danny

he listened to the voices, once again.

then he shot.

he pulled the trigger, slowly but firmly. he could see his victim’s face. he has thought of this moment for as long as he remembered. he knew it completely, by the second, by the centimetre. he has dreamt it. he lived for it.

it was power. killing hector was not only payment for an old debt, a family vengeance, but a moment of power. the power of killing a human being. the power of being able to murder, to steal a life, to end dreams, hopes, passions and fears in one second, as they never existed. as they never existed for him, anymore.

then, he felt his hand slightly trembling, the warm gun shaking. he realised the fear and the quivering, the anxiety. he realised he was afraid. he realised he did not feel mighty, powerful, omnipotent, as he foresaw it. the murder would not make him strong.

his eyes got watery. his legs shivered. his soul, his inner guts, started to tremble. he felt like puking.

he utterly saw it. as he killed hector, he saw he himself reflected in the futility of that death, in the ephemerality of his own life. he realised he was mortal, fragile, vulnerable, and that he would die one day, whether at the hands of his own enemies, those who will be him, or in a less respectable situation.

he felt, as the fear invaded every nerve and pore of his weightless body, silently, starting to disappear, inexorably. paradise lost…

e’ bello, ma fa un po’ paura—dissi lui—che la citta’ diventi piu’ bella solo perche si sa che essa nasconde quella persona che vuoi trovare. la citta’ subito diventa il laberinto, e lei, senza volere proprio, il grande tesoro.

ma adesso mi spiego—continuai—perche forse non si puo’ capire solo da questo che dico. lei, nascosta dentro la citta’, automaticamente si rende piu’ amabile. essa, la citta’, solo nel nacondere lei, si rende piu’ amabile. entrambe, nel continuo giocare insieme, si prendono il nostro cuore. non si sa dove comincia il trucco, ma almeno, si sa dove finisce.

come l’amore, finira’ nel amare stesso, e poi nella dolce memoria dell’aver amato.

they were outside, in the sun, waiting.

i did not feel like going outside. it has been enough but it had to end. i knew what was expecting me, and i knew i deserve it. i also knew they were my friends, after all. i knew i had to go out.

i took a deep breath, and stepped out the door…

she came back, her hands in her pockets, her head facing the floor. slowly entered the room, without even looking she sat in the border of the bed. she seemed tired, so tired she wanted to lay on that bed for hours. i couldn’t see her face, but her body said she was tired enough.

i tried to talk, but couldn’t find anything decent to say. my chest ached with a pressure, my arms were so heavy, my soul seemed exhausted, depleted. i could feel her pain, i could feel it cause i was that pain.

she turned and looked at me. and then i was paralised. she looked at me with all her beautiful eyes, those eyes i loved for nights and nights, for hours and hours, those eyes that once and briefly might have belonged to me. those eyes with the strength and the power to make me feel a million feelings. but this time they had just one: sadness. a very profound sadness, a sincere and tangible sadness. a dense and delicate sadness. it was the sadness of all the time, of all the facts, of life turning a page and letting us go, of losing again. it started to enter my body, i could feel it oozing from her precious green eyes, into the empty shell my body was.

it started expanding, filling every pore, every vein and artery, every arm and leg, all lungs, stomach. every space and every cell and every molecule. and it was expanding and growing, and slowly killing me. i started feeling sick, i shake and quivered, i vomited, i cried. it was me, i was the sadness.

i don’t remember well how it was. i just exhale and fell down like a feather. then i was here, watching her. watching her every move. taking care of her. again. only that this time she’s alone, and i’m dead.

…suddenly, private gartt stopped screaming.

– he must be dead! – screamed carston.

of course he was dead. we were all dead, already.

i continued reading the letter. it was so difficult to concentrate with all the bombing, all the mud, no light at all but my zippo. i knew, i felt i had to read that letter. i was about to die, i knew i was not coming alive of this one, and i knew i had to read that letter before it.

the bombers continued crossing the air, leaving an amusing line of fire behind their propellers. the hinged cove i was in was stained with many colours, and sure, one seemed to be blood.

“my dearest simon, this letter might catch you already in the fields…” it started. she was not aware on how true it was. i continued reading, almost transported from the battle by the smooth, continuous, prudent handwritting, my mind quenching the need of tranquility, the urge to have a paceful, meaningful, private death. until i started smelling the cornfields, hearing the tractors, finally being happily suffocated by the hot, humid summer of my cantril, iowa…

…she was quite loud, impersonal. something unsettling in her way of saying things, like there was no past between them, like they were suddenly new to each other.

– i’m about to leave, but perhaps we can talk tomorrow – she said, nonchalantly.

– sure. whatever you want – he said, in a sad, grey, fathomed tone.

and then she hanged up, he thought. the silence was beyond what a telephone auricular usually whispers. after a minute or so, he checked the phone line by tapping on the hang trigger. no response. the line seemed to have died suddently.

it felt like something got broken, but like green twigs. no sound, not a crack, not hurtful. just broken, almost bent, but broken.

the house felt a little more chilling than before. but he thought it was just psychosomatic. all the windows were closed, and it was winter. perhaps a little more humid, he thought.

he stood up slowly, like he weighted a tonne. then he stepped slowly to the living room, then to the reading room.

he sat in his designer’s armchair which let out a moaning while he rest his legs and body. strange sounds today, he thought. very strange sounds.

he took his newspaper and started to read. but it seemed unfruitful. his eyes couldn’t focus, his head felt like on first gear. it did not make sense, he felt he was reading, but couldn’t even recall what was that he was reading about. his mind was not somewhere else, but nor it was here. it felt like it did not exist anymore. the whole sensation started to feel real, understandable. the feeling of floating started to emerge to his consciousness. his arms were there, but he couldn’t feel them. same as the legs, eyes and mouth. then he noticed he was breathing. slowly, independently, almost like not caring for air, mechanically. he slowly regain a notion of what was around, it being just his breathing. it was all that happened, nothing else. nothing else in the room, nothing else in the world.

he thought, for a second:
– even this is better than crying…

Hubo una vez un rey que dijo a los sabios de la corte:

—Me estoy fabricando un precioso anillo. He conseguido uno de los mejores diamantes posibles. Quiero guardar oculto dentro del anillo algún mensaje que pueda ayudarme en momentos de desesperación total, y que ayude a mis herederos, y a los herederos de mis herederos, para siempre. Tiene que ser un mensaje pequeño, de manera que quepa debajo del diamante del anillo.

Todos quienes escucharon eran sabios, grandes eruditos; podrían haber escrito grandes tratados, pero darle un mensaje de no más de dos o tres palabras que le pudieran ayudar en momentos de desesperación total…

Pensaron, buscaron en sus libros, pero no podían encontrar nada.

El rey tenía un anciano sirviente que también había sido sirviente de su padre. La madre del rey murió pronto y este sirviente cuidó de él, por tanto, lo trataba como si fuera de la familia. El rey sentía un inmenso respeto por el anciano, de modo que también lo consultó. Y éste le dijo:

—No soy un sabio, ni un erudito, ni un académico, pero conozco el mensaje. Durante mi larga vida en palacio, me he encontrado con todo tipo de gente, y en una ocasión me encontré con un místico. Era invitado de tu padre y yo estuve a su servicio. Cuando se iba, como gesto de agradecimiento, me dio este mensaje —el anciano lo escribió en un diminuto papel, lo dobló y se lo dio al rey-. Pero no lo leas —le dijo— manténlo escondido en el anillo. Abrelo sólo cuando todo lo demás haya fracasado, cuando no encuentres salida a la situación—

Ese momento no tardó en llegar. El país fue invadido y el rey perdió el reino. Estaba huyendo en su caballo para salvar la vida y sus enemigos lo perseguían. Estaba solo y los perseguidores eran numerosos. Llegó a un lugar donde el camino se acababa, no había salida: enfrente había un precipicio y un profundo valle; caer por él sería el fin. Y no podía volver porque el enemigo le cerraba el camino. Ya podía escuchar el trotar de los caballos. No podía seguir hacia delante y no había ningún otro camino…

De repente, se acordó del anillo. Lo abrió, sacó el papel y allí encontró un pequeño mensaje tremendamente valioso:
Simplemente decía “ESTO TAMBIEN PASARA”.

Mientras leía “esto también pasará” sintió que se cernía sobre él un gran silencio. Los enemigos que le perseguían debían haberse perdido en el bosque, o debían haberse equivocado de camino, pero lo cierto es que poco a poco dejó de escuchar el trote de los caballos.

El rey se sentía profundamente agradecido al sirviente y al místico desconocido. Aquellas palabras habían resultado milagrosas. Dobló el papel, volvió a ponerlo en el anillo, reunió a sus ejércitos y reconquistó el reino. Y el día que entraba de nuevo victorioso en la capital hubo una gran celebración con música, bailes… y él se sentía muy orgulloso de sí mismo.

El anciano estaba a su lado en el carro y le dijo:

—Este momento también es adecuado: vuelve a mirar el mensaje.

—¿Qué quieres decir? —preguntó el rey—. Ahora estoy victorioso, la gente celebra mi vuelta, no estoy desesperado, no me encuentro en una situación sin salida.

—Escucha —dijo el anciano—: este mensaje no es sólo para situaciones desesperadas; también es para situaciones placenteras. No es sólo para cuando estás derrotado; también es para cuando te sientes victorioso. No es sólo para cuando eres el último; también es para cuando eres el primero.

El rey abrió el anillo y leyó el mensaje: “Esto también pasará”, y nuevamente sintió la misma paz, el mismo silencio, en medio de la muchedumbre que celebraba y bailaba, pero el orgullo, el ego, había desaparecido. El rey pudo terminar de comprender el mensaje. Se había iluminado.

Entonces el anciano le dijo:

—Recuerda que todo pasa. Ninguna cosa ni ninguna emoción son permanentes. Como el día y la noche, hay momentos de alegría y momentos de tristeza. Acéptalos como parte de la dualidad de la naturaleza porque son la naturaleza misma de las cosas.