Nietzsche said that we have art so that we don't die of the truth. The German knew things, for one is only tragic in youth; in old age, all that remains is laughter and mockery. I remembered B., at that time a flower. She resembled Rita Payés, the Catalan trombonist, and possessed the precise pitch of dissent. Once, B. disagreed after I solemnly stated that L. Visconti's Death in Venice had brought tears to my eyes. "Professor, in the theater we learn certain techniques for crying and making the audience emotional." I asked for more sparkling water with lemon. The bottle was sweating, the glass separated us, and there wasn't much to talk about.
For some unimportant reason, B. insisted on our friendship. She showed up unexpectedly at my apartment. We talked until late at night, and she confessed that, despite being much older than her, I was a perfect guy, except for my shiny wedding ring. She went on to recount her sexual adventures, which plunged me into a melancholy that would make that engraving of the angel by Albrecht Dürer, another brilliant German, envious.
The day dawned with the feeling that some hope lay between the youthful fire and the senile ashes. It was then, looking at B.'s feet, that I noticed she was wearing dirty socks. This freed me from all guilt, and I wept copiously while she, though confused, bid me farewell with a kiss.
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