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.
The Island
One fine day, I made up my mind. I did it suddenly, spontaneously, yet not rashly or hastily, much less thoughtlessly: I knew well within my innermost being that I was ready to take that step. Recognizing that the moment had arrived, I made the decision.
That very night, I headed to the port. Naturally, I found it dark and deserted; only the restless sea was present—as it always had been—murmuring ceaselessly in sync with its own perpetual motion, colliding with the docks and gently rocking the moored boats. The humid, cold, and salty wind was forcefully shaking my clothes, trying its best to penetrate my bones. I knew I would find no soul at the port, yet there I was, taking an unusual nighttime stroll. In some way, I was beginning to say goodbye to the coastal city.
I gave even fewer signs to those who knew me in the city, though they were rather few, to be honest. Between the decision and the moment of executing it, no more than a night and a day passed. Although I might have seemed distant in the preceding days, in which I had the vague premonition that I was soon to take the necessary "step," and had hardly been seen on the streets, preferring to stay home during my free time, they likely didn't think anything serious was happening to me.
So, the next day, at first light, I returned to the port. Without much thought, I chose a boat that looked solid, robust, and reliable, fit for the task at hand, and called out to its crew of three men who were already on board, making preparations for a fishing trip.
I offered them a considerable sum of money in exchange for taking me to the island, not so much to convince them as quickly as possible with the first offer, but out of a sudden disdain for the money I had been accumulating, a detachment that felt satisfying, like those who, knowing death's embrace is near, ready to accept its ineffable mystery, finally understand the futility of wealth and give it away with absolute and astonishing disinterest.
One of the fishermen asked me, just to be sure, which island. I replied, "To the island."
The island has no name, but the fisherman understood.
So, a while later, the four of us set sail. I was ready: I carried no luggage, all I had was the money I had already given to the fishermen. I silently bid farewell to the port and the coast as they receded from view. I felt no emotion about it, and probably had no thoughts at all.
We sailed for several hours, during which the sea gradually grew rougher. Intermittent gusts of wind, laden with seawater, began to batter the modest vessel, shaking it with increasing violence. Despite this, the crew remained unfazed—I, because I was confident I would achieve my goal no matter if the weather conspired against my plan; the fishermen, because they had faced true tempests, worthy of the name, undoubtedly fiercer and more deserving of concern than the mild storm seemingly about to descend upon us. And so the sea and the infinite sky above us evolved: the former churned, cloaking itself in a dense foam, while the latter gradually vanished behind a massive curtain of leaden clouds, darkening as one's gaze reached the horizon.
At a certain point, I deemed it prudent to seek shelter in the cabin, where the fishermen had been conversing in terse, muttered phrases for a long time. I took a seat in a vacant corner and continued to gaze at the vastness beyond the window. As time passed, feelings I had dismissed began to resurface: boredom, impatience, and the acute awareness of time passing. The cabin's appearance as the sky darkened didn’t help either: a single lamp added a bit of orange glow to the room, but it cast a gloomy, or at least melancholic, aura. I wanted to talk to the fishermen to show them it wasn’t my intention to isolate myself (and to avoid being overtaken by the cabin's somber or melancholic atmosphere), but, at the same time, I wasn't interested and, in any case, didn't know what to talk about with those men who seemed so alien to me, like another species, incapable of understanding why I was there, traveling to a deserted and virgin island.
After several long minutes, animated in their own way by the brief conversation between the fishermen, one of them spotted the island. At first, I couldn’t distinguish it amidst the waves and dense fog, but soon its silhouette, though tiny and distant, became evident. Like a dark rock rising above the sea’s surface, a mountain with its base lying at the ocean's bottom, its sharply outlined form came into view. Its appearance had hardly changed since the last time I had been there, and as we drew nearer, this impression only grew stronger.
Then, just a few miles from the shore, it began to rain. With a determined effort from the boat’s engine, the fishermen managed to dock. I leaped from the cabin to the deck and from the deck to the shore, miraculously not slipping and falling, so reckless were my movements; my legs splashed in the frigid, restless waters, and then I sank my feet into the icy, snow-laden beach. Already I regretted not bringing boots. The footprints I left in the snow were quickly deformed by the piercing rain arrows that the sky hurled at me, preventing me from even raising my head to observe the landscape before my eyes, much less glance back at the boat to see the fishermen waiting inside, sheltered from the storm.
The rain soon drenched me completely, turning my clothes into a heavy burden as they soaked up the water; nonetheless, I pressed on, heading into the island, even though the path led uphill on a gentle slope. Behind me, the fishermen hurriedly set sail back to the mainland. After a few dozen meters of walking, the ground became firmer and rougher, and level: I had just reached a desolate plain. During all this time, the sky darkened further, like a night arriving earlier than expected, significantly reducing visibility. That’s why, shortly after entering the plain, one of my legs got stuck between two thick branches—one of which even pierced me—whose resistance I managed to overcome only after breaking them with sharp, stubborn movements of my leg.
Leaving behind the pain caused by the branch, I continued trudging resolutely in a straight line, the rain now replaced by dense sleet. Then, in the darkness, the silhouettes of enormous rocks crowning the island’s center became visible. The only way to get past them was to go around, which made the journey even more difficult, as there was no path to follow, and the rocky, smooth ground, crossed by shallow cracks, was slippery from the rain. It’s impossible to know how long it took me to find a passage between the rocks, advancing by feel in the deep shadows, and from the exhaustion that began to take hold of me. There was no way of knowing if the direction I had taken was the right one, the one that would lead me to my destination. But I knew that beyond the huge cliffs, a frozen meadow still awaited me.
On that side of the island, snow—or rather, a blizzard—appeared; strong gusts of icy wind blew over me, howling fiercely and violently throwing snowflakes at me. I didn’t walk far before I collapsed from exhaustion. Pierced by cold, my limbs numb, hands and feet frozen, for a few moments all I could feel was my weak panting. But then a brief ray of light in the sky, which I still can’t decide if I saw or if, on the contrary, I hallucinated or dreamed, illuminated the black trunk of a dead and solitary tree ahead. It was the goal, and it was within reach. I struggled to my feet and started towards the tree; occasionally falling to my knees and having to crawl, but I wouldn’t allow myself to stop now, as if doing so would make the long-sought goal unreal and vanish.
Once at the foot of the tree, I recognized it. I knew it was the one—there was no way it couldn’t be, being the only tree for miles around, and perhaps the only one on the entire island. Ignoring my exhaustion as the only way to overcome it, I began to dig the snow in front of the damp, twisted trunk. I soon realized that I was wasting my meager strength on such a painful task, moving little snow with my numb hands. I looked around and glimpsed, despite the darkness, a thick branch a few meters from the trunk; it was the only thing that could help me move the earth.
The timid lights of the sky heralding the imminent dawn found me on the verge of exhaustion, standing before a hole dug in the frozen, hard ground. The snow had long ceased, and instead of the fierce wind of the previous night, a refreshing breeze blew; the air was pure and light, easy to breathe. In the hole lay a body. I recognized myself in that inert body; it was me from seven years ago. With great care, as if handling a delicate glass object, I removed it and set it aside. I was already exhausted and only wished to rest, finally rest. So I lay calmly in the hole, crossed my arms over my chest, and closed my eyes.
And, just a few steps away, I opened my eyes, slowly stood up, looked at myself in the hole, and after a moment of solemn silence, stretched my cold, stiff limbs, loosening them, crouched in front of the hole, and with my hands and the help of a thick forgotten branch, began to cover the body resting there with black, damp earth. My own body.
Once the task was completed, I turned around and started back towards the point where I had disembarked, when the rain was pouring, and the icy gusts of wind were relentlessly beating down. I crossed the plain covered in white snow at a leisurely pace—I saw no traces of the footprints left during the night—as if wanting to conserve my renewed energy, breathing the air that smelled different, fresh, and pure, while the blood flowed lively through my veins again. I traversed the bare cliffs and then descended the gentle slope towards the sea, never losing the joy of being back, of resuming my life, nor the curiosity, which sporadically crossed my mind, of wondering if life in the coastal city on the continent had changed much. The gleams of the imminent dawn illuminated my path. Once at the shore, I sat on the damp sand to wait for the fishermen to return and take me back to the mainland, according to the instructions they had received the day before.
Beyond the waves, the sun was already rising.
At the Doctor's Office
A typical Wednesday morning. Just as I open the book to page one hundred fourteen, the doctor pronounces my last name aloud. I stand up, closing the book.
"Go ahead," she says, seeing me peeking in from inside the small office.
The woman, who would be in her fourth decade of life, closes the door after exchanging "good mornings."
"There are hooks there for you to hang your coat," she says, gesturing weakly but sufficiently to the corner formed when the door is closed.
"Should I take off my shirt?"
"No need. Just lift it up," she indicates how with a mime, "and lie down on the examination table."
I obey immediately and with inexplicable haste. The doctor prepares the apparatus.
"Hands at your sides."
Next, she uncovers my left shin and applies a cold substance. The brush also passes over my bare chest. While she does these things, I glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind my head, and that's why I have to tilt my head back quite a bit. But soon I relax because I know that if I keep my heart rate at normal values, the result will be positive, and they will finally have to certify my perfect health. To achieve this, I also decide to make sure to breathe slowly.
"It will only take a minute," the doctor informs, as if she should reassure me. Her light hands gently clamp my wrists and the left shin with metal tongs. Finally, before starting the study, she attaches suction cups to strategic areas on my chest.
Perhaps out of habit, I expect the device to signal the start of its activity with mechanical sounds. This does not happen, and I only realize that the study is already underway when I glance at the device, and I see a thin strip of paper emerging lightly through a slot. The paper is picked up by the doctor's left hand, who closely monitors the progress of the study.
"It's done," she announces at last. It seems to me that exactly one minute has passed. She removes the tongs and suction cups from my body, placing them in a plastic container, which she then sets aside.
"You can adjust your clothes now."
She places the strip of paper on the white desk and makes medical notes in it with a pen.
"Dr. Sirisky will see you in a moment in the office around the corner," she adds.
I put on my coat.
"Ready? Is that all?" I ask, somewhat surprised by the speed of the matter.
"That's all."
"Well, goodbye."
"Goodbye."
After leaving the tiny office, hopeful to soon be rid of this procedure, back in the waiting room around which the doors to different offices are located, I find several people sitting; they weren't there before I was called. Without taking the time to react in my mind to the curious fact that during the brief period I was absent from the waiting room, these individuals arrived, I take a seat at a prudent distance from them, diagonally, near one of the corridors leading to the exit. I barely pay attention to the group—I only notice that there are four of them and that they are all sitting together, even though there are two extra rows of seats in the room, as if they were a single group—, and I'm even less interested in hearing the conversation they are having, which my appearance has not disturbed, or so it seems to me. I also don't dare to try to continue reading. Sirisky could appear at the door of his office at any moment. It's better to be ready, take the result, and leave calmly. I suppose I'm somewhat anxious to leave rather than impatient; it's not that I'm in a hurry, and I'm not one of those who perceive the slightest moment of waiting as an unacceptable waste of time; I think my desire to leave as soon as possible stems from an innate and visceral rejection—although quite bearable, as it has never manifested with violent signs—of hospitals. Perhaps it's just a lack of habit, since there have been very few occasions when I've had to visit a hospital, and never for a serious matter, but for more universal reasons, such as undergoing tests or getting vaccinated, and, in any case, most of those visits took place during my childhood and adolescence...
The calm chatter of my congeners interrupts my contemplation. Glancing at them, I convince myself that they didn't come together but somehow ended up in the same waiting room just as I was undergoing the electrocardiogram. Perhaps, due to some seemingly trivial event (maybe they are all seeing the same doctor, perhaps they know each other from somewhere), they decided to sit in the same row of seats, side by side. Only two of them seem to be from the same family, more precisely, a mother with her son, not because of any apparent physical resemblance but due to the visible age difference between them. The way the woman lovingly wraps her arm around the boy, who is around fifteen, placing a hand tenderly on his shoulder while talking, gives away their relationship.
"For instance, he has been complaining for a while that something in his chest bothers him, that he has a slight pain under a rib, but the pain comes and goes. So, we came to see the doctor, to have him checked, but as soon as he palpated where it hurt and said it was nothing, and if the pain came back strong, we should make another appointment. Of course, as easy as it is to get one for a reasonable date! I hoped it was nothing, that it would go away on its own over time, but a couple of weeks later, he started feeling like the rib was moving, and when he took a deep breath, it also made a noise, as if it were shifting..."
"Or adjusting," the young boy suggests. He has a broad face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, and light brown, shiny, and neat hair—features that, as a whole, contrast noticeably and definitively with those of the woman accompanying him.
"Yes, it doesn't matter," the woman continues. "That's not normal. I know because I think I heard that noise; it's like a 'click,' but I don't know what causes it. And now, it doesn't bother you, right?" she inquires, looking at the young man again.
The boy slightly shakes his head and adds, "Since last night, I don't feel like it wants to move."
"Ah," the mother murmurs. It seems like she wanted the boy to do a demonstration, making the noise or whatever is worrying him in front of everyone. Still, it's probably best to save the trick for when the doctor examines him.
"Something similar happens to me," another attendee intervenes, a man who probably hasn't reached forty yet, but whose age is difficult for me to estimate. "I often get horrible pains in my abdomen, as if my insides were being crushed. It mostly happens on weekends, after eating, when I want to rest; the pain paralyzes me; I always end up falling to the floor or, when I can, onto the bed, and the pill takes too long to take effect... It's worse if I'm alone; I have to crawl to reach the pill and take it (you know it, right?, that pill for stomach pain), and lie down to wait for it to work..."
"And have you seen the doctor about it?" asks the mother of the boy with the moving rib.
"Yes, several times," the man replies, clearing his throat loudly. "They already palpated my abdomen, and nothing, 'all normal'; they did ultrasounds, but found nothing. They even wanted to do an MRI, but there was only an appointment for the evening, and I told them no... In the end, they prescribed a pill; they told me to take it... The thing is, last month I had another one of those episodes; the pain wouldn't go away, wouldn't go away, but luckily, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I still had a little pain, so I decided to make an appointment. But today, I don't have any pain, so I don't know if they'll find the problem..."
"How long have you had this problem?"
"Several months. It was some time after they removed my gallbladder; I don't know if that has anything to do with it..."
The fourth person, a middle-aged woman dressed somewhat elegantly, is about to give her testimony, but I realize I'm letting myself be distracted by an occasional chat that doesn't concern me in the least. So I immediately avert my gaze from the group. These people are probably doomed to return to the hospital again and again if they don't find a solution to the problems they claim to have or if these problems don't spontaneously resolve or receive a stroke of luck. I, on the other hand, am here practically out of obligation or, at least, not of my own free will, but due to a bureaucratic requirement of my work. The study they just performed on me is the last of the ones they demanded; all that remains is to receive the result and deliver it, along with the results of the other studies, to Dr. Grau today, if possible, for certification of my perfect health. And I'm entirely sure this will be the case not only because of my history of good health—fortunately, I have rarely fallen ill, the last time being years ago and just a flu that resolved itself in a couple of days—but also because, since they informed me that I had to undergo medical tests, I have tried to stay as healthy as possible. Consuming healthy and varied foods, getting adequate rest, and taking a walk every day, I have taken care to maintain my well-being. Perhaps one could say I was too cautious; it would be true, but I wouldn't like to receive an unpleasant surprise in the test results. That's why I'm calm, and if my fingers drumming on the book cover, as I catch them doing now, it's not due to nervousness but slight impatience. After all, if the people with me in the waiting room, who are here for obvious problems, are repeatedly told that they don't need special attention, it's even more reasonable to expect the doctors to let me go quickly! Even if, in front of this Dr. Sirisky, just to be sure, I adopt a firm stance and a confident manner, with just one look, he'll know that I'm perfectly healthy!
For now, I have already lent my body to the medical corporation for analysis. Once the latest result is in my possession, I will promptly place it in the right hands and wash my hands of the whole matter until I receive the news that everything has gone well, as it should. I consider this shouldn't take too long, as I can't imagine the circuit of results and Dr. Grau's verdict within the bureaucratic framework to be excessively lengthy. Even if it were, I don't think the papers will linger too long in the instances they need to pass through. But even if, for some reason spoken of by both doctors and administrators, the processing of my results took longer than expected or desired, I can continue working.
Dr. Sirisky calls me.
"Come in, please."
"Excuse me."
I stride past him with firm steps and, without waiting for him to ask, take a seat. Sirisky remains standing on the other side of the desk, holding the small envelope containing the strip of paper. On the desk, I distinguish, among other things, the list of patients for the day (around ten, counting very quickly; beneath the last name, the doctor has made annotations), a prescription pad, and three pens, each with a different pharmaceutical logo.
The office is as tiny as the previous one; there's barely enough space for the examination bed behind me, the desk, and the two chairs. The walls are high and windowless, so the lighting, now that the door has been closed, is provided by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling remains in semi-darkness.
My eyes focus on Dr. Sirisky. His face is deeply furrowed (he'll know for how long). Short, slightly unkempt hair has started losing color on the sides above his ears. A pair of piercing, icy blue eyes hangs from a perpetually furrowed brow.
Sirisky takes the result of the study from the envelope. He unfolds the paper, which measures about a meter, and examines it from left to right, reading it. I look at the single black line, made up of peaks and straight lines, traveling from one end to the other of the paper, without understanding what it means. In blue ink, the doctor from the neighboring office has added marks with Latin letters. Sirisky moves his lips without any words or sound coming out. Once he finishes, he folds the paper multiple times (not necessarily in the same way as his colleague), after which he inserts it somewhat roughly back into the envelope. However, he quickly changes his mind and retrieves the paper. Something has occurred to him. He follows the black line with a severe and icy gaze, without moving his lips. He exhales loudly through his nose, and puts the paper back into the envelope once more. He looks for my name on the list (I find out I'm the third patient of the day) and scribbles something in a free space on the page. Despite the doctor's awful handwriting, with excessively tall letters outlined by squashed blobs (but who am I to criticize another's handwriting), I manage to decipher part of the text. It begins with a big "T" for "Time" followed by two shorter words (the first is "of," I'm sure), and then "two days."
Without letting uncertainty intimidate me, I breathe deeply, awaiting the conclusion. Dr. Sirisky only has to hand me the signed and sealed envelope—one word from him, and everything will be finished; the only thing that separates me from the happy completion of the process, what would most resemble an obstacle to its achievement, is the doctor's approval of the study. Instead, Dr. Sirisky crosses a giant X on the front of the envelope, and stares me directly in the eyes. Yet, I don't discern a clear intention to convey something. Then a sudden sharp pain manifests in my kidneys. I would feel the same if two thick needles pierced my back (at the correct height) from behind. I double over in pain in the cushy chair. Sirisky remains unmoved. I have been unable to guess the meaning of his extremely serious look. With my eyes closed and my lips separated and distorted, I fall to my knees before the desk; as I do, my forehead hits the edge of the furniture. I hear Dr. Sirisky's distinct steps going toward the door, the doorknob being turned, the presence of another person on the other side. I direct my gaze toward this person, who turns out to be a nurse. What catches my attention about the first image I have of her is her raised forearms, her latex-gloved hands holding medical instruments I have never seen (or have seen but are unrecognizable amid my sudden suffering), ready to act: the mask on, the cold and still, professional gaze, the poorly tied hair, the impeccable posture, more like a porcelain doll than a woman.
"Go with the nurse," orders Dr. Sirisky from the narrow space between the desk and the door. I gather my strength and rise as if I have to prove to the doctor and the nurse that I can manage on my own, that I'm not lacking in strength. However, I don't manage to stand up completely. Physical suffering dominates the movement of my body through the three-by-three-meter office.
The nurse steps aside to let me pass through the room's exit. I glimpse at her, searching for a human reaction on her motionless face. Instead, I catch Sirisky giving the woman a sheet of paper in a narrow glance.
"Yes, take him. He... he's done," Sirisky says, with a conclusive tone.
The nurse closes the door, leaving the doctor inside the office.
"Get on the stretcher," she orders unpleasantly.
Dazed by pain that has now spread throughout my abdomen, simultaneously attacking my liver and stomach, I hadn't noticed the presence of the stretcher. From that moment on, I become incapable of continuing the narrative, afflicted by pains that become indescribable, terrified of feeling my swollen viscera (on the verge of bursting?), drifting further and further away from what was once the tranquil certainty of receiving the result in my hands and handing them over to Dr. Grau so that... so that...
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...
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.