Who Is Watching

2001, May, 21. San Antonio de los Baños. 17:53 h.

At this hour the school changes.

During the day everything seems provisional: students going in and out of classrooms, cables, cameras, someone running because a battery is missing, someone sitting on the floor revising a screenplay that should have been handed in three days ago.

By late afternoon something else remains.

Ivan Walsh walks beside María Julia.

The advising sessions are over.

Bernardo stayed with three Colombian students arguing in front of the editing building. Ivan Walsh sees him in the distance. He says little, but listens.

—He liked you —María Julia says.

—Who?

—The boy.

—I don’t know.

—Then you liked him.

Ivan Walsh looks at her.

—You’re still doing that.

—What?

—Deciding what I think.

—Someone has to.

They walk.

The earth is still red.

Ivan Walsh remembered that.

Some places change through small replacements: one building painted, another abandoned, a new antenna, a tree that is no longer there. But the path keeps the same color.

—You talked to them about History today —María Julia says.

—They asked me.

—No. You took the conversation there.

Ivan Walsh accepts the correction.

—Maybe.

—You always end up there.

They sit on a bench.

Ivan Walsh looks out toward the fields.

—I used to think it was an intellectual question.

—And now?

—Now I think I was afraid.

—Of what?

Ivan Walsh thinks of Bernardo.

Then of Liliana.

Then of the photograph he has not seen.

—That the things that happened to me might mean nothing.

María Julia takes a while to answer.

—That’s quite common.

—Right.

—And quite narcissistic.

Ivan Walsh smiles.

—That too.

A light comes on in one of the buildings.

Ivan Walsh remembers another afternoon. Or thinks he remembers it. Some memories have too many details, and that is why he begins to distrust them.

—I thought there had to be a connection between Napoleón and the man who lost a leg at Borodinó.

—Tolstói.

—Of course.

—You’re still reading him.

—Less.

—And what do you think now?

Ivan Walsh looks at Bernardo.

One of the students has given him a camera. Bernardo holds it awkwardly, asks something, and they all laugh.

—That perhaps the man who lost his leg doesn’t need Napoleón for it to hurt.

María Julia remains silent.

—That really is new —she finally says.

Ivan Walsh nods.

The phone vibrates.

It is Liliana.

There is a photograph.

Ivan Walsh opens it.

For a few seconds he does not understand what he is looking at.

It is the reproduction of the Virgin.

Not the one in his notebook.

Another one.

A message appears underneath.

«This is the one I was telling you about.»

Ivan Walsh enlarges the image.

The star.

The mantle.

The position of the hands.

Then he looks toward where Bernardo was.

The students are still there.

Bernardo is not.

Ivan Walsh stands up.

—What’s wrong?

He does not answer.

He walks toward them.

—Where is Bernardo?

One of the Colombians points toward the dormitories.

—He left with the Mexican.

Ivan Walsh stops.

—What Mexican?

The boy does not understand the question.

—The man who came for him.

Ivan Walsh takes out his phone.

He calls Bernardo.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

No answer.

He calls again.

María Julia comes up to him.

—Ivan Walsh.

He raises a hand.

He needs to listen.

Fourth call.

Nothing.

Then he looks again at the photograph Liliana sent.

The Virgin.

He thinks of David.

He thinks of Goliath.

He thinks of the boy sitting while a man remains behind him.

For years he has believed that the problem of History lies in knowing who moves whom.

Now he understands that perhaps he has asked the wrong question.

It is not who moves whom.

It is who is watching.