

Liliana looks at the drawing and then at Ivan Walsh.

—It’s him.

Ivan Walsh closes the notebook.

—No.

—Ivan Walsh.

—It isn’t him.

—I don’t mean literally.

—Then don’t say it.

Liliana falls silent.

Ivan Walsh regrets raising his voice the instant he does it.

Bernardo sits down by the window again.

—Sorry —Ivan Walsh says.

Liliana remains still.

—That’s why I came.

—Why?

—Because yesterday, when Juan Diego told me the story, I thought of my son.

—Right.

—And today I see him.

Ivan Walsh looks at Bernardo.

The boy has gone back to the book.

Or is pretending to have gone back.

—That is the problem —Ivan Walsh says.

Liliana frowns.

—What is?

—That we see someone and immediately think of something else.

Liliana does not answer.

Ivan Walsh opens the notebook again.

He looks at the drawn boy.

—A son. A victim. Cuba. Power. Innocence. Whatever you like.

—That’s what art does.

—Sometimes.

—And the other times?

Ivan Walsh closes the notebook.

—Sometimes it looks.