Explore "Nietzsche on his Balcony" by Carlos Fuentes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I met Gala at a party. I don't know who introduced us. I'm not sure anyone introduced us. There were only two possible ways to make it through the din of that annual gathering. One way was to participate fully, to pretend to know everyone else, and to partake in the euphoria that, as with all carnival parties, was fictitious. The other way was to be completely isolated, to be an oblivious observer, an active bystander. Among a hundred guests, Gala and I were, I think, the only ones to opt for the second possibility, which is how we found each other. We both understood; the others herded us into a corner, and she balanced a glass in her hand and, in a charming manner, blew her hair up and out of her eyes. She noticed that I was watching her, and that made us both laugh. So we met laughing, without remembering or knowing if anyone had introduced us.
Still, I don't know why her laugh unsettled me, as if it were another woman's mask. As if it were Gala, but also someone else. I don't know.