English
This page is for the translation of all works in this site to English, reviewed by G. Waterbridge. English translations of G. Suzunue's novels will at some point be available as well. You will find a link to such texts in the section below, in the 'List of writings.'
List of writings
Short stories
Novels
UFO: Undefined Fantastic Observer
Walking
This morning, I woke up—somehow—to find my own mind and perception shrouded in a light fog of bewilderment. Through the window, which was not completely covered by the curtain, a bundle of sunlight beams entered (it was dawn); as a result, the bed broke into ridges and valleys of light and shadow, each with its own shade of sky blue and violet. My upright and turned head observed this landscape for a very long second (one that felt like an entire stretch of dull tranquility), and on one of the multiple folds of the rustic blanket, I spotted a black spider moving somewhat hurriedly towards the south. Immediately afterward—so immediately that it was almost simultaneous—I felt an urgent need to get up. I had to get moving. So, I slowly and carefully pushed the blanket aside, making sure not to crush or harm the spider in any way. One by one, my limbs bent to get uncovered, leaving the warmth of the bed and the meager comfort of the slightly musty and stale mattress, stretching over the bed's edge as an additional precaution (by then, the spider had melded into the unlit regions still untouched by dawn) and finally landing on the carpeted and weathered floor. That's when I felt the urgency to hurry, knowing that thing had to be done soon. At that moment, I didn't realize it, but the mental fog had lifted, and I had completely forgotten about the black spider. I just started walking briskly, with no other concern in my mind but to advance between the interplay of light and shadow on the high, blue and violet path, and not in the valleys of darkness. So there I was, with the evidence of the nascent day above and behind me, when you woke up in that special, mild state of confusion and saw me; the confusion dissipated quickly from your mind, and you felt the need to get up immediately. Despite your sudden urgency, you had the infinitely compassionate and merciful kindness to leave the bed carefully, so that nothing bad would happen to me. Afterward, you too began to traverse the long crest rapidly; I suppose you were heading to the same place as the rest of us.
School on Fire
It all started somewhat distant from me, in the kitchen. One of the absentminded employees toiling there became momentarily distracted for long enough that a modest flame spat forth a portion of itself, perhaps in rebellion, seeking to live a while longer—maybe out of sheer vexation, or perhaps out of sheer boredom. By some twist of fate, this fiery fragment found itself landing upon a surface conducive to its growth. One can easily envision the towering blaze it eventually became—a fire scion transformed into a roaring inferno—and if one makes an effort, they might glimpse with varying degrees of clarity the sheer terror etched across the faces of the cooks, their eyes bursting like eggs, and the frenzied motion of their arms and hands as if to scramble said eggs. The employees wasted no time retreating toward the exit; but beforehand, one among them activated the sacred alarm to alert the entire school. Then, the flame, now multiplied and amplified, lunged at the fleeing, panic-stricken cooks—wide-eyed, some rendered mute, and others shrieking in terror—as though the walls, the floor, and even the very air itself had been saturated with gasoline.
While these events unfolded, I was in class, in room number sixteen. The spirits of the students were low and still; we were all weary—some, like myself, yawning to the point of near-dislocation. A score of potato sacks would have exhibited more vitality than us! Our listless demeanor was gradually wearing on the teacher. Perhaps the walls paid more attention than these puppets masquerading as students... Then, the alarm rent the unbearable torpor of the classroom with its piercing wail, rousing a fellow classmate in the process.
Most of us, myself included, did not react violently. It is true that the alarm's shriek caught us off guard, but only because we had never heard it in person, and none of us expected a grave incident in the school. Others, in contrast, succumbed to panic instinctively. They leaped from their seats with contorted faces, as if flames had suddenly erupted beneath their chairs. A few short, sharp screams—those that carry well amidst noise—rang out from the back of the room and beyond. The teacher, on her part, assumed the role of a model of composure amid the chaos of the unforeseen, and from behind her desk, she implored us to remain calm and exit orderly. Through the door's glass pane, we could already see people rushing toward the exit. The teacher queried one of them about what had transpired.
"It's in the kitchen! There's a fire!" exclaimed one of the cooks, panting heavily as she trotted by.
Someone from my class screamed again, this time so close to my ear that it twinged with pain.
"All right, everyone, let's exit slowly and in an orderly fashion towards the street," the teacher calmly ordered, with somewhat exaggerated gestures. But then again, it was a dire situation, and everyone needed reassurance. The classroom gradually absorbed the teacher's composure, and the more composed students swiftly gathered their belongings and departed through the main door, some even displaying a hint of joy at leaving a bit earlier than usual. As for me, I could have left at that moment, but then I spotted a familiar and detested shadow on the first floor. I allowed myself to be distracted, and that's how I found myself trailing after the retreating shadow. Gazing upwards to keep its silhouette in view and ahead to avoid stumbling over those fleeing from the kitchen's side, I tuned out the loud voices, and provided ample cause for astonishment to any onlookers.
As I drew nearer to the shadow and the kitchen, smoke began to manifest itself, and the scent of burnt oil and charred chicken bones clung to my nostrils. The alarm's clamor also grew louder and more unbearable. Upon reaching the kitchen door, a nearly horizontal burst of flame spewed forth from within, impressing me so much that for a moment, I forgot my purpose in that place. But I managed to remember it when I raised my gaze and saw the stupid school principal standing on the first floor, his hands resting on the railing, calmly observing the fire (from his vantage point, he could see part of the kitchen's interior). I discerned in the scene a resemblance to a captain with his ship ablaze, awaiting the moment of sinking into oblivion with it forever. I wondered what would happen if the fire suddenly decided to devour the entire place, and instantly, I saw several fiery, luminous serpents slithering near me. They all headed toward where the principal stood, passing by me on either side, avoiding me, or paying no heed to my presence. They reached the wall in a second and scaled it with remarkable swiftness. The principal remained unperturbed. He did not observe the fires approaching him; he seemed not to feel the heat at any point, nor did he appear bothered by the odors of burnt organic matter or the progressive blackening of the air. Eventually, he was enveloped in flames, yet he remained motionless and allowed himself to be captured. Oxygen was becoming scarce, smoke stung my eyes, and my clothes were dry and hot, as if they were already singeing. Soon there would be no escape. So, at last, I moved from where I stood, not without casting one final glance at the principal. There he remained, still gazing at the blessed kitchen, perhaps trying to discern exactly what had occurred, attempting to see through the flames. But the fire now obstructed my view of him; the fire enfolded him and rearranged his substance, disintegrating his edges, melting his surface, disfiguring his structure... all before the dismissal bell rang.
It was time to go home.
Dance in the Lobby
In the Ocean Hotel on Guillermina Street, an unnamed incident unfolded. No one expected such an event in a country as peaceful as ours, far removed from the wars of great powers and fractured, torn nations. But, of course, the incident I am about to recount had nothing to do with blood and fire.
At seventeen forty-nine on the ninth of October, an individual entered the Ocean Hotel. He was a young man of average height, with a complexion that was neither too fair nor too dark, his head held high, and his gait exuding confidence and feigned joint stiffness. Acting as naturally as possible—something he executed quite adeptly—he booked a single room.
"I'll be staying just for tonight," he remarked to the receptionist.
The "Ocean" is a four-star hotel that occupies more than half of a city block and spans five floors. The ground floor houses, among other spaces, the lobby, equipped with tables, armchairs, and computers. While designed primarily for executives visiting the city for business deals with the many companies headquartered there, any guest can make use of these amenities. It was this accessibility that allowed the perpetrator to execute his plan. Additionally, at the back of the lobby, there is a small café for guests.
Once he had left a suitcase filled with atmospheric gases and a coat found on the street in his room, the perpetrator descended to the lobby with a small white and red cardboard box in his hands.
"I need to use a computer," he informed the receptionist.
"Go ahead," she said, moving to turn one on, as computers not in use remained powered off.
Taking advantage of their already dangerous proximity, the perpetrator removed a pair of speakers from the box and told the receptionist he wanted to connect them.
"You can't. If you want to listen to music, I can give you headphones."
The perpetrator persistently, yet politely, invoked the need to test the speakers, to verify they worked correctly. The woman, stripped of arguments to maintain her opposition, had no choice but to grant the man's request, which is precisely what she did.
"At a low volume, please," she said, albeit with a somewhat stern tone.
"Yes, yes, of course; look, I'm lowering the volume," the perpetrator responded, turning the toothed wheel that controlled the volume level (though he was turning it to increase it).
The man waited patiently, albeit somewhat nervously, for the computer to start. The speakers were already connected; all that was needed was to press the round silver power button. With skillful deceit, the individual attached a "portable device" without the receptionist noticing (although she was spying on him out of the corner of her eye, with almost equally skillful subtlety). The perpetrator cast a long panoramic glance across the hotel lobby. Three executives sat nearby, each engrossed with their own computers. Behind the counter, the receptionist stood vigilant, occasionally directing a direct and serious gaze toward him, surely with a sense that something untoward was about to happen, and that he would be involved in it. In the center of the room, a middle-upper-class family engaged in lively post-dinner conversation. One of their members signaled the waitress with an exaggerated gesture. The perpetrator had chosen perhaps the perfect moment to strike: although he had encountered no difficulties securing accommodations during vacation season, the hotels were fully or nearly fully occupied. Any explosion within one of them could claim the lives of many innocent people, or at the very least, bring them perilously close to the precipice...
The sound file finished loading. The perpetrator pressed the round silver button. And what happened next was nothing short of astonishing.
A melody from a few instruments spread at the speed of sound through the hotel lobby. Those upon whom the music fell were seized by the urge to dance. The perpetrator was the first to abruptly rise from his seat, pushing the chair back onto the floor with a sudden movement. He began to sway his body in halves: his hips from right to left; his torso (and with it, his arms and head) in opposite directions; his legs moving in an uncoordinated, mindless dance. The receptionist danced alone as well, pen in hand; she preferred to shake her head, stretching and bending her neck as if she were attempting to break it without the aid of instruments. The movement of her clenched fists traced myriad circles, ovals, and never-ending curves. Her spine gracefully curved and extended in rhythm. The hypnotic music stirred something hidden within the executives, something perhaps repressed or buried. All three simultaneously stood up, spontaneously forming a circle with the perpetrator, their bellies facing the center, and, despite the stiffness of their limbs, began to move in astonishingly similar ways. As for the family that had been dining, the enchantment caused them to overturn a glass of wine onto the brown tablecloth, knocking over two chairs and a handful of gold coins. All these objects clattered onto the oak floor. The waitress was seized by a hand and spun around on her axis. The entire family displayed great enthusiasm, as if they were accustomed to expressing their passion for life in the most superficial movements of their bodies.
The music was so loud that it did not restrict its presence to the lobby. Passersby on the street, near the hotel's entrance, were ensnared by the lyrics-free melody; their stride came to a sudden halt, and they felt an irresistible urge to dance. A similar situation befell those who, at the moment the music erupted, were on the first floor above the lobby. The corridor walls and some of the rooms bore witness to the wild dances of possessed amateurs—some frenzied, others in a trance-like state. Even the faintest strains of the music were enough to incite people, though the weaker the music, the milder the desire.
The perpetrator's actions were by no means in vain, especially when considering that pedestrians who had not succumbed to the music would be astounded to see a group of people dancing outside the Ocean Hotel and, driven by curiosity, would eventually enter the lobby, becoming victims themselves. Anyone who decided to descend to the lobby from the upper floors would also be exposed to the music. The same fate would befall the police if called to restore order, or the nurses if asked to remove the madmen, or the church priest if he believed a mass exorcism was necessary. And everyone would dance until the music ceased; afterward, if the affected individuals remembered what had just occurred, the perpetrator would face severe penalties from both the law and the deceived receptionist. If the event had not been recorded in people's memories—and if half a dozen surveillance cameras had not been monitoring the lobby—the perpetrator might have gone unpunished... So, when the music finally stopped, those affected would have to confront the bewilderment of those who were not, and the perpetrator would have to face his punishment. If he had wished to evade earthly justice by sacrificing himself in earnest, offering his soul to a Paradise whose existence is uncertain, he would have used a bomb, but of course, that’s not what bombs are made for.
In the Elevator
In the hospital—after enduring long lines, the intensely tedious waits in endless traversals of hallways, and the professionals' expressions of composed patience—the time to leave arrives, and the return begins with the choice of one of the hospital's elevators. There are three of them, side by side, facing a spacious hall where people gather, wait, and prepare to squeeze together, all while gazing at their own vacant reflections in the large mirrored walls.
But not today. Today, the electric escalators are in operation, and both patients and medical staff, as well as maintenance personnel, make use of them; it's something new for most of these people, and so they eagerly give them a try. They are discovering something new, after all. As for me, I cherished the old marble staircases as I did tea and violin concerts, but old things are gradually replaced by the new, inevitably fading into obscurity... This is what I contemplate as I await the moment when the silent, thick metal doors open before me, revealing a vacant, prismatic space in which I will descend comfortably and swiftly. Everything unfolds just as expected, except for...
As soon as I step into the small enclosure, I become aware of the presence of a woman (at first, I mistake her for a man) in a maroon and gray uniform. Standing at attention like a soldier, her gaze fixed forward, her bun not making contact with the wall, she briefly turns her eyes toward me. With a warmth and kindness that contrasts with her cold and stern appearance, she asks:
"To which floor would you like to go, sir?"
Then, I realize she is the elevator operator, a member of a caste I believed had gone extinct—vanished, only to resurface today, with a place to exist. Of course, I had seen elevator operators before, in those long-past times that I sometimes yearn for, but I had forgotten about them... until this precise moment, when I reply:
"To the ground floor, please."
The woman presses the appropriate button without even needing to look at it, her hand moving smoothly and precisely. I think she must know the panel by heart, as if it were an extension of her body; it's impossible that she is new to this; some things are never forgotten... Despite the brief and confined presence of the elevator operator, I feel remarkably mobile, with a great freedom of movement, and oxygenated as well. The signs posted on the elevator walls have a new flavor for me. I read them one by one, as if when people crammed in here, we looked anywhere but at each other to avoid meeting each other's gaze, especially in the eyes. I catch a fleeting glance from the elevator operator; I quickly correct myself and read a couple more signs before the vertical journey concludes. One reads, "No smoking"—a classic—and the other, "Dear user, always keep your gaze forward." I am discomforted by the fact that the word "always" is underlined, as well as by my realization that I have broken the elevator's rules. When we were many, we paid them no mind; I suppose we read the signs without comprehending their meaning. I stiffen my neck and keep my eyes immobile, fixed on an unspecified point on the door, just like I would look at any other; I pretend to keep up appearances, but I am nervous; the heat begins to rise from my torso to my crown, the air suddenly becomes suffocating, and time stretches out, seconds pass, and I still haven't reached my destination. Since leaving the doctor's office, all I've done is make mistakes. The glass and metal box is finally slowing down, landing on the ground floor; I know that as soon as I step out, they will realize I am having inappropriate thoughts; simultaneously, the fear that the elevator operator will report me to the authorities invades me. I think I must go on my own to adjust my mind... I think, think, when I should stop thinking! (some things are so fleeting)... The steel doors close again, just after a young lady swiftly enters the elevator. I can see from the marks on her face and her general appearance that she has taken advantage of the sudden opening of the doors and the apparent absence of people to enter. Even before pressing the button without looking at it, I knew she would come, that she would see the empty space, believing she would be alone, but now there are two of us; maintaining a firm posture, I ask her softly and politely—almost affectionately:
"To which floor would you like to go, miss?"
She replies, slightly blushing, that she wants to go to the sixth floor, and we begin to ascend. And I cannot help but think that some things are so fleeting...
404 Bar
It's exactly quarter to nine in the morning, and I'm in one of the cafes at the airport of this bewilderingly neurotic country, with the travel journal that was supposed to be filled with information on the table, half buried under other sheets from the project I've been working on, and for which I came here in the first place. To fill the blank pages of the notebook, I started writing this account.
A cup of double coffee falls short of keeping me in proper wakefulness, but at least my sleepiness, forced by the local airline employees' strike—my departure was scheduled five hours ago—dulls the impression I have at this moment about my situation. This way, I avoid, with relative success, unfairly blaming myself for making the wrong decision and coming to waste time in a distant country looking for something that may not exist.
Well, maybe it doesn't exist, since just because one cannot observe something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. And, in my case, that "something" is a bar.
When I was in my country, I read a brief article online about a bar that was in this city but could not be found intentionally; instead, one only could stumble upon it accidentally. Yes, as unbelievable as it sounds, no one knew where it was. There was no registered address or location on any map. However, that bar existed; it was real, according to the testimonies of several people who had been there. In all documented cases—informally and on the internet—those people had come across the bar by chance, each in a different part of the city, and then, when passing back through the same place, the bar had already disappeared. Interestingly or suspiciously—depending on one's stance on the existence of such a place—those who had visited the bar forgot its name once they left. For this reason, we, the investigators, had to give it a name—or rather, a nickname. For most, it's the "Ghost Bar," a designation that, in my personal opinion, is the most appropriate. I think while dozing off twice that I would have given it the same name. Another scholar of this urban legend who also happened to be a computer enthusiast called it the "404 Bar," meaning "bar not found"; the few skeptics who decided to analyze the case enough to form an informed opinion prefer to refer to the place as "the bar that doesn't exist."
But the curiosities of the mysterious bar did not end there, far from it. Once inside, according to the supposed customers, aside from the usual drinks one finds in such establishments, they are offered outlandish, even bizarre, cocktails and dishes. One customer recalled seeing written on a blackboard hanging on an unplastered brick wall in the middle of the room, an offer for two-for-one on “liquid pasteurized fried egg.” On the other side of the bar, framed as if it were a historical photograph, someone mentioned an advertisement for golden mushroom jelly. There are also references to salt-free beer, distilled turnip perfume, snail essence with vodka, meringue wood coffee marinated with blackout syrup, and something called “pizza wine.” Moreover, a witness mentioned the use of "eco-friendly" conical cups made of newspaper, which could hold beer without getting wet and falling apart, spilling the precious liquid. The same witness also stated that he had asked a waiter how it was possible for the cup to maintain its physical integrity, to which he was given a response that he later "forgot," but which, in my opinion, was nothing more than a simple magic trick. Untimely memory lapses of the supposed attendees, like the one mentioned above, and other equally convenient inconveniences were the fuel that fed the widespread skepticism of those who heard the legend, not to mention, of course, the utterly inconceivable and unreal nature of the bar—more fitting for a fantastical tale created by someone with a vivid imagination (perhaps the idea of a “404 Bar” occurred to someone while traveling on a bus, and then, from that idea, he began to weave a story to justify it, much like a spider weaves a silky trap for some unwary prey), or, of course, an obscure and little-known urban legend in a city large enough for such things to occur or for one of its inhabitants to invent it and then offer it to his peers and let it spread slowly, without haste.
Be that as it may, and continuing with my story, exactly five months ago I came to this country and this city to investigate the phenomenon on my own (earlier, I arrogantly included myself among the “investigators”). And I know I should let some time pass before drawing conclusions, but I feel, as I find myself slowly sliding into extreme impatience with the airline staff, always half-asleep and facing the empty cup, where a scant remnant of coffee that defies physical laws has not yet drained into my mouth and draws an innocent smile from its bottom, that at that moment I believed myself prepared to find answers when the reality was quite different. Without speaking the language of the country beyond a clumsy attempt to pronounce its peculiar consonants—although being able to understand it moderately well in writing, as long as I did not have to deal with its extensive and intricate conjugation system, but who am I to criticize the grammar of foreign languages—without having a contact or acquaintance in the city who could give me advice or a healthy warning, and once here, without knowing how or where to start looking... it sounds like the work of a whim. And perhaps it was: exactly five months ago I found myself at a point in my life where I was ready and willing to go out in search of an adventure; I did not think much about it and simply came to this country to investigate a mystery on my own, experiencing it for myself—or so I intended to solve it—just as people in my country and everywhere else decide to go to some distant and unknown place for a vacation. No, I longed for much more than to go abroad to explore unique or atypical landscapes, take photographs, immerse myself in local customs as much as time and interest in those customs allowed, and then return with pleasant memories in my suitcase. But perhaps I had not chosen my destination entirely well; perhaps I should have chosen another unsolved mystery, not necessarily one too well-known, but more... "mundane," one might say; that is, one not so incredibly outlandish, a challenge not so great to the comprehension capacity of a simple individual from across the ocean (who, nevertheless, calls himself an “investigator”...); an enigma against which one can properly arm oneself with experiments and studies. But I did not, and to be honest, I had not even considered it; in my choice perhaps played a role—I must admit—a combination of excessive confidence and underestimation of the work to be done, because if the solution to the mystery had been easy to reach, would it not have been proposed and accepted before I decided to travel? All this can happen to anyone, and that is why I conclude, half-heartedly, that I should not be so hard on myself.
So, five months ago, I found myself in this same café at this same airport, writing the initial lines in a travel notebook that I hoped to fill with data, information, deductions, and hypotheses, with the same companion coffee cup on the square table. Even before traveling, as preparation for my detective adventure, I extensively browsed blogs and websites where the few existing testimonies were recorded—most of them collected and partially compiled by pioneering investigators, and commented on by them as well—and I continued my search with a thoroughness unfamiliar even to myself on social media pages, fishing for comments or reflections about the mysterious bar, and recorded what seemed relevant to me. I had difficulty understanding some of the messages, given my relative unfamiliarity with the language and, in particular, its urban slang, and the uncooperative laxity of grammar and spelling of most people. I sent emails to blog owners and replied to comments on forums and websites—usually asking a question or seeking more details from a poster—but I didn't get any remotely satisfactory answers. In fact, one person told me to do something better with my life instead of asking about things that "don't make sense"... or something like that; again, it's often not easy to translate imperfectly written messages.
You see that I ignored him, just as I ignored the fact that the most recent information available had been resting on the web for over two years. Regarding this, I hypothesized that there simply hadn't been any noteworthy developments in the case, or that those interested in it had resigned themselves to submitting to the capricious will that the bar exhibited in choosing its visitors, and I didn't want to think that the bar could have closed, even with a multitude of possible causes for anyone who wants to imagine them... Anyway, if I had thought such a thing, I would have tried to change my own mind, saying that a supernaturally endowed bar like that, if it existed, could resist the economic crises that, it is said, constantly affect this country, or that no mountain of taxes complained about by merchants and business people here could cover it, or that its owners had had two calm years, free from problems preventing them from keeping the bar running.
The nights before the trip, I would wrap myself in all kinds of thoughts about it before sleeping. Sometimes, I tried to put myself in the shoes of one of the "witnesses," who had stumbled upon a bar with a facade not necessarily particularly striking, and, on a hunch or perhaps simply on a spontaneous whim, had entered to give the establishment a chance, only to be served an unforgettable and surreal experience in the form of visions altered by eclectic lighting, blackout syrup, or other drinks whose names dared only the brave to drink, and inexplicable dishes, perhaps concocted by the fevered mind of a madman. The translations I made of the testimonies I found online, imperfect as they may have been, did not give me a clear idea of the state in which such testimonies had been written. But I chose to imagine that no one could leave the mysterious bar indifferent or impassive, that a visit to the "404 Bar" marked a before and after for each customer, for better or worse. And that the experience was so unique and unrepeatable that, in fact, it never happened again; that, when trying to return, the witnesses had failed to recognize the facade. And I thought insistently: what would I have felt if I had gone to a specific address where I believed the bar to be, only to find it missing? The first reaction would be to walk up and down the block, slowly, searching for the bar's front, and, failing that, wonder if I might be mistaken, that perhaps my memory had a small lapse. And one is usually humble enough to consider the possibility of a small memory lapse, so one decides to walk just as slowly through the neighboring blocks, because the bar couldn't be far from where one started searching. But it doesn't appear, even if one stops every so often and carefully examines the facades of each commercial establishment, and this would unsettle anyone. Questions would quickly accumulate in one’s mind: "How can this be? Where is the bar? I was here just a couple of nights ago. Have I forgotten where it is?" Someone might soon suggest that the bar had closed down overnight, but commercial establishments don't usually disappear without a trace: for a while, the ruins of the business remain visible, typically the sign; sometimes, the outgoing owner doesn't bother to paper over the windows, and thus, through the glass, you can see the empty, dark, dusty, and silent room. And at this point, when an expanded search yields no result, when the bar shows seriousness in its resistance to being found, is where a customer's attitude takes one of two paths: either they forget the matter and resign themselves meekly to continue with their life, knowing they will settle for another bar, of which there are many in this city, or they become obsessed with the case and begin to develop more or less formal or serious hypotheses ("How long would it take before they started to doubt their sanity?" I frequently wondered). These latter ones were the ones who, possibly still under the influence of the emotion of the memory, recounted what they had experienced ("supposedly experienced," some would say, let us not forget), and who made it possible for me to learn about the mystery and, in what I have called in moments of desperation "a fit of recklessness," decided to investigate it.
So I came, and once I arrived in this country, and after securing accommodation, my first step was to try to contact those who claimed to have been to "Bar 404" so they could recount their experiences again and so I could ask them questions personally, to enrich myself with details and information that would be useful in the investigation. I even had some of these questions prepared, anticipating what might come up. What were you doing when you stumbled upon the bar? Were you alone or with someone? Where did you find it? What time of day did it happen? How long were you there? How many other people were in the place? Did you recognize anyone, either a customer or an employee? Did you return to the bar after that time? Did you try to? Has anyone you know also been there? Do you have any physical proof that you've been there, like a ticket or a pamphlet? A photograph, perhaps? Have you had any abnormal sensations while inside? Have you seen anything unusual, even paranormal, before, during, or after your stay at the bar? What stood out to you the most about that place?
With that list on the first page of the travel notebook, I set out to investigate, thirsty for answers. I was aware that if I searched the bustling and chaotic streets of the city, the chances of getting lucky and suddenly finding myself in the bar would increase over time, or that sooner or later, I would come across people who knew about the phenomenon and were willing to talk about it. I was also aware that this was going to be a genuine needle-in-a-haystack search. I started by inquiring at the small, old bars typical of the downtown area of this city, where I believed strange stories usually accumulated (the gloomier or darker the place, the better). I scrutinized the signs in those places I passed by, looking for any anomaly that would become evident to my eyes, but a part of me feared I wouldn't be able to recognize it. Leveraging the expertise in alcohol consumption common in people from my country, during the first few days, I went to as many bars as I could, especially at night, after long aimless walks guided by my scrutinizing eyes. I always started by scanning the interior of the chosen venue and then sat at the bar to try to strike up a conversation with the bartender or sit as close as possible to a group of people who seemed to know stories about their city. In either case, I easily established communication and endeavored to skillfully steer the conversation where I wanted, sometimes adopting an attentive and interested attitude toward my current interlocutors, especially if—as often happened—I didn't understand what they were saying. It was a job mixed with fun or, at least, excitement: the thrill of entering each time an unknown place, instantly savoring its physiognomy, picking up and examining with my eyes the details that made up its identity or letting them surprise me first, predicting or sensing whether this was a good place to inquire or if, on the contrary, it would be far from providing me with answers or clues. And then, of course, savoring the specialties of the house, unable to avoid making comparisons with what I already knew, either outside my country or from a previous experience here; finding tasty surprises or bland disappointments bubbling in a glass that reflected my face always enigmatically expectant. And, between visits, mingling with the crowd moving back and forth in this city of nooks and dogs, with a thousand tasks or concerns on their minds; seeing myself surrounded by passersby who, as in any city in the world, fulfilled the inevitable routine of going to work, taking their children to school, or languishing in the endless lines to handle paperwork at government offices, or strolling without haste, or squeezing their vehicles into the narrow downtown streets, or going to the countless bars and restaurants in the area, or heading to the nearest square or gym to exercise...
It didn't take long for me to become disheartened due to the lack of results. Among those who frequented the bars and taverns I visited, those who didn't wrinkle their faces at the mention of the infamous bar because they had never heard of it laughed in my face. "Do you really believe in that story?" the latter would say to me. That happened to me about three times.
In addition to receiving nothing but negative responses, I lost the desire to wander through the downtown streets at night. When the sun sets behind the apartment buildings—imposing the new, cracked and dirty, covered in soot, the older ones—the streets take on their worst and saddest face. Poverty reveals itself in all its extent; it takes on flesh in passersby of all ages—sometimes, entire families—, looking deplorable at best, who plunge into trash containers, crawl on sidewalks—with no direction, some trying to make a living—emerging from the shadows with any object in hand to assail some unsuspecting passerby, sitting on doorsteps or building steps, or standing in a corner, using drugs or drinking, or both. I often saw them in the blocks I walked at those hours (and sometimes during the day), not far from neon lights and traffic lights, behind invisible clouds of urine, and they seemed as foreign to me as the rest of the tourists who roamed there and frequented the bars and restaurants that closed as the first rays of a new day dawned. In those first weeks when I stayed in a modest downtown hostel squeezed between two old houses, of narrow proportions and austere comforts, which I had no difficulty getting used to, I was fortunate that nothing bad happened to me, although the things I witnessed made me see that it would have been better to find a travel companion. I understood that what practically all tourists from my country do—traveling with friends or a partner—was an advantage in terms of safety, apart from any other social considerations that, due to my particular circumstances, didn't seem relevant to me.
However, despite being somewhat discouraged by the poor start to my investigations, I didn't give up. "The first clues will appear," I told myself every night when returning to the tiny room in the hostel, holding onto a not insignificant optimism. On a couple of occasions, I even thought I dreamed about the infamous bar, but even in my dreams, it remained elusive: I found myself in cloisters that, apart from dreamlike or surreal details, seemed to be the bar, but I saw nothing strange in them, nothing that didn't fit entirely into reality. Soon after, after thinking it over properly in a bodega frequented by veteran descendants of immigrants, over a hearty lunch, I decided to move to a more affordable place in a residential neighborhood. With this measure, I hoped to save money—since it was clear that my stay would be longer than expected, and there are even cheaper places than hostels, like family homes, where for a couple of "merkels," they generously provide you with shelter and food—change the environment, and expand my search, taking it to other corners of the city. So, I moved into a room in a house owned by a woman who already had other tenants under her roof. I barely got to know them.
The first night I spent in the woman's house, I opened the travel notebook, in which I had not completed three pages, and sat down to reformulate my strategy and make calculations very seriously. The city is too large to walk all its streets with their infinite twists and turns, and going to every bar was economically unfeasible, even in the case that it was possible to do so with all the necessary time. Meanwhile, until an innovative idea sprang to mind, with the passing of the days, I became one with the neighborhood, having voraciously consumed the details that made up the whole in terms of landscape and inhabitants. I thought that if I could capture an anomaly or discontinuity in reality, it would lead me to a clue, or it would be a clue in itself. Day and night, I walked the streets of the neighborhood, exploring them as my ancestors did with distant and then unknown continents many centuries ago, guided to one side or the other by what my eyes allowed me to see, behind the strange and the dark, if my mood was carelessly adventurous, or with the caution of a hunter or a witness in the middle of the forest if I didn't feel safe somewhere. Still, generally, with innate imperturbability and an optimism hidden behind the blind conviction that whoever seeks eventually finds, a lesson burned into my mind since childhood, and pretending to be guided by a compass of intuition. And I didn't stop going to bars and similar establishments: having finished my cycle of visits in the center, I continued my search in other areas where those are abundant.
However, the days passed, and nothing memorable for my project happened. I did meet many people, and various things happened to me; I was welcomed and almost kicked out of places, listened to with great attention and blatantly ignored, taken for wise and foolish, for good and idiotic, warmly thanked and insulted with horrible words strung together at the moment. People here are very gentle and peaceful, but also impatient and nervous; they run from one point to another or walk slowly, only moving their legs and leaving the rest of the body still; they are sensitive and compassionate towards the smallest of their counterparts or blinded by selfishness; they are expressive, original, and witty, like artists—perhaps everyone here is, each in their way; they are cheerful, sincere, cynical, and rude—but above all, anxious—and they often confuse reserve with malice and vehemence with sincerity. In this way, by interacting with sweet-hearted people and authentic bipedal beasts who spoke the language worse than I did, I continued learning to communicate and move within the city. I also learned how to travel from one point to another, where to go and which corners to avoid, whom to talk to and whom not to. And everything was very useful for me, and I imagine that's the goal of anyone who decides to spend a relatively long time abroad.
Then, one time, I heard someone on the street say, "These things always happen when you least expect them." I turned my gaze to the source of that phrase and saw that she was speaking to the person walking beside her, but she could well have said it to me. Later that day, reflecting on the non-progress of my project, what I had heard came to mind, and I thought that maybe I was approaching the matter the wrong way. If that person was right, I was doing everything upside down. But if that was true, "How to turn the strategy around so that it would be right?" I asked myself.
At that moment, the owner of the house where I was staying gently knocked on the door, but that was enough to make my thoughts vanish into the air without a trace, while my ears stood on end with fright. I abandoned my comfortable posture to open the door and have her ask me to turn off the light, as it was two in the morning, and I was still awake, contemplating.
I don't know if the darkness helped me concentrate more on my musings, but I soon remembered that all the supposed customers claimed to have stumbled upon the bar "by chance" and that, when they wanted to return to it, they hadn't found it. That meant it was impossible to find the bar actively, and I concluded that, therefore, the only way to find it was by looking for it without looking for it—this is, not-looking for it. Because, while it's true that those who seek find, it's also true that you don't find someone who doesn't want to be found.
That would be a very strange property for that bar, but why couldn't it be true? Simply because it sounded too unusual, or because nothing like it was known? And wasn't the whole affair too unusual anyway, and nothing known was quite like it?
That night, I decided that from then on, I would try not to look for the bar, mainly because I felt that I had no alternatives, that everything else had failed, and that I had to cling to one last hope; as long as something could be tried, it had to be tried. Besides, although I hadn't discovered it yet at that moment, I was beginning to grow fond of certain things in this country...
Before embarking on my plan, however, an obvious question arose: how does one search without searching? The simplest answer was that I should wander the city without thinking about the bar or anything related to the plan, and sooner or later, I would stumble upon it. But even at this point in my stay, I had stopped paying close attention to everything around me (in any case, one can never see everything at once), so I allowed myself to relax my mind during my walks. However, putting my new strategy into practice proved to be much more challenging than planning it, infinitely more difficult. At first, I couldn't stop thinking about what I shouldn't be thinking about. It seemed like a part of myself was intentionally interfering with my plan. Over the course of the days, I managed to learn how to abstract myself during aimless walks for brief moments, seeing without seeing where I was going, ignoring anything that might grab my attention (unless it was important, like a traffic light or people's shouts and commotion). I also stopped going to bars, and I even began to avoid restaurants, preparing my own meals more often. But every time I returned to the room I rented, I had to admit that nothing had changed, meaning that nothing had happened, and the plan had not borne fruit so far. After a couple of weeks with no results, I felt my energy wane for continuing my search. The lady of the house also began to be suspicious of me; she must have wondered who this foreigner was who had come to the country for tourism out of season and for an excessively long time, spending almost the entire day outside, returning very late at night—sometimes, especially at the beginning, inebriated—and spending the little time he was at home locked in his room, making no noise, as if he didn't exist. I used to consider myself a person who finishes what they start, one who doesn't rest until they achieve their goal, but the bar's inclination to always elude me was defeating me. I was beginning to see the face of failure more clearly, and on it, a mocking and cruel grin...
To make matters worse, my pockets were dangerously thinning. I asked my father for money, but not understanding why I was still in this country, he quickly expressed his reservations. I didn't give in so easily, and after an extensive phone discussion, I managed to persuade him to send me enough to sustain myself for another month (rent and food), and in return, I promised to use the remaining money to book my return flight. As soon as my father hung up the phone, I lay down on the bed and tried to devise one last plan to capture the elusive bar. Searching for it hadn't worked, not-searching for it hadn't worked either, no one had been able—or willing—to collaborate with the search... There was only one thing left to do.
I jumped out of bed and booked the first available flight to my country.
That happened just yesterday.
And that's how I ended up in this situation, where I should be on my way back to my homeland right now, but I haven't been able to board due to the airline employees' strike, which is preventing the planes from taking off. All that's left is to wait for those workers to tire of protesting and return to their tasks.
But suddenly, in the cloudy and blurry space that momentarily and variably opens and closes between my drowsy eyelids, I believe I see an idea sketching itself in the depths of the cup—an enigmatic and colorful idea that I consciously can't decipher, and that I can only understand when I see it. As soon as its meaning becomes evident to me, a desperate desire to bring that elusive idea to conscious reality overtakes me; my limbs start to tremble, and then my entire body shakes; my mouth has frozen, preventing me from making any sound—this is good in the sense that it won't draw people's attention, but it's also bad because it prevents me from expressing the profound emotion I am experiencing—and I believe my eyes are closed, but I still see, I see things. I see a gray dirt path that winds through thick bushes to the horizon, which my brain deciphers as the avenue I took to get to the airport. Yes, my mind has disconnected from my senses—this must be an epiphany, like the occasional ones experienced by the peaceful, simple, and deeply religious rural inhabitants of my country many centuries ago! Then, my vision takes me to a certain street in the city. I've passed by there several times during my long evening walks when the benign weather and my exploratory eagerness concealed my disappointment at not finding any clues. There is a dark wall on that street—muddy or just the color of smoke—and two doors of watery green, without doorknobs and always closed... except for one occasion when I saw them barely ajar. And that time, I didn't peek inside; I didn't think to spy on the interior of that place; how could I not have thought to do it? And now I rise abruptly; I must go to that place; my epiphany tells me so without words; I must go to that place before the airline employees' strike is lifted and my flight finally departs.
I arrive at the location in question. I stop facing the aqua-green doors, on both sides of which extend square meters of windowless walls, painted in a non-uniform manner, a fact you notice as you approach. The narrow doors seem closed, but there's a space between them just wide enough for an eye to pass through, and complete darkness on the other side. Pressed by circumstances, I insert the fingers of one hand—which also fit in the space between the doors—and open the right door, and then, with the other hand, I open the left one. I begin to understand everything; I feel like I knew it all even before coming to this country. "What kind of person paints their doors aqua-green and their walls the color of burnt earth?" I think. It was such a simple sign that I'd feel like an idiot if I weren't preparing to savor the indescribable ecstasy that usually accompanies epiphanies. Meanwhile, as the doors open, the morning light pours into the darkness of the room in front of me, giving it a cloud-like shape and ultimately dissolving it. Then the sun retreats from the sky, and powerful blue lights come on in the mysterious room. I fall to my knees, amazed, ecstatic; I extend my arms fully and devote myself to the göttliche Barmherzigkeit and the spirituosity of the place.
"And who says a bar has to have a sign? Can't secret or clandestine bars exist?" something thinks in my mind, which I no longer feel in control of, perhaps because I have abandoned the need for a mind; now, all that's left is to live in the moment.
After a solitary second, I stand up and triumphantly enter the place. The blue and white rays emanating from the corners cut through the otherwise absolute darkness. Quickly, my eyes adapt to the peculiar visibility conditions, and I begin to distinguish, one by one, silhouettes with human shapes, straight legs, and panels forming tables and chairs... and in the background, an incredibly long counter—the bar, without a doubt. It's the happiest moment of my life. My hard work has finally paid off, even if it took a long time to materialize. But everything I've experienced in the last five months has been worth it, and every peso spent has served to buy this moment of supreme happiness, and I don't complain about anything. I move slowly through the room, allowing more details of the environment to materialize: Christmas lights around the tables, fog at ground level, a menu suspended from a transparent thread, the atmosphere filled with strangely familiar aromas, though not entirely recognizable—transiently floating in front of me are blackout syrup, "pizza wine," and snail essence. Strange music plays, with notes that melt upon contact with the air and lazily float around. It feels like the inside of a spaceship; I can almost see the extraterrestrials behind the bar preparing cocktails from another world. This way, and only this way, would I accept being abducted by them.
I take a seat at the only available table—a small square rustic wooden table where someone has left an empty coffee cup. I take a napkin from its holder: it has "404 Bar" printed on it in black letters. Immediately, a whitish hand with long fingers appears in front of my eyes, gracefully holding a saucer with a conical object, silver, smooth, and shiny, which it gently places in front of me. I shift my gaze slightly and find a young woman dressed in white and brown.
"What is this?" I ask her.
The waitress smiles at me.
"This is a lunar squid," she replies kindly and in my language.
"But..."
Guessing my thoughts, the girl says:
"It's on the house."
Deeply moved, I can only say:
"Thank you, thank you very much."
"We're the ones who are grateful."
I pick up the spoon that has been left next to the coffee cup and plunge it into the plate. Carefully and with a curved motion of my wrist, I pick up a piece of what must be the innards of the lunar squid: a cluster of blackish gelatinous lumps. Very slowly, I raise the spoon, to prevent the food from falling, and open my hungry mouth of questions.
"You have a flight, don't you?" the waitress then asks. She hasn't left my side, I thought she stayed to hear my opinion of the food.
I remember the flight and I am distressed. The ecstasy left me too quickly, all at once.
"Yes," I reply, saddened. "I'm running late."
The waitress looks at some distant point.
"The passengers are already boarding," she observes.
Her words cause me to enter a mixture of panic and despair. Ecstasy abandoned me too quickly this time.
"No, please," I say, getting up to talk to the young woman face to face. "Just one more minute."
But the humanoid silhouettes begin to blur hastily, and the luminous beams extinguish one by one.
"Sir, you're going to be late and you'll miss your flight..."
"No," I insist, falling to my knees; I cling to her apron and then to the long sleeves of her uniform; then I glance quickly to the side, at the people heading relieved and indignant alike to the terminals. "Just a little longer, I don't want to leave yet, please, göttliche Barmherzigkeit, just a little longer..."
At the Doctor's Office
A typical Wednesday morning. Just as I open the book to page one hundred fourteen, the doctor pronounces my last name aloud. I stand up, closing the book.
"Go ahead," she says, seeing me peeking in from inside the small office.
The woman, who would be in her fourth decade of life, closes the door after exchanging "good mornings."
"There are hooks there for you to hang your coat," she says, gesturing weakly but sufficiently to the corner formed when the door is closed.
"Should I take off my shirt?"
"No need. Just lift it up," she indicates how with a mime, "and lie down on the examination table."
I obey immediately and with inexplicable haste. The doctor prepares the apparatus.
"Hands at your sides."
Next, she uncovers my left shin and applies a cold substance. The brush also passes over my bare chest. While she does these things, I glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind my head, and that's why I have to tilt my head back quite a bit. But soon I relax because I know that if I keep my heart rate at normal values, the result will be positive, and they will finally have to certify my perfect health. To achieve this, I also decide to make sure to breathe slowly.
"It will only take a minute," the doctor informs, as if she should reassure me. Her light hands gently clamp my wrists and the left shin with metal tongs. Finally, before starting the study, she attaches suction cups to strategic areas on my chest.
Perhaps out of habit, I expect the device to signal the start of its activity with mechanical sounds. This does not happen, and I only realize that the study is already underway when I glance at the device, and I see a thin strip of paper emerging lightly through a slot. The paper is picked up by the doctor's left hand, who closely monitors the progress of the study.
"It's done," she announces at last. It seems to me that exactly one minute has passed. She removes the tongs and suction cups from my body, placing them in a plastic container, which she then sets aside.
"You can adjust your clothes now."
She places the strip of paper on the white desk and makes medical notes in it with a pen.
"Dr. Sirisky will see you in a moment in the office around the corner," she adds.
I put on my coat.
"Ready? Is that all?" I ask, somewhat surprised by the speed of the matter.
"That's all."
"Well, goodbye."
"Goodbye."
After leaving the tiny office, hopeful to soon be rid of this procedure, back in the waiting room around which the doors to different offices are located, I find several people sitting; they weren't there before I was called. Without taking the time to react in my mind to the curious fact that during the brief period I was absent from the waiting room, these individuals arrived, I take a seat at a prudent distance from them, diagonally, near one of the corridors leading to the exit. I barely pay attention to the group—I only notice that there are four of them and that they are all sitting together, even though there are two extra rows of seats in the room, as if they were a single group—, and I'm even less interested in hearing the conversation they are having, which my appearance has not disturbed, or so it seems to me. I also don't dare to try to continue reading. Sirisky could appear at the door of his office at any moment. It's better to be ready, take the result, and leave calmly. I suppose I'm somewhat anxious to leave rather than impatient; it's not that I'm in a hurry, and I'm not one of those who perceive the slightest moment of waiting as an unacceptable waste of time; I think my desire to leave as soon as possible stems from an innate and visceral rejection—although quite bearable, as it has never manifested with violent signs—of hospitals. Perhaps it's just a lack of habit, since there have been very few occasions when I've had to visit a hospital, and never for a serious matter, but for more universal reasons, such as undergoing tests or getting vaccinated, and, in any case, most of those visits took place during my childhood and adolescence...
The calm chatter of my congeners interrupts my contemplation. Glancing at them, I convince myself that they didn't come together but somehow ended up in the same waiting room just as I was undergoing the electrocardiogram. Perhaps, due to some seemingly trivial event (maybe they are all seeing the same doctor, perhaps they know each other from somewhere), they decided to sit in the same row of seats, side by side. Only two of them seem to be from the same family, more precisely, a mother with her son, not because of any apparent physical resemblance but due to the visible age difference between them. The way the woman lovingly wraps her arm around the boy, who is around fifteen, placing a hand tenderly on his shoulder while talking, gives away their relationship.
"For instance, he has been complaining for a while that something in his chest bothers him, that he has a slight pain under a rib, but the pain comes and goes. So, we came to see the doctor, to have him checked, but as soon as he palpated where it hurt and said it was nothing, and if the pain came back strong, we should make another appointment. Of course, as easy as it is to get one for a reasonable date! I hoped it was nothing, that it would go away on its own over time, but a couple of weeks later, he started feeling like the rib was moving, and when he took a deep breath, it also made a noise, as if it were shifting..."
"Or adjusting," the young boy suggests. He has a broad face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, and light brown, shiny, and neat hair—features that, as a whole, contrast noticeably and definitively with those of the woman accompanying him.
"Yes, it doesn't matter," the woman continues. "That's not normal. I know because I think I heard that noise; it's like a 'click,' but I don't know what causes it. And now, it doesn't bother you, right?" she inquires, looking at the young man again.
The boy slightly shakes his head and adds, "Since last night, I don't feel like it wants to move."
"Ah," the mother murmurs. It seems like she wanted the boy to do a demonstration, making the noise or whatever is worrying him in front of everyone. Still, it's probably best to save the trick for when the doctor examines him.
"Something similar happens to me," another attendee intervenes, a man who probably hasn't reached forty yet, but whose age is difficult for me to estimate. "I often get horrible pains in my abdomen, as if my insides were being crushed. It mostly happens on weekends, after eating, when I want to rest; the pain paralyzes me; I always end up falling to the floor or, when I can, onto the bed, and the pill takes too long to take effect... It's worse if I'm alone; I have to crawl to reach the pill and take it (you know it, right?, that pill for stomach pain), and lie down to wait for it to work..."
"And have you seen the doctor about it?" asks the mother of the boy with the moving rib.
"Yes, several times," the man replies, clearing his throat loudly. "They already palpated my abdomen, and nothing, 'all normal'; they did ultrasounds, but found nothing. They even wanted to do an MRI, but there was only an appointment for the evening, and I told them no... In the end, they prescribed a pill; they told me to take it... The thing is, last month I had another one of those episodes; the pain wouldn't go away, wouldn't go away, but luckily, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I still had a little pain, so I decided to make an appointment. But today, I don't have any pain, so I don't know if they'll find the problem..."
"How long have you had this problem?"
"Several months. It was some time after they removed my gallbladder; I don't know if that has anything to do with it..."
The fourth person, a middle-aged woman dressed somewhat elegantly, is about to give her testimony, but I realize I'm letting myself be distracted by an occasional chat that doesn't concern me in the least. So I immediately avert my gaze from the group. These people are probably doomed to return to the hospital again and again if they don't find a solution to the problems they claim to have or if these problems don't spontaneously resolve or receive a stroke of luck. I, on the other hand, am here practically out of obligation or, at least, not of my own free will, but due to a bureaucratic requirement of my work. The study they just performed on me is the last of the ones they demanded; all that remains is to receive the result and deliver it, along with the results of the other studies, to Dr. Grau today, if possible, for certification of my perfect health. And I'm entirely sure this will be the case not only because of my history of good health—fortunately, I have rarely fallen ill, the last time being years ago and just a flu that resolved itself in a couple of days—but also because, since they informed me that I had to undergo medical tests, I have tried to stay as healthy as possible. Consuming healthy and varied foods, getting adequate rest, and taking a walk every day, I have taken care to maintain my well-being. Perhaps one could say I was too cautious; it would be true, but I wouldn't like to receive an unpleasant surprise in the test results. That's why I'm calm, and if my fingers drumming on the book cover, as I catch them doing now, it's not due to nervousness but slight impatience. After all, if the people with me in the waiting room, who are here for obvious problems, are repeatedly told that they don't need special attention, it's even more reasonable to expect the doctors to let me go quickly! Even if, in front of this Dr. Sirisky, just to be sure, I adopt a firm stance and a confident manner, with just one look, he'll know that I'm perfectly healthy!
For now, I have already lent my body to the medical corporation for analysis. Once the latest result is in my possession, I will promptly place it in the right hands and wash my hands of the whole matter until I receive the news that everything has gone well, as it should. I consider this shouldn't take too long, as I can't imagine the circuit of results and Dr. Grau's verdict within the bureaucratic framework to be excessively lengthy. Even if it were, I don't think the papers will linger too long in the instances they need to pass through. But even if, for some reason spoken of by both doctors and administrators, the processing of my results took longer than expected or desired, I can continue working.
Dr. Sirisky calls me.
"Come in, please."
"Excuse me."
I stride past him with firm steps and, without waiting for him to ask, take a seat. Sirisky remains standing on the other side of the desk, holding the small envelope containing the strip of paper. On the desk, I distinguish, among other things, the list of patients for the day (around ten, counting very quickly; beneath the last name, the doctor has made annotations), a prescription pad, and three pens, each with a different pharmaceutical logo.
The office is as tiny as the previous one; there's barely enough space for the examination bed behind me, the desk, and the two chairs. The walls are high and windowless, so the lighting, now that the door has been closed, is provided by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling remains in semi-darkness.
My eyes focus on Dr. Sirisky. His face is deeply furrowed (he'll know for how long). Short, slightly unkempt hair has started losing color on the sides above his ears. A pair of piercing, icy blue eyes hangs from a perpetually furrowed brow.
Sirisky takes the result of the study from the envelope. He unfolds the paper, which measures about a meter, and examines it from left to right, reading it. I look at the single black line, made up of peaks and straight lines, traveling from one end to the other of the paper, without understanding what it means. In blue ink, the doctor from the neighboring office has added marks with Latin letters. Sirisky moves his lips without any words or sound coming out. Once he finishes, he folds the paper multiple times (not necessarily in the same way as his colleague), after which he inserts it somewhat roughly back into the envelope. However, he quickly changes his mind and retrieves the paper. Something has occurred to him. He follows the black line with a severe and icy gaze, without moving his lips. He exhales loudly through his nose, and puts the paper back into the envelope once more. He looks for my name on the list (I find out I'm the third patient of the day) and scribbles something in a free space on the page. Despite the doctor's awful handwriting, with excessively tall letters outlined by squashed blobs (but who am I to criticize another's handwriting), I manage to decipher part of the text. It begins with a big "T" for "Time" followed by two shorter words (the first is "of," I'm sure), and then "two days."
Without letting uncertainty intimidate me, I breathe deeply, awaiting the conclusion. Dr. Sirisky only has to hand me the signed and sealed envelope—one word from him, and everything will be finished; the only thing that separates me from the happy completion of the process, what would most resemble an obstacle to its achievement, is the doctor's approval of the study. Instead, Dr. Sirisky crosses a giant X on the front of the envelope, and stares me directly in the eyes. Yet, I don't discern a clear intention to convey something. Then a sudden sharp pain manifests in my kidneys. I would feel the same if two thick needles pierced my back (at the correct height) from behind. I double over in pain in the cushy chair. Sirisky remains unmoved. I have been unable to guess the meaning of his extremely serious look. With my eyes closed and my lips separated and distorted, I fall to my knees before the desk; as I do, my forehead hits the edge of the furniture. I hear Dr. Sirisky's distinct steps going toward the door, the doorknob being turned, the presence of another person on the other side. I direct my gaze toward this person, who turns out to be a nurse. What catches my attention about the first image I have of her is her raised forearms, her latex-gloved hands holding medical instruments I have never seen (or have seen but are unrecognizable amid my sudden suffering), ready to act: the mask on, the cold and still, professional gaze, the poorly tied hair, the impeccable posture, more like a porcelain doll than a woman.
"Go with the nurse," orders Dr. Sirisky from the narrow space between the desk and the door. I gather my strength and rise as if I have to prove to the doctor and the nurse that I can manage on my own, that I'm not lacking in strength. However, I don't manage to stand up completely. Physical suffering dominates the movement of my body through the three-by-three-meter office.
The nurse steps aside to let me pass through the room's exit. I glimpse at her, searching for a human reaction on her motionless face. Instead, I catch Sirisky giving the woman a sheet of paper in a narrow glance.
"Yes, take him. He... he's done," Sirisky says, with a conclusive tone.
The nurse closes the door, leaving the doctor inside the office.
"Get on the stretcher," she orders unpleasantly.
Dazed by pain that has now spread throughout my abdomen, simultaneously attacking my liver and stomach, I hadn't noticed the presence of the stretcher. From that moment on, I become incapable of continuing the narrative, afflicted by pains that become indescribable, terrified of feeling my swollen viscera (on the verge of bursting?), drifting further and further away from what was once the tranquil certainty of receiving the result in my hands and handing them over to Dr. Grau so that... so that...
AC-Man
Once upon a time—not too long ago, to be honest—I met a very peculiar man. He's as normal as any man in his thirties can be, and as ordinary as the people you see on the street... except for one small detail, a small but very significant one.
I once thought that his destiny was marked from the very moment of his conception, which, as I will explain later, might be shrouded in a disturbing mystery. However, if this is not the case, that is, if we are not born destined for a particular task, then one might think—and I have considered it myself—that perhaps our protagonist's luck was decided in a somewhat ironic way at the very moment he was registered as a person.
His parents named him Ace. Ace Connor is his full name; they didn't give him a middle name, which, as you know, is not the most common thing.
AC-e, with an A and a C, and his initials are A.C. (A plus C as well).
Our friend spent his early childhood just like any child born into a middle-class family in this city, or so he says, and I believe him. And again, according to him, it was like this until the day he discovered something about himself that made him different from everyone else.
Only he knows exactly how it happened. What I can convey to you is that one afternoon, on the side of spring where temperatures were definitely rising, reminding one of the approaching summer, sheltering the sensitive from the cold, our friend observed the diligent scurrying of ants in the backyard when he noticed he was thirsty, and his tongue started to be covered with patches of foam, while his pale skin took on a pinkish hue. Without feeling overwhelmed or suffocated, young Ace exhaled a volume of air through his nose, directed onto one of his forearms. What he felt was a clear refreshing cloud settling on his skin, caressing it. It was a pleasant surprise for him: when his body was warm, and he expected to release a bit of warm air onto his own arm in a liberating exhalation, he perceived a slight cold that reminded him of the opening of a refrigerator or freezer, or a breath of air expelled by an air conditioning unit. Far from being excited or disturbed by what had just happened to his own body, the boy marveled: how was it possible for cool air to come out from inside him, with the heat he had? Normally the opposite happens, at least in these latitudes: the air one inhales is relatively colder than the one exhaled, even on the most oppressive summer days (typically, the atmosphere is not hotter than the inside of a person); the body quickly raises the temperature of anything that enters it, be it air, water, or food. Our protagonist repeated what he had just done, getting the same result: he was truly capable of emitting cool air. However, the third breath he exhaled was of warm air, as if he had lost his ability in the blink of an eye. Somewhat disappointed, our young protagonist tried to repeat the mysterious miracle without success. In his initial excitement, the idea of running to tell his parents had briefly crossed his mind, but having suddenly lost the ability to produce cold air, he avoided mentioning the fact, and even wondered if it might have been a hallucination.
Over time, however, brief episodes like the one I described above recurred, not necessarily with high frequency, but rather gradually. And after each of those fleeting moments, our friend thought about what was happening to his body, trying to find an explanation or a cause for his strange ability. Eventually, he also told his parents and schoolmates what he was capable of, but the former didn't pay much attention, thinking it was an incomprehensible or convoluted child's joke, and the latter were not willing to believe him without a demonstration in front of their eyes. It took years for our friend to understand what was happening—by then, he was well into adolescence, at which point he already knew his own body, its functioning, and several of its limits, in addition to having to endure the ordeal of some failed exhibitions—and to explain to himself how that phenomenon was possible, although, regarding establishing its cause, he felt completely unable to formulate or even outline a theory.
And this is what happened to our protagonist: in a nutshell, he was able to cool the air that entered his body, especially if he did so through his nose. Basically, he had air conditioning inside him, so to speak.
At first, he could only do this when he was unaware of anything, when his mind was filled with some empty, senseless thought, or the silent and dry remnants of a true idea, and his eyes were absentmindedly fixed on nothingness hiding behind infinity—which implies it, I’d say—with a total absence of activity in his skeletal muscles, or closed, like when one is inadvertently and involuntarily transported out of reality, into the realm of dreams. This is contrary to what some might suppose: that a high level of concentration is needed to perform such a technique. More importantly, he could only do it when there was no one around who could witness the curious phenomenon. However, over time, and very slowly, with perseverance and without faltering, our friend learned to master his unique ability, being able to cool the air in his lungs with a certain degree of consciousness. Still, he couldn't afford too many distractions: if his attention was divided into two different mentally demanding tasks, his chest could automatically turn into what some despicably would call a 'human stove.' So, once he made sure he could subject his power to the almighty will, he was free and happy to show his ability, his gift, to acquaintances.
His parents, naturally, were greatly amazed, but at no point did they wonder how it was possible for a human being to cool the air by inhaling it instead of heating it; they felt no curiosity about it and simply accepted our friend's ability as a modest blessing. He also dared not ask a question about the matter, not only because, as I mentioned earlier, he had no idea about the possible origin of his power, but also because, perhaps, deep down, that wasn't the important part—not as much as the use he could make of his ability. And I didn't want to give him ideas that would invite reflection, fearing that it would mean delving into the deep and dark waters of the oldest childhood memories, as misunderstood as they were nebulous, or going back to the time before his very conception and discovering a secret that perhaps doesn't really concern him, or that for his own good, he shouldn't uncover.
For it is a known case of a woman who became pregnant, as they say, without having had relations but through the analog vibrations of an old TV in her house. But mind you, I'm not implying anything!
In school, on the other hand, young Ace immediately became popular. His ability was a sensation, especially when spring came, and daytime temperatures began to rise, making it convenient to have a breeze of fresh air at hand.
Initially, whenever our protagonist was asked to 'show his trick,' he willingly accepted, even happy to feel required and useful and, therefore, important. This feeling was heightened by the helpful, sensitive, benevolent, and candid personality of our friend, and complemented by the dazzled gratitude of those to whom he offered his gift. His parents kindly requested it—softly and with a sweet smile, almost like trying to persuade someone to do something they might refuse in some circumstances, almost like an invitation—whenever they were bored and felt like witnessing the mysterious phenomenon again. His school friends surrounded him during breaks or stood next to him in the leisure moments that fill the sometimes unbearable hours of class, with wide-open eyes and an expression of deep interest, asking for a new demonstration or urging him to do it. And he smiled with pleasure before proceeding to take a deep breath, inhaling through his nose, holding the air for a brief moment, and exhaling it as a refreshing, light, and extremely pleasant stream that, however, was fleeting, as it soon dissipated in the warmth of the surrounding atmosphere, inevitably leading to the need for the technique to be repeated. During this youthful period, they began to call him 'A.C,' after the initials of his name and because he was already known as 'the Air Conditioning Man,' a nickname with which he couldn't be displeased, as he didn't consider it something bad, but neither did he particularly like it. In his innermost self, he knew that, despite all the attention he received and the esteem he enjoyed, neither he nor his ability were indispensable... although it was equally true that no one else could do what he could. However, more and more often, he felt somewhat forced to interrupt a family meal to blow a bit of fresh air at the table, and in gatherings with friends, he had to take valuable time pauses to cool the atmosphere, unable to drink, eat, study, or anything, just look at the relieved and—above all—pleased faces of his friends on those hot and stifling days. Sometimes a compassionate soul would turn on the fan or the real air conditioning, but quite often, someone preferred to avoid the noise or the annoying wind of the fan, which hindered work or study at home, or save energy by leaving the air conditioning off or set at a temperature not as low as desired. And so, our protagonist didn't take too long to become disillusioned about the possibilities of using his ability to help others. In fact, he not only became disillusioned but also wanted to disown his power and deny his ability. Even more so after his ears caught what so-called gurus of distant philosophies say, who don't understand the true meaning of the phrases they put in their pseudo-spiritualistic pamphlets: "Be useless, so no one can take advantage of you." He had begun to feel his help as a job, as a burden, even as a hateful obligation, hateful precisely because it was forced, not spontaneously arising from his kindness, having to attend to the requests of his loved ones, even if only for a few minutes. Even if he wasn't busy when someone approached him and said kindly and friendly, "Can't you turn on the ‘air’ a little bit?" he would get upset. He also noticed the fake interest of those around him, selfish people who were more friends of his ability than of him, who only remembered him when they needed 'his trick' (a terrible and harsh truth that he had to accept, although somewhat exaggerated, it must be said), and who had stolen the name his parents had given him to replace it with a nickname more fitting for an appliance than a person: 'A.C. Man,' and if he expressed being very tired or busy to blow cold air, they got angry with him or started to ignore him.
"Now I understand the geniuses," he told me during one of our last conversations; to be honest, we've only talked about five times, but the foundations of our relationship, built on mutual respect, trust, and, above all, positive first impressions, have been established very quickly. "Those with an IQ of one hundred eighty or more. They spend their days locked up, reading or studying, without seeing anyone, and people think that's a waste, that they should use their intelligence for the benefit of humanity, inventing things, improving their living conditions, or something like that. But of course, they actually want to sit comfortably and wait for the geniuses to bring them their marvelous inventions, just to keep them to themselves without giving anything in return. And I wonder, why would a genius use their gifts to create inventions that make life easier for a bunch of ungrateful strangers, who won't understand what it implies to create them—the beautiful wonders that are perhaps necessary, even indispensable, parts of the process—and, moreover, when no one asked them for it? Are they not human, no matter how strange they are? Don't they have feelings?"
He told me all that as if he finally felt free to express his sincere opinion—and I understood, as he had a very valid point, and come on, you don't have to be an 'air conditioning man' to feel (and be!) used—... It’s just that his last pair of rhetorical questions came out with bitterness. The bitterness of knowing he was used, even exploited, considering himself seen as a tool or a machine—devoid of its own will, in any case—more than as a fellow human being... The disappointment of being taken to a TV studio to perform in front of an expectant and curious audience, like a creature from a postmodern, decadent circus, to sit him in a chilly set that a breath of normal temperature couldn't warm in a thousand years, and after the recording, having to hear his parents talk backstage with the show host and its producers, saying, "We came from far away and spent a lot on tickets, couldn't you at least give us some money to return?". The impertinent glares from the neighbors, pouring down on him from all directions when he left his house, once became famous, that bothered him—mute as they were—to the point of disturbing him, making him forget the reason for being outside in the first place, and their constant murmurs—although, in practice, generally tacit, and very probably malicious or ill-intentioned, perhaps even inquisitorial—about his strange ability.
So the years following his high school graduation, our friend spent them having a normal life, almost without mentioning his ability, or showing it off, except on exceptional occasions, requiring him to reveal himself as someone different from the others, to impress the boss or some influential or high-ranking colleague, attract a woman by impressing her, or secretly relieve a overheated elderly person he felt compassion for. But, although he allowed himself to use his ability in the aforementioned situations, he refused to provide details when asked, and he always gave unsatisfactory answers, all to discreetly guard his wonderful capability. Today, he has a wife and children, and every now and then, on warm late spring nights or hot summer days, he blows a little fresh air on their faces... And he has never stopped liking the feeling of being useful or knowing that he is doing something good for others. After all, who doesn't like that?
Not wanting to cause him any inconvenience, avoiding guilt, I never asked him to show me his ability. He only showed it to me the day we met, sighing a bit of fresh air on my face, and I immediately believed him. But, who knows, he could well have tricked me by chewing a mint gum that day in that waiting room...
Practicing the Language
I began these last vacation so enthusiastic; however, right at the airport, I encountered the first faces of nothingness, lifeless, devoid of emotion, and feeling. It's not entirely true that they are all the same, but that shared idiosyncrasy (or the one passed down from generation to generation) does indeed unite them, does indeed make them uniform. Anyway, after trying the local coffee, I took my first train ride. Inside the carriage, just like on the platform and on the way to the station, I found a crowd of nearly blank faces. Those who weren't reading the newspaper or a book or using their cell phones had their gazes fixedly lost on the floor or into nothingness. I thought that was a pity, as I had been looking forward to chatting with the locals; practicing the language finally being in their territory, in "real" situations. I eventually chose a vacant seat between two young people, took a seat, and sighed. Neither of them paid any attention to me, just as I expected. "I can practice on my own, after all," I thought, so I took my notebook and pen out of my backpack.
Where to begin? I wanted to write a phrase that would be useful during my stay. I thought for a moment, tapping my chin with the pen. I got distracted, allowing my eyes to wander over the signs posted throughout the carriage. I stopped after a few seconds when something caught my attention: there was an empty space between the doors and one of the windows. I thought maybe there used to be an advertisement there, and they had removed it recently, and they hadn't found another company willing to place an ad in that carriage yet. "Until that happens," I thought, "they should fill that space with something." I put away the notebook and pen and stood up from my seat. I briefly examined the billboard-free space; I thought I detected traces of the adhesive substance that makes tape sticky.
"It's better to make sure no one defiles this space."
I rummaged in my pocket for a marker.
"It's true that these people are very disciplined and all, but it's best not to give them the chance to ruin this beautiful country of theirs."
I also thought it would have been a real shame if someone did what people in my country do, which is sticking ridiculous stickers in public transportation or writing their nicknames or all kinds of senseless phrases with indelible markers... or even worse, if some drunk person urinated in the empty space.
I gave a final panoramic look at the other passengers before I started; they were all quieter and more mute than the landscape on the other side of the window. The idea was in my head; I just had to put it into action. I began:
"PLEASE."
Someone stood up and walked towards me. I barely noticed it, as I was busy regretting not writing bigger. Besides, I had to focus on overcoming the vibrations and the slight, sporadic jolts of the train.
Since it was too late for regrets, I continued:
"DO NOT."
"What do you think you're doing?" the guy who was now standing behind me asked in his language, of course. I chose to ignore him and continued with my work.
"I asked you a question. Answer it," the man insisted, very politely but firmly. I was just finishing writing, so it didn't take me long to turn around. I found that practically everyone in the carriage had gathered around me.
"Where do you think you are?" I heard from among the small crowd.
"I hate those foreigners who don't respect our country or our culture," added a resentful voice from the back.
"You will have to apologize for what you just did," a businessman-looking man with a strong fishy breath warned me severely.
At that moment, the train's bell and a voice over the loudspeaker intervened in the scene. "The next station is Y*," it announced. It was where I had to get off.
"Well, say something already!" a passenger exclaimed, impatient and annoyed. But I didn't feel like talking to them anymore. I stepped aside, approaching the doors, revealing the message to the rest of the passengers.
"PLEASE, DO NOT WRITE IN THIS SPACE."
The doors opened, and I finally stepped out into the fresh wind, not without taking one last look at the stunned passengers, the same ones who, after exchanging glances among themselves, returned to their respective personal worlds, most of them with expressions of humiliation or embarrassment on their faces.
Footsteps
Thanks to the clearing sky—late but still in time for my interests—I could confirm that the sun was still relatively far from setting. The outside greeted me with a strong and chilly gust of wind as well.
He nodded with an energetic gesture and a few simple words.
We said our goodbyes, after which each of us began to walk in opposite directions, each with our own path and a particular destination. I was glad to know it was still early; there was no need to hurry or calculate what time I would be back home. The sunlight, although weak and tepid in my perception, had already begun to dry the pavement. Only the streams and regular indentations in the ground remained as fine, long wet corners covered in shadows. The plants growing on both sides of the street had dry leaves and wet stems.
After walking a certain distance, I came across a large puddle. It had formed from the rainwater collecting in a shallow depression in the middle of the road. Instantly, I had my first déjà vu in years; something about that large puddle seemed strangely familiar. Naturally, I avoided stepping into the water, although I didn't bother to avoid the aura of moisture surrounding the puddle, evidence of its gradual retreat. Then I noticed some wet footprints coming out of that miniature lagoon. Whoever had left them was further ahead... and had stepped into the water. Next, to add to a situation that was becoming mysterious, I realized a peculiar fact, not very common: the soles of the sneakers that had left those water imprints were identical to the ones I was wearing. However, I chose not to dwell on this fact and looked forward again. But oh, surprise! As soon as I did, I spotted a recognizable figure a few meters ahead of me, walking the same path as me. His appearance was worth mentioning, to say the least. The person had the same hair color as me, styled in the same way, the same sweater model, the same pants, and the same sneakers; the same way of walking, and I'm sure even the same way of looking ahead.
Yes, I wondered who this person could be. Flesh and blood or a mirage? Impostor or clone? Dream or reality? I followed my instinct without delay and ran (slowly) to catch up with this walking figure.
And the closer I got, the more it seemed like I was seeing myself, the more I knew how I appeared from behind. Finally, I caught up with him. I gently touched his shoulder to get his attention. Alert as he was, he immediately turned his head towards me and looked at me with my own eyes and that somewhat peculiar expression they say I have, surprised despite my lucidity and quick reflexes.
I released his shoulder gently.
"Sorry, I mistook you for someone I know."
Picking up my pace, I left him behind.
Antimagnetism
Taking advantage of the fact that the majority of the class was distracted, Lucía took the tiny cylinder out of her backpack. Then she called the professor, but it was the teaching assistant who ended up coming.
"Yes?"
"Is this a magnet?" Lucía asked.
The teaching assistant took the cylinder from the young woman's hands and examined it. It was metallic and had the color of bronze, but it was heavier (or, to be more precise, denser) than that. It reflected the lamp's light unevenly.
"What do you mean, is it a magnet?"
Lucía handed him a magnet from her box to test. The teaching assistant first brought the magnet's positive pole close to the cylinder and observed repulsion. Then he brought the magnet's negative pole close to the cylinder and once again noted repulsion.
His eyes widened like saucers, with rays of light almost shooting out of them.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, amazed.
The girl shrugged.
"I found it lying around," the girl replied, almost uninterested, in complete contrast to the excitement of the teaching assistant.
As for him, he barely heard her. He had placed the cylinder against the light and was bringing the magnet closer to it from different angles, always maintaining the same amazed expression.
"Oh, this is... antimagnetism."
"Antimagnetism?"
"Yes, antimagnetism!" he exclaimed, and immediately lowered his voice. "But don't tell anyone, it's a secret.
On her way home, Lucía remembered the words of the teaching assistant.
"A secret," she repeated to herself. "Like antigravity. Antigravity also exists, but it's a secret."
Waiting to cross the street, Lucía muttered to herself:
"The truth is, he doesn't seem so stupid when he finds things that interest him."
That night, Lucía faced her physics exercises. Everything was set up perfectly; the notebook was wide open, and even the girl's hand was already holding the pencil, waiting for instructions from above. Then she finally brought her right hand to the notebook, ready to write the first equation. However, the pencil's tip didn't make contact with the paper. When she tried to force the contact, her hand began to tremble.
"Oh... Come on..." Lucía muttered, wrinkling her face, pleading with a shaky voice.
"Are you okay?" Marina, her sister, asked. She had entered quietly.
"Ah... I can't..."
Marina brought her face closer to the scene with deep curiosity. She saw how her sister, despite her efforts, was unable to place the pencil on the notebook to start writing.
"What's going on?"
"Ah... Oh..."
Not even changing the pencil or trying to use her left hand could Lucía write anything. She managed to make some scratches on the page, even opening a wound in it. Marina, who had simply remained as an incredulous spectator, soon became impatient.
"Seriously, what's wrong with you?"
Lucía opened her eyes slightly in the midst of her expression of indescribable suffering and her inexplicable moans to respond:
"Antimagnetism."
Somebody
The day breaks, and he is already awake—the only one awake in our city, which, despite being said to never sleep, is, in reality, only sleepwalking, with eyes staying open all day, unwilling or unable to close.
He wanders through the cold and misty streets of winter, and the windy and luminous boulevards of summer, with no interest in entering any home, business, or public building. Nowhere is he expected, just as it should be, and he belongs to none of those places. He is always passing through, never stopping his march; he crosses bridges and observes from the heights of balconies and terraces busy beings, in constant circulation, engrossed in their routines and duties, so distant and diminished that he might as well be watching them from a cloud.
He is someone who goes unseen; perhaps it is not possible to see him, maybe no one is capable of seeing him. But there is a presence in the labyrinthine alleys and avenues of our city, that is undeniable, even though it is impossible for people to realize that he has passed. Wherever he goes, he leaves no physical trace of himself, and he is—again, I insist—perceptible to those who know how to pay attention.
For example, when you go downtown on a weekday for your inevitable and unavoidable bureaucratic procedures, and you walk through the street during rush hour, when the sidewalks are packed with pedestrians and you have to navigate through the crowd, seeking the next space to move into, avoiding people, you also avoid him, seeing him less than others. And he avoids you or, at best, courteously lets you pass, indicating (that is, allowing you to find) where to go. But you don't see him because he has no face, body, or makes any noise, nor does he cast any shadow, perhaps he is a shadow that hides behind the backs of pedestrians and blends with the vehicles, never to be run over by them.
If he makes any noise while walking with his steps, or if he says something, everything blends into the sound of the wind, wraps in the rustle of autumn leaves or the treetops in spring, or in the timid babbling of the river, amidst the murmurs of sleepwalkers going back and forth, or in the noise of vehicles going as sleepily as the pedestrians, with no ultimate destination, but faster and more impatient than them.
However, he tends to manifest himself through a peculiar sensation, comparable to the one felt when perceiving a ghostly presence, believing that someone is behind you, always suddenly and unexpectedly, although other times it is perceived with a faint—almost eerie—shiver, especially when one is alone and in silence, calm, relaxed.
But more than feeling his presence, what is felt is his absence; even if one is not conscious of it all the time (because how could one be?), there is a background feeling, so to speak, that one perceives when that "someone" is not close. It is somewhat difficult to explain—no matter how sincere an effort one may put into it—that one perceives an absence of sensation rather than a different sensation; actually, what this feeling of absence is an entirely different kind of sensation.
He can appear in dreams or in incomprehensible visions that last fractions of a second, and are forgotten as soon as one becomes aware of their occurrence, moving on to wishing to pay attention to them. And he not only vanishes in the dreamlike mist but also hides behind the gaps in one's memory: when you can't remember who did something, whom you saw that time, from whom you heard something so important, it was always him, that "someone," as indeterminate as omnipresent. It happened to a friend of mine who woke up one morning, and immediately a kind of recollection assaulted her: a part of her was convinced that she had spent the night with a certain man who would have been her lover, but she couldn't remember who he was, believed she knew him, however, her alleged amnesia persisted in hiding the identity of that supposed lover, and, to make matters worse, my friend also found no trace of the man's presence—no imprint of his body on the mattress, no scent of his cologne dissipating in the air of the closed room, no forgotten object left behind after he had sneaked away, perhaps forever (everything my friend laid her eyes on was too familiar, and she knew it was hers; nothing that wasn't hers was in her house), and definitely no message on her phone. My friend came to believe that maybe she had hallucinated the nighttime encounter or dreamed about that man (without being able to remember the dream). And, who knows? Either of the two scenarios may have been the case.
He is the one who appears—always invisible, nonetheless, I insist—to respond every time someone looks up to the sky and prays to God, to Allah, or to whatever deity or spirit it may be. He is the executor of all of them to grant or deny, to do, undo, or not do. It can be said that he has his own will, but it is set aside in these situations, as he becomes dispensable and unnecessary. And it couldn't be otherwise: he is not supposed to stand in the way of a higher will or replace it in its duty.
He is also the one who calls on the phone, and when answered, only a faint—almost inaudible—breathing is heard; that breath is his voice delivering a message of utmost importance: the weaker the sound, the more important what he says. No one understands him.
On the other hand, from time to time, he visits people with memory problems who forget where they leave things, and who later complain that someone moved their belongings when the reality is that they left those things in a place they can't remember. Well, that's the one who moves things around for those people, so that their complaints are not always unfounded, so that from time to time they are right.
And when you are alone, in a dwelling that doesn't feel like home, in a workplace that ceases to look like one in the late hours of the night, and you begin to hear strange and unsettling noises due to their unknown origin... he is not the one producing those noises, but, on occasion, he is the one managing the silences that separate them, the pauses that occur so that you become aware that you are not alone, that someone you can't see is keeping you company... or that, in reality, you are the one keeping someone or something company.
He knows his limitation, however, to move in the fabric that covers the manifested, superficial, visible. He is unable to permeate what is beneath our feet in the same way that he can't even dream of traversing the firmament and knowing what lies beyond it. Instead of that, he must at most settle or content himself with occupying the interstices that fill reality, crossing his path with other "existential shadows," suspended in the ether that permeates everything, unaware of the, for others, relentless tyranny of the clock's hands...
If I know these things about that someone, it's because I have personally followed his trail; I saw him once in the mirror (saw as one can see someone of his nature), observing me in his way from the universe that extends behind its surface; however, an instant later, he had disappeared. I later realized that he listened to my phone conversations, even if they were not of particular interest to him—I suppose he knows me no more than any of my neighbors—and that he wasn't going to do anything about it, so I think he intrudes in some way in communications just because he has the capacity and the will or desire to do so. And, as it has not affected me in any way—not that I could perceive—I have done nothing about it and, therefore, I have let him listen in peace. But it is also true that I don't know how to establish direct contact with that being... I can write him a note and leave it somewhere, like the dresser in my bedroom, but how can I be sure that he will know he is the recipient when I don't know his name, to begin with? I couldn't call him by referring to his appearance or his particular signs even if I wanted to because he has no looks, no defined appearance. Or should I say, "Listen, diffuse shadow, come here," or "Diaphanous thing, what are you"? I wouldn't want to gratuitously offend someone I don't know... Nor does he often come around here—he doesn't frequent my home more than my friends do. Should I plaster the city with messages like, "It's okay for you to read my phone conversations, but don't be planning something against me"? Again, will he be interested in reading them? And, if he deigns to read them, will he pay attention to them? I could continue asking such questions and inventing fanciful and unnecessary conjectures, but not to deviate from the topic, I will limit myself to say that only because I don't know his name is why I haven't tried to establish contact; I wouldn't even speak to him aloud as soon as I detect his presence. I reiterate: his appearances are fleeting, he doesn't usually walk around my house, I haven't perceived him in the hallways of the building where I live, and I won't start talking or calling someone whose name I don't know on the street. But I have learned to discover him, to know when he appears, when he manifests himself, where he has to put his hand and for what. I can admit that it has taken me a very long time to get to know him—or believe I know him—but I refuse, resist, to say how long; just thinking about it painfully touches my pride, as I have invested too much time and energy to complete—to the extent that I have—a "mission" that no one has asked me to complete. But soon I rid myself of all negative feelings, as I don't have to answer to anyone; no one needs to know everything I've done to get closer to that mysterious being...
For now, every time I dine out, I offer him the leftovers, always leaving a bit of drink at the bottom of the glass or in the bottle. In the remote chance that he is able to satisfy his hunger or thirst, or that my food appeals to him, before the kitchen staff discards the remains, I reserve an empty seat in my home, in case he decides to rest his legs; he will do so only for pleasure or perhaps out of curiosity, for I cannot imagine him growing weary. I speak very little on the phone, always striving to express myself in clear and concise terms if I am to initiate the conversation, and brief, even laconic, in responding to questions, offering an opinion or a remark, or for a greeting, all without showing bitterness or annoyance. I probably go to unnecessary lengths in doing these things, as he must operate on another level, without necessarily being interested in my life, that is to say, perhaps he pretends to be present in my life only coincidentally, without intention, watching me through the window of time mechanically, as I observe the landscape on the other side of the car window. Perhaps he is on a journey to the place to which we must all return sooner or later: nothingness, with one foot in being and the other in non-being, leaving traces in the blind spots of our consciousness.
But, even if that were the case, it does not stop me from occasionally asking myself, standing in front of the mirror at night: "Who are you?" Nor from writing on the pages of the notebook or on the fogged-up kitchen windows: "How can I find you?"
Nor, on certain days when I walk down the street without pressing concerns in my worker’s mind, dodging swift automobiles and passing among my peers, fleetingly pondering in thoughts: "Where are you?"
A Dream
I had a dream in which I drowned and perished.
The cabin I was in suddenly began to tilt, and a furious stream of water rushed in from one corner.
Initially, I tried to stay calm, trusting that I could free myself from the situation by acting quickly. And so I did: I headed to the bulkhead, although to do so, I had to lean against the bulkhead, given the inclination of the entire structure, which made it impossible for me to remain upright. Meanwhile, the water kept pouring in, flooding the cramped cabin.
With great effort, I managed to open the door leading to the ship's passageway, but as soon as I did, another stream of water rushed in rapidly, throwing the heavy door on me, making me lose my balance and fall backward, causing my head to collide with a blunt object. I writhed in pain, clumsily splashing around while trying, despite the painful sensation enveloping my head from the terrible blow, to get up and escape at once. I swallowed some saline water contaminated with oil and saturated with the friction of steel and iron from the soaked ship that now sought to imprison me.
So, with great difficulty, I managed to stand up; the water was already up to my knees. With one palm against the bulkhead, coughing and gasping, I realized my mistake: I hadn't considered that the exterior was more flooded than the cabin, and opening the door that separated them only allowed more water into the latter. Fortunately, there was still a chance to escape: through a hatch leading to the upper deck.
Then, as I looked around for something that would allow me to reach the hatch, everything shook violently enough to make me stagger, but without falling. A few seconds later, just as I was about to climb up the inclined bulkhead, the lights went out, plunging the place into almost absolute darkness.
The water, which could be seen as an enemy to my survival interest, was now lifting me toward the blessed hatch. I reached out with one arm to feel for it, shaking it from side to side until I finally found the handle, and I clung to it for dear life. My abdomen felt constricted by the water pressure, and my lungs could barely procure some air, which, on the other hand, was becoming scarcer.
Already beginning to yield to despair, I tried to turn the handle, but it was closed very tightly, perhaps even jammed for some terrible reason, or so I feared at the time when I found myself unable to open the hatch. My arms were exhausted, and I no longer felt my legs touching the floor. I managed to shout for help, but my lungs and throat failed to respond. Then, I made a final supreme effort to turn the handle, and it was no use: it resisted again, denying me the long-awaited salvation. There was then a new shake of the structure; it seemed to me that seawater was entering faster and faster. It didn't take long for it to relentlessly fill the last free corner, submerging me completely. I gulped down the remaining air with a strained and agonizing breath. I held my breath as much as I could while obstinately clinging to the handle and trying to turn it using the full weight of my body. But my attempts ceased when the oxygen ran out, and my body had to give up; the last bubbles of air inside me came out in a muffled scream of indescribable horror...
I opened my eyes, and all I found was darkness and desolation. A feeling of endless sadness, indescribable hopelessness, and, above all, abysmal loneliness overwhelmed me like never before.
I felt that I had lost my soul.
Moreover, I had stopped feeling a body, as if I had ceased to exist as a person and all that remained of me was an infinitely tortured consciousness, trapped in an inexplicable nightmare. I couldn't even be sure if I was in a place of complete darkness or if I had lost my vision along with the rest of my senses.
Eventually, after a period that I am completely unable to determine, and that could well have been a minute, perhaps a century, somehow, as if by imagination—perhaps simply by the action of my will—I began to dispel those mysterious shadows, realizing as I did that it was actually an ominous black fog that had enveloped me, sticking to the surface of the consciousness that I was sure was all that was left of me.
As I detached myself from the dark substance, the feelings of deep unhappiness diminished, making me realize what relief and, above all, freedom truly are—concepts I discovered beyond anything I could have imagined in my entire life. Moreover, what gradually replaced the darkness was a peaceful and luminous vision, almost happy: a beach of very fine and whitish sand, a gentle and salty breeze walking alongside, filling my lungs instead of the merciless water in which blood and fire mingled; in the distance, where my sight barely reached, almost hidden behind the horizon, there was a bustling coastal city.
However, the aftermath of that experience is far from leaving me. Sitting on the shore, I still believe to see from time to time, at night, the imposing and gloomy silhouette of a ship that, little by little, tilts amid violent yet sporadic tremors and sinks forever into the sea. Its anguished metallic groans are drowned in the midst of restless waves, and a column of dense smoke emanating from its bowels merges into the darkness of the night.
I close my eyes for what I think is a moment, and when I open them again, I feel like waking up to another vision; I no longer know if what I find in front of me is the reality of the waking state or if it is another dream, just as I no longer know if the horrific dream on the ship has become my new reality, or if I know what reality is anymore.
Sometimes, that involuntary, inevitable, and blink-less blink takes me back to the state of semi-eternal darkness, where I become prey to the most unheard-of torments, adding to the pain of being aware of my inability to escape them, of recognizing myself defenseless against an inescapable destiny. In that state, I lose track of time to the point that I convince myself that it doesn't really exist, or that it might stop, cruelly and impassively imprisoning me between two ticks of the second hand.
But then, somehow, I leave that place of indescribable agony, sometimes slowly, gradually, like waking up in the morning; other times rather suddenly, without realizing it, as in the dreams I used to have before the sinking of the ship, those normal dreams where scenes unfolded between capriciously confusing, sudden, unplanned transitions.
I often return to the second year of the war, when I embarked as a volunteer on a mission, and not as a combatant. The last stretch of the long journey was done at night, as, under the cover of darkness, there was supposed to be less chance of being found by warships, which had orders to sink anything that crossed the conflict zone. After a frugal dinner—urged on by an inexplicable nervousness that plagued me, despite the mild and widespread optimism of the crew—I went to one of the rooms, and there I rested... until a muffled and powerful roar reached my ears, startling me. Next, almost immediately, I felt a shudder of the ship. For a steel behemoth of such dimensions to shake like that, the matter must undoubtedly be serious...
Then, the usual: horrified to watch as the cabin where I had decided to take my rest flooded, running fruitlessly against the clock and against the water to save myself through the jammed hatch, which I clung to with the desperation that can only be experienced when death is nipping at one's heels... But I never managed to escape, and inevitably, circumstances overcame me, with no possibility of salvation for me...
But by far, the worst is to find myself each time in the anguishing emptiness of nothingness, at the bottom of the same interminable abyss, without end, without light, without hope, swallowed by darkness, deprived of my senses—and consequently, of all contact with reality—alone with my thoughts, to the point that my thoughts become everything I am—the only thing I am—thinking to madness, in absolute solitude, for periods "that cannot be measured," eagerly awaiting the moment to be rescued by the light, even if it is to replace that vision with another, even if it is an harmless hallucination or a senseless dream (just seeing the smallest ray of light in that place of perdition always brings me the greatest joy one can have). The torments are so unbearable that even reliving the night of the sinking, with all that it entails for my soul (which is by no means little), without becoming desirable, suddenly becomes preferable to staying in the abyss for one more second.
The sensations I experience or believe to experience are too real to consider them part of a nightmare. At the same time, it is impossible for me to believe in the physical existence of such a place, just as I cannot comprehend that this abyss must necessarily exist. And even more inconceivable is that I must fall into it, remain in it, return to it—me! Why me?
Persistent thoughts about the situation I describe are a tiny part of the torture I must endure. I have found myself thinking about it while drowning, amidst the murmur of water restlessly swirling in the cabin, with my eyes open in the darkness caused by the blackout, but still almost seeing pass in front of me—perceiving the whirlwind caused by its movement—a torpedo seeking its target...
And the absence of answers that my consciousness can pose plunges me further into a state of desperate madness. The very nature of the matter far exceeds my understanding. Perhaps only the absent god can comprehend it.
The questions and reproaches without a specific recipient lead me through somewhat vague reflections and ideas that ultimately confuse me. Invariably, I wonder, in the depth of emptiness, devoid of my soul (I am only aware of its existence when I feel its absence), if I am really the volunteer who embarked during the second year of the war and whose ship was torpedoed in the middle of the night, or if I am—as I assumed from the beginning, perhaps a long time ago—someone who has dreamed of being that unfortunate sailor and who, for some absurd reason, keeps having the same nightmare over and over. But I don't remember anything about who I would be. I think I forgot it when I drowned for the first time, or when I was in the incomprehensible abyss, lost in the midst of my affliction, or in one of the many visions that appear to me. But I can't help but wonder if I am not a sailor dreaming that I volunteered. Other times, I wonder if I am simply the protagonist of the nightmare, an illusion that seems to exist only in someone else's vivid dream because in none of the visions I witness do I perceive my own body, as if I had not ceased to be my own consciousness or, why not, like an invisible specter trapped in the materiality of a city by the sea. Perhaps—I think accordingly—I am not the only one sent to the abyss, that there must be others like me, who one night went to bed as usual and suddenly found themselves in a nightmare, and woke up in the place of total darkness, turned into soulless entities, or trapped in a cycle of dreamlike visions from which they don't know how to escape. This, in turn, leads me to wonder who they are, those who go through the same situation as me, those who are trapped like me but whom I cannot see or know. Would they walk the same streets of the coastal city turned into absent presences, pieces of wind with a consciousness momentarily relieved of an infinite spiritual torment? And, no less importantly, is there anyone looking for us, or waiting for us somewhere, waiting for us to wake up? Or what is for me a succession of eternities in a dark corner of the vast cosmos is actually taking place in the brief minutes that a random individual's dream lasts, something of which no one around us, not even ourselves, is aware, implying that eventually, we must wake up to everyday reality?
Who thinks about people suffering every day? And who thinks about those who have gone to bed and have died in dreams, and now only exist—not live—in others' visions or in the dark depths of an unfathomable, infinite void?
I often regret not being able to change the course of events. When I recognize the cabin where I must seek rest to dispel the tension that has taken hold of me, I am invaded by the terror of knowing exactly what will happen next. It may have been a cruel ambush set by one of the combatants, a nocturnal trap to which we were skillfully led by a night hunter and submariner, or it could have been a mere unfortunate turn of events that has put us face to face with the ruthless enemy, but I know how it will end. This has led me time and again to resign myself as I fly over the coastal city or sit to contemplate the sunset on its white sand beaches, knowing that the next time will be the same, that I cannot avoid going to sleep with a restless stomach and a foreboding palpitation in my chest, to close my eyes, conquered by the fatigue of a long day on the high seas. A bang wakes me up. Startled, I try to get up quickly, but dizziness makes such a simple action difficult, not so much because of the sudden return to the waking state as because the cabin is tilting, a fact I quickly become aware of; moreover, a water stream is gushing from a corner. A shudder of the ship momentarily makes me lose my balance. I quickly understand what is happening: something has happened—the impact of a torpedo or a shell, an accidental explosion or a collision, if we are to have even less luck—and the structure of the ship has been compromised. I pretend to act quickly, as these cases require; the first thing that comes to mind is to escape; however, I stop before opening the hatch leading to the deck. I realize that, the way the ship is tilting, the deck must be more flooded than the cabin. So, I open the hatch at once, immediately moving aside to avoid being hit by it. Outside the cabin, I look up at the upper hatch, and I understand that it is a safer and more sensible way to escape. Taking advantage of the partial inclination of the ship, which turns the bulkhead into a ramp, I approach the handle and, although in doing so my body is in a rather uncomfortable position, I grip the handle with all my might and try to turn it. Unfortunately, it is no use, as every time. Starting to feel despair, with the seawater constantly gushing, splashing me with salty foam and oily droplets, I manage to scream. I scream until I stun myself, until I feel the painful vibration of my eardrums, until I wear out my throat. And then, with the water already reaching my waist, I see with wide-open eyes the timid rotation of the hatch handle. Incredulous, I feel a tear welling up in my eye, relieved and happy. The lights suddenly go out, plunging the room into an almost absolute darkness, but the hatch now seems like a skylight, with a being peering out, finding me, exhausted and halfway abandoned; that being has white skin and shines: it is a true "being of light"...
The being extends its arm downward; I somehow propel myself upward, towards it, to save myself. I ascend with the help of the luminous being, and, as I pass through the hatch, a glow dazzles me, blinds me...
I open my eyes.
It has been another dream...
The Brawl
Doctor Gaspar Conde teaches Physics at the university I attend in the afternoons, in room two hundred two. He's a kind old man, at least in his sixties by my calculations. Tall and slender, the permanently tanned tone of his bald head and the crown of pure white—whiter than milk—hair surrounding it, indicate a long life. The faint wrinkles etched on his face make me think he has maintained his physical stature over many years. He has a constant and serene voice, the voice of a man from whom experience has stolen fear and surprise. He usually wears a white shirt and dark gray trousers, which always end up covered in chalk dust.
Today, I had Physics class with Professor Conde. I started by waking up startled. Lost in thought about life, I had taken an unscheduled nap. I jumped out of bed, got dressed without thinking, grabbed a handful of cookies from the table, and left. I ran, walked, and ran again; somehow, I ended up at the Faculty building... I felt that between the moment I entered from the east entrance until I put my foot on the first floor, less than a second had passed. When I arrived at room two hundred two, without knowing the time because I didn't want to know it, I didn't find the professor's gaze. I was relieved by this (it couldn't be very late; the professor usually entered the room fifteen minutes after the scheduled class start time to wait for the stragglers, so I reasoned that this period had not yet elapsed) as much as by the fact that the seat I always occupy had not been taken. I sat in the front row of an almost full classroom and let out a measured sigh. Then I felt free to take a look at the clock to find out the time. "Six o'clock? Has an hour really passed?" I asked myself, alarmed and incredulous at the same time, with both eyes wide open. The class was supposed to start at a quarter past five...
I turned in my seat and realized with growing horror that only half of the desks were occupied.
I asked the classmate to my left, "Where's the professor?"
"We don't know. He hasn't arrived yet. Some girls just went to ask about him at the Student Affairs Office, others went to look for him in the teachers' lounge..." She concluded her report by shrugging her shoulders.
"Thank you," I said and settled into my chair.
Without giving us too much time to worry, three girls entered, and one of them announced from the front to those of us inside, "We went to the Student Affairs Office, and they told us they knew nothing about the professor, that they had nothing to do with him, and that we shouldn't ask them."
"And they treated us poorly," added a second student, laughing as she emphasized the last syllables.
"And they treated us poorly," repeated the first student, nevertheless, with the same neutral tone as before.
All of us in room two hundred two became concerned. More than one of us thought that perhaps something bad had happened to the professor, preventing him from coming to teach. I briefly pondered this, and then thought of nothing, looking ahead, at the blank (or rather, black) chalkboard. Several minutes, not many, passed before the students who had scattered anarchically in the corridors returned. One girl did so by jumping, exclaiming, "He's here! He's here!" Others were rather disappointed. Finally, I heard the familiar voice saying, "Come in, come in, please." Then I saw him—yes, it was the professor!
"I deeply apologize for the delay," he said, already standing behind the desk, where he usually presented the day's topic. "I had an issue. But now it's resolved; let's begin."
The professor then opened his small backpack, took out the workbook, and flipped through it calmly, without haste, looking for the first example to show. His calm demeanor was interrupted by the entrance of a man. For some reason, the first thing I thought about him was that he had a French look. How silly of me.
"What are you doing here?" inquired this stranger, fair-skinned and not very tall in my opinion, wearing a white shirt, dark blue tie, and dress pants; his hair neatly combed, no bald spots; mustache and sufficiently sized glasses.
"I'm teaching in my classroom," replied Conde, raising his voice and articulating each syllable very correctly for greater clarity. Besides, he placed a slight emphasis on the word "my."
The tension between the two teachers escalated very quickly.
"This is not your classroom; it doesn't belong to you."
"No, but I teach in this classroom every Tuesday and Thursday from five to eight, and that's final!"
"The Planning Department said..."
"The Planning Department did not give a satisfactory answer," Professor Conde rudely interrupted. "It didn't define anything. It didn't assign me a classroom for today, so here I am."
"No, my students and I should be here."
Only when the newcomer, accompanying these last words with a gesture of his hand, indicated where the students were, did we see them. They had gathered around the door, most of them with notebooks in hand, waiting for the moment to enter.
"When they assign me another classroom, I'll go teach there, but until that happens, I'll stay here, where I always do," Professor Conde affirmed, and took a piece of chalk to start writing, determined to give his class despite the protest of his colleague.
"No, this classroom is mine!" the latter insisted once more.
"No, it's mine!"
The professor with black hair and mustache turned around, determined to put an end to the tug-of-war of words, and exclaimed, despite the short distance that separated him from the outside:
"Students, come in! We'll get them out of here!"
Then one, two, three students entered with determined steps, like soldiers. Their other classmates were still watching from outside, not entirely convinced to obey the order. Gradually, some of them joined in timidly, believing that the determination they were trying to show would intimidate us and make us vacate the room. But those sitting closest to the door were not impressed and even greeted the invaders with defiant looks.
"Let's go!" the intruding professor encouraged his students again. A new contingent crowded at the entrance, and the soldiers in the front line politely or less politely, depending on the case, asked to be let in. My classmates firmly refused and held onto chairs and desks. The invaders then began to demand more vehemently that we empty the room; their commander, frustrated by our resistance, lost his temper and threatened one of my classmates; he knocked her notebook to the ground with a swipe of his hand. That was the trigger for the real disturbances.
"Leave my student alone!" Professor Conde exclaimed, emphasizing the word "my" again, and left his place between the desk and the blackboard to face his rival physically. Seeing that they were determined to engage in a fight, the inhabitants of room two hundred two finally got up and attacked the invaders; we threw all sorts of objects we had at hand, and our own hands as well, why not. Our violent reaction forced the invaders to defend themselves: the front line advanced with kicks against those coming towards them; from behind, pens were ejected, entire pencil cases with their contents, wads of notebook paper, and chalks quickly taken from the blackboard and the desk drawer. Marcos, the class whiz kid who sat in the center of the room, stood up on his desk, lifted the chair he had been sitting on, and threw it into the corner where the invaders were concentrated. They resisted the attack of my classmates at the front row of desks, with the door at their backs, engaged in a blind, close-quarters fight with closed eyes and aimless punches. On the right flank were the shooters, those who fired chalk, pens, shoes, and anything else that came to hand; from behind came the rear guard that overwhelmed Professor Conde, causing him to retreat to the other corner beyond the blackboard. In the process, they helped their commander to get up; then, with several of them, they lifted the desk —while others stood in front to try to shield them from the hail of chairs—and poorly and clumsily threw it at the defenders who were barricading themselves behind the desks. The desk and a couple of chairs collided in the air and fell with a deafening crash upon hitting the front row of desks, from which I had already fled. Indeed, as for me, I had jumped out of my seat with the intention of preventing harm to Professor Conde. With the help of some classmates, we carried him to the corner. The professor didn't care about his injuries to his hands and one cheek, nor did he seem to feel pain in the eye that was turning black. Instead, he wished to join the fight and tried to free himself from the arms that held him. After leaving the professor in safe hands, I joined the battle, my spirit inflamed by the unfolding situation. I started by giving a push to a young man who had just thrown an eraser, and before he could react, I slipped behind a desk like a mouse. Just as I did, I saw in the nick of time an invader throwing a ruler at me. The overturned desk protected me. I crouched down instinctively, feeling my hair being brushed by the ruler, which whizzed over me and hit the wall. I raised my head; the pushed young man was coming for revenge. Stretching over the desk, I pushed him back with both hands. The poor guy fell backward and his skull made a loud sound against the blackboard. I regretted what I had done in a fraction of a second; I had committed an excessive aggression. But I didn't have time to stop and withdrew from on top of the desk. Two more invaders were running toward me. The fierce expression on their faces terrified me, and I began a clumsy retreat to the back of the classroom. The furniture was colliding with my legs, digging into them unless they were stopped, while making loud screeching noises. Suddenly, I unintentionally stepped on a forgotten and dusty umbrella. I picked it up without thinking —my pursuers were already reaching out to grab my clothes— and brandished it. I took aim, fixing my gaze on one of the young men, and...
"What's going on here?" asked a female voice, taking control of the air.
Classroom two hundred two came to an immediate halt, as if by magic. I lowered the umbrella very gently. For the next seven seconds, no one said anything, and the furniture made no noise. We just stared at the woman who, standing at the entrance, looked at us with a stern expression. After said time passed, we all approached her, presenting our complaints and testimonies simultaneously, raising our voices, shouting, waving our arms, and pointing fingers at each other. The woman remained unfazed; she continued to look at us as if we were still quiet and still; when the shoving matches between the combatants reached her, she stopped us dead in our tracks with a new cry of elongated vowels:
"Siileence!"
I looked at my right hand. The umbrella was no longer there, which seemed very strange to me since I didn't remember letting it go. Almost immediately, I found it. It was in the hands of the guy I had pushed twice; I saw him being taken like a club, I saw him coming toward me...
The entire class laughed; I opened my eyes suddenly. Half of my face hurt, though not as much as my spirit did from the impact. Professor Conde interrupted the progress of the chalk on the blackboard. I realized I had woken up. I lifted my fallen head from the desk, my face now flushed to the maximum.
"It was just... a bad dream," I murmured, starting to feel great relief.
"I wish it were," the professor said, turned around, and looked at me. Then I saw his black eye, the linear cut on his cheek, and the shirt splattered with blood.
The Island
One fine day, I made up my mind. I did it suddenly, spontaneously, yet not rashly or hastily, much less thoughtlessly: I knew well within my innermost being that I was ready to take that step. Recognizing that the moment had arrived, I made the decision.
That very night, I headed to the port. Naturally, I found it dark and deserted; only the restless sea was present—as it always had been—murmuring ceaselessly in sync with its own perpetual motion, colliding with the docks and gently rocking the moored boats. The humid, cold, and salty wind was forcefully shaking my clothes, trying its best to penetrate my bones. I knew I would find no soul at the port, yet there I was, taking an unusual nighttime stroll. In some way, I was beginning to say goodbye to the coastal city.
I gave even fewer signs to those who knew me in the city, though they were rather few, to be honest. Between the decision and the moment of executing it, no more than a night and a day passed. Although I might have seemed distant in the preceding days, in which I had the vague premonition that I was soon to take the necessary "step," and had hardly been seen on the streets, preferring to stay home during my free time, they likely didn't think anything serious was happening to me.
So, the next day, at first light, I returned to the port. Without much thought, I chose a boat that looked solid, robust, and reliable, fit for the task at hand, and called out to its crew of three men who were already on board, making preparations for a fishing trip.
I offered them a considerable sum of money in exchange for taking me to the island, not so much to convince them as quickly as possible with the first offer, but out of a sudden disdain for the money I had been accumulating, a detachment that felt satisfying, like those who, knowing death's embrace is near, ready to accept its ineffable mystery, finally understand the futility of wealth and give it away with absolute and astonishing disinterest.
One of the fishermen asked me, just to be sure, which island. I replied, "To the island."
The island has no name, but the fisherman understood.
So, a while later, the four of us set sail. I was ready: I carried no luggage, all I had was the money I had already given to the fishermen. I silently bid farewell to the port and the coast as they receded from view. I felt no emotion about it, and probably had no thoughts at all.
We sailed for several hours, during which the sea gradually grew rougher. Intermittent gusts of wind, laden with seawater, began to batter the modest vessel, shaking it with increasing violence. Despite this, the crew remained unfazed—I, because I was confident I would achieve my goal no matter if the weather conspired against my plan; the fishermen, because they had faced true tempests, worthy of the name, undoubtedly fiercer and more deserving of concern than the mild storm seemingly about to descend upon us. And so the sea and the infinite sky above us evolved: the former churned, cloaking itself in a dense foam, while the latter gradually vanished behind a massive curtain of leaden clouds, darkening as one's gaze reached the horizon.
At a certain point, I deemed it prudent to seek shelter in the cabin, where the fishermen had been conversing in terse, muttered phrases for a long time. I took a seat in a vacant corner and continued to gaze at the vastness beyond the window. As time passed, feelings I had dismissed began to resurface: boredom, impatience, and the acute awareness of time passing. The cabin's appearance as the sky darkened didn’t help either: a single lamp added a bit of orange glow to the room, but it cast a gloomy, or at least melancholic, aura. I wanted to talk to the fishermen to show them it wasn’t my intention to isolate myself (and to avoid being overtaken by the cabin's somber or melancholic atmosphere), but, at the same time, I wasn't interested and, in any case, didn't know what to talk about with those men who seemed so alien to me, like another species, incapable of understanding why I was there, traveling to a deserted and virgin island.
After several long minutes, animated in their own way by the brief conversation between the fishermen, one of them spotted the island. At first, I couldn’t distinguish it amidst the waves and dense fog, but soon its silhouette, though tiny and distant, became evident. Like a dark rock rising above the sea’s surface, a mountain with its base lying at the ocean's bottom, its sharply outlined form came into view. Its appearance had hardly changed since the last time I had been there, and as we drew nearer, this impression only grew stronger.
Then, just a few miles from the shore, it began to rain. With a determined effort from the boat’s engine, the fishermen managed to dock. I leaped from the cabin to the deck and from the deck to the shore, miraculously not slipping and falling, so reckless were my movements; my legs splashed in the frigid, restless waters, and then I sank my feet into the icy, snow-laden beach. Already I regretted not bringing boots. The footprints I left in the snow were quickly deformed by the piercing rain arrows that the sky hurled at me, preventing me from even raising my head to observe the landscape before my eyes, much less glance back at the boat to see the fishermen waiting inside, sheltered from the storm.
The rain soon drenched me completely, turning my clothes into a heavy burden as they soaked up the water; nonetheless, I pressed on, heading into the island, even though the path led uphill on a gentle slope. Behind me, the fishermen hurriedly set sail back to the mainland. After a few dozen meters of walking, the ground became firmer and rougher, and level: I had just reached a desolate plain. During all this time, the sky darkened further, like a night arriving earlier than expected, significantly reducing visibility. That’s why, shortly after entering the plain, one of my legs got stuck between two thick branches—one of which even pierced me—whose resistance I managed to overcome only after breaking them with sharp, stubborn movements of my leg.
Leaving behind the pain caused by the branch, I continued trudging resolutely in a straight line, the rain now replaced by dense sleet. Then, in the darkness, the silhouettes of enormous rocks crowning the island’s center became visible. The only way to get past them was to go around, which made the journey even more difficult, as there was no path to follow, and the rocky, smooth ground, crossed by shallow cracks, was slippery from the rain. It’s impossible to know how long it took me to find a passage between the rocks, advancing by feel in the deep shadows, and from the exhaustion that began to take hold of me. There was no way of knowing if the direction I had taken was the right one, the one that would lead me to my destination. But I knew that beyond the huge cliffs, a frozen meadow still awaited me.
On that side of the island, snow—or rather, a blizzard—appeared; strong gusts of icy wind blew over me, howling fiercely and violently throwing snowflakes at me. I didn’t walk far before I collapsed from exhaustion. Pierced by cold, my limbs numb, hands and feet frozen, for a few moments all I could feel was my weak panting. But then a brief ray of light in the sky, which I still can’t decide if I saw or if, on the contrary, I hallucinated or dreamed, illuminated the black trunk of a dead and solitary tree ahead. It was the goal, and it was within reach. I struggled to my feet and started towards the tree; occasionally falling to my knees and having to crawl, but I wouldn’t allow myself to stop now, as if doing so would make the long-sought goal unreal and vanish.
Once at the foot of the tree, I recognized it. I knew it was the one—there was no way it couldn’t be, being the only tree for miles around, and perhaps the only one on the entire island. Ignoring my exhaustion as the only way to overcome it, I began to dig the snow in front of the damp, twisted trunk. I soon realized that I was wasting my meager strength on such a painful task, moving little snow with my numb hands. I looked around and glimpsed, despite the darkness, a thick branch a few meters from the trunk; it was the only thing that could help me move the earth.
The timid lights of the sky heralding the imminent dawn found me on the verge of exhaustion, standing before a hole dug in the frozen, hard ground. The snow had long ceased, and instead of the fierce wind of the previous night, a refreshing breeze blew; the air was pure and light, easy to breathe. In the hole lay a body. I recognized myself in that inert body; it was me from seven years ago. With great care, as if handling a delicate glass object, I removed it and set it aside. I was already exhausted and only wished to rest, finally rest. So I lay calmly in the hole, crossed my arms over my chest, and closed my eyes.
And, just a few steps away, I opened my eyes, slowly stood up, looked at myself in the hole, and after a moment of solemn silence, stretched my cold, stiff limbs, loosening them, crouched in front of the hole, and with my hands and the help of a thick forgotten branch, began to cover the body resting there with black, damp earth. My own body.
Once the task was completed, I turned around and started back towards the point where I had disembarked, when the rain was pouring, and the icy gusts of wind were relentlessly beating down. I crossed the plain covered in white snow at a leisurely pace—I saw no traces of the footprints left during the night—as if wanting to conserve my renewed energy, breathing the air that smelled different, fresh, and pure, while the blood flowed lively through my veins again. I traversed the bare cliffs and then descended the gentle slope towards the sea, never losing the joy of being back, of resuming my life, nor the curiosity, which sporadically crossed my mind, of wondering if life in the coastal city on the continent had changed much. The gleams of the imminent dawn illuminated my path. Once at the shore, I sat on the damp sand to wait for the fishermen to return and take me back to the mainland, according to the instructions they had received the day before.
Beyond the waves, the sun was already rising.
At the Supermarket
1
Lawrence is a solitary man living in a boarding house teeming with people. He inhabits a narrow room, measuring three meters by five, within a large house that the property owner, a man named Coselli, has converted into a kind of miniature residential complex. It's a cosmos in miniature, subdivided into compartments where around thirty individuals are crammed, each of them somewhat isolated.
The dwelling consists of three floors. The upper floor has two rooms, which used to be a single space until a particleboard partition was installed, and a lavatory was placed in one of the new compartments. This upper floor isn't really a floor in the true sense, or it's only half of one. It used to be the rooftop storage room where Coselli kept tools and the remains of useful things. Later, in need of quick cash, he "refurbished" it into the bedrooms I mentioned earlier, extending to occupy one half of the rooftop. The other half still retains the laundry area with a sink and the ropes for hanging clothes, along with Coselli's plants. This way, the occupants of the top floor enjoy the privilege of a panoramic view of the half-rooftop, where they can contemplate the terraces, roofs, and balconies of the surroundings. As for the other floors, each one has a proper bathroom and a kitchen (on the first floor, a ‘kitchenette’ that serves as a kitchen). In total, the building has eight rooms. Eight rooms for the thirty or so people I mentioned earlier. In three-by-three-meter bedrooms, three to four people sleep; others, returning from work at night, take their well-deserved rest on the kitchen or kitchenette floor, or on the half-rooftop, provided it's not cold.
Coselli is no less fortunate than those he lodges. He is a chemical engineer who, due to certain circumstances, was forced to resign from his teaching position at the university where he used to give lectures. He was also prohibited from working for the state, and in a country where the state has monopolized initiatives in education and chemical engineering, Coselli couldn't work formally again. When the money ran out, he found his new horizon in the rental business of his house. He started accommodating workers and students from the city; money flowed in, but not in the abundance he desired. So, Coselli decided he needed to increase the number of guests, and to do so, rooms had to start being shared by two or more people each. He sacrificed his study room for more money and turned it into a single room. He packed his past into a box, with the last item being a photo of his ex-wife and children. "Someday, I'll get you back," he solemnly and silently swore. With part of the income he received, he renovated the existing bedrooms and built the ones on the rooftop with his own hands. To procure the necessary materials for his project, he timidly dabbled in the world of informal scavenging, turning what others discarded into a personal treasure. It wouldn't be long before he became proficient at swimming in those waters... Coselli, aiming to accumulate as much money as possible in the shortest time, even gave up his own room and started sleeping in... it's painful to say it, but for the past year, he has slept in a hammock suspended from two hooks in the kitchen ceiling, hovering above the table where the ground-floor residents eat during the day. So far, he hasn't fallen even once.
But, returning to Lawrence, he shares a room on the first floor with Leonard, and yet, he is alone. Lawrence signed his lease seven months ago and has lived alone for most of that time; the arrival of Leonard is a relatively recent event. Coselli trusted Lawrence and appreciated him in his own way (despite barely knowing him), which is why he allowed him to have more space than the others—even more than himself—for months. However, his hysterical need eventually overcame the enigmatic regard he had for Lawrence, and he picked up Leonard from the street like he picked up wood and sheet metal from the city streets.
In conclusion, this entire description of Coselli and his house serves as an introduction to the narrative I set out to convey here, which is the story of the events that occurred yesterday at the "Ultramarket."
2
The "Ultramarket" is an imposing supermarket—a precursor to the "hypermarkets" we know today—located not far from the city center, sprawling over an area of approximately twenty-five thousand square meters, including the parking lot, which can accommodate up to a hundred and fifteen vehicles.
There is no rival for the Ultramarket within a dozen kilometers. I don't just mean in terms of dimensions but also regarding what is offered within its walls. A journey through two, three, four, or even five different stores in the city (or more!) can be simplified with a single visit to the Ultramarket.
The Ultramarket is eight hundred meters from Coselli's house, and therefore, he knows it well. Coselli, like Lawrence and the residents of the house in general, was impressed and overwhelmed by the grandeur of the establishment, and he hurried into its depths whenever he felt strong material needs or shortages. He entered through an opening seven meters wide and three and a half meters high, traversing aisles two meters and twenty-five centimeters wide, where at every glance, a legion of employees of the Ultramarket was ready to eliminate any customer's concerns—a legion that, in turn, they were maintaining. The employees, I should mention, enter through a hidden door, camouflaged behind a billboard displaying the weekly offers, one meter high and fifty-five centimeters wide, before the customer entrance opens, and they leave through the same door after the last shoppers depart.
According to what can be read somewhere, the Ultramarket was originally conceived as a kind of "commercial neighborhood," with stores instead of houses, where people could spend the day strolling through the street-like aisles, encountering their desired items, and not one another, as they would in a "residential" neighborhood. That project didn't prosper, but the result, from a certain perspective, has been the same: just as Lawrence is alone in a boarding house inhabited by thirty other people, the Ultramarket customer shops in solitude, even though surrounded by dozens, hundreds, or even thousands of their peers. The others are only an illusion that very occasionally (in a near collision, in a completed collision, in restlessness, when paying) materializes and is nevertheless fleeting and passing.
So, to cut my wandering short and get back on track, I will try to narrate what happened to Lawrence.
Lawrence started yesterday having to dodge Leonard's leg—who was sleeping in the upper bunk with a leg extended outward—when he got up. Once on his feet, he was already between the bed and the tiny table that comprised all the furniture in the narrow room. Next, he took a couple of sidelong steps, grabbed the clothes hanging on a hook, and dressed himself in the corner, beside the table. Having done this so many times, he didn't bump his knees on the table when bending his legs, didn't lose his balance, and didn't need to lean on the wall either. Before leaving, he reached for the shelf and felt for the razor and the expired shaving cream, finding them easily since he always left them in the same place. Then, he opened the door just enough to slip out like a dog Coselli once had, making no sudden movements that might cause Leonard's clothes, hanging from an unstable hook—prone to twisting—to fall. On his way to the bathroom, he crossed paths with Ferdinand, one of the residents of the floor, who had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and was heading to the half-rooftop to smoke. Deep within the first floor, Lawrence knocked twice on the reddish door he was entering. Inside, one of the young men from the ground floor was taking a bath in a basin atop a corner of the rectangular bathtub. Lawrence was genuinely surprised that the guy could fit in the basin, although he was well aware of the slimness that allowed him to do so. The young man, who was pouring water over his head with a jug and had his back to the door, paid no attention to Lawrence's entrance. Midway between the young men, Nolly, a woman on the brink of her sixties, was washing tomatoes for breakfast in the sink. Seeing Lawrence so close to her with his shaving items in hand, the woman began to huff and mutter.
"Hey, I'm busy! Hey, why don't you get up earlier?"
And without Lawrence asking, Nolly picked up the tomatoes, placed them in a plastic container, and carried them away, shoving Lawrence with one of her broad and flabby arms to make her way to the door, all the while snorting and muttering monosyllables. Lawrence was annoyed by the woman's attitude, but he immediately forgot what had just happened. The next person to claim the bathroom wouldn't take long to appear, and he couldn't afford to waste time.
Lawrence briefly returned to his room to leave the razor and shaving cream jar on the shelf and collect the money. He set off to do the shopping.
Shortly after descending the stairs, taking care not to step on the two medical students who often studied there, and greeting Coselli, who was about to eat his simple breakfast of a yogurt pot, Lawrence was already walking the familiar streets, just like any other day. There was nothing special about yesterday, except that with a holiday around the corner, which invariably caused unbearable crowds and endless queues, it was best to be stocked up in advance. Besides, the most suitable time for shopping was in the morning. Lawrence knew this well, so he took advantage of his day off and went out with a list in his pocket. He planned to buy milk, cookies, and onions.
He had been to the neighborhood so many times in the seven months he had lived there that he knew exactly where to find what he needed. (Nevertheless, the employees periodically rearranged the items, but not too far from where they were previously placed.) The items on his list were relatively close to the entrance: the vegetable section was in the middle of the ground floor, and cookies, as well as dairy products, were in the half nearest to the entrance. "It'll only take a few minutes," Lawrence thought, taking for granted that he wouldn't venture into that mysterious and unsettling corner on the first floor where customers retrieved a product from the shelf, left it in the aisle, and took its place, often having to climb the shelves or crouch down, depending on where they chose to display themselves.
So he crossed the immense entrance and went straight—confident in what he had to do and was already doing—to the dairy products section. There were so many brands, and each brand had its different types of milk, along with various possible presentations. But Lawrence knew what he wanted and didn't let himself be distracted by bottles, ‘sachets,’ or cartons of whole, skimmed, iron-enriched, lactose-free, fatty acid-enriched milk, or by golden wheels, red wings, or cartoons of smiling cows printed on the packaging. He picked up the same glass bottle as always and then headed to the vegetable section.
Half an hour later, he was arriving back at Coselli's boarding house. In his bags, he had milk, cookies, and onions, along with coffee, green apples, meat, wall deodorant, a sponge, and bleach. He hadn't been able to afford anything more. The front door of the house was open (two guys from the ground floor were chatting with neighbors), so Lawrence didn't need to open it. He calmly ascended the stairs, splitting his steps in the kitchenette's direction, and entered his room. Leonard wasn't there; he was smoking on the half-rooftop, as usual. Lawrence immediately proceeded to place the products he had just bought in their respective spots. The wall deodorant went to the last free space on the shelf; the onions and apples went into the fruit and vegetable drawer in the kitchenette. The milk and meat went into the refrigerator. As for the sponge and the bleach...
Lawrence searched for the receipt to store it since he kept a strict account of his expenses. (He, like Coselli, aimed to accumulate as much money as possible as quickly as possible, but he forgot about that when he entered the Ultramarket.) He pulled the receipt from his pocket, which had stuck to his change. He also thought about taking out his keys and hanging them on their hook. He couldn't find them. They weren't in his pockets, in the bags, on the bedroom or kitchenette floor, or stuck to the receipt and change. Lawrence became flustered, experiencing an unjustified onset of panic. He exited the room once more, giving the stairs a long look-over; he descended two steps at a time, feeling dizzy, examined the pavement in front of the boarding house entrance, and asked the guys chatting on the doorstep. He only received negative responses.
Without resigning himself to considering his keys lost, Lawrence returned to the room, scrutinized its scarce and tiny corners, and then came up with ridiculous hypotheses of incredible, improbable, and unfortunate falls, only to ultimately acknowledge that the keys were nowhere in the room or the rest of the house. He then decided to retrace his steps from the Ultramarket.
3
The Ultramarket awaited Lawrence and all the city's inhabitants and outsiders alike, without discrimination. Just as he returned to the street to head back to the Ultramarket, Lawrence remembered that he had collided with a woman's shopping cart on his way to the fruits and vegetables section. So, his keys must be there, on the ceramic floor, perhaps under a shelf, or in the Lost and Found. He quickened his pace.
The gigantic entrance doors were kept open so that people wouldn't be bothered by the automatic opening and closing of the doors, which, at times, malfunctioned when subjected to heavy use, inconveniencing pedestrians by closing in their faces when they tried to pass through. Positioned on both sides of the entrance were two guards in black uniforms with a haughty and provincial look.
Once inside the Ultramarket, a long row of cash registers stretched out, each with its own line of customers, resembling a massive barrier that one had to navigate to enter the store. As Lawrence made his way towards the nearest access point to the supermarket's interior, he had the sensation that the cashiers and customers were arguing, but he didn't get closer to confirm. He was focused on his mission.
Since the collision had occurred in the center of the ground floor of the Ultramarket, Lawrence headed there first, down the central aisle. As he advanced, people with carts emerged from behind each shelf, thinking aloud or in hushed tones, reading their lists, looking at directional signs trying to make sense of them, examining the products on display, peering over their glasses, and exchanging opinions with their companions. Lawrence's eyes, overstimulated by the excess of vibrant colors and artificial lights, became distracted, causing his vision to blur. Employees hurried back and forth, appearing busy. The cookie wrappers made a lot of noise; were they being dropped? People moved back and forth, almost without noticing each other. Lawrence was pushed and bumped unintentionally a couple of times before he decided to stay more awake and alert despite his partial and possibly progressive blindness.
Then he believed he recognized the spot where he had lost the keys a few moments earlier: between shelves of canned peas, canned corn kernels, canned carrots, and a greater variety of pâté than you would believe could exist. Lawrence knelt down and looked under the surrounding shelves, even though a multitude of pairs of legs hindered this simple task by passing, stopping, bending, and trembling. Lawrence even pressed an ear to the cold, trodden floor to find the blessed keys, but he had no success. They weren't there. He asked the first employee he saw if he had seen them.
"Excuse me, I...," he started to say, but the stocker dashed away to another location as soon as Lawrence approached with his concern.
Without getting angry or discouraged, Lawrence addressed the next employee he encountered on his path.
"Have you seen a set of keys dropped on the floor?"
"What? I'm new; I don't know anything," replied the employee, continuing on towards the checkout line.
"Thanks anyway," Lawrence said and spun around without knowing what to do.
The people slowly passing him by didn't notice his presence, not even if they accidentally brushed against him or collided with him. Lawrence moved away in search of another employee. In aisle number five, he stopped a young woman in an Ultramarket uniform.
"Do you know where the Lost and Found is?"
"Yes, in our lockers!" she exclaimed with a hint of irony and, continuing on her way, burst into laughter.
Lawrence felt uncomfortable and even somewhat embarrassed, even though, as I mentioned earlier, no one paid any attention to his existence. He thought of asking at the checkout line, believing that there he might find not his keys but at least a clue about where they might be. In aisle number seven, the middle one, a group of indecisive elderly individuals blocked the way, and if someone asked for permission or spoke to them, they didn't hear, as they were partially deaf and concentrated on the product labels and prices, leaning forward with squinted eyes to see them better. Lawrence took a nervous detour and attempted to pass through aisle number eight. There, he encountered people who were avoiding the congestion in aisle seven, along with those who were unaware of the nearby crowd. Lawrence was losing his patience, so instead of taking another annoying detour, he pushed through the crowd, asking for permission, brushing, pushing, and colliding with varying degrees of intensity with his fellow shoppers and the carts and baskets they were carrying.
To reach one of the cash registers, Lawrence squeezed his body between the customer who was beginning to place his items on the conveyor belt and the refrigerator tempting people in line with cold and delicious drinks. Those who saw him, including the cashier, were surprised and annoyed, even though he wasn't trying to cut in (why would he, when he had no products in his hands?).
"Do you need something, sir?" the first customer in line asked rudely.
"I'm going to ask the cashier something. Excuse me."
But the space Lawrence intended to pass through was so narrow that he had to uncomfortably press his body against the customer's until he could see the cashier's face.
"Sir?"
"Hello. Just a question: I lost my keys, and..."
"That's not a question," the woman interrupted.
"Yes, but where can I find them?"
"Well, where you lost them," she replied calmly, shrugging as much as her job's demands allowed.
"They're not there. That's why I wanted to know if there's a place where they keep things that are found..."
"Pockets," the old man interjected, joining the conversation with his raspy voice.
"Yes, in pockets, or..." The cashier couldn't continue, as she was focused on correctly passing the items on the conveyor belt through the bar code reader.
Lawrence walked away without saying a word. Clearly, it made no sense to seek a satisfactory answer from the Ultramarket employees. Besides, he was finding it hard to breathe. Disappointed, he circled around, thinking about what to do. He briefly considered speaking with the manager but quickly dismissed the idea, imagining having to wait for him for who knew how long, only to be treated the same way as the other employees or perhaps worse. He decided to give up and leave. Getting a new copy of the keys from Coselli couldn't be that bad, could it? Or would he receive a beating or a scolding?
Lawrence walked with his head down towards the exit, not paying attention to what was in front of him because his gaze was fixed on the white ceramic floor. But the large exit didn't appear. Lawrence looked around with his eyes no longer focused on the ground; he walked back and forth, but he couldn't see the big door. It was as if it had disappeared, but no, Lawrence eventually found it (he had started by looking for his keys and then had to do the same for the exit). At that precise moment, as he was about to leave, he spotted his keys on the floor, dropped amidst careless steps. Lawrence moved toward them without paying attention to the crowd that had gathered near the exit. However, he didn't bend down before another person picked up the keys, gave them a quick glance, and hurriedly entered the depths of the Ultramarket with fast, tight steps.
4
Lawrence could have run to catch up with the person who had his precious keys if it hadn't been for the crowd spewing out of the checkout lanes, creating a counter-current tide that made his passage difficult. Hurrying bodies (though not necessarily fast-moving) without faces twisted and turned his return path and stopped him at points very close to each other. In the central aisle, where the mysterious person was escaping, there weren't as many people. Lawrence jogged along it until a cocker spaniel emerged from behind a mountain of wine boxes, interpreting Lawrence's haste as an invitation to play. Lawrence got scared, as he interpreted the dog's agitation as preparation for an attack. He paused for a second, during which the person with the keys disappeared from view, and then resumed his journey, always moving forward, farther and farther away from the dog. Even with his mental turmoil and desperation to find the person and make them return the darned keys, Lawrence was briefly distracted by the colorful labels and the shine of the metallic packaging. Also, the pungent scent of cleaner, the soulless music, and the sinuous lines on people's clothing caught his fleeting attention. He heard the flying words of invisible employees: "Can you wash the dishes? To hell with this", "Can't you see them, you insensitive?", "I'm new; I don't know anything."
Lawrence walked half-blind, paying attention to any light blue uniform he saw, like the ones worn by Ultramarket employees. He looked at the hanging signs with aisle numbers and product categories without understanding them anymore, without paying any attention to them at all. He saw blue uniforms, but none of them belonged to the person he had seen. This didn't discourage him; sooner or later, that person would appear; the mystery of the missing keys was solved, even if the moment to retrieve them was delayed.
And the person in question turned out to be found, next to the door leading to the area reserved for employees, chatting with the cook.
"It's all contaminated," the cook said, a mix of disgust and indignation in his voice. "Someone filled the trays with..." and he substantially lowered his voice as an innocent customer approached, to finish the sentence.
Then the cook and the employee who had picked up the keys entered the employees' area. Lawrence waited for the innocent customer to disappear into the packaged bread aisle and then entered as well. Beyond the narrow wooden door, he found himself in a long, dark, cold, and damp corridor—completely opposite to the clean, fragrant, and bright sales area—at the end of which a dim light timidly shone. However, as Lawrence advanced, a scene in the middle of the corridor became clearer and clearer. When he got close enough, he found himself next to a kind of cabinet where a young girl he had never seen before, but somehow felt he already knew, was rummaging through objects in a cupboard that seemed to be suspended in the air, although how could you tell in almost complete darkness? Lawrence observed her for a moment. Eventually, footsteps distracted him from the unusual scene and led him down the path taken by the employee and the cook. Three people in a dingy white sat on the floor, engrossed in conversations on their cell phones, lost in a frontal glare brighter than the fluorescent tubes. Further ahead, at the doorless entrance, a plastic curtain covered access to a narrow alley-like patio, reminiscent of his room at Coselli's. Behind the curtain, an employee casually smoked a cigarette. But the bread was burning in the electric oven, and the water in the pots had been boiling for over five minutes without any food being put in. The woman followed by Lawrence and the cook watched the scene, and Lawrence, in turn, watched them.
"You!" he finally exclaimed to the woman. She and the cook turned around.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, visibly surprised.
"I dropped my house keys, and I think you have them."
The woman in light blue put her hands in her pockets without saying a word. From each pocket, she pulled out a bunch of keys. One of them was Lawrence's.
"These?" she asked.
"Yes, these," Lawrence said, taking the pair. The reddish enamel with which Coselli had painted one side of each key so Lawrence could know how to insert them into their corresponding locks was slowly chipping away. The young man gave a tender look to the recovered keys, greatly relieved—even jubilant—and looked up to thank the woman. But when he did, he didn't see her. Only the cook remained, standing there, looking unfriendly.
"Now go away," he told Lawrence.
5
Lawrence withdrew the same way he had entered, unaffected by the cook's brusqueness. He was too happy and relieved to pay attention to anything anyone might say to him. He returned through the deserted aisle without experiencing any visions and passed through the narrow exit, pushing the fragile wooden panel that acted as a door. The light from the outside partially blinded him; he didn't remember it being so intense. He lowered his gaze just in time to dodge the foul brown stains in front of him. The floor was as contaminated as the trays where the food for the employees was served. People, meanwhile, came and went, passed on either side of him, brushed against him, bumped into him, or even avoided him; metallic containers gleamed, and labels screamed; cart wheels squeaked to the point of being deafening; the music faded in and out; the air conditioning sent cold needles piercing one's skin; paper cows mooed, and wings rolled; sinuous lines appeared and disappeared or straightened out. Lawrence no longer cared about avoiding the people who, bundled up like bunches of spaghetti or rolls of toilet paper, spread through the aisles, touching without touching, seeing without seeing, knowing without knowing... because he, too, was packaging and spreading himself just like them; he touched them, saw them, and knew them too, with the difference that he was escaping without rushing. He could hardly see anymore; he barely noticed the cart and the woman behind it suddenly turning toward him, colliding with him, causing him to fall among cans of peas and who knows how many kinds of pâté.
Lawrence got up; the woman had already disappeared; she had fled as he had been doing, but for opposite reasons. A stocker said in the clarity of the aisle, "I've arrived, I'm the new employee."
Lawrence didn't care; he barely heard those words; another employee a few steps away from him suddenly abandoned his state of stillness to begin calmly and end up exclaiming to his face, "It's so hot... I need fresh air... I'm scared. It's my first day, and I'm terrified! I'm dead; we're dead!! We're dying and we're dead!!!"
The man in question clutched his distorted face with both hands and ran away. Disturbed, Lawrence did something similar but notably less dramatic. The main exit was in front of him, a short distance away; a crowd stood between them, but it could be easily crossed.
Outside, it was already nighttime. "How much time did I spend in there?" Lawrence wondered. Coselli was cooking sausages, lost in thought. Lawrence returned to the boarding house through the usual dark alleyways, darker than usual. He thought the streetlights might be failing. When he finally stopped at the threshold, a brief vision flashed through his mind like lightning. The fleeting memory of the cart, the lady, and the fall made Lawrence wonder if he hadn't lost his keys again in that second collision. He felt the pockets of his pants. His stomach twisted, strangling him in the middle, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead—his head about to experience a strong bout of dizziness. He looked down, and a faint reflection reassured him. The keys had fallen without warning, and now they were at his feet. It was cold. Lawrence picked up the keys, laughing at how bad things had gotten in such a short time—In the blink of an eye!—and at the great misfortune it would have been for him to lose the keys in the second collision. Then he inserted the key for the outer door with the face painted in vermilion enamel facing upward into the lock. He turned the wrist to the left; the key resisted. He repeated the action with more force, but the result was the same. Lawrence became seriously uneasy, though not in full panic. He withdrew the key from the lock and examined it in the weak light of the night.
"What an idiot!" he exclaimed aloud to himself.
He had inserted the wrong key, the one for his room. He tried the other one. He brought it closer—again—with the face painted in vermilion enamel facing upward, and when trying to push it into the lock, he couldn't get it in. He mumbled the beginning of a sentence and tried once more to forcefully enter the key that had to be the right one. Restless, with his stomach churning and cold sweat moistening his forehead and armpits, Lawrence began banging heavily on the door, almost in despair, and frantically jiggling the stubborn doorknob. Someone would have to hear the banging and then the absurd story of the lost keys that had ended up in the hands of the Ultramarket employee, etc., etc.
The house next door smelled like sausages.
In the Gallery
1
The warm morning sun, hiding among the outlines of the pair of clouds it encountered, watched Lawrence walk beneath it, his gaze slightly tilted so that its rays wouldn't obstruct his vision or blind him. Nevertheless, Lawrence constantly observed his surroundings to allow silent memories to enter his superficial mind one by one, in a row. The intersection where that man once ran shouting for help. The old cleaning products store, always empty. The brown door that Lawrence tried to open after returning from the "Ultramarket." That incident, which happened eight months ago, presented itself in his mind with unusual intensity. The episode had been so confusing that Lawrence could barely recall scenes from it effectively; what he could gather was only a collection of disjointed and blurred pieces, facts crumbled like the clouds of the sky were crumbs of celestial bread. This is how he found himself crossed through the senses, simultaneously but also in parallel, by the supermarket collision, the aroma of sausages, the vapors of the dark aisle, the crumpled receipt in his hand.
It had taken him a long time—several weeks—to even approach that enormous supermarket again, where he mysteriously lost an entire day, and it had been even more challenging for him to dare to enter it once more. Eventually, he managed to do so, and time no longer slipped away from him inside, and neither did his being dissipate in the fragrant and luminous aisles, nor in the dark and neglected bowels of the building.
Lawrence stopped for a moment and looked back. There, reaching the corner, a somewhat gaunt man, wearing jumbled clothing, stood next to a thin and half-peeled tree, motionless, with his gaze slightly inclined. From that man's fist emerged a leash that ended in the collar of a terrier with gray fur. Lawrence fixed his gaze on the man for a brief moment, on his plaid shirt, and his brown jacket, on his tousled hair, on his mustache... It was neither a memory nor an imagination but the real Coselli. After those ghostly seconds, Lawrence set off again. Coselli, for his part, urged the dog to continue on its way with a gentle but sufficient pull of the leash. Dog and owner took their own common path, opposite to the one Lawrence was already taking; each man marched toward his own forward.
Moving away from the boarding house where he had lived for a while, Lawrence almost saw in his right hand the key that had refused to enter the lock that distant night. He chuckled a bit. "I understood everything," he said to himself. He crossed the street, and then completed the sentence with a muffled murmur squeezed between two rows of caffeinated teeth. Lawrence turned a corner, so the sun began to illuminate the left half of his body. Ahead, at a distance, the avenue and its cars were visible. Toward them, he went.
2
Barely had Lawrence set foot on the corner of F Street and Avenue A, he found himself suddenly immersed in the crowd whose members flowed—so to speak—macroscopically evenly and compactly, in endless rows with opposite directions, always along the main avenue, always walking and stopping, looking and unlooking—observing the items displayed in the shop windows with attention, but if one looked into their faces, what one could mostly find was an empty gaze, if one allowed calling that a "gaze." On the other side of the curb, an incessant flow of cars complemented the pedestrians' movement. Despite the intense traffic, drivers got along well with each other and with pedestrians, and no more serious incidents than a sharp turn or a grumpy honk had occurred all morning. In short, it was the beginning of a normal Saturday in the city. Under the blue and whitish sky, crowned by an imposing star (which, however, failed to unpaint the remaining piece of the moon), people carried themselves, careful not to collide with each other, although they couldn't always avoid it. Like these people, Lawrence went; like them, he walked—like one more person—toward the subway station, distracting himself with every discontinuity in the shop windows, crossing paths with semi-empty faces, passing them by, slowing down, advancing, turning, undulating his trajectory on the stone tiles. Then he reached it. The entrance to the station. From the mouth of the tunnel system, people of all kinds emerged and submerged incessantly; perfectly adapting to the chaotic order that usually prevails on the stairs, Lawrence descended each step without haste.
The air was thick and even somewhat foggy down there, on the single level of the anthill; very humid, warm, with a stench that could easily make one think of a closed room but mixed with the smell of a room where the air conditioning has been on for a long time. The light invisible vapors that accumulated just below the ceiling, perhaps hanging from it, besides contributing to the general aroma of the environment, discreetly manifested themselves in the background noise of the station, just like the frictions of people's clothing. But of course, the background noise of the station would not be such without the contribution of the voices, laughter, and other vocal noises of the crowd, and without the addition to them of the sonorous footsteps on the marble floor—occasionally streaked with a greasy substance—on one side, and the music of street (or just amateur) performers on the other. The noise is so in the background that one generally does not pay attention to it; one almost doesn't perceive it. Occasionally, of course, to such a heterogeneous underground symphony were added the sounds of the trains (arrival, departure, opening and closing of doors, warning whistles, pre-recorded announcement prelude) and their companions (rushed or obstructed runs, shoves, some muttered curse). These things one does perceive, one pays the attention they deserve.
Lawrence stepped on sticky spots until he reached the platform, where a cloud of cigarette smoke briefly enveloped him. When he turned his head towards the source of the smoke, his eyes found a tall and thick man who, almost perfectly still, stared ahead, probably with a lost gaze. Lawrence was about to reprimand the man; however, the distant but powerful sound of the subway arriving at the station and the people, impatient about the train's arrival, began to push the man and Lawrence himself, defeating the latter's intention.
Annoyed by the unnecessary and premature discourtesy of his peers, Lawrence boarded one of the cars, "assisted" by more shoves—gentle but irritating nonetheless. He didn't care as much as others did about the scarcity of available seats; he remained standing and didn't spend time watching how those who could ran to sit in one of the soft foam rubber seats, warmed and moistened by continuous use. On both sides, a narrow aisle extended beyond what the silhouettes of the other passengers allowed to see, besides hindering the passage. The walking tunnel was cold and humid, filled with the mist that permeated the lower strata of the air in the stations.
With a great preliminary blast and a whistle halfway between kind and abrupt, the subway started and accelerated.
3
As the line of subway cars began to pick up speed, passengers distributed themselves, settling in the places they found most convenient or closest to them. Only a few remained standing. Lawrence, for his part, after standing by the door for a moment, started to traverse the subway car. Unintentionally, he exchanged glances with passengers who were not interested in looking at him either. The glances were quick and barely gathered information, but they always do... Two brothers slept shoulder to shoulder, mouths wide open. Somehow, the noises of the subway and the stations did not disturb the shared state of sleep in which the young men found themselves. A bit further back, a woman looked seriously into the darkness through the window, while her partner had turned his head to the opposite side, his gaze practically equally serious. On the other side of the aisle, which was as dirty and sticky as the Avenue A station, a child of about seven or eight years old was deadly bored next to his mother, who had several bags with things she had bought at her feet; the bags swung irregularly with the subway's slight lateral movements. However, the most outstanding feature of that first car was the man dressed as an astronaut, returning home after a long night out. The subject in question had the helmet on, and the reflection of the fluorescent lights on the visor prevented determining the state of his face (and whether the stiffness of the head was due to an irresistible state of sleep or an unexpected stillness of spirit or the effect of some substance that is better to avoid).
Before moving to the next car, Lawrence passed without looking at a group of young people chatting in a corner without seats. Half of them were standing, their backs against the thick, hard plastic lining the inside of the car, and the other half was sitting on the floor partially covered in fine particles of dirt and tiny fluffs. The voices of the youngsters, although not strident, reached unimpeded to the opposite end.
Lawrence crossed the space between cars; in that crossing of space, he blinked, and in that blink, the lights went out, and where Lawrence ended up putting his feet was a darkened, tapered space. Only the small, weak lights on the walls of the tunnel outside and the glows from cell phone screens saved the environment from absolute darkness. Just two or three seconds later, the lights returned; however, in the very brief span of the blackout, many passengers raised their heads or their voices or even became frightened. As for Lawrence, he didn't let himself be scared, or he didn't have time to do so because for him, those two or three seconds had lasted much less. He continued advancing down the aisle, faster than at the beginning, paying less attention to his surroundings. The general insipidity of human expression in the car helped Lawrence not to get distracted further. His steps followed each other quickly, and without him noticing, he was already closing the door to move through a second space between cars. When he placed a foot on the small, wide bellows connecting the cars, the floor and everything above it suddenly shook from side to side, as if shaken by an earthquake or hit by a giant wave, causing Lawrence to lose his balance and forcing him to grab—a reflex action—the handle of the door to avoid falling. That lateral movement soon ceased, and Lawrence allowed himself to take a very timid step forward, but a second, much more violent shake, caused by a sudden brake, made the man fall, leaving him sitting, his back against the door of the car he intended to go to, and his legs forcibly flexed by the closure of the other door. Lawrence found himself trapped and covered in microscopic dust in such a confined space. With his knees pressing against his collarbones, and the coccyx painfully and solitarily balancing with the surface of the bellows, Lawrence wondered, "Well, what do I do now?" And instead of thinking of an answer or solution to his situation, he simply stretched a leg, and raised his arms to start climbing the limits of the shaky and trembling space that imprisoned him. As soon as he could stand up completely, with his limbs sore, he wanted to look through the plastic glass, finding nothing but darkness and silence from a basement or an abandoned warehouse. "Am I blind, or what happened?" Lawrence wondered. The answer soon arrived; a subway employee in uniform pulled the door open, finding Lawrence.
"What are you doing here?" the first one asked and added, "The journey is over. Leave."
Lawrence obeyed without saying a word. Shame prevented him from seeking an explanation for what had just happened with questions.
Once on the platform, he looked up, and in front of him, a sign showed him the name of the L station. "Did I go the wrong way?" Lawrence thought. His eyes didn't seem to be lying to him: that was the other end of the subway line. But Lawrence didn't want to give himself time to think about the whys, the wheres, the hows, and he followed the crowd of people still coming out of the subway, with the unconscious idea of getting on the next train heading downtown, to Station B. Navigating with the current was easy—as it usually is—until it split into three smaller currents at a gigantic space that looked like a lobby, beyond which was the exterior. One group headed towards the tunnel on the left, another continued a general advance straight toward the wide escalator at the back, and the third veered to the right towards another staircase, not as wide as the one mentioned before. Lawrence had to choose, and as he had little room to move, he went to the left, to form a kind of human subway that went through its own tunnel, with whitish walls, and illuminated by low-power lamps. And slow, very slow. A tough challenge for the impatient.
4
With every step Lawrence took in the poorly lit, cold, and almost unpleasant-smelling corridor, he felt increasingly alone. In the depths of his mind, a deep and long—somewhat eternal—sound could be heard, but he didn't pay too much attention to it; he simply looked forward to see what lay ahead and down to avoid tripping over other pedestrians (fortunately, he wouldn't reach that point). The dimly cold lighting and the state of haphazardly ordered mixture miserly offered Lawrence clues about what the path held for him; he could only realize each change of direction when the heads of the people just ahead took a new course. First, there was a left turn, then, a downhill stretch followed by an equal uphill stretch, and finally, before the next stage, a U-turn, ascending a slight slope, and then turning right. About three hundred meters passed this way. At the end of the terminal segment of the corridor, with people exhausted and resigned or with indignation immobilized by the silent promises on the other side of the tunnel, a space opened up that covered little less than what could be reached by sight and was delimited on all four sides by rows of commercial premises. The center of the place was dominated by an immense lake—not a fountain—and above the premises, galleries piled up, one on top of the other, reaching a metallic and vaulted sky, in the center of which was a skylight through which the celestial roof peeked, giving it the shape of a lake. And from the oceanic firmament, light fell like a majestic waterfall through the skylight, filling the entire place—the central lake, the pristine air, the stacked galleries—rendering any need for artificial lighting out of place; the only electric lights came from the colorful neon signs of the shops, essential to bring them into existence—quite the opposite of the narrow and shadowy passage that had led all those people to the commercial paradise. And the human stream that flowed into the commercial galleries suddenly dispersed like clouds in the morning sky back in the old neighborhood and scattered in all directions, atomized, and distributed in every corner of the vast establishment: on the long benches or by the railing surrounding the luminous lake, places from which no one could avoid being dragged into a state of hypnosis despite the stillness of the lake's surface, which no artificial mechanism altered, and which no macroscopic living being inhabited, and which no wind shook because there was no wind—in such a vast space there was none, curious as it may sound—in front of the virtually infinite shop windows of the small stores that huddled and overlapped in the four cardinal points, similar one to the others, and compact like toy bricks, raising themselves as formidable walls, thick and impenetrable to defend the state of affairs, the progress of the economy, the activity of the people... Then one was practically alone, physically separated from others, just like on the avenues and in the subway and anywhere else in our immense metropolis, even in the endless passage that led from the subway platform to the celestial lake in the shopping gallery, where everyone is so alien that one is already alone, despite pressing the body against that illusion that is others, squeezing into the quasi-endless tunnel, on the way to a gold mine of lies, more illusory than the presences around one, who is half-blind, half-lost under the weak lamps, traveling the passage like a mole under a garden, among the shadows generated by ourselves. Lost as one can be when emerging from the narrow passage and stepping into the light, in a way being born into the great market of life, forgetting about Station B as Lawrence forgot it now, overwhelmed by the impressive dimensions of the place; suddenly he was facing something that resembled a city or, at least, a neighborhood in itself, fortified, as I have already said, and that, by the action of a most subtle coercion, hidden behind its appearance, concealed behind its nature, made one stay; then the reason to stay there for hours depended on each one, on what one might pretend, on what one wanted to feel like doing: from sitting down to rest the legs after an endless and exhausting walk, to, of course, inevitably exploring every floor, every store, every shop window, every shelf, and every hook on every wall, with more or less attention, according to each one's interests, according to their appetite, their ability to be impressed, or their ease in being attracted by an item on display or a sign alluding to it.
So Lawrence soon headed, magnetized—like many of those who had traveled with him through the underground gallery—toward the row of nearest shops. And what was not exhibited behind the illuminated windows with small spotlights, neon signs, and Christmas lights... Lawrence started with the electronics stores, so ubiquitous in our city, geometrically, architecturally crowded on the ground floor and on the upper ones...
5
With all their differences, the stores were practically identical. In each of them, all kinds of gadgets were offered, each one smaller and more portable than the other, more practical, more novel, and more curious, presented in boxes with texts in various languages, including, invariably, poorly translated English, with illustrations that did not always make the purpose of the item in question evident. But, if we are to be honest, the legends on the boxes are not too understandable to the common people either, with their neologisms disguised as technical terms and their repeated idiomatic borrowings (often unnecessary), apart from the defective translations. One sees them, and no matter how peculiar or exotic one may find the items for sale, if one does not understand them—if one cannot recognize them—interest is immediately lost, and one continues on their way with their gaze until the next stop, forgetting instantly what they have seen, or until they see it again in another store, with another presentation, manufactured by another company. And yet, it is sometimes difficult to realize that one sees the same product again, if the variety of "electronic items" is so vast and only continues to grow with each passing day, which has made the category of "electronic items" broadly inclusive again; now it is subdivided into various categories: accessories for cell phones, computers, gaming, etc., etc. Lawrence scanned the shop windows with his gaze, initially with great interest, as he found it very easy to be distracted by the displayed products; very soon, however, his eyes began to feel some fatigue, constantly finding only powerful artificial light, besides the fact that the stores seemed too similar, repetitive for his mind.
The shops were too small, and they were identical in terms of dimensions and internal arrangement, something that extended to the rest of the premises in all the galleries: a glass door next to a single shop window, where there was no choice but to cram the widest possible variety of goods and signs or elements to capture the attention of passersby, to try to stand out above the others; on the other side, a square enclosure no larger than a room in a guesthouse, where the furniture was reduced to a counter near the wall opposite the shop window, and—this not all stores had it—an elevated showcase, transparent plastic and without doors (as if to hide or, at least, disguise its own existence), where featured items were displayed; whether there was a showcase or not, goods hung from all the walls, like in a hardware store. Inside each store, it was usually just possible to walk, always taking care not to stumble over the products or shelves.
Further on the ground floor, and much more on the upper galleries, the stores diversified: the first ones to appear beyond the row of "electronics" stores were clothing stores, so characteristic of shopping malls; all kinds of clothing could be found: for women, men, children, formal, informal, sport, not to mention the shoe stores. Later on, there were bazaars, toy stores, perfumeries, antique shops, appliance stores, record stores, bookstores, etc., and even in some places, services were offered instead of products, from lawyers to travel agents.
In each store, there were attractive things to see, and undoubtedly, they attracted Lawrence, but his mind soon clouded due to the excessive repetition of visual stimuli—almost a continuous stream of stimuli, one could say. His brain, never accustomed to that, progressively ceased to decode the signals imprinted on his retinas and simply walked forward, seeing without looking but unable to take his eyes off the shop windows. Thus, in front of him, he saw a pharmacy, a kiosk, and a furniture store pass without looking, and then found himself at the foot of the escalators in the north corner of the building. Occasionally, individuals crossed the landscape, individuals who walked through the galleries like him, who without the slightest hurry let themselves be carried from one end to the other of the floors, constantly interrupting their march and resuming it at brief intervals. Finally, behind the stairs, in line with them, a wide corridor with a low ceiling extended, illuminated with tiny and not very powerful bulbs spaced far apart from each other—not very different in appearance from the one through which Lawrence had entered the building; but very, concerning its dimensions, and that led directly to the outside, back (so to speak) to the city. It was not a too long passage, but it was not evident that behind it there was a wide exit as there was, separated from the outside by a wall with huge polarized windows, which prevented the entry of much of the light of the splendid morning in the city. Lawrence instinctively stepped on the escalator; perhaps something inside him wanted to stop walking for a moment; more likely that same something hoped to find a different view in the first of the upper galleries.
Standing on the first floor, he stopped for a moment, hands on his waist, took a deep breath, and took a long look around. Everything looked very similar—to say the least—than on the main floor. To his left was a bookstore, and to his right was a candy store. Lawrence found it difficult to decide which way to go; however, after a very brief deliberation, from which it can be inferred that he actually acted impulsively, he turned around and resumed his ascent on the escalator.
6
On the third floor, Lawrence stopped. He leaned over the railing that bordered the gallery and, resting his hands on it, looked up. There were more floors to explore than he had initially thought when contemplating the place from the ground floor (besides, it seemed to him that the ceiling was higher than before, and the skylight, which moments ago he had judged immense, was no longer so in his eyes), but he foresaw that he would tire sooner rather than later, and he hesitated to continue climbing. In those corners of intermediate heights, the characteristic silence of a deserted place already reigned, which did not become absolute only because the soft murmur that rose from the ground floor (calmer than that of the subway station and definitely much quieter than that of Avenue A) prevented it. Upon setting out, Lawrence soon noticed that the stores in that part of the building had dimmer lighting, that is, less intense than those on the ground floor. In fact, some stores were closed, and only the flashes of the garlands of lights and the neon signs emanated from their interiors. There were no buyers or strollers there, and the only people Lawrence saw were two clerks who had come out of their respective adjacent stores to chat. He passed them by without looking at them or the merchandise in their businesses, and could not understand the words he heard from the vendors, even though he believed or assumed they spoke his same language.
Due to the emptiness and dullness of the place, Lawrence lost even more interest in continuing his tour, so he began to walk a little faster, almost at a normal speed, towards the escalators in the south corner. After covering a good distance, which his mind had been occupying in imagining the use Lawrence could give to certain items he had seen during the visit, he was surprised by a red light illuminating the threshold of a store. When he noticed the appearance of the commercial premises, he was surprised that, in addition, black curtains were closed behind the glass, and that, instead of a door, there was a beaded curtain. A vaguely familiar sensation infiltrated his mind. "Where have I seen beaded curtains?" he wondered; however, while doing so, he was already making his way through the red and white glass pieces, first pushing them aside with one hand and then sticking his head inside the peculiar store. He was greeted by a barely lit cubicle, with low-power lamps; the walls were crowded with products presented in plastic packages of various sizes hanging from the myriad hooks of the showcase; perpendicular to the shop window was the counter, behind which a tall man, in a black uniform, with isolated gray hairs in his disheveled hair, looked forward with a half-tired, half-insolent expression on his face. In front of the counter, a few centimeters from the wall opposite it, a very short piece of furniture overflowed with items.
Lawrence quickly recognized the products on display. He knew, therefore, that he was in what we call a "sex shop." Ignoring the clerk who harmlessly followed him with his gaze, Lawrence advanced through the narrow space between the counter and the small piece of furniture, mechanically observing the items offered in the latter but with no intention of touching them (at least not the elongated objects), towards the back. There he found an opening that led to a place where darkness was absolute, as not even the weak rays of light from the store penetrated it, as if they were actually absorbed by a kind of black mist. Then Lawrence remembered the event that answered his question from a moment ago. When he was a teenager in a large video store in his neighborhood, he had peeked behind one of the voluminous shelves typical of the place just out of curiosity, to see if he could find more movies to rent, but what he saw was an opening with no barrier other than a beaded curtain. Without hesitating for a second, young Lawrence ventured behind the curtain; what he discovered was that on the other side, adult films were displayed. As he fleetingly recalled the episode, Lawrence wondered if beaded curtains were part of a code whose existence he had ignored all his life. And now he had an opening without a door and something unknown beyond it; Lawrence would have expected to access the store's storage room.
The counter clerk called him, but Lawrence had already disappeared into the darkness behind the store, and he didn't hear him. Despite not being able to see anything, he continued to advance, and the only things affirming his existence, apart from his own consciousness, were the sounds of his steps, unusually dry and clear; this and the hardness his sneakers found reminded him of cement. Soon, he thought he detected a muffled noise on one side. Bewildered, Lawrence came to a halt and turned his body in the direction of the presumed sound. It did not repeat, but nonetheless, he extended a hand forward, as if he could touch or reach the source of the imaginary noise; instead, however, he watched as his fingers tore through the darkness and split it in two, just like the black curtains of the store would have opened. Immediately, the darkness disappeared, and before Lawrence's eyes, a long and very cold corridor appeared, like that of a refrigerated chamber, on both sides of which hung from different hooks… products. From a distance, Lawrence observed them, and although the shadows cast by these products covered him and merged into the floor, and despite his disturbance, he recognized them, although, in reality, it should be said that, without distinguishing them well, he feared they were what they turned out to be: various organs and parts of human bodies, some of them wrapped in cellophane. "Like meat in the supermarket," unexpectedly passed through Lawrence's mind, which he consciously only knew as feeling deeply nervous and disgusted. He would have preferred to find adult videotapes (but what are pornographic films if not collections of frames showing bodies mutilated by a camera?). Anxiously, he hastened his pace towards the end of the blue-lit corridor (it did not occur to him to go back to the gallery) and, on the other side of an opening covered by a plastic curtain, he was flooded with an intense orange light, which also filled a room with elongated benches on either side, occupied by several pregnant women. Judging by the light and white clothes that the ladies were wearing, by the signs of fatigue on their faces, and by the sweaty glow of their skin, it must have been very hot; however, Lawrence did not feel it. The women looked at him for a moment without speaking to him and without making any particular expression or sign, and soon turned their gaze elsewhere; they seemed to be waiting for something. Lawrence continued his path always forward, as if he was sure that beyond he would find an exit, abstracting himself from the situation that now seemed unreal, difficult to believe, squinting his eyes to help himself do it. He walked through a dark, gloomy corridor again, where a mist floated and enveloped him, but the most striking thing was the penetrating smell of oil, which soon caused strong nausea in Lawrence. With one hand on his abdomen and the other covering his mouth, Lawrence crawled through the mysterious and gloomy corridor; the scent of gunpowder mingled in the thick air with the smell of oil, and the beams of light of undefined origin that traversed the narrow space and pierced the mist were reflected in the fluid that covered the floor. Lawrence was afraid that the fluid was gasoline; a mere spark would blow everything up, including him, of course…
Finally, without realizing it, he found himself passing through another opening like the one at the back of the sex shop. He had entered another small store, very similar to the others, but it was not crowded with merchandise; rather, it looked somewhat empty, perhaps incomplete. By then, Lawrence was so mentally exhausted that he just wanted to get out to the gallery and leave; he was on the verge of remembering the original purpose of his departure from home that morning. That's how, tiptoeing, he reached the glass that separated him from the outside, and on the other side, he saw a kind of elongated display, which extended beyond where the eye could see, with items of all kinds—from all the stores—neatly arranged, one next to the other, in endless rows; the display was made in such a way that the rows moved like on a conveyor belt, making the items pass in front of Lawrence—or, if movement is relative, it was actually the row of stores that moved in a straight line, which meant that Lawrence was the one moving in front of the items. Lawrence felt observed, or rather: scrutinized, studied, contemplated. He stood there, standing in front of the glass, watching a variety of objects glide before his tired eyes, for a period that can be considered as "a few moments," but that I cannot accurately specify. When he got tired, he calmly walked out the door. He didn't want to look over the railing to take a last look at the round lake; he took a few steps through the gallery, sighed deeply, and took out a small transparent package from his pants pocket.
"I understood everything…," he said to himself, looking at the object in his hand: a stand for his cellphone.
It had cost him thirty bucks, reduced from thirty-five.
At that price, he had let himself be bought; it wasn't much, but hey, it was thirty!
He walked back home; surely it was already too late to do what he had planned the day before.
"No, it's not that I understood everything," he corrected himself later. "It's that maybe someone wanted me to see things that others can't."