Exhibit at the Lycée Français: “Unexpected Photo Essay on Cortázar”

Eli Di Lorenzo, cook, in the Cour de Rohan: “With her I would feel a new air come over me, the fantastic patterns of the sunset or the way things would put themselves in patterns when we would be together by the bars of the Cour de Rohan and the tramps would ascend into the fearful moonlit world of witnesses and judges. . . .”

Nicolás Román Borré, filmmaker, in the Quai de Célestins: “Wandering along Quai des Célestins I step on some dry leaves and when I pick one up and look at it closely I see that it is full of old-gold dust. . . .”

Erica de Dios Morales, Spanish teacher, on the Seine: “ ‘I feel so sorry for you, Horacio.’ ‘Oh no; hold it right there.’ ‘You know that sometimes I really can see. I see things so clearly. To think that an hour ago I thought the best thing to do would be go jump in the river.’ ‘Body of an unidentified woman found in Seine . . . But you swim like a swan.’ ”

Marcelo Balsells, musician, in the Boulevard Jourdan: “Then other times we would go all the way to the Porte d’Orleans and we became more and more familiar with the vacant lots beyond the Boulevard Jourdan, where sometimes at midnight the members of the Serpent Club used to get together to talk to a blind seer, a stimulating paradox. We used to leave the bicycles on the street and go in a little way, stopping to look at the sky because it is one of the few places in Paris where sky is worth more than ground. Sitting on a pile rubbish we would smoke for a while, and La Maga would stroke my hair or hum songs which hadn’t been invented yet, absurd tunes broken with sighs or memories.”

Mario Goloboff, writer, at the Madeleine: “And while somebody explains something as always, I don’t know why I am in this café, in all cafés, in the Elephant & Castle, in the Dupont Barbès, in the Sacher, in the Pedrocchi, in the Gijón, in the Greco, in the Café de la Paix, in the Café Mozart, in the Florian, in the Capoulade, in Les Deux Magot, in the bar that puts its chairs out on the Colleone square, in the Café Dante fifty yards away from the tomb of the Scaligers and that face on a pink sarcophagus that looks as if it had been burned by the tears of Saint Mary of Egypt, in the café across from the Giudecca, with aged and impoverished marchionesses drinking a tiny tea and getting expansive with dusty ambassadors, in the Jandilla, in the Floccos, in the Cluny, in the Richmond, in Sulpacha, in Elmo, in the Closerie des Lilas, in the Stéphane (which is on the Rue Mallarmé), in the Toio (which is in the Chivilcoy), in the Au Chien Qui Fume, in the Opern Café, in the Dôme, in the Café du Vieux Port, in cafés everywhere. . . .”

Ricardo Mosner, artist, on the Pont Neuf: “Toc, toc. ‘Come on, let’s wake up,’ Oliveira would say from time to time. ‘What for?’ La Maga would reply, watching the péniches sail under the Pont Neuf. ‘Toc, toc, you’ve got a bird in your head. Toc, toc, he picks at you all the time, he wants you to give him some Argentinian food to eat. Toc, toc.’ ‘O.K.,’ grumbled Oliveira. ‘Don’t get me mixed up with Rocamadour. Before we’re through we’ll be speaking Gliglish to some clerk or doorman and there’ll be hell to pay . . .’ ”

Ramona Zapiola, Spanish teacher, at the point of Ver-Galant: “Wrapping up in black overcoat that reached down to her ankles, she went over to the newcomer. The newcomer agreed that the cold was almost worse than the police. When she got a cigarette from him and lit it, the clocharde got the idea that she knew him from somewhere. The newcomer also said that he knew her from somewhere, and both of them were pleased that they recognized each other at that hour of the morning. [. . .] The newcomer was watching dawn break over the point of Ver-Galant, a willow tree was extricating its spider-webs out of the fog. When the clocharde asked him why he was shivering so much with such a good lumberjacket, he shrugged and offered her another cigarette. They smoked and smoked, talking and looking at each other sympathetically.”

Federico Barea, writer, along the Seine: “It wasn’t as cold along the Seine as in the streets, so Oliveira raised the collar of this lumberjacket and went over to look at the water.”

Maru Ibáñez, biologist, on the Rue de la Tombe Issoire: “Paris, a postcard with a drawing by Klee next to a dirty mirror. La Maga had appeared one afternoon on the Rue du Cherche Midi. When she came to my room on the Rue de la Tombe Issoire she would always bring a flower, a Klee or Miró postcard, and if she didn’t have any money she would pick up the leaf of a plane tree in the park.”

Luisa Valenzuela, writer, in the Café Au Chien qui Fume: “And while somebody explains something as always, I don’t know why I am in this café, in all cafés, in the Elephant & Castle, in the Dupont Barbès, in the Sacher, in the Pedrocchi, in the Gijón, in the Greco, in the Café de la Paix, in the Café Mozart, in the Florian, in the Capoulade, in Les Deux Magots, in the bar that puts its chairs out on the Colleone square, in the Café Dante fifty yards away from the tomb of the Scaligers and that face on a pink sarcophagus that looks as if it had been burned by the tears of Saint Mary of Egypt, in the café across from the Giudecca, with aged and impoverished marchionesses drinking a tiny tea and getting expansive with dusty ambassadors, in the Jandilla, in the Floccos, in the Cluny, in the Richmond, in Suipacha, in El Olmo, in the Closerie des Lilas, in the Stéphane (which is on the Rue Mallarmé), in the Tokio (which is in Chivilcoy), in the Au Chien Qui Fume, in the Opern Café, in the Dôme, in the Café du Vieux Port, in cafés anywhere . . .”

Andrea Cohen, musician, at the Louvre: “ ‘The weather was very changeable,’ Oliveira said, ‘but every once in a while there would be good days. Something else: as César Bruto said so well, if you want Paris in October to move’er, don’t forget to see the Louvre.’ ”

Miguel “Rep” Repiso, cartoonist, on Rue Danton: “ ‘I really ought to go,’ Oliveira said to a black cat on the Rue Danton. ‘A certain aesthetic requirement, complete the pattern. Number three, the Clue. But let’s not forget about Orpheus. Maybe if I shave my head and cover it with ashes, go there with a tin cup, like a beggar. I am no longer he that ye once knew, oh women. Tragedian. Mime. Night of empusae and lamiae, evil shadows, the end of the great game. How tiring it gets being the same person all the time. Unpardonably. I will never see them again, it is written. Qu’as tu fait, toi que voilà, de ta jeunesse? An inquisitor, that girl can really make them up . . . In any case, an autoinquisitor, et encore . . . An accurate epitaph: Too bland. But a bland inquisition is terrible, cornstarch tortures, tapioca bonfires, shifting sands, Medusa suckling sneakily. Medusa sneaking suckily. And too much pity underneath it all, me, who thought I was pitiless. It’s impossible to want what I want and in the shape I want it, and share life with others besides. I had to know how to be alone and how to let so much wanting do its work, save me or destroy me, but without the Rue Dauphine, without the dead child, without the Club and everything else. Don’t you think so, eh?”

Julio Silva, Cortázar’s best friend, at the Montparnasse cemetery: “Why did I choose this fragment and place? It is a place I frequently visit when longing finds shelter in my memories.”

Raquel Thiercelin, close friend, professor of Spanish literature, on Rue de Buci: “. . . they would agree to meet there and they almost always found each other. The meetings were so incredible at times that Oliveira once more brought up the problem of probability and examined the case cautiously from all angles. La Maga could not possibly have decided to turn that corner of the Rue de Vaugirard at the precise moment in which he, five blocks down the street, decided not to go along the Rue de Buci. . . .”