Providence

2001, May, 20. Havana. 14:42 h.

Liliana stays.

They talk about painting.

Or pretend to talk about painting.

Bernardo goes out onto the balcony.

Ivan Walsh shows Liliana the canvas he has made no progress on for two days.

—Who is it?

—Nobody.

—All your paintings are someone.

—This one isn’t yet.

She comes closer.

The figure is lying down. The face remains incomplete.

—He looks dead.

—He’s asleep.

—So you say.

Ivan Walsh smiles.

—Now you’re the one explaining.

Liliana studies the patches around the eyes.

—Do you remember when you used to talk about Providence?

Ivan Walsh stands motionless.

It has been years since he heard that word from her.

—Vaguely.

—Liar.

—All right. I remember.

—You used to say the problem was knowing whether people make history or whether people simply discover afterward what history did with them.

Ivan Walsh reaches for a cigarette he no longer smokes.

It is an old gesture. His hand goes toward his pocket and returns empty.

—I must have been unbearable.

—You were.

—Thank you.

—You were more fun, too.

—That’s age.

Liliana turns toward him.

—Do you still believe in that?

—In what?

—In Providence.

Ivan Walsh thinks.

—Now I believe fewer things.

—You became religious.

—Precisely because of that.

Liliana laughs.

Ivan Walsh walks over to a table and moves aside papers, tubes of oil paint, unopened envelopes.

Underneath, a black notebook appears.

He opens it.

Between two pages is a small reproduction of a Byzantine Virgin.

The paper is folded at the corners.

Liliana recognizes it.

—You still have it.

—Yes.

—Which one was it?

—The Virgin of the Tribulation.

—I thought it was the Virgin of the Pilgrims.

Ivan Walsh looks at the image.

—No.

Then he hesitates.

He brings it closer to the window.

The drawing is badly deteriorated. A woman holds the child. On one side is an eight-pointed star.

—Though they look alike.

Liliana comes closer.

—Juan Diego has one just like it.

Ivan Walsh raises his eyes.

—Where?

—In a photo.

—What photo?

Liliana shrugs.

—On his phone.

Ivan Walsh closes the notebook.

—Did he show it to you?

—Yes.

—Why?

Liliana thinks for a moment.

—I don’t know.

Ivan Walsh looks toward the balcony again.

Bernardo is no longer there.