Selected short stories
Index
404 Bar
It's exactly quarter to nine in the morning, and I'm in one of the cafes at the airport of this bewilderingly neurotic country, with the travel journal that was supposed to be filled with information on the table, half buried under other sheets from the project I've been working on, and for which I came here in the first place. To fill the blank pages of the notebook, I started writing this account.
A cup of double coffee falls short of keeping me in proper wakefulness, but at least my sleepiness, forced by the local airline employees' strike—my departure was scheduled five hours ago—dulls the impression I have at this moment about my situation. This way, I avoid, with relative success, unfairly blaming myself for making the wrong decision and coming to waste time in a distant country looking for something that may not exist.
Well, maybe it doesn't exist, since just because one cannot observe something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. And, in my case, that "something" is a bar.
When I was in my country, I read a brief article online about a bar that was in this city but could not be found intentionally; instead, one only could stumble upon it accidentally. Yes, as unbelievable as it sounds, no one knew where it was. There was no registered address or location on any map. However, that bar existed; it was real, according to the testimonies of several people who had been there. In all documented cases—informally and on the internet—those people had come across the bar by chance, each in a different part of the city, and then, when passing back through the same place, the bar had already disappeared. Interestingly or suspiciously—depending on one's stance on the existence of such a place—those who had visited the bar forgot its name once they left. For this reason, we, the investigators, had to give it a name—or rather, a nickname. For most, it's the "Ghost Bar," a designation that, in my personal opinion, is the most appropriate. I think while dozing off twice that I would have given it the same name. Another scholar of this urban legend who also happened to be a computer enthusiast called it the "404 Bar," meaning "bar not found"; the few skeptics who decided to analyze the case enough to form an informed opinion prefer to refer to the place as "the bar that doesn't exist."
But the curiosities of the mysterious bar did not end there, far from it. Once inside, according to the supposed customers, aside from the usual drinks one finds in such establishments, they are offered outlandish, even bizarre, cocktails and dishes. One customer recalled seeing written on a blackboard hanging on an unplastered brick wall in the middle of the room, an offer for two-for-one on “liquid pasteurized fried egg.” On the other side of the bar, framed as if it were a historical photograph, someone mentioned an advertisement for golden mushroom jelly. There are also references to salt-free beer, distilled turnip perfume, snail essence with vodka, meringue wood coffee marinated with blackout syrup, and something called “pizza wine.” Moreover, a witness mentioned the use of "eco-friendly" conical cups made of newspaper, which could hold beer without getting wet and falling apart, spilling the precious liquid. The same witness also stated that he had asked a waiter how it was possible for the cup to maintain its physical integrity, to which he was given a response that he later "forgot," but which, in my opinion, was nothing more than a simple magic trick. Untimely memory lapses of the supposed attendees, like the one mentioned above, and other equally convenient inconveniences were the fuel that fed the widespread skepticism of those who heard the legend, not to mention, of course, the utterly inconceivable and unreal nature of the bar—more fitting for a fantastical tale created by someone with a vivid imagination (perhaps the idea of a “404 Bar” occurred to someone while traveling on a bus, and then, from that idea, he began to weave a story to justify it, much like a spider weaves a silky trap for some unwary prey), or, of course, an obscure and little-known urban legend in a city large enough for such things to occur or for one of its inhabitants to invent it and then offer it to his peers and let it spread slowly, without haste.
Be that as it may, and continuing with my story, exactly five months ago I came to this country and this city to investigate the phenomenon on my own (earlier, I arrogantly included myself among the “investigators”). And I know I should let some time pass before drawing conclusions, but I feel, as I find myself slowly sliding into extreme impatience with the airline staff, always half-asleep and facing the empty cup, where a scant remnant of coffee that defies physical laws has not yet drained into my mouth and draws an innocent smile from its bottom, that at that moment I believed myself prepared to find answers when the reality was quite different. Without speaking the language of the country beyond a clumsy attempt to pronounce its peculiar consonants—although being able to understand it moderately well in writing, as long as I did not have to deal with its extensive and intricate conjugation system, but who am I to criticize the grammar of foreign languages—without having a contact or acquaintance in the city who could give me advice or a healthy warning, and once here, without knowing how or where to start looking... it sounds like the work of a whim. And perhaps it was: exactly five months ago I found myself at a point in my life where I was ready and willing to go out in search of an adventure; I did not think much about it and simply came to this country to investigate a mystery on my own, experiencing it for myself—or so I intended to solve it—just as people in my country and everywhere else decide to go to some distant and unknown place for a vacation. No, I longed for much more than to go abroad to explore unique or atypical landscapes, take photographs, immerse myself in local customs as much as time and interest in those customs allowed, and then return with pleasant memories in my suitcase. But perhaps I had not chosen my destination entirely well; perhaps I should have chosen another unsolved mystery, not necessarily one too well-known, but more... "mundane," one might say; that is, one not so incredibly outlandish, a challenge not so great to the comprehension capacity of a simple individual from across the ocean (who, nevertheless, calls himself an “investigator”...); an enigma against which one can properly arm oneself with experiments and studies. But I did not, and to be honest, I had not even considered it; in my choice perhaps played a role—I must admit—a combination of excessive confidence and underestimation of the work to be done, because if the solution to the mystery had been easy to reach, would it not have been proposed and accepted before I decided to travel? All this can happen to anyone, and that is why I conclude, half-heartedly, that I should not be so hard on myself.
So, five months ago, I found myself in this same café at this same airport, writing the initial lines in a travel notebook that I hoped to fill with data, information, deductions, and hypotheses, with the same companion coffee cup on the square table. Even before traveling, as preparation for my detective adventure, I extensively browsed blogs and websites where the few existing testimonies were recorded—most of them collected and partially compiled by pioneering investigators, and commented on by them as well—and I continued my search with a thoroughness unfamiliar even to myself on social media pages, fishing for comments or reflections about the mysterious bar, and recorded what seemed relevant to me. I had difficulty understanding some of the messages, given my relative unfamiliarity with the language and, in particular, its urban slang, and the uncooperative laxity of grammar and spelling of most people. I sent emails to blog owners and replied to comments on forums and websites—usually asking a question or seeking more details from a poster—but I didn't get any remotely satisfactory answers. In fact, one person told me to do something better with my life instead of asking about things that "don't make sense"... or something like that; again, it's often not easy to translate imperfectly written messages.
You see that I ignored him, just as I ignored the fact that the most recent information available had been resting on the web for over two years. Regarding this, I hypothesized that there simply hadn't been any noteworthy developments in the case, or that those interested in it had resigned themselves to submitting to the capricious will that the bar exhibited in choosing its visitors, and I didn't want to think that the bar could have closed, even with a multitude of possible causes for anyone who wants to imagine them... Anyway, if I had thought such a thing, I would have tried to change my own mind, saying that a supernaturally endowed bar like that, if it existed, could resist the economic crises that, it is said, constantly affect this country, or that no mountain of taxes complained about by merchants and business people here could cover it, or that its owners had had two calm years, free from problems preventing them from keeping the bar running.
The nights before the trip, I would wrap myself in all kinds of thoughts about it before sleeping. Sometimes, I tried to put myself in the shoes of one of the "witnesses," who had stumbled upon a bar with a facade not necessarily particularly striking, and, on a hunch or perhaps simply on a spontaneous whim, had entered to give the establishment a chance, only to be served an unforgettable and surreal experience in the form of visions altered by eclectic lighting, blackout syrup, or other drinks whose names dared only the brave to drink, and inexplicable dishes, perhaps concocted by the fevered mind of a madman. The translations I made of the testimonies I found online, imperfect as they may have been, did not give me a clear idea of the state in which such testimonies had been written. But I chose to imagine that no one could leave the mysterious bar indifferent or impassive, that a visit to the "404 Bar" marked a before and after for each customer, for better or worse. And that the experience was so unique and unrepeatable that, in fact, it never happened again; that, when trying to return, the witnesses had failed to recognize the facade. And I thought insistently: what would I have felt if I had gone to a specific address where I believed the bar to be, only to find it missing? The first reaction would be to walk up and down the block, slowly, searching for the bar's front, and, failing that, wonder if I might be mistaken, that perhaps my memory had a small lapse. And one is usually humble enough to consider the possibility of a small memory lapse, so one decides to walk just as slowly through the neighboring blocks, because the bar couldn't be far from where one started searching. But it doesn't appear, even if one stops every so often and carefully examines the facades of each commercial establishment, and this would unsettle anyone. Questions would quickly accumulate in one’s mind: "How can this be? Where is the bar? I was here just a couple of nights ago. Have I forgotten where it is?" Someone might soon suggest that the bar had closed down overnight, but commercial establishments don't usually disappear without a trace: for a while, the ruins of the business remain visible, typically the sign; sometimes, the outgoing owner doesn't bother to paper over the windows, and thus, through the glass, you can see the empty, dark, dusty, and silent room. And at this point, when an expanded search yields no result, when the bar shows seriousness in its resistance to being found, is where a customer's attitude takes one of two paths: either they forget the matter and resign themselves meekly to continue with their life, knowing they will settle for another bar, of which there are many in this city, or they become obsessed with the case and begin to develop more or less formal or serious hypotheses ("How long would it take before they started to doubt their sanity?" I frequently wondered). These latter ones were the ones who, possibly still under the influence of the emotion of the memory, recounted what they had experienced ("supposedly experienced," some would say, let us not forget), and who made it possible for me to learn about the mystery and, in what I have called in moments of desperation "a fit of recklessness," decided to investigate it.
So I came, and once I arrived in this country, and after securing accommodation, my first step was to try to contact those who claimed to have been to "Bar 404" so they could recount their experiences again and so I could ask them questions personally, to enrich myself with details and information that would be useful in the investigation. I even had some of these questions prepared, anticipating what might come up. What were you doing when you stumbled upon the bar? Were you alone or with someone? Where did you find it? What time of day did it happen? How long were you there? How many other people were in the place? Did you recognize anyone, either a customer or an employee? Did you return to the bar after that time? Did you try to? Has anyone you know also been there? Do you have any physical proof that you've been there, like a ticket or a pamphlet? A photograph, perhaps? Have you had any abnormal sensations while inside? Have you seen anything unusual, even paranormal, before, during, or after your stay at the bar? What stood out to you the most about that place?
With that list on the first page of the travel notebook, I set out to investigate, thirsty for answers. I was aware that if I searched the bustling and chaotic streets of the city, the chances of getting lucky and suddenly finding myself in the bar would increase over time, or that sooner or later, I would come across people who knew about the phenomenon and were willing to talk about it. I was also aware that this was going to be a genuine needle-in-a-haystack search. I started by inquiring at the small, old bars typical of the downtown area of this city, where I believed strange stories usually accumulated (the gloomier or darker the place, the better). I scrutinized the signs in those places I passed by, looking for any anomaly that would become evident to my eyes, but a part of me feared I wouldn't be able to recognize it. Leveraging the expertise in alcohol consumption common in people from my country, during the first few days, I went to as many bars as I could, especially at night, after long aimless walks guided by my scrutinizing eyes. I always started by scanning the interior of the chosen venue and then sat at the bar to try to strike up a conversation with the bartender or sit as close as possible to a group of people who seemed to know stories about their city. In either case, I easily established communication and endeavored to skillfully steer the conversation where I wanted, sometimes adopting an attentive and interested attitude toward my current interlocutors, especially if—as often happened—I didn't understand what they were saying. It was a job mixed with fun or, at least, excitement: the thrill of entering each time an unknown place, instantly savoring its physiognomy, picking up and examining with my eyes the details that made up its identity or letting them surprise me first, predicting or sensing whether this was a good place to inquire or if, on the contrary, it would be far from providing me with answers or clues. And then, of course, savoring the specialties of the house, unable to avoid making comparisons with what I already knew, either outside my country or from a previous experience here; finding tasty surprises or bland disappointments bubbling in a glass that reflected my face always enigmatically expectant. And, between visits, mingling with the crowd moving back and forth in this city of nooks and dogs, with a thousand tasks or concerns on their minds; seeing myself surrounded by passersby who, as in any city in the world, fulfilled the inevitable routine of going to work, taking their children to school, or languishing in the endless lines to handle paperwork at government offices, or strolling without haste, or squeezing their vehicles into the narrow downtown streets, or going to the countless bars and restaurants in the area, or heading to the nearest square or gym to exercise...
It didn't take long for me to become disheartened due to the lack of results. Among those who frequented the bars and taverns I visited, those who didn't wrinkle their faces at the mention of the infamous bar because they had never heard of it laughed in my face. "Do you really believe in that story?" the latter would say to me. That happened to me about three times.
In addition to receiving nothing but negative responses, I lost the desire to wander through the downtown streets at night. When the sun sets behind the apartment buildings—imposing the new, cracked and dirty, covered in soot, the older ones—the streets take on their worst and saddest face. Poverty reveals itself in all its extent; it takes on flesh in passersby of all ages—sometimes, entire families—, looking deplorable at best, who plunge into trash containers, crawl on sidewalks—with no direction, some trying to make a living—emerging from the shadows with any object in hand to assail some unsuspecting passerby, sitting on doorsteps or building steps, or standing in a corner, using drugs or drinking, or both. I often saw them in the blocks I walked at those hours (and sometimes during the day), not far from neon lights and traffic lights, behind invisible clouds of urine, and they seemed as foreign to me as the rest of the tourists who roamed there and frequented the bars and restaurants that closed as the first rays of a new day dawned. In those first weeks when I stayed in a modest downtown hostel squeezed between two old houses, of narrow proportions and austere comforts, which I had no difficulty getting used to, I was fortunate that nothing bad happened to me, although the things I witnessed made me see that it would have been better to find a travel companion. I understood that what practically all tourists from my country do—traveling with friends or a partner—was an advantage in terms of safety, apart from any other social considerations that, due to my particular circumstances, didn't seem relevant to me.
However, despite being somewhat discouraged by the poor start to my investigations, I didn't give up. "The first clues will appear," I told myself every night when returning to the tiny room in the hostel, holding onto a not insignificant optimism. On a couple of occasions, I even thought I dreamed about the infamous bar, but even in my dreams, it remained elusive: I found myself in cloisters that, apart from dreamlike or surreal details, seemed to be the bar, but I saw nothing strange in them, nothing that didn't fit entirely into reality. Soon after, after thinking it over properly in a bodega frequented by veteran descendants of immigrants, over a hearty lunch, I decided to move to a more affordable place in a residential neighborhood. With this measure, I hoped to save money—since it was clear that my stay would be longer than expected, and there are even cheaper places than hostels, like family homes, where for a couple of "merkels," they generously provide you with shelter and food—change the environment, and expand my search, taking it to other corners of the city. So, I moved into a room in a house owned by a woman who already had other tenants under her roof. I barely got to know them.
The first night I spent in the woman's house, I opened the travel notebook, in which I had not completed three pages, and sat down to reformulate my strategy and make calculations very seriously. The city is too large to walk all its streets with their infinite twists and turns, and going to every bar was economically unfeasible, even in the case that it was possible to do so with all the necessary time. Meanwhile, until an innovative idea sprang to mind, with the passing of the days, I became one with the neighborhood, having voraciously consumed the details that made up the whole in terms of landscape and inhabitants. I thought that if I could capture an anomaly or discontinuity in reality, it would lead me to a clue, or it would be a clue in itself. Day and night, I walked the streets of the neighborhood, exploring them as my ancestors did with distant and then unknown continents many centuries ago, guided to one side or the other by what my eyes allowed me to see, behind the strange and the dark, if my mood was carelessly adventurous, or with the caution of a hunter or a witness in the middle of the forest if I didn't feel safe somewhere. Still, generally, with innate imperturbability and an optimism hidden behind the blind conviction that whoever seeks eventually finds, a lesson burned into my mind since childhood, and pretending to be guided by a compass of intuition. And I didn't stop going to bars and similar establishments: having finished my cycle of visits in the center, I continued my search in other areas where those are abundant.
However, the days passed, and nothing memorable for my project happened. I did meet many people, and various things happened to me; I was welcomed and almost kicked out of places, listened to with great attention and blatantly ignored, taken for wise and foolish, for good and idiotic, warmly thanked and insulted with horrible words strung together at the moment. People here are very gentle and peaceful, but also impatient and nervous; they run from one point to another or walk slowly, only moving their legs and leaving the rest of the body still; they are sensitive and compassionate towards the smallest of their counterparts or blinded by selfishness; they are expressive, original, and witty, like artists—perhaps everyone here is, each in their way; they are cheerful, sincere, cynical, and rude—but above all, anxious—and they often confuse reserve with malice and vehemence with sincerity. In this way, by interacting with sweet-hearted people and authentic bipedal beasts who spoke the language worse than I did, I continued learning to communicate and move within the city. I also learned how to travel from one point to another, where to go and which corners to avoid, whom to talk to and whom not to. And everything was very useful for me, and I imagine that's the goal of anyone who decides to spend a relatively long time abroad.
Then, one time, I heard someone on the street say, "These things always happen when you least expect them." I turned my gaze to the source of that phrase and saw that she was speaking to the person walking beside her, but she could well have said it to me. Later that day, reflecting on the non-progress of my project, what I had heard came to mind, and I thought that maybe I was approaching the matter the wrong way. If that person was right, I was doing everything upside down. But if that was true, "How to turn the strategy around so that it would be right?" I asked myself.
At that moment, the owner of the house where I was staying gently knocked on the door, but that was enough to make my thoughts vanish into the air without a trace, while my ears stood on end with fright. I abandoned my comfortable posture to open the door and have her ask me to turn off the light, as it was two in the morning, and I was still awake, contemplating.
I don't know if the darkness helped me concentrate more on my musings, but I soon remembered that all the supposed customers claimed to have stumbled upon the bar "by chance" and that, when they wanted to return to it, they hadn't found it. That meant it was impossible to find the bar actively, and I concluded that, therefore, the only way to find it was by looking for it without looking for it—this is, not-looking for it. Because, while it's true that those who seek find, it's also true that you don't find someone who doesn't want to be found.
That would be a very strange property for that bar, but why couldn't it be true? Simply because it sounded too unusual, or because nothing like it was known? And wasn't the whole affair too unusual anyway, and nothing known was quite like it?
That night, I decided that from then on, I would try not to look for the bar, mainly because I felt that I had no alternatives, that everything else had failed, and that I had to cling to one last hope; as long as something could be tried, it had to be tried. Besides, although I hadn't discovered it yet at that moment, I was beginning to grow fond of certain things in this country...
Before embarking on my plan, however, an obvious question arose: how does one search without searching? The simplest answer was that I should wander the city without thinking about the bar or anything related to the plan, and sooner or later, I would stumble upon it. But even at this point in my stay, I had stopped paying close attention to everything around me (in any case, one can never see everything at once), so I allowed myself to relax my mind during my walks. However, putting my new strategy into practice proved to be much more challenging than planning it, infinitely more difficult. At first, I couldn't stop thinking about what I shouldn't be thinking about. It seemed like a part of myself was intentionally interfering with my plan. Over the course of the days, I managed to learn how to abstract myself during aimless walks for brief moments, seeing without seeing where I was going, ignoring anything that might grab my attention (unless it was important, like a traffic light or people's shouts and commotion). I also stopped going to bars, and I even began to avoid restaurants, preparing my own meals more often. But every time I returned to the room I rented, I had to admit that nothing had changed, meaning that nothing had happened, and the plan had not borne fruit so far. After a couple of weeks with no results, I felt my energy wane for continuing my search. The lady of the house also began to be suspicious of me; she must have wondered who this foreigner was who had come to the country for tourism out of season and for an excessively long time, spending almost the entire day outside, returning very late at night—sometimes, especially at the beginning, inebriated—and spending the little time he was at home locked in his room, making no noise, as if he didn't exist. I used to consider myself a person who finishes what they start, one who doesn't rest until they achieve their goal, but the bar's inclination to always elude me was defeating me. I was beginning to see the face of failure more clearly, and on it, a mocking and cruel grin...
To make matters worse, my pockets were dangerously thinning. I asked my father for money, but not understanding why I was still in this country, he quickly expressed his reservations. I didn't give in so easily, and after an extensive phone discussion, I managed to persuade him to send me enough to sustain myself for another month (rent and food), and in return, I promised to use the remaining money to book my return flight. As soon as my father hung up the phone, I lay down on the bed and tried to devise one last plan to capture the elusive bar. Searching for it hadn't worked, not-searching for it hadn't worked either, no one had been able—or willing—to collaborate with the search... There was only one thing left to do.
I jumped out of bed and booked the first available flight to my country.
That happened just yesterday.
And that's how I ended up in this situation, where I should be on my way back to my homeland right now, but I haven't been able to board due to the airline employees' strike, which is preventing the planes from taking off. All that's left is to wait for those workers to tire of protesting and return to their tasks.
But suddenly, in the cloudy and blurry space that momentarily and variably opens and closes between my drowsy eyelids, I believe I see an idea sketching itself in the depths of the cup—an enigmatic and colorful idea that I consciously can't decipher, and that I can only understand when I see it. As soon as its meaning becomes evident to me, a desperate desire to bring that elusive idea to conscious reality overtakes me; my limbs start to tremble, and then my entire body shakes; my mouth has frozen, preventing me from making any sound—this is good in the sense that it won't draw people's attention, but it's also bad because it prevents me from expressing the profound emotion I am experiencing—and I believe my eyes are closed, but I still see, I see things. I see a gray dirt path that winds through thick bushes to the horizon, which my brain deciphers as the avenue I took to get to the airport. Yes, my mind has disconnected from my senses—this must be an epiphany, like the occasional ones experienced by the peaceful, simple, and deeply religious rural inhabitants of my country many centuries ago! Then, my vision takes me to a certain street in the city. I've passed by there several times during my long evening walks when the benign weather and my exploratory eagerness concealed my disappointment at not finding any clues. There is a dark wall on that street—muddy or just the color of smoke—and two doors of watery green, without doorknobs and always closed... except for one occasion when I saw them barely ajar. And that time, I didn't peek inside; I didn't think to spy on the interior of that place; how could I not have thought to do it? And now I rise abruptly; I must go to that place; my epiphany tells me so without words; I must go to that place before the airline employees' strike is lifted and my flight finally departs.
I arrive at the location in question. I stop facing the aqua-green doors, on both sides of which extend square meters of windowless walls, painted in a non-uniform manner, a fact you notice as you approach. The narrow doors seem closed, but there's a space between them just wide enough for an eye to pass through, and complete darkness on the other side. Pressed by circumstances, I insert the fingers of one hand—which also fit in the space between the doors—and open the right door, and then, with the other hand, I open the left one. I begin to understand everything; I feel like I knew it all even before coming to this country. "What kind of person paints their doors aqua-green and their walls the color of burnt earth?" I think. It was such a simple sign that I'd feel like an idiot if I weren't preparing to savor the indescribable ecstasy that usually accompanies epiphanies. Meanwhile, as the doors open, the morning light pours into the darkness of the room in front of me, giving it a cloud-like shape and ultimately dissolving it. Then the sun retreats from the sky, and powerful blue lights come on in the mysterious room. I fall to my knees, amazed, ecstatic; I extend my arms fully and devote myself to the göttliche Barmherzigkeit and the spirituosity of the place.
"And who says a bar has to have a sign? Can't secret or clandestine bars exist?" something thinks in my mind, which I no longer feel in control of, perhaps because I have abandoned the need for a mind; now, all that's left is to live in the moment.
After a solitary second, I stand up and triumphantly enter the place. The blue and white rays emanating from the corners cut through the otherwise absolute darkness. Quickly, my eyes adapt to the peculiar visibility conditions, and I begin to distinguish, one by one, silhouettes with human shapes, straight legs, and panels forming tables and chairs... and in the background, an incredibly long counter—the bar, without a doubt. It's the happiest moment of my life. My hard work has finally paid off, even if it took a long time to materialize. But everything I've experienced in the last five months has been worth it, and every peso spent has served to buy this moment of supreme happiness, and I don't complain about anything. I move slowly through the room, allowing more details of the environment to materialize: Christmas lights around the tables, fog at ground level, a menu suspended from a transparent thread, the atmosphere filled with strangely familiar aromas, though not entirely recognizable—transiently floating in front of me are blackout syrup, "pizza wine," and snail essence. Strange music plays, with notes that melt upon contact with the air and lazily float around. It feels like the inside of a spaceship; I can almost see the extraterrestrials behind the bar preparing cocktails from another world. This way, and only this way, would I accept being abducted by them.
I take a seat at the only available table—a small square rustic wooden table where someone has left an empty coffee cup. I take a napkin from its holder: it has "404 Bar" printed on it in black letters. Immediately, a whitish hand with long fingers appears in front of my eyes, gracefully holding a saucer with a conical object, silver, smooth, and shiny, which it gently places in front of me. I shift my gaze slightly and find a young woman dressed in white and brown.
"What is this?" I ask her.
The waitress smiles at me.
"This is a lunar squid," she replies kindly and in my language.
"But..."
Guessing my thoughts, the girl says:
"It's on the house."
Deeply moved, I can only say:
"Thank you, thank you very much."
"We're the ones who are grateful."
I pick up the spoon that has been left next to the coffee cup and plunge it into the plate. Carefully and with a curved motion of my wrist, I pick up a piece of what must be the innards of the lunar squid: a cluster of blackish gelatinous lumps. Very slowly, I raise the spoon, to prevent the food from falling, and open my hungry mouth of questions.
"You have a flight, don't you?" the waitress then asks. She hasn't left my side, I thought she stayed to hear my opinion of the food.
I remember the flight and I am distressed. The ecstasy left me too quickly, all at once.
"Yes," I reply, saddened. "I'm running late."
The waitress looks at some distant point.
"The passengers are already boarding," she observes.
Her words cause me to enter a mixture of panic and despair. Ecstasy abandoned me too quickly this time.
"No, please," I say, getting up to talk to the young woman face to face. "Just one more minute."
But the humanoid silhouettes begin to blur hastily, and the luminous beams extinguish one by one.
"Sir, you're going to be late and you'll miss your flight..."
"No," I insist, falling to my knees; I cling to her apron and then to the long sleeves of her uniform; then I glance quickly to the side, at the people heading relieved and indignant alike to the terminals. "Just a little longer, I don't want to leave yet, please, göttliche Barmherzigkeit, just a little longer..."
At the Doctor's Office
A typical Wednesday morning. Just as I open the book to page one hundred fourteen, the doctor pronounces my last name aloud. I stand up, closing the book.
"Go ahead," she says, seeing me peeking in from inside the small office.
The woman, who would be in her fourth decade of life, closes the door after exchanging "good mornings."
"There are hooks there for you to hang your coat," she says, gesturing weakly but sufficiently to the corner formed when the door is closed.
"Should I take off my shirt?"
"No need. Just lift it up," she indicates how with a mime, "and lie down on the examination table."
I obey immediately and with inexplicable haste. The doctor prepares the apparatus.
"Hands at your sides."
Next, she uncovers my left shin and applies a cold substance. The brush also passes over my bare chest. While she does these things, I glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind my head, and that's why I have to tilt my head back quite a bit. But soon I relax because I know that if I keep my heart rate at normal values, the result will be positive, and they will finally have to certify my perfect health. To achieve this, I also decide to make sure to breathe slowly.
"It will only take a minute," the doctor informs, as if she should reassure me. Her light hands gently clamp my wrists and the left shin with metal tongs. Finally, before starting the study, she attaches suction cups to strategic areas on my chest.
Perhaps out of habit, I expect the device to signal the start of its activity with mechanical sounds. This does not happen, and I only realize that the study is already underway when I glance at the device, and I see a thin strip of paper emerging lightly through a slot. The paper is picked up by the doctor's left hand, who closely monitors the progress of the study.
"It's done," she announces at last. It seems to me that exactly one minute has passed. She removes the tongs and suction cups from my body, placing them in a plastic container, which she then sets aside.
"You can adjust your clothes now."
She places the strip of paper on the white desk and makes medical notes in it with a pen.
"Dr. Sirisky will see you in a moment in the office around the corner," she adds.
I put on my coat.
"Ready? Is that all?" I ask, somewhat surprised by the speed of the matter.
"That's all."
"Well, goodbye."
"Goodbye."
After leaving the tiny office, hopeful to soon be rid of this procedure, back in the waiting room around which the doors to different offices are located, I find several people sitting; they weren't there before I was called. Without taking the time to react in my mind to the curious fact that during the brief period I was absent from the waiting room, these individuals arrived, I take a seat at a prudent distance from them, diagonally, near one of the corridors leading to the exit. I barely pay attention to the group—I only notice that there are four of them and that they are all sitting together, even though there are two extra rows of seats in the room, as if they were a single group—, and I'm even less interested in hearing the conversation they are having, which my appearance has not disturbed, or so it seems to me. I also don't dare to try to continue reading. Sirisky could appear at the door of his office at any moment. It's better to be ready, take the result, and leave calmly. I suppose I'm somewhat anxious to leave rather than impatient; it's not that I'm in a hurry, and I'm not one of those who perceive the slightest moment of waiting as an unacceptable waste of time; I think my desire to leave as soon as possible stems from an innate and visceral rejection—although quite bearable, as it has never manifested with violent signs—of hospitals. Perhaps it's just a lack of habit, since there have been very few occasions when I've had to visit a hospital, and never for a serious matter, but for more universal reasons, such as undergoing tests or getting vaccinated, and, in any case, most of those visits took place during my childhood and adolescence...
The calm chatter of my congeners interrupts my contemplation. Glancing at them, I convince myself that they didn't come together but somehow ended up in the same waiting room just as I was undergoing the electrocardiogram. Perhaps, due to some seemingly trivial event (maybe they are all seeing the same doctor, perhaps they know each other from somewhere), they decided to sit in the same row of seats, side by side. Only two of them seem to be from the same family, more precisely, a mother with her son, not because of any apparent physical resemblance but due to the visible age difference between them. The way the woman lovingly wraps her arm around the boy, who is around fifteen, placing a hand tenderly on his shoulder while talking, gives away their relationship.
"For instance, he has been complaining for a while that something in his chest bothers him, that he has a slight pain under a rib, but the pain comes and goes. So, we came to see the doctor, to have him checked, but as soon as he palpated where it hurt and said it was nothing, and if the pain came back strong, we should make another appointment. Of course, as easy as it is to get one for a reasonable date! I hoped it was nothing, that it would go away on its own over time, but a couple of weeks later, he started feeling like the rib was moving, and when he took a deep breath, it also made a noise, as if it were shifting..."
"Or adjusting," the young boy suggests. He has a broad face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, and light brown, shiny, and neat hair—features that, as a whole, contrast noticeably and definitively with those of the woman accompanying him.
"Yes, it doesn't matter," the woman continues. "That's not normal. I know because I think I heard that noise; it's like a 'click,' but I don't know what causes it. And now, it doesn't bother you, right?" she inquires, looking at the young man again.
The boy slightly shakes his head and adds, "Since last night, I don't feel like it wants to move."
"Ah," the mother murmurs. It seems like she wanted the boy to do a demonstration, making the noise or whatever is worrying him in front of everyone. Still, it's probably best to save the trick for when the doctor examines him.
"Something similar happens to me," another attendee intervenes, a man who probably hasn't reached forty yet, but whose age is difficult for me to estimate. "I often get horrible pains in my abdomen, as if my insides were being crushed. It mostly happens on weekends, after eating, when I want to rest; the pain paralyzes me; I always end up falling to the floor or, when I can, onto the bed, and the pill takes too long to take effect... It's worse if I'm alone; I have to crawl to reach the pill and take it (you know it, right?, that pill for stomach pain), and lie down to wait for it to work..."
"And have you seen the doctor about it?" asks the mother of the boy with the moving rib.
"Yes, several times," the man replies, clearing his throat loudly. "They already palpated my abdomen, and nothing, 'all normal'; they did ultrasounds, but found nothing. They even wanted to do an MRI, but there was only an appointment for the evening, and I told them no... In the end, they prescribed a pill; they told me to take it... The thing is, last month I had another one of those episodes; the pain wouldn't go away, wouldn't go away, but luckily, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I still had a little pain, so I decided to make an appointment. But today, I don't have any pain, so I don't know if they'll find the problem..."
"How long have you had this problem?"
"Several months. It was some time after they removed my gallbladder; I don't know if that has anything to do with it..."
The fourth person, a middle-aged woman dressed somewhat elegantly, is about to give her testimony, but I realize I'm letting myself be distracted by an occasional chat that doesn't concern me in the least. So I immediately avert my gaze from the group. These people are probably doomed to return to the hospital again and again if they don't find a solution to the problems they claim to have or if these problems don't spontaneously resolve or receive a stroke of luck. I, on the other hand, am here practically out of obligation or, at least, not of my own free will, but due to a bureaucratic requirement of my work. The study they just performed on me is the last of the ones they demanded; all that remains is to receive the result and deliver it, along with the results of the other studies, to Dr. Grau today, if possible, for certification of my perfect health. And I'm entirely sure this will be the case not only because of my history of good health—fortunately, I have rarely fallen ill, the last time being years ago and just a flu that resolved itself in a couple of days—but also because, since they informed me that I had to undergo medical tests, I have tried to stay as healthy as possible. Consuming healthy and varied foods, getting adequate rest, and taking a walk every day, I have taken care to maintain my well-being. Perhaps one could say I was too cautious; it would be true, but I wouldn't like to receive an unpleasant surprise in the test results. That's why I'm calm, and if my fingers drumming on the book cover, as I catch them doing now, it's not due to nervousness but slight impatience. After all, if the people with me in the waiting room, who are here for obvious problems, are repeatedly told that they don't need special attention, it's even more reasonable to expect the doctors to let me go quickly! Even if, in front of this Dr. Sirisky, just to be sure, I adopt a firm stance and a confident manner, with just one look, he'll know that I'm perfectly healthy!
For now, I have already lent my body to the medical corporation for analysis. Once the latest result is in my possession, I will promptly place it in the right hands and wash my hands of the whole matter until I receive the news that everything has gone well, as it should. I consider this shouldn't take too long, as I can't imagine the circuit of results and Dr. Grau's verdict within the bureaucratic framework to be excessively lengthy. Even if it were, I don't think the papers will linger too long in the instances they need to pass through. But even if, for some reason spoken of by both doctors and administrators, the processing of my results took longer than expected or desired, I can continue working.
Dr. Sirisky calls me.
"Come in, please."
"Excuse me."
I stride past him with firm steps and, without waiting for him to ask, take a seat. Sirisky remains standing on the other side of the desk, holding the small envelope containing the strip of paper. On the desk, I distinguish, among other things, the list of patients for the day (around ten, counting very quickly; beneath the last name, the doctor has made annotations), a prescription pad, and three pens, each with a different pharmaceutical logo.
The office is as tiny as the previous one; there's barely enough space for the examination bed behind me, the desk, and the two chairs. The walls are high and windowless, so the lighting, now that the door has been closed, is provided by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling remains in semi-darkness.
My eyes focus on Dr. Sirisky. His face is deeply furrowed (he'll know for how long). Short, slightly unkempt hair has started losing color on the sides above his ears. A pair of piercing, icy blue eyes hangs from a perpetually furrowed brow.
Sirisky takes the result of the study from the envelope. He unfolds the paper, which measures about a meter, and examines it from left to right, reading it. I look at the single black line, made up of peaks and straight lines, traveling from one end to the other of the paper, without understanding what it means. In blue ink, the doctor from the neighboring office has added marks with Latin letters. Sirisky moves his lips without any words or sound coming out. Once he finishes, he folds the paper multiple times (not necessarily in the same way as his colleague), after which he inserts it somewhat roughly back into the envelope. However, he quickly changes his mind and retrieves the paper. Something has occurred to him. He follows the black line with a severe and icy gaze, without moving his lips. He exhales loudly through his nose, and puts the paper back into the envelope once more. He looks for my name on the list (I find out I'm the third patient of the day) and scribbles something in a free space on the page. Despite the doctor's awful handwriting, with excessively tall letters outlined by squashed blobs (but who am I to criticize another's handwriting), I manage to decipher part of the text. It begins with a big "T" for "Time" followed by two shorter words (the first is "of," I'm sure), and then "two days."
Without letting uncertainty intimidate me, I breathe deeply, awaiting the conclusion. Dr. Sirisky only has to hand me the signed and sealed envelope—one word from him, and everything will be finished; the only thing that separates me from the happy completion of the process, what would most resemble an obstacle to its achievement, is the doctor's approval of the study. Instead, Dr. Sirisky crosses a giant X on the front of the envelope, and stares me directly in the eyes. Yet, I don't discern a clear intention to convey something. Then a sudden sharp pain manifests in my kidneys. I would feel the same if two thick needles pierced my back (at the correct height) from behind. I double over in pain in the cushy chair. Sirisky remains unmoved. I have been unable to guess the meaning of his extremely serious look. With my eyes closed and my lips separated and distorted, I fall to my knees before the desk; as I do, my forehead hits the edge of the furniture. I hear Dr. Sirisky's distinct steps going toward the door, the doorknob being turned, the presence of another person on the other side. I direct my gaze toward this person, who turns out to be a nurse. What catches my attention about the first image I have of her is her raised forearms, her latex-gloved hands holding medical instruments I have never seen (or have seen but are unrecognizable amid my sudden suffering), ready to act: the mask on, the cold and still, professional gaze, the poorly tied hair, the impeccable posture, more like a porcelain doll than a woman.
"Go with the nurse," orders Dr. Sirisky from the narrow space between the desk and the door. I gather my strength and rise as if I have to prove to the doctor and the nurse that I can manage on my own, that I'm not lacking in strength. However, I don't manage to stand up completely. Physical suffering dominates the movement of my body through the three-by-three-meter office.
The nurse steps aside to let me pass through the room's exit. I glimpse at her, searching for a human reaction on her motionless face. Instead, I catch Sirisky giving the woman a sheet of paper in a narrow glance.
"Yes, take him. He... he's done," Sirisky says, with a conclusive tone.
The nurse closes the door, leaving the doctor inside the office.
"Get on the stretcher," she orders unpleasantly.
Dazed by pain that has now spread throughout my abdomen, simultaneously attacking my liver and stomach, I hadn't noticed the presence of the stretcher. From that moment on, I become incapable of continuing the narrative, afflicted by pains that become indescribable, terrified of feeling my swollen viscera (on the verge of bursting?), drifting further and further away from what was once the tranquil certainty of receiving the result in my hands and handing them over to Dr. Grau so that... so that...
AC-Man
Once upon a time—not too long ago, to be honest—I met a very peculiar man. He's as normal as any man in his thirties can be, and as ordinary as the people you see on the street... except for one small detail, a small but very significant one.
I once thought that his destiny was marked from the very moment of his conception, which, as I will explain later, might be shrouded in a disturbing mystery. However, if this is not the case, that is, if we are not born destined for a particular task, then one might think—and I have considered it myself—that perhaps our protagonist's luck was decided in a somewhat ironic way at the very moment he was registered as a person.
His parents named him Ace. Ace Connor is his full name; they didn't give him a middle name, which, as you know, is not the most common thing.
AC-e, with an A and a C, and his initials are A.C. (A plus C as well).
Our friend spent his early childhood just like any child born into a middle-class family in this city, or so he says, and I believe him. And again, according to him, it was like this until the day he discovered something about himself that made him different from everyone else.
Only he knows exactly how it happened. What I can convey to you is that one afternoon, on the side of spring where temperatures were definitely rising, reminding one of the approaching summer, sheltering the sensitive from the cold, our friend observed the diligent scurrying of ants in the backyard when he noticed he was thirsty, and his tongue started to be covered with patches of foam, while his pale skin took on a pinkish hue. Without feeling overwhelmed or suffocated, young Ace exhaled a volume of air through his nose, directed onto one of his forearms. What he felt was a clear refreshing cloud settling on his skin, caressing it. It was a pleasant surprise for him: when his body was warm, and he expected to release a bit of warm air onto his own arm in a liberating exhalation, he perceived a slight cold that reminded him of the opening of a refrigerator or freezer, or a breath of air expelled by an air conditioning unit. Far from being excited or disturbed by what had just happened to his own body, the boy marveled: how was it possible for cool air to come out from inside him, with the heat he had? Normally the opposite happens, at least in these latitudes: the air one inhales is relatively colder than the one exhaled, even on the most oppressive summer days (typically, the atmosphere is not hotter than the inside of a person); the body quickly raises the temperature of anything that enters it, be it air, water, or food. Our protagonist repeated what he had just done, getting the same result: he was truly capable of emitting cool air. However, the third breath he exhaled was of warm air, as if he had lost his ability in the blink of an eye. Somewhat disappointed, our young protagonist tried to repeat the mysterious miracle without success. In his initial excitement, the idea of running to tell his parents had briefly crossed his mind, but having suddenly lost the ability to produce cold air, he avoided mentioning the fact, and even wondered if it might have been a hallucination.
Over time, however, brief episodes like the one I described above recurred, not necessarily with high frequency, but rather gradually. And after each of those fleeting moments, our friend thought about what was happening to his body, trying to find an explanation or a cause for his strange ability. Eventually, he also told his parents and schoolmates what he was capable of, but the former didn't pay much attention, thinking it was an incomprehensible or convoluted child's joke, and the latter were not willing to believe him without a demonstration in front of their eyes. It took years for our friend to understand what was happening—by then, he was well into adolescence, at which point he already knew his own body, its functioning, and several of its limits, in addition to having to endure the ordeal of some failed exhibitions—and to explain to himself how that phenomenon was possible, although, regarding establishing its cause, he felt completely unable to formulate or even outline a theory.
And this is what happened to our protagonist: in a nutshell, he was able to cool the air that entered his body, especially if he did so through his nose. Basically, he had air conditioning inside him, so to speak.
At first, he could only do this when he was unaware of anything, when his mind was filled with some empty, senseless thought, or the silent and dry remnants of a true idea, and his eyes were absentmindedly fixed on nothingness hiding behind infinity—which implies it, I’d say—with a total absence of activity in his skeletal muscles, or closed, like when one is inadvertently and involuntarily transported out of reality, into the realm of dreams. This is contrary to what some might suppose: that a high level of concentration is needed to perform such a technique. More importantly, he could only do it when there was no one around who could witness the curious phenomenon. However, over time, and very slowly, with perseverance and without faltering, our friend learned to master his unique ability, being able to cool the air in his lungs with a certain degree of consciousness. Still, he couldn't afford too many distractions: if his attention was divided into two different mentally demanding tasks, his chest could automatically turn into what some despicably would call a 'human stove.' So, once he made sure he could subject his power to the almighty will, he was free and happy to show his ability, his gift, to acquaintances.
His parents, naturally, were greatly amazed, but at no point did they wonder how it was possible for a human being to cool the air by inhaling it instead of heating it; they felt no curiosity about it and simply accepted our friend's ability as a modest blessing. He also dared not ask a question about the matter, not only because, as I mentioned earlier, he had no idea about the possible origin of his power, but also because, perhaps, deep down, that wasn't the important part—not as much as the use he could make of his ability. And I didn't want to give him ideas that would invite reflection, fearing that it would mean delving into the deep and dark waters of the oldest childhood memories, as misunderstood as they were nebulous, or going back to the time before his very conception and discovering a secret that perhaps doesn't really concern him, or that for his own good, he shouldn't uncover.
For it is a known case of a woman who became pregnant, as they say, without having had relations but through the analog vibrations of an old TV in her house. But mind you, I'm not implying anything!
In school, on the other hand, young Ace immediately became popular. His ability was a sensation, especially when spring came, and daytime temperatures began to rise, making it convenient to have a breeze of fresh air at hand.
Initially, whenever our protagonist was asked to 'show his trick,' he willingly accepted, even happy to feel required and useful and, therefore, important. This feeling was heightened by the helpful, sensitive, benevolent, and candid personality of our friend, and complemented by the dazzled gratitude of those to whom he offered his gift. His parents kindly requested it—softly and with a sweet smile, almost like trying to persuade someone to do something they might refuse in some circumstances, almost like an invitation—whenever they were bored and felt like witnessing the mysterious phenomenon again. His school friends surrounded him during breaks or stood next to him in the leisure moments that fill the sometimes unbearable hours of class, with wide-open eyes and an expression of deep interest, asking for a new demonstration or urging him to do it. And he smiled with pleasure before proceeding to take a deep breath, inhaling through his nose, holding the air for a brief moment, and exhaling it as a refreshing, light, and extremely pleasant stream that, however, was fleeting, as it soon dissipated in the warmth of the surrounding atmosphere, inevitably leading to the need for the technique to be repeated. During this youthful period, they began to call him 'A.C,' after the initials of his name and because he was already known as 'the Air Conditioning Man,' a nickname with which he couldn't be displeased, as he didn't consider it something bad, but neither did he particularly like it. In his innermost self, he knew that, despite all the attention he received and the esteem he enjoyed, neither he nor his ability were indispensable... although it was equally true that no one else could do what he could. However, more and more often, he felt somewhat forced to interrupt a family meal to blow a bit of fresh air at the table, and in gatherings with friends, he had to take valuable time pauses to cool the atmosphere, unable to drink, eat, study, or anything, just look at the relieved and—above all—pleased faces of his friends on those hot and stifling days. Sometimes a compassionate soul would turn on the fan or the real air conditioning, but quite often, someone preferred to avoid the noise or the annoying wind of the fan, which hindered work or study at home, or save energy by leaving the air conditioning off or set at a temperature not as low as desired. And so, our protagonist didn't take too long to become disillusioned about the possibilities of using his ability to help others. In fact, he not only became disillusioned but also wanted to disown his power and deny his ability. Even more so after his ears caught what so-called gurus of distant philosophies say, who don't understand the true meaning of the phrases they put in their pseudo-spiritualistic pamphlets: "Be useless, so no one can take advantage of you." He had begun to feel his help as a job, as a burden, even as a hateful obligation, hateful precisely because it was forced, not spontaneously arising from his kindness, having to attend to the requests of his loved ones, even if only for a few minutes. Even if he wasn't busy when someone approached him and said kindly and friendly, "Can't you turn on the ‘air’ a little bit?" he would get upset. He also noticed the fake interest of those around him, selfish people who were more friends of his ability than of him, who only remembered him when they needed 'his trick' (a terrible and harsh truth that he had to accept, although somewhat exaggerated, it must be said), and who had stolen the name his parents had given him to replace it with a nickname more fitting for an appliance than a person: 'A.C. Man,' and if he expressed being very tired or busy to blow cold air, they got angry with him or started to ignore him.
"Now I understand the geniuses," he told me during one of our last conversations; to be honest, we've only talked about five times, but the foundations of our relationship, built on mutual respect, trust, and, above all, positive first impressions, have been established very quickly. "Those with an IQ of one hundred eighty or more. They spend their days locked up, reading or studying, without seeing anyone, and people think that's a waste, that they should use their intelligence for the benefit of humanity, inventing things, improving their living conditions, or something like that. But of course, they actually want to sit comfortably and wait for the geniuses to bring them their marvelous inventions, just to keep them to themselves without giving anything in return. And I wonder, why would a genius use their gifts to create inventions that make life easier for a bunch of ungrateful strangers, who won't understand what it implies to create them—the beautiful wonders that are perhaps necessary, even indispensable, parts of the process—and, moreover, when no one asked them for it? Are they not human, no matter how strange they are? Don't they have feelings?"
He told me all that as if he finally felt free to express his sincere opinion—and I understood, as he had a very valid point, and come on, you don't have to be an 'air conditioning man' to feel (and be!) used—... It’s just that his last pair of rhetorical questions came out with bitterness. The bitterness of knowing he was used, even exploited, considering himself seen as a tool or a machine—devoid of its own will, in any case—more than as a fellow human being... The disappointment of being taken to a TV studio to perform in front of an expectant and curious audience, like a creature from a postmodern, decadent circus, to sit him in a chilly set that a breath of normal temperature couldn't warm in a thousand years, and after the recording, having to hear his parents talk backstage with the show host and its producers, saying, "We came from far away and spent a lot on tickets, couldn't you at least give us some money to return?". The impertinent glares from the neighbors, pouring down on him from all directions when he left his house, once became famous, that bothered him—mute as they were—to the point of disturbing him, making him forget the reason for being outside in the first place, and their constant murmurs—although, in practice, generally tacit, and very probably malicious or ill-intentioned, perhaps even inquisitorial—about his strange ability.
So the years following his high school graduation, our friend spent them having a normal life, almost without mentioning his ability, or showing it off, except on exceptional occasions, requiring him to reveal himself as someone different from the others, to impress the boss or some influential or high-ranking colleague, attract a woman by impressing her, or secretly relieve a overheated elderly person he felt compassion for. But, although he allowed himself to use his ability in the aforementioned situations, he refused to provide details when asked, and he always gave unsatisfactory answers, all to discreetly guard his wonderful capability. Today, he has a wife and children, and every now and then, on warm late spring nights or hot summer days, he blows a little fresh air on their faces... And he has never stopped liking the feeling of being useful or knowing that he is doing something good for others. After all, who doesn't like that?
Not wanting to cause him any inconvenience, avoiding guilt, I never asked him to show me his ability. He only showed it to me the day we met, sighing a bit of fresh air on my face, and I immediately believed him. But, who knows, he could well have tricked me by chewing a mint gum that day in that waiting room...
Somebody
The day breaks, and he is already awake—the only one awake in our city, which, despite being said to never sleep, is, in reality, only sleepwalking, with eyes staying open all day, unwilling or unable to close.
He wanders through the cold and misty streets of winter, and the windy and luminous boulevards of summer, with no interest in entering any home, business, or public building. Nowhere is he expected, just as it should be, and he belongs to none of those places. He is always passing through, never stopping his march; he crosses bridges and observes from the heights of balconies and terraces busy beings, in constant circulation, engrossed in their routines and duties, so distant and diminished that he might as well be watching them from a cloud.
He is someone who goes unseen; perhaps it is not possible to see him, maybe no one is capable of seeing him. But there is a presence in the labyrinthine alleys and avenues of our city, that is undeniable, even though it is impossible for people to realize that he has passed. Wherever he goes, he leaves no physical trace of himself, and he is—again, I insist—perceptible to those who know how to pay attention.
For example, when you go downtown on a weekday for your inevitable and unavoidable bureaucratic procedures, and you walk through the street during rush hour, when the sidewalks are packed with pedestrians and you have to navigate through the crowd, seeking the next space to move into, avoiding people, you also avoid him, seeing him less than others. And he avoids you or, at best, courteously lets you pass, indicating (that is, allowing you to find) where to go. But you don't see him because he has no face, body, or makes any noise, nor does he cast any shadow, perhaps he is a shadow that hides behind the backs of pedestrians and blends with the vehicles, never to be run over by them.
If he makes any noise while walking with his steps, or if he says something, everything blends into the sound of the wind, wraps in the rustle of autumn leaves or the treetops in spring, or in the timid babbling of the river, amidst the murmurs of sleepwalkers going back and forth, or in the noise of vehicles going as sleepily as the pedestrians, with no ultimate destination, but faster and more impatient than them.
However, he tends to manifest himself through a peculiar sensation, comparable to the one felt when perceiving a ghostly presence, believing that someone is behind you, always suddenly and unexpectedly, although other times it is perceived with a faint—almost eerie—shiver, especially when one is alone and in silence, calm, relaxed.
But more than feeling his presence, what is felt is his absence; even if one is not conscious of it all the time (because how could one be?), there is a background feeling, so to speak, that one perceives when that "someone" is not close. It is somewhat difficult to explain—no matter how sincere an effort one may put into it—that one perceives an absence of sensation rather than a different sensation; actually, what this feeling of absence is an entirely different kind of sensation.
He can appear in dreams or in incomprehensible visions that last fractions of a second, and are forgotten as soon as one becomes aware of their occurrence, moving on to wishing to pay attention to them. And he not only vanishes in the dreamlike mist but also hides behind the gaps in one's memory: when you can't remember who did something, whom you saw that time, from whom you heard something so important, it was always him, that "someone," as indeterminate as omnipresent. It happened to a friend of mine who woke up one morning, and immediately a kind of recollection assaulted her: a part of her was convinced that she had spent the night with a certain man who would have been her lover, but she couldn't remember who he was, believed she knew him, however, her alleged amnesia persisted in hiding the identity of that supposed lover, and, to make matters worse, my friend also found no trace of the man's presence—no imprint of his body on the mattress, no scent of his cologne dissipating in the air of the closed room, no forgotten object left behind after he had sneaked away, perhaps forever (everything my friend laid her eyes on was too familiar, and she knew it was hers; nothing that wasn't hers was in her house), and definitely no message on her phone. My friend came to believe that maybe she had hallucinated the nighttime encounter or dreamed about that man (without being able to remember the dream). And, who knows? Either of the two scenarios may have been the case.
He is the one who appears—always invisible, nonetheless, I insist—to respond every time someone looks up to the sky and prays to God, to Allah, or to whatever deity or spirit it may be. He is the executor of all of them to grant or deny, to do, undo, or not do. It can be said that he has his own will, but it is set aside in these situations, as he becomes dispensable and unnecessary. And it couldn't be otherwise: he is not supposed to stand in the way of a higher will or replace it in its duty.
He is also the one who calls on the phone, and when answered, only a faint—almost inaudible—breathing is heard; that breath is his voice delivering a message of utmost importance: the weaker the sound, the more important what he says. No one understands him.
On the other hand, from time to time, he visits people with memory problems who forget where they leave things, and who later complain that someone moved their belongings when the reality is that they left those things in a place they can't remember. Well, that's the one who moves things around for those people, so that their complaints are not always unfounded, so that from time to time they are right.
And when you are alone, in a dwelling that doesn't feel like home, in a workplace that ceases to look like one in the late hours of the night, and you begin to hear strange and unsettling noises due to their unknown origin... he is not the one producing those noises, but, on occasion, he is the one managing the silences that separate them, the pauses that occur so that you become aware that you are not alone, that someone you can't see is keeping you company... or that, in reality, you are the one keeping someone or something company.
He knows his limitation, however, to move in the fabric that covers the manifested, superficial, visible. He is unable to permeate what is beneath our feet in the same way that he can't even dream of traversing the firmament and knowing what lies beyond it. Instead of that, he must at most settle or content himself with occupying the interstices that fill reality, crossing his path with other "existential shadows," suspended in the ether that permeates everything, unaware of the, for others, relentless tyranny of the clock's hands...
If I know these things about that someone, it's because I have personally followed his trail; I saw him once in the mirror (saw as one can see someone of his nature), observing me in his way from the universe that extends behind its surface; however, an instant later, he had disappeared. I later realized that he listened to my phone conversations, even if they were not of particular interest to him—I suppose he knows me no more than any of my neighbors—and that he wasn't going to do anything about it, so I think he intrudes in some way in communications just because he has the capacity and the will or desire to do so. And, as it has not affected me in any way—not that I could perceive—I have done nothing about it and, therefore, I have let him listen in peace. But it is also true that I don't know how to establish direct contact with that being... I can write him a note and leave it somewhere, like the dresser in my bedroom, but how can I be sure that he will know he is the recipient when I don't know his name, to begin with? I couldn't call him by referring to his appearance or his particular signs even if I wanted to because he has no looks, no defined appearance. Or should I say, "Listen, diffuse shadow, come here," or "Diaphanous thing, what are you"? I wouldn't want to gratuitously offend someone I don't know... Nor does he often come around here—he doesn't frequent my home more than my friends do. Should I plaster the city with messages like, "It's okay for you to read my phone conversations, but don't be planning something against me"? Again, will he be interested in reading them? And, if he deigns to read them, will he pay attention to them? I could continue asking such questions and inventing fanciful and unnecessary conjectures, but not to deviate from the topic, I will limit myself to say that only because I don't know his name is why I haven't tried to establish contact; I wouldn't even speak to him aloud as soon as I detect his presence. I reiterate: his appearances are fleeting, he doesn't usually walk around my house, I haven't perceived him in the hallways of the building where I live, and I won't start talking or calling someone whose name I don't know on the street. But I have learned to discover him, to know when he appears, when he manifests himself, where he has to put his hand and for what. I can admit that it has taken me a very long time to get to know him—or believe I know him—but I refuse, resist, to say how long; just thinking about it painfully touches my pride, as I have invested too much time and energy to complete—to the extent that I have—a "mission" that no one has asked me to complete. But soon I rid myself of all negative feelings, as I don't have to answer to anyone; no one needs to know everything I've done to get closer to that mysterious being...
For now, every time I dine out, I offer him the leftovers, always leaving a bit of drink at the bottom of the glass or in the bottle. In the remote chance that he is able to satisfy his hunger or thirst, or that my food appeals to him, before the kitchen staff discards the remains, I reserve an empty seat in my home, in case he decides to rest his legs; he will do so only for pleasure or perhaps out of curiosity, for I cannot imagine him growing weary. I speak very little on the phone, always striving to express myself in clear and concise terms if I am to initiate the conversation, and brief, even laconic, in responding to questions, offering an opinion or a remark, or for a greeting, all without showing bitterness or annoyance. I probably go to unnecessary lengths in doing these things, as he must operate on another level, without necessarily being interested in my life, that is to say, perhaps he pretends to be present in my life only coincidentally, without intention, watching me through the window of time mechanically, as I observe the landscape on the other side of the car window. Perhaps he is on a journey to the place to which we must all return sooner or later: nothingness, with one foot in being and the other in non-being, leaving traces in the blind spots of our consciousness.
But, even if that were the case, it does not stop me from occasionally asking myself, standing in front of the mirror at night: "Who are you?" Nor from writing on the pages of the notebook or on the fogged-up kitchen windows: "How can I find you?"
Nor, on certain days when I walk down the street without pressing concerns in my worker’s mind, dodging swift automobiles and passing among my peers, fleetingly pondering in thoughts: "Where are you?"
A Dream
I had a dream in which I drowned and perished.
The cabin I was in suddenly began to tilt, and a furious stream of water rushed in from one corner.
Initially, I tried to stay calm, trusting that I could free myself from the situation by acting quickly. And so I did: I headed to the bulkhead, although to do so, I had to lean against the bulkhead, given the inclination of the entire structure, which made it impossible for me to remain upright. Meanwhile, the water kept pouring in, flooding the cramped cabin.
With great effort, I managed to open the door leading to the ship's passageway, but as soon as I did, another stream of water rushed in rapidly, throwing the heavy door on me, making me lose my balance and fall backward, causing my head to collide with a blunt object. I writhed in pain, clumsily splashing around while trying, despite the painful sensation enveloping my head from the terrible blow, to get up and escape at once. I swallowed some saline water contaminated with oil and saturated with the friction of steel and iron from the soaked ship that now sought to imprison me.
So, with great difficulty, I managed to stand up; the water was already up to my knees. With one palm against the bulkhead, coughing and gasping, I realized my mistake: I hadn't considered that the exterior was more flooded than the cabin, and opening the door that separated them only allowed more water into the latter. Fortunately, there was still a chance to escape: through a hatch leading to the upper deck.
Then, as I looked around for something that would allow me to reach the hatch, everything shook violently enough to make me stagger, but without falling. A few seconds later, just as I was about to climb up the inclined bulkhead, the lights went out, plunging the place into almost absolute darkness.
The water, which could be seen as an enemy to my survival interest, was now lifting me toward the blessed hatch. I reached out with one arm to feel for it, shaking it from side to side until I finally found the handle, and I clung to it for dear life. My abdomen felt constricted by the water pressure, and my lungs could barely procure some air, which, on the other hand, was becoming scarcer.
Already beginning to yield to despair, I tried to turn the handle, but it was closed very tightly, perhaps even jammed for some terrible reason, or so I feared at the time when I found myself unable to open the hatch. My arms were exhausted, and I no longer felt my legs touching the floor. I managed to shout for help, but my lungs and throat failed to respond. Then, I made a final supreme effort to turn the handle, and it was no use: it resisted again, denying me the long-awaited salvation. There was then a new shake of the structure; it seemed to me that seawater was entering faster and faster. It didn't take long for it to relentlessly fill the last free corner, submerging me completely. I gulped down the remaining air with a strained and agonizing breath. I held my breath as much as I could while obstinately clinging to the handle and trying to turn it using the full weight of my body. But my attempts ceased when the oxygen ran out, and my body had to give up; the last bubbles of air inside me came out in a muffled scream of indescribable horror...
I opened my eyes, and all I found was darkness and desolation. A feeling of endless sadness, indescribable hopelessness, and, above all, abysmal loneliness overwhelmed me like never before.
I felt that I had lost my soul.
Moreover, I had stopped feeling a body, as if I had ceased to exist as a person and all that remained of me was an infinitely tortured consciousness, trapped in an inexplicable nightmare. I couldn't even be sure if I was in a place of complete darkness or if I had lost my vision along with the rest of my senses.
Eventually, after a period that I am completely unable to determine, and that could well have been a minute, perhaps a century, somehow, as if by imagination—perhaps simply by the action of my will—I began to dispel those mysterious shadows, realizing as I did that it was actually an ominous black fog that had enveloped me, sticking to the surface of the consciousness that I was sure was all that was left of me.
As I detached myself from the dark substance, the feelings of deep unhappiness diminished, making me realize what relief and, above all, freedom truly are—concepts I discovered beyond anything I could have imagined in my entire life. Moreover, what gradually replaced the darkness was a peaceful and luminous vision, almost happy: a beach of very fine and whitish sand, a gentle and salty breeze walking alongside, filling my lungs instead of the merciless water in which blood and fire mingled; in the distance, where my sight barely reached, almost hidden behind the horizon, there was a bustling coastal city.
However, the aftermath of that experience is far from leaving me. Sitting on the shore, I still believe to see from time to time, at night, the imposing and gloomy silhouette of a ship that, little by little, tilts amid violent yet sporadic tremors and sinks forever into the sea. Its anguished metallic groans are drowned in the midst of restless waves, and a column of dense smoke emanating from its bowels merges into the darkness of the night.
I close my eyes for what I think is a moment, and when I open them again, I feel like waking up to another vision; I no longer know if what I find in front of me is the reality of the waking state or if it is another dream, just as I no longer know if the horrific dream on the ship has become my new reality, or if I know what reality is anymore.
Sometimes, that involuntary, inevitable, and blink-less blink takes me back to the state of semi-eternal darkness, where I become prey to the most unheard-of torments, adding to the pain of being aware of my inability to escape them, of recognizing myself defenseless against an inescapable destiny. In that state, I lose track of time to the point that I convince myself that it doesn't really exist, or that it might stop, cruelly and impassively imprisoning me between two ticks of the second hand.
But then, somehow, I leave that place of indescribable agony, sometimes slowly, gradually, like waking up in the morning; other times rather suddenly, without realizing it, as in the dreams I used to have before the sinking of the ship, those normal dreams where scenes unfolded between capriciously confusing, sudden, unplanned transitions.
I often return to the second year of the war, when I embarked as a volunteer on a mission, and not as a combatant. The last stretch of the long journey was done at night, as, under the cover of darkness, there was supposed to be less chance of being found by warships, which had orders to sink anything that crossed the conflict zone. After a frugal dinner—urged on by an inexplicable nervousness that plagued me, despite the mild and widespread optimism of the crew—I went to one of the rooms, and there I rested... until a muffled and powerful roar reached my ears, startling me. Next, almost immediately, I felt a shudder of the ship. For a steel behemoth of such dimensions to shake like that, the matter must undoubtedly be serious...
Then, the usual: horrified to watch as the cabin where I had decided to take my rest flooded, running fruitlessly against the clock and against the water to save myself through the jammed hatch, which I clung to with the desperation that can only be experienced when death is nipping at one's heels... But I never managed to escape, and inevitably, circumstances overcame me, with no possibility of salvation for me...
But by far, the worst is to find myself each time in the anguishing emptiness of nothingness, at the bottom of the same interminable abyss, without end, without light, without hope, swallowed by darkness, deprived of my senses—and consequently, of all contact with reality—alone with my thoughts, to the point that my thoughts become everything I am—the only thing I am—thinking to madness, in absolute solitude, for periods "that cannot be measured," eagerly awaiting the moment to be rescued by the light, even if it is to replace that vision with another, even if it is an harmless hallucination or a senseless dream (just seeing the smallest ray of light in that place of perdition always brings me the greatest joy one can have). The torments are so unbearable that even reliving the night of the sinking, with all that it entails for my soul (which is by no means little), without becoming desirable, suddenly becomes preferable to staying in the abyss for one more second.
The sensations I experience or believe to experience are too real to consider them part of a nightmare. At the same time, it is impossible for me to believe in the physical existence of such a place, just as I cannot comprehend that this abyss must necessarily exist. And even more inconceivable is that I must fall into it, remain in it, return to it—me! Why me?
Persistent thoughts about the situation I describe are a tiny part of the torture I must endure. I have found myself thinking about it while drowning, amidst the murmur of water restlessly swirling in the cabin, with my eyes open in the darkness caused by the blackout, but still almost seeing pass in front of me—perceiving the whirlwind caused by its movement—a torpedo seeking its target...
And the absence of answers that my consciousness can pose plunges me further into a state of desperate madness. The very nature of the matter far exceeds my understanding. Perhaps only the absent god can comprehend it.
The questions and reproaches without a specific recipient lead me through somewhat vague reflections and ideas that ultimately confuse me. Invariably, I wonder, in the depth of emptiness, devoid of my soul (I am only aware of its existence when I feel its absence), if I am really the volunteer who embarked during the second year of the war and whose ship was torpedoed in the middle of the night, or if I am—as I assumed from the beginning, perhaps a long time ago—someone who has dreamed of being that unfortunate sailor and who, for some absurd reason, keeps having the same nightmare over and over. But I don't remember anything about who I would be. I think I forgot it when I drowned for the first time, or when I was in the incomprehensible abyss, lost in the midst of my affliction, or in one of the many visions that appear to me. But I can't help but wonder if I am not a sailor dreaming that I volunteered. Other times, I wonder if I am simply the protagonist of the nightmare, an illusion that seems to exist only in someone else's vivid dream because in none of the visions I witness do I perceive my own body, as if I had not ceased to be my own consciousness or, why not, like an invisible specter trapped in the materiality of a city by the sea. Perhaps—I think accordingly—I am not the only one sent to the abyss, that there must be others like me, who one night went to bed as usual and suddenly found themselves in a nightmare, and woke up in the place of total darkness, turned into soulless entities, or trapped in a cycle of dreamlike visions from which they don't know how to escape. This, in turn, leads me to wonder who they are, those who go through the same situation as me, those who are trapped like me but whom I cannot see or know. Would they walk the same streets of the coastal city turned into absent presences, pieces of wind with a consciousness momentarily relieved of an infinite spiritual torment? And, no less importantly, is there anyone looking for us, or waiting for us somewhere, waiting for us to wake up? Or what is for me a succession of eternities in a dark corner of the vast cosmos is actually taking place in the brief minutes that a random individual's dream lasts, something of which no one around us, not even ourselves, is aware, implying that eventually, we must wake up to everyday reality?
Who thinks about people suffering every day? And who thinks about those who have gone to bed and have died in dreams, and now only exist—not live—in others' visions or in the dark depths of an unfathomable, infinite void?
I often regret not being able to change the course of events. When I recognize the cabin where I must seek rest to dispel the tension that has taken hold of me, I am invaded by the terror of knowing exactly what will happen next. It may have been a cruel ambush set by one of the combatants, a nocturnal trap to which we were skillfully led by a night hunter and submariner, or it could have been a mere unfortunate turn of events that has put us face to face with the ruthless enemy, but I know how it will end. This has led me time and again to resign myself as I fly over the coastal city or sit to contemplate the sunset on its white sand beaches, knowing that the next time will be the same, that I cannot avoid going to sleep with a restless stomach and a foreboding palpitation in my chest, to close my eyes, conquered by the fatigue of a long day on the high seas. A bang wakes me up. Startled, I try to get up quickly, but dizziness makes such a simple action difficult, not so much because of the sudden return to the waking state as because the cabin is tilting, a fact I quickly become aware of; moreover, a water stream is gushing from a corner. A shudder of the ship momentarily makes me lose my balance. I quickly understand what is happening: something has happened—the impact of a torpedo or a shell, an accidental explosion or a collision, if we are to have even less luck—and the structure of the ship has been compromised. I pretend to act quickly, as these cases require; the first thing that comes to mind is to escape; however, I stop before opening the hatch leading to the deck. I realize that, the way the ship is tilting, the deck must be more flooded than the cabin. So, I open the hatch at once, immediately moving aside to avoid being hit by it. Outside the cabin, I look up at the upper hatch, and I understand that it is a safer and more sensible way to escape. Taking advantage of the partial inclination of the ship, which turns the bulkhead into a ramp, I approach the handle and, although in doing so my body is in a rather uncomfortable position, I grip the handle with all my might and try to turn it. Unfortunately, it is no use, as every time. Starting to feel despair, with the seawater constantly gushing, splashing me with salty foam and oily droplets, I manage to scream. I scream until I stun myself, until I feel the painful vibration of my eardrums, until I wear out my throat. And then, with the water already reaching my waist, I see with wide-open eyes the timid rotation of the hatch handle. Incredulous, I feel a tear welling up in my eye, relieved and happy. The lights suddenly go out, plunging the room into an almost absolute darkness, but the hatch now seems like a skylight, with a being peering out, finding me, exhausted and halfway abandoned; that being has white skin and shines: it is a true "being of light"...
The being extends its arm downward; I somehow propel myself upward, towards it, to save myself. I ascend with the help of the luminous being, and, as I pass through the hatch, a glow dazzles me, blinds me...
I open my eyes.
It has been another dream...
The 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.