Early writings
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...
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."
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.
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."