Mexicans lost in Mexico

I’m in between swims right now. Turning my attention to the doorstop. Mexicans lost in Mexico. Great title, and for once the writing lives up to the hype. The beauty of the prose is outstanding. Who could fail to be turned on by this tale of poets and poetry?

Maria Font is my new heroine. I only discovered her a few weeks ago but I’m developing what you might call an infatuation.

Maria lives with her sister Angelica in an outbuilding of a two-storey house on Calle Colima, in Mexico City, with her brother Jorgita and their parents. Her father is an architect. Angelica is the poet who won the prestigious Laura Damian literary prize at the tender age of only sixteen. Maria is her elder sister. Her poems have appeared in a literary magazine entitled Lee Harvey Oswald, and also in an anthology of Mexican poetry. The house is often full of poets and Maria is a kind of muse to them.

Maria is tall and dark with straight black hair, a straight nose and thin lips. She listens to Billie Holiday and Astrud Gilberto, and paints whilst reading poetry. Maria has slept with several poets – Luscious Skin, Moctezuma Rodriguez, even young Garcia Madero. She is also a friend of a hooker named Lupe.

Why do I feel such empathy? Well, I used to know a girl just like Maria. It was several years ago, when I lived in Batignolles, a district of Paris. I used to be that girl. I was Maria Font, in all but name.

That’s all I know for now. If I find out any more I’ll let you know.

Room with a view

Forster set his Room with a View in Florence. My view is from the balcony of our room here, and possibly more enchanting than EMF. I can see the calm waters of the lake, the mountains in the backdrop, the little towns on the opposite side of the water, the batello as it nears the jetty down below.

It’s early in the morning and I’m dragging on the first cigarette of the day. From below the smells of baking come drifting up from the kitchen as breakfast is prepared. The bells on the village church have just pealed out six thirty. Behind me Tamara lies asleep in our huge king sized bed. It would probably sleep three people, that bed. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her face as cool and calm in sleep as it is when awake.

I’m thinking about my nightmare last night. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was enough to make me cry out, and I woke sobbing uncontrollably. I felt Tamara take me in her arms and comfort me, her soft kisses on my hair, her arms enfolding me. I lay with my head on her shoulder for a long time, unable to move. Not wanting to move. Eventually I fell asleep, but when I awake we are separated, and Tamara lies quietly asleep on her back.

I watch her sleeping for a while. I want to kiss her lips, wake her with my tongue, roll it down her soft white bosom and lick her belly. I pull the covers back and carefully slide in next to her, my hands caressing her waist.

She sleeps on. I let my fingertips play on the elastic of her underwear. If only I could slip a finger into her sweet flower. But I daren't.So I came out here onto the balcony.

It’s been idyllic so far, and I feel sad to leave this beautiful place. I remember my stay here that spring, with Helene. Now Tamara has come into my life. Tomorrow we must leave, but Dr Gerhard has invited us to visit him, across the border in Switzerland.

Maybe there, at last, Tamara and I will become closer.