The Object

“Past is like an ink stain in the middle of the page”

Julio Cortázar

I covered the distance that separated the car from the house in a couple of seconds; it was only when I knocked at the door that I realised that my legs seemed to have moved much quicker than they had needed to, as though they had a life of their own and, anxious, couldn’t quite manage to hold themselves. Me, I wasn’t that sure. The sweat in my forehead, the armpits, and the palms of my hands seemed to go against the mere ten degrees that that July had brought us. And, of course, there was also the object. It hung and swung like an eternal pendulum in my jacket pocket, obviously excited, too. It knew very well what its task would be; I had told it a few hours ago, whilst I admired it in its rest on my desk, the morning light adorning it with golden and ochre edges, giving it a tone that verged on magnificent, just like the task that it was about to perform. The preparation ceremony had been brief, but it had still had the calmness that, I had decided, it merited. After no more than five minutes we were all ready: the object, him, and I. Now of course, he didn’t know it just yet.

“Not a word to anybody, ok? Remember. Don’t tell anybody a single word.”

And thus, with that phrase, the door was slammed shut behind him. And the hope that both of them had that that key in the green door would separate them from the truth was a piece of thin red thread that followed them, and please don’t break, don’t break. For from it hangs the little child with his round belly that looks at them, with his throat cut and empty eyes. He would try and leave behind the sweat, the fear, the shame, the conscience, the truth.

i'll do it to you first so that you learn it’s easy you’ll see see? don’t you like it? that's more like it no no why would it be wrong it’s nice innit? c'mon it’s your turn now like that easy aha riiiight like that veery good use your tongue just like me and watch the teeth! ahhhh! yeeeeah veeery good now move a bit like this over there no no no it’s not gonna hurt no no no you just do it c’mon it’s gonna be nice nice slowly and if it hurts you tell me and we stop and no no no why not? all right fair enough let’s see the mouth then yeeees why not? do you wanna swap? the other way? no not yet and not done yet you’ll see when I’m done c’mon you just carry on harder………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It’s quarter past six and I want it to be eight, nine, ten o’clock… it’s Saturday and, amongst my things, i look for a Monday, a Tuesday, a Friday. I dislike what I am, I dislike what I want. Hope, that calm Diaspora, doesn’t save me… and it’s not that I can’t see well. I don’t see, I can’t see. I almost can’t feel, almost can’t hear… and I hear my ghost running away. It touches me, it calls me, it kisses me… and in one macabre, dark second it seduces me and invites me to not come back anymore -silence. It's the impossible instant, the gift of sleep that only the hangman knows where it’ll come from. And in a mirror that a thousand, two thousand times has broken flashes of myself I see flying, hear cracking, hate thinking.

I see the body, already stiff. But although I don’t want to touch it, acknowledge it, inertia and a red slap make me turn round. It is three, twelve, fifteen thousand times that the body shall fall with a muffled noise on the floor, until the sickening smell of blood in my face wakes me up. The hands make me keep the blindfold on, and it helps me breathe.

As time went by he realised that pretending wasn’t, in the end, as hard as he had once thought. After all, all one needed was silence. Not doing anything. Inaction. Not thinking, not remembering. Starving conscience to death. Perhaps that way they would learn not to bother one, perhaps they would, once and for all, see who the strong one was. Bloody hell.

He got up and covered the few meters that separated the bed from the toilet at a pachydermic pace, as if making an effort to not arrive, to make himself and that uneasiness that he’d been feeling for the last few hours as late as possible. As if foreseeing the impossible. As if he already knew what was about to happen. But how on earth could he be ready? Feeling sorry and almost afraid he raised his head to look at himself on the bathroom cabinet mirror: the reflection was alien to him, as though belonging to a stranger. It was this strangeness, he thought, what hurt him the most. He decided he was still too weak, and he lacked the courage to carry on. He had a brief and pathetic epiphany, and this time with a little bit more determination he forced himself towards the living room and searched the cupboard. He took the scotch and a glass, and scattered them over the table. He poured himself a generous helping and, glass in hand, he looked for Piazzolla amongst his music collection. Good-bye Daddy he said to himself. Good-bye.

And thus the truth finally falls upon me, and it liberates me from that blindfold that I so dearly wanted, and that gave me so much when it left. It hits my chest with the accordion, and it’s the strings of the violin that stroke my back, and in a hysteric and almost heroic gesture that I’m grateful for I feel how they cut the flesh and penetrate me. They regale me with the spasms, the gentle whips and the harder ones too, and the climax that, in infinite pain and relief, explodes like an ovation and harvests bloodsweatandtearsimpossibletopeelofftherawwounds.

…

I feel the steps coming towards the door, giving away that someone that comes to greet me. I feel my heart pumping in my temples, counting the time for everything, like a war drum that seeks to prepare me for the moment we’ve all waited for so much. But I’m already prepared. I’ve got everything I need right with me in my jacket pocket, that at this point starts to burn my chest from its closeness and through my clothes. For a split second I get captivated by the thought of the scar that it’ll leave on me. The war wound. A shy “Yes?” brings me back to reality, and I feel my soul trying to run away. A middle-aged woman, of dark complexion and innocent and almost warm looks opens the door.

“I’m looking for Victor. I’m a childhood friend.” I say. Nothing could be further from the truth. But this woman believes me, and lets me in.

“He’s in the back, in the workshop. But go ahead, I’m sure he’ll love to see you. I’ll be over there with a cup of tea in a minute.”

“Appreciate it, ma’am. Right at the back, right?”

“Yeah, just walk straight” And just like that, with no more preambles, I start walking towards where he is, Victor. A nauseous feeling of unease overwhelms me every time I pronounce the name. It starts along with the “V” and it climbs right from the stomach carrying with itself streams of bile until it erupts in a disgusting and foul-smelling “t”. The “o” and the “r” just fall, as if due to inertia. And once again, the passing of the six letters leaves me, just like every other time that I’d been forced to articulate them in the last sixteen years, a bitter and aggressive aftertaste. I open the wooden door, and I see his back. I can guess that he’s concentrating on something, and his frantic movements provoke an avalanche of memories, that I wish I could hold back. I walk in a semi-circle around him, with an almost morbid care of not making any noises, of not letting him know that I’m here. Not yet.

I feel the blood galloping in my temples, urgent to emerge. Like the truth in that July afternoon. Patience. Just a few more seconds. My new position allows me to see that the frantic movements respond to the beat of the knife that he’s sharpening. A drop of cold sweat runs down my back, and it takes me two or three seconds to analyse the logic of the situation: ex-bus driver, he became a butcher –a mediocre one, I’m sure- after having suffered from an accident that didn’t cost him his life but a leg and didn’t let him drive again. I hadn’t foreseen that he could also be armed, and I feel stupid for a moment. Then I remind myself that I’ve got the object, and I feel immediately safer. I feel it dangling in my jacket, warming my chest, and I feel confidence coming back to me. Suddenly, and without warning, everything explodes.

I hear my voice pronouncing his name for the last time and I see him turn towards me. I recognise the features. More than fifteen years haven’t changed him much. I can see that he’s rather more tired, perhaps sadder. And it makes me happy. In the course of the next two or three seconds what I read from his face turns into confusion and then, when he sees me drawing the object –almost shiny now- from my jacket, fear. And it makes me even happier. It’s almost ten steps that separate me from him, and I cover them at an unfamiliar speed. Once again, my legs choose to disobey me. Frozen, Victor doesn’t react. His eyes are fixed in mine, and I know that he can read me. Now that I think about it, I think that that was the very instant in which he understood everything, and he almost embraced it. At the end of the day, I ended up making him a favour by setting him free from his own secret. With a hand over his face, as if trying to cover himself from horror, and a knife on the other, pointing at me, he starts to walk back. In his shameful retreat he trips on the bench that he’d been working on and falls on his back wrapped in a dull, premonitory, noise. Pretending to be calm, I walk towards him, with the object in my hand.

I make sure that it is visible, so that he doesn’t make any mistakes when guessing his fate. Upon him now, I stop with both legs at the sides of his trunk, and I’ve still got the knife between Victor and myself. He attempts a blow, and I dodge it with a quick movement of the knee. It does not amuse me, and I decide to put an end to the whole thing: I lift my left leg and trap the hand and the knife in it, as strongly as I can, against the dirt floor. I see the fear in his eyes, and I tell him that yes, he has to be afraid, that at the end of the day he’s only paying for my fears. I lift my free leg and, using my knee, I let myself fall on his chest, causing a deep groan –it’s the breastbone punishing the lungs, I tell myself in the form of a congratulation- and a couple of tears break free, revealing the intensity of the moment. He tries to curse at me, but the words stumble on each other on their way out, and all I can hear is a crowd of consonants coated in saliva, that end up crushed against my jacket.

“Shut up” –I say, harshly- It is my turn to speak now.

In a swift movement I take the knife from his immobile hand, still trapped under my feet, and I direct it towards his chest, right by me knee.

“What are you doing? Are you nuts?” The words again rush to come out, and this time they somehow manage to do it in order. I choose not to answer. I’m enjoying the moment, and I know that nothing I say could quite rise to the occasion. I know exactly what he’s thinking, and I am not magnanimous enough to kill the doubt that’s brewing in his chest. What’s more, I feel that it’s his very doubt that complements so perfectly the scene. I change the knife’s position in my hand –it denotes determination now- and I break his shirt buttons uncovering his obese, hirsute chest. I raise my arm, and for a split second the blade steals a glimpse of the afternoon’s clarity. I lower the knife suddenly, in a violent blow, and I stop a few inches before reaching the unfortunate wretch’s chest. Victor can no longer hide his agitation, and that heavy, metallic noise that asthma carries starts to make its appearance. I feel sorry for the beast, and I decide that it is time to put an end to the whole business.

With the tip of the blade, I gently draw a weak line, and it’s a mere sign that’s been carefully left there, with its three, maybe four centimetres long lying on the naked chest. After a few seconds, a thread of blood oozes, immaculate. I stop and observe it for a few more seconds and in it I discover the only trace of purity in the scene. I jump and stand up, and immediately afterwards Victor does the same. Incredulous, confused, thankful, he looks at me. Covered in sweat, blood, and dust, it was something else what he was waiting for, and I know it. I take a step forwards and hit his bleeding chest with the object, that starts to acquire a deep crimson colour. Victor looks at me, and I look at him. With a movement of my head, I command him to open the envelope. He reads the first line to himself, and then repeats it so that I can hear it, so that I can finally know that everything’s over. It is a line by Cortázar:

“Past is like an ink stain in the middle of the page”