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.Time passed, the program ended, and nothing.Everything was upside down.The Chameleon stuck his head in now and then, but his presence bothered me.Finally, I had no alternative: I asked for a sangría, but it didn't taste the same.When I was just finishing it, the Boss arrived; I wasn't interested in his news.I already knew that nothing would change today.They hadn't arrived at an agreement, but the talks were progressing.Of course, tomorrow wasn't a workday, everyone would take Friday off, too, and the weekend would delay things a bit, but by the beginning of next week this would be settled.Next week! The existence of a next week seemed impossible to me, just as unreal as life after death."Would you like to have dinner now?" the Chameleon interrupted me."I brought some tacos, if you like."I accept one, drink a bit more wine, and resign myself to the unwelcome company.Page 96The day is ending, one way or another it will end, that's inevitable.Confused fragments, spread out over so many here-and-nows, are behind me, and I am too weak to pick them up and put them together.I get into bed, I cover myself up and order that it be night, and it's done with a flick of an invisible finger.I hug the long, hard pillow while listening to the jangling of chains as the door is bolted once more.Silence enters, the soft cat of sleep.I dream.I'm falling.I fall and, suddenly, it's my father who's falling, not me.I see him fall, I see him sprawled at the bottom of a cliff, in an enormous, deep canyon, a place of pink stone, rough and cold.I see him at the bottom of the precipice, face down, immobile, and I understand that he is dead.I can't reach him, I can't do anything, not even move, just be there, seeing the sadness of the dead man.But suddenly I am next to him, and incredulously, I see him get up.When he turns toward me he has a big gash in his neck and there's a long, gross tube sticking out of it, and through that tube, air is being sucked in and blown out noisily.My anxiety leaves me: it's my father, he's alive.I sleep.Page 97Thursday.Day of the dead.How ironic!Today is going to be slow and tranquil.The Bartender didn't come in last night.In the morning the Chameleon was here.He brought me coffee, and I tried to make up for my bad mood last night."Aren't you going to wish me a happy Day of the Dead?""Do you want something special?""Well, you could bring me a candy skull with my name on it, unless you're planning to turn me into one.""No, ma'am! Don't think like that."No sense of humor.This guy bores me.He went away soon.Santa Claus arrived, the hustle and bustle, the chores of the day.He made my bed before I could stop him, he shook out the covers, swept the floor, cleaned out the ashtray and the wastepaper basket, and brought me breakfast.I admit that I was pleased to hear him.Now he's sitting on the chair.We've been chatting and listening to music for a while; I am more calm.It's November 2, the Day of the Dead.Nothing will happen today; I can forget about the world.It's a day of rest."Do you believe that dreams come true, I mean, that things you dream will actually happen?" Santa Claus asks me."No.I think we dream about our unconscious desires or fears.Sometimes it may happen that what you dream actually takes place, but that's just a coincidence," I reply, remembering my dream last night.Page 98"I do believe.It's happened to me, I dreamed something and then it came true, not once, but many times.Once I dreamed that I was going to have a car accident, and the following week I had one.""I wish I had dreamed about the kidnapping! I would have brought a change of clothes for the occasion.I don't know why it occurred to me to wear a skirt that day instead of slacks like I usually do.""If you like, I can buy you some.""Perhaps, if this doesn't end soon, I'll accept your offer.Do you want a cigarette?""No, thanks, I don't smoke in the morning.""You ought to find something for me to do," I say with a bored tone of voice."I'm not used to this idle time.I could sew on buttons for you or wash dishes."Santa Claus laughs."Blindfolded? I can guess where the buttons would end up.""I suppose you're right.Well, let me know if you think of something.""If you want, I'll bring the newspaper later on and read the news to you."I feel grateful.They are making an effort to have this be as pleasant as possible, even Santa Claus with all his professionalism and seriousness is becoming more and more relaxed with me, and I with him.It must be the effect of intimacy, of complete dependency.Gradually I'm forgetting the first terrifying moments, the sensations of fear, cold, and sadness, and I'm beginning to feel that this is reality, the only reality.A small, enclosed, and very strange life, but not completely unpleasant, a little boring, perhaps absurd, but also peaceful.A tiny new existence with me in the center; everything comes to me, without my lifting a finger.I raise my voice, I turn my head, and there they are, solicitous: what do I want? ice cream? company? a trip to the bathroom?"I bet they don't wait on you like this at your house," said Santa Claus.When did he say that? Yesterday? This morning? I'm beginning to lose track of time and occurrences, little daily, insignificant events that get confused, change places, and establish a new hierarchy of memories."No, at home they don't wait on me like this.You're going to spoil me.In my house I wait on others, I have a thousand things to do.Page 99Here I don't do anything, I have no responsibilities.That's bad because then.''Yes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]