I Don’t Need to Know Everything

2001, May, 20. Havana. 14:51 h.

—Bernardo.

Ivan Walsh crosses the living room.

The balcony is empty.

—Bernardo.

He goes into the kitchen.

Nothing.

The apartment door remains ajar.

Ivan Walsh goes out into the hallway.

—Bernardo.

He hears footsteps on the stairs.

He goes down.

He finds him on the landing between the second and first floors.

Bernardo is sitting on a step.

—What are you doing?

—Nothing.

Ivan Walsh stays above him.

For a few seconds neither of them moves.

—I thought you’d left.

—I did leave.

—I mean…

—I know what you mean.

Ivan Walsh comes down two steps.

—I’m not trying to watch you.

Bernardo laughs.

Not cruelly.

That would be easier.

—Everybody says that.

Ivan Walsh sits down at some distance.

The sound of a television comes from one of the apartments. A woman is talking about baseball. Then a child shouts and a door closes.

—Who is Juan Diego? —Ivan Walsh asks.

Bernardo looks down.

—A man.

—I’d worked that out.

—Then why do you ask.

Ivan Walsh falls silent.

Again.

Question, explanation, meaning.

—You’re right.

Bernardo looks up.

He seems surprised.

—About what?

—That I don’t need to know everything.

—I didn’t say that.

—But you thought it.

—Not that either.

Ivan Walsh smiles.

—All right.

He stands up.

—I have to go to San Antonio tomorrow.

—To the film school?

—Yes.

Bernardo hesitates.

—Can I come?

Ivan Walsh is about to ask what for.

He doesn’t.

—If you want.

Bernardo stands up too.

—I want to.