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5 lovely short stories by Gabriel Aziz Loutaif, an Argentinian writer – PDF versions
Discover 5 lovely stories by Gabriel Aziz Loutif, a great Argentinian writer. They include both short and long stories and are available in PDF format.
5 lovely short stories by Gabriel Aziz Loutaif, an Argentinian writer – PDF versions
You might also be interested in; 6 Lovely Long and Short Stories You Should Read
We invite you to embark on a literary journey through six beautiful short stories, each inspired by the genius of renowned authors. Read…
THE CRIME OF MRS. VOGEL
On the cold morning when Mrs. Vogel was found murdered, the smell spreading around the house, and perhaps even seeping invasively into the surrounding dwellings, was so nauseating that the first uniformed officers to arrive had to open the windows to air out what was presumed to be the crime scene. As patrol cars became visible on the street, parking with the typical abruptness of an operation, the stares of onlookers grew increasingly noticeable. A police cordon was immediately formed, and tape was placed over the front gate that encompassed the entrance. The Homicide Division inspected the perimeter, observing from the sidewalk a vacant lot to the right, as well as the gardens or yards of the properties behind the deceased's house. And something very similar to a rather old, almost abandoned shack to the left, right next to the murdered woman's residence. Various possibilities were analyzed that could have facilitated the killer's unexpected entry into the home of a solitary woman, who had all the attractive ingredients for a sick and ruthless mind to succumb to such an absurdity.
The house had recently been completely fortified with bars; perhaps the woman, analyzing the string of robberies in the neighborhood, had taken this precaution to anticipate such incidents. Apparently, the police commented, it didn't do much good, since the killer didn't even have to cut through any of the bars to enter Mrs. Vogel's house. The police presence was so large that the rumor spread like smoke from a chimney mingling with a gray sky, and the crowd, with expressions of surprise, morbid curiosity, and indignation, experienced what is commonly called collective hysteria, asking each other, their faces fearful, who could have killed Mrs. Vogel. It was unbearable to remain in the area, since the unfortunate woman had been found badly beaten, and perversely taken to the extreme of torture, with countless cuts on her forearms and chest, and advanced signs of decomposition on her body; giving as evidence that the date of death had been at least forty-eight to seventy-two hours prior to the macabre discovery, according to the detective, anticipating, based on his experience, the report that the forensic doctor would submit to the prosecutor's office.
The light from the fluorescent tubes pathetically illuminated the scene; leading to the inference that the attacker possibly entered at night and knew the movements of the house so well that he would have calmly arranged himself at his leisure to commit the crime, with the lights on and a sense of imperturbability that was uncommon, as the police reasoned by way of presumption. Detective López Lozano ordered his men to leave in order to preserve the scene and thus allow the Scientific Police to do their work with excessive rigor, but always inherent to the circumstances. He then went out to the small front garden to smoke a cigarette and carefully observed the crowd, as if he wanted to telepathically extract information from them and solve the case at once, although an inner voice told him that it was impossible to fulfill his wish. He thought he recognized Deosdado Funes, a retired police inspector, but he did not greet him until he saw that Funes himself had recognized him. And when this happened, he greeted him cheerfully with a smile and a slight wave of his hand. He saw him naturally afflicted by the years in a dramatic way; but even so, he perceived the severity in his gaze and the anachronistic poise of a man who knew how to earn respect for his transparency and leading role in clarifying a vast number of cases. Deosdado Funes gave him a sign, corrected by a grimace, indicating that it wasn't the time to talk near the crime scene, although he summarized that he would come by Homicide at any moment to collaborate with the investigation, if necessary, and turned around to leave. Detective López Lozano thought he recognized faces of people he hadn't seen in a long time, but who somehow seemed familiar; whether from old complaints, or neighborhood meetings related to the increasing insecurity. He also managed to make out Benito Fernández, better known as the idiot Fernández, who was crying while rubbing his eyes, shaking his head, revealing that he did not understand or could not believe what he had just learned about what had happened to Mrs. Vogel, much to his surprise. He was a young man of about thirty-eight with a slight mental retardation, a good-natured air, always handsome, who did odd jobs, cut the lawn, some painting work and things related to general maintenance. There were some older women who hugged him with genuine pity, because it was clear that they knew him, either because he had done some work for them or because they simply saw him walking around the neighborhood. He watched him slowly walk away with his limping gait from a crowd, still expectant, as if they were waiting for immediate answers to such a crime. Suddenly, the forensic police officers appeared. Detective López Lozano abruptly turned his head, threw away the cigarette butt, and entered the house with some anxiety, taking cover in a fixed position so as not to disturb these forensic science professionals. The photographer stood for a few moments observing the victim before beginning his work and, despite being used to seeing aberrant crimes, felt a tingling sensation that ran through his entire body. Mrs. Vogel's blue eyes were half-open, as if she had persistently tried to escape the torment, with a rag gagging her mouth, tightly tied from her feet to the top of her limbs to the old blackish rocking chair, with desperately noticeable signs of having defended herself. The trail of blood had started in her room where the surprise attack occurred, continued through the hallway, and the experts reported that the ferocious cruelty occurred because of her resistance to being killed, given Mrs. Vogel's large physical build. Around her body, a large pool of blood indicated that the fatal outcome occurred in the same place where she was found tied to the rocking chair, brutally murdered.
This definitively established that it was the first and only crime scene. One of the experts carefully examined a poker with traces of blood and white hair, suggesting that the fatal blows, despite the cutting wounds, were possibly made with this blunt object, and that the murderer, at least apparently, was not an organized killer, according to the forensic experts' analysis, based on the series of evidence found in the house. The bedroom closets were quite messed up and the drawers were wrecked; as if the disappointment of not having found something valuable had awakened the killer's fury. The silver-handled walking stick, ancient and of German origin, was so cracked that it seemed to be held together only by strands of wood, and it was determined that there were also bloodstains on the lower end of it; which suggested that Mrs. Vogel may have tried to defend herself from the attack with this item, although the suspicion persisted with more rigor, inferring that the aggressor also used this tool as a palliative to subdue the old woman. A trace and fingerprint expert carefully weighed it and placed it inside a bag for analysis in the laboratory. There was a large amount of old clothing belonging to Mrs. Vogel and her late husband scattered on the floor. The few paintings that decorated the house were unmarked by the criminal with the hope, according to Detective López Lozano, of finding valuables there. The initial signs clearly indicated that the motive was money. Could it have been one or more of the Jackals who committed such a murder?, the detective wondered. Maybe yes, or maybe no; then he inferred, although a single burly man of approximately eighty kilograms could easily have overpowered her. The news shocked public opinion. Although the woman was not well-liked in the neighborhood—whether due to her devilish character and bad manners—because she was an elderly woman who had lived alone since her husband died, and because of the cruel and ruthless way in which the murderer had treated her, a sense of shock accompanied by expressions of condolence was felt in the neighborhood. The strange thing, Detective López Lozano thought, is that nobody heard the screams, if there were any; or if logically he managed to shout something in his desperate attempt to save his life. Or perhaps the potential witnesses, fearful of some reprisal, preferred to withhold information from the justice system in order to disengage from the tragedy and live in the cowardly stupor of an unsustainable guilt but with a certain tranquility, to call it something. Except for a few calls to the police made by her neighbor, Amelia Ballesteros, a not-so-old lady, which curiously coincided with the approximate time of the crime. It was quickly learned that the woman suffered from psychiatric problems, and that she very often heard thieves running across the rooftops. Not only from his own house, but also from the neighboring ones, with persecutory delusions, since by then and for a long time, it was rumored that he heard voices overwhelmingly rumbling in his head, perceived divine and even demonic presences, spoke telepathically with extraterrestrial beings, connected with hierarchies of angels and beings of light, and had tired the authorities with his constant ominous warnings; but without a doubt, and irremediably, with no other striking meaning than his own lucubrations. It was also learned that Mrs. Vogel, despite her character and indifference towards others, had a certain sympathy for her, and that she felt sorry for her neighbor considering the mental health problems so evident. The main entrance door was not forced. Scientific police were interested in a few hammer blows around the perimeter of the lock; however, it was determined that the murderer did it on purpose to simulate that he had to destroy the solid wooden door to enter Mrs. Vogel's house and to make it appear as a fortuitous event, when it was obvious, according to the expert reports, that the lock was not forced and that the murderer entered comfortably with the key. The house was a simple dwelling, with two rooms facing the back patio, a single bathroom, the laundry room which was an extension of the kitchen, and a small breakfast room. The living room was certainly small and gloomy, preceding the main door, and there was a disused garage used as a place to store odds and ends and tools; which suggested that the victim led an austere life. It was necessary to begin investigating the most immediate environment: the family. So what would be the motive for the crime? Everything seemed to add up categorically for the detective, who believed that money could be the main factor. But judging by the viciousness used by the murderer to commit a robbery against an elderly woman who lived in a modest house, with barely a meager pension to eat and, in addition to this, with few resources to defend herself, he inferred that it was an act too cruel and excessive, if that was the motive. In any case, he did not dismiss that hypothesis, since the common sense of a criminal, the detective reasoned, is not compatible with that of most people, considering that from their perversion, these subjects act by leading their victims from terror, manipulating them at will, through torture and even death, if in short, the objective is valid as long as they get a small or large loot, such as the pension of an elderly woman; or perhaps, a large sum of savings, jewelry or things like that. He also did not rule out that it was revenge, since the first vague comments did not portray Mrs. Vogel as a kind, helpful woman, or one who showed empathy towards the community. An elderly gentleman who was witnessing the arrival of the police recalled that a few years earlier, Mrs. Vogel, tired of some young men sitting and smoking and getting drunk on her sidewalk, came out with exaggerated violence holding a rolling pin and confronted them so roughly that these men began to run hurriedly and disappeared around the corner. Another case that caught our attention was last December when a handsome man, wearing a high-value suit and possessing a strong personality that was deeply impactful, knocked on the door of his house.
The old woman was initially ecstatic, looked him up and down in a friendly manner, and ushered him in with a leisurely pace never seen before. A few minutes later, a loud crash was heard inside the house as the door opened. Later, a body was seen pushed by the atrocious force of a punch embedded in the face by this con artist who acted or pretended to act as a pension lawyer, who had made her the proposal that through his personalized management, he could substantially increase her deceased husband's pension. But had this woman done so much harm that her life should end in such a brutal and excessive way? So far, no hypothesis has been conclusive. Although the detective considered that excessive mistreatment of a person could generate a fit of madness, and even more so if presumably the individual in question, full of resentment and hatred, is not in his right mind, the chances of coming out unscathed, in this case, are nil. Then he wondered, could it have been a close friend, or perhaps a relative anxious and desperate to secure the benefit of the inheritance? Did anyone know the routines of the house, Mrs. Vogel's comings and goings? According to neighbors, the woman had no children and not even distant relatives, which to some extent, circumstantially cleared up these doubts; but not definitively for Detective López Lozano. The people who frequented the house had to be investigated. One of the neighbors said that weeks ago, Mrs. Vogel had hired two bricklayers to repair the roof, since the last rains in March caused serious water leaks, which revealed damp patches in her room and part of the masonry in the kitchen and breakfast nook. Would these construction workers be easily locatable? Who knew them, or to be more precise, who would have recommended them? For Detective López Lozano, this crime was not done—as is commonly said in slang—at random. And even more, he viscerally felt that the victim knew his killer better than he should have and that there was a level of trust that exceeded all imaginable limits, considering the accounts or comments about the victim's personality. Of course it was a subjective assessment, but he was rarely wrong when he felt an intuition like the one that was making so much noise in his head. As he stared at the deceased, countless thoughts raced through his mind. Mrs. Vogel's body language said it all: her expression was somewhere between surprise and horror. What was widely known was that Mrs. Vogel had migrated from Germany with her husband, an aeronautical engineer who worked at the Military Aircraft Factory in the city of Córdoba in the early 1950s. It was also learned that she gave English and German lessons, but privately, and that she had no dealings with the neighbors because of her strong character and her fearless, steely figure. In addition to this, it had become established in the collective imagination that her late husband, Roger Bagtchut, was not only an aeronautical engineer, but that he had served as an SS officer in Nazi Germany, which degenerated in World War II, and that at the end of the conflict, he escaped along with other officers with false names to Argentina to take refuge from possible reprisals from the old continent. The detective dismissed it outright, since the story sounded more like an American spy movie than a revenge plot that dragged on for decades of hatred, and which, due to a fatal outcome, ended up being paid for by an elderly woman in the twilight of her life. If the motive wasn't money, then would it be a crime of passion? "Suddenly throwing away the cigarette butt is absurd," Detective López Lozano thought aloud with a smile, "although at this point in my life nothing surprises me anymore." After the prosecutor arrived at the scene and took charge of the case with remarkable vehemence, a light drizzle began to fall. Some reporters were waiting for him on the sidewalk. He answered only a few questions and made his way through the anxious crowd, which had remained since early on when they saw the patrol cars parking on the block where Mrs. Vogel's house was located. While the body was being transported in the morgue van, Detective López Lozano was ruthless with the press, gesturing for them to leave him alone, as he had too much work ahead of him to solve the case and asked them to understand for the time being, stating that he should not reveal any information to preserve the secrecy of the investigation.
There were countless men on the list of suspects. Criminals who had recently been released, but who would always be considered suspects by the police, who saw them as potentially prone to reoffending, from the smallest crime to the most atrocious acts. There was no clear future for these people who, for so many undefined reasons, had fallen outside the system, and although some of them had put forth considerable effort studying within the prison, the criminal stigma pigeonholed them as likely repeat offenders.
The prosecutor summoned about twenty suspects, most of whom had criminal records. Blood samples were taken from them and compared with the victim's genetic evidence. The genetic profiles were compared, but the results were inconclusive.
As agreed that fateful morning, Commissioner Deosdado Funes appeared at Detective López Lozano's office, who, shaking his hand, indicated a chair. He sat down and looked him directly in the eyes:
"Oh, Lopecito, so many years have passed and we've never gotten together for dinner or anything; you always said you'd call me, that's why I'm so surprised you've forgotten. We used to get together more often, remember? Barbecues, homemade pasta at my house, prepared by my wife; I don't mean to slight your wife, who also cooks wonderfully. Anyway, there was more interaction."
López Lozano raised his eyebrows.
—Of course, Deosdado. You're right, I have no excuses, brother. Tell me when you'd be available. I won't let you down this time, don't worry. We'll have a barbecue with a good wine, the way it's done, if that's what you like. Or you suggest it, and it'll be a done deal, no excuses.
Deosdado Funes barely cracked a smile.
—Well, I hope that's true. I like to visit you from time to time. I always remember when you graduated from the officers' academy. Even back then you were a kid with real potential. Now I ask you, is there any news regarding the resolution of Mrs. Vogel's murder?
—Nothing, man, you know we're investigating and none of the suspects have been arrested. It's going to be hard to catch the son of a bitch who did this.
—Oh, did you know I knew her pretty well because we were neighbors? I live twenty meters from her house. Of course, you didn't know. I sold the other house you knew because it was too big, and my wife and I decided to downsize. My children got married, and why live in such a big place when there are only two of us? So I've been in the neighborhood for twenty years. I know, let's say, quite a few people here, so you can count on me for anything you need.
López Lozano raised his eyebrows.
—You don't say, it seemed strange to me that you were right near the scene; but if it's something to keep in mind, I think something might come of it with a hound as stubborn as you. And what can you tell me?
Deosdado Funes leaned back in his chair and replied:
"The old woman was difficult to manage, but she wasn't a bad person. We old folks get worse with age, just look at me. What can I tell you? My gut tells me it wasn't random, that it was planned, that she knew the killer, that it wasn't a crime of passion. What's more, it looks like a crime of passion because of the number of stab wounds, but it wasn't. There was no money. Inheritance?...only the house. There were no descendants or distant relatives, that's what I heard in the neighborhood. She was a German widow living on her pension, very frugal, like most of the people who live in the area. I don't know the motive, but I think it was revenge."
—And why do you think it was revenge?...Although I think the same.
"Look, in my opinion, it was just one guy. Why do I think it was revenge? It's pretty clear, because of the killer's brutality. No one with half a brain who breaks in to rob wants to kill because they know the consequences, unless they're caught and kill to cover up the first crime. Times have changed, I know, there are kids who kill for no reason. There aren't the same old codes in the underworld. I doubt it was a woman, since the old woman was very strong and it would have been hard to subdue her. I mean, because of her physical build and how violent she was. Whoever did it, of course without any justification, had their reasons. She was loved in the neighborhood because she helped the poor whenever she could. She was hated too, because she looked down on homosexuals, layabouts, and even kids who play ball, which is an everyday thing. That enraged her."
"I understand, but it doesn't quite add up for me that it was that serious. I say this with all due respect, but there has to be a more substantial reason to support what you're telling me. I'm not ruling it out, though; this crime is really bothering me. So much so, in fact, that it's keeping me up at night, and if this keeps up, I think I'll go crazy."
The retired commissioner frowned with a certain sign of perplexity and said:
"You have to be strong if you're going to stay on the force, and it's not that big of a deal, man. Of course, what happened is very sad, but you're not going to bring the old woman back if the case is solved. If you want to solve the crime, put your emotions aside and think with a cool head. I'm not pointing fingers at anyone yet, but I'm going to give you some information that could be significant. It's so you can start thinking and clear up some doubts, analyze others, put two and two together, who knows. But I'll tell you, and take it with a grain of salt."
—What are you going to tell me, Deosdado?
-
"Look, and listen carefully. If the gardener didn't cut the grass perfectly short, he'd insult him endlessly. When someone is humiliated so much, you know it's causing them to accumulate a lot of resentment. And that could be dangerous. Anyway, I don't want to point fingers or judge him beforehand; I just want you to consider how disturbing a person who mistreats another can be. His name is Justiniano Gómez. What a coincidence that the name Justiniano, right? I'm not a profiler of murderers, but I have a lot of experience in this. You have to do a family autopsy, get to know the victim's past and present to objectively analyze what led to their death."
—That's true, of course. We should also locate the gardener, this Gómez fellow, and question him.
"Leave that to me. I'll find out and bring you his address. Anyway, poor kid, I repeat, I'm not judging him; I'm just giving you some information to keep in mind. Could the guy be suspicious? Of course he could. We have to be suspicious of everyone."
—Do you suspect anyone else?
"The Luna brothers live right next door to me. They're all petty thieves. They steal car stereos, tires, snatch things, but I don't see them as very dangerous right now. They smoke weed, snort cocaine with other crooks, and throw parties with cuarteto music. You see shady-looking guys who show up at all hours. Other bums like them come around; I don't know what they're up to, but I'd guess they're in the same boat. They work as construction workers now and then, or pretend to, that's why they don't last long. Coke is expensive, can you tell me where the hell they get so much money to buy drugs?"
López Lozano shrugged.
—I don't know, I imagine it's from the hustle. Is it trafficking? We'd have to see if they're not more trouble than they seem and you haven't realized it. And how do you put up with them? Did you have any problems with them?
"I feel sorry for them, Lopecito. I don't know what to tell you, anything's possible. I knew their parents, they were good people, but they died in a car accident and these kids were left to fend for themselves, without an education, without anyone to care about. Anyway, they don't mess with me. They know I always carry a gun on my hip, and maybe that's why they respect me. It's rare for them to mess with a cop, even a retired one."
Detective López Lozano smiled and quickly added:
—Or to be more honest, they're afraid of you. Your reputation as a tough cop hasn't faded. You became famous for catching serious criminals and shooting them until they were dead, what can I say? That's what earned you your tough-cop reputation. We respect you a lot here, Deosdado, you know that. I don't think I need to repeat it. We miss you; we need people like you in Homicide.
—No, of course not. And thank you very much for your consideration. Now I wanted to ask if you know anything about the date of death.
"Since Monday morning, when we were notified and arrived at the scene, I believe the coroner said it was between forty-eight and seventy-two hours, based on the state of decomposition. That was also my impression; I've learned a thing or two over the years. However, it's not exact; there are many variables with the data, such as the effects of the weather. If it's cold, it sometimes helps preserve the body, while heat accelerates the decomposition process. Why are you asking me that?"
—I don't know. On Saturday after midnight, the Luna brothers played their music really loud. My wife went crazy because she hates cuarteto music. I had to get dressed, go out at that hour of the night, and bang on their door to make them turn it down.
—What do you associate it with?
—And…if no one heard Mrs. Vogel's screams, something makes me think it might be related, since there are too many coincidences. Turning up the music to kill Mrs. Vogel without anyone hearing her screams—or do you think the old woman didn't scream? That's why I'd like to know the details, since they're very important, even if they're just approximate.
—I imagine so. I'm baffled, man, but didn't you tell me these kids are just petty thieves, or did I misunderstand?
"I don't know, Lopecito, you never really know people. They all start by stealing, and some of the more ruthless ones cross the line and if they have to kill, they'll kill. I don't want to jump to conclusions about these kids; I already told you I feel sorry for them, they're just poor kids. Besides, it could be a group of friends, maybe. Well, that's just my opinion, I mean, or maybe I'm talking nonsense."
—Poor kids, thieves?... Are you kidding me?
—Not at all. I knew them when they were very young, and I felt a lot of anguish at their parents' funeral. Nobody came to help them; my wife brought them food because otherwise they would have starved. I probably lose objectivity when I think about them.
Detective López Lozano made a mocking face.
—Surely. But it does bother you when you think about those poor kids, doesn't it?
—And yes, otherwise I wouldn't have even mentioned them to you. Lopecito, I ask you please not to speak ironically when you refer to the Luna brothers, even if it turns out that they had something to do with Mrs. Vogel's murder; well, if they really did have anything to do with it, because I want to believe they didn't, although I have my suspicions, to put it mildly, but they're not very strong.
Detective López Lozano lowered his gaze.
—Yes, excuse me, it's just that I'm very passionate about my investigations. You're emotionally attached to them, and I understand, however, we have to investigate. We have to try to see the truth. I want things to be cleared up, for him, or the guilty parties, to be found.
"Of course. I already told you to keep a cool head. Otherwise, just look at me. Reality can be harsh, but you have to unravel the things that sometimes keep me from seeing it. Now that I think about it, there was that crazy Tissera guy, who I heard was locked up for a while, and that night I saw him really euphoric, maybe because of the coke. I also saw that idiot Fernández. To be more precise, Benito Fernández, the crazy guy who does odd jobs in the neighborhood, the one with one leg shorter than the other and a big limp. I remember seeing Hassan the Turk one night; now that was a real heavy hitter. He robbed armored trucks, used long guns. He was a real fighter in shootouts. I arrested him once, I almost killed him. It seems the Turk's retired. He opened a car wash a few years ago, and I haven't heard if he's reoffended."
—The man is dangerous even though he is retired.
—But of course, that's why I'm telling you so you can keep it in mind.
—And what was he doing hanging around the Luna brothers? A big guy, seemingly retired, with a car wash. Could it be a cover, and maybe they're plotting something shady?
"For now, I can only tell you that he visits them. Are they involved in any shady dealings together? I don't know. I don't want to say that the Lunas are dangerous, I don't think so, but if it can be confirmed that the date of death was within that time frame, I would consider them suspects. I don't think they're responsible for the actual crime, but perhaps as accomplices."
The detective let out an almost grotesque laugh.
—Hey, with these shady guys hanging around with the Lunas… I don't know what to think, I don't know how you sleep at night with those scumbags lurking around the neighborhood. You have a hideout next to your house and you're so calm?
Deosdado Funes looked at him firmly. He said:
"What are you saying?... If I were so calm, I wouldn't be here telling you about the strange things I'm seeing. If someone saw me in your office, I could be a dead man, you understand? I'm taking a risk because once you're a cop, you never really stop being one."
—I can put a police car at your door for as long as necessary.
"No, absolutely not, that would raise suspicions. I'm not afraid for myself. I admit I am worried about my wife. If they touch her, I'll go out and beat them all to a pulp."
—Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I don't want you to be more exposed; perhaps, while things are being sorted out, you and your wife could take a trip, that's all. I don't know, think about it.
—Let's see how things go and I'll let you know, Lopecito. Thanks for your concern, my friend.
—It's the least I can do, after all, you're risking everything to solve this infamous crime.
Deosdado Funes closed his eyes as if he were remembering something.
"Did you know that Mrs. Vogel taught English and German? The slower students, when they didn't understand her lessons, were called idiots. They're high school kids who seemed harmless, but they should be investigated too. Who knows if one of these boys harbored resentment and staged a robbery to kill her?"
—Anything is possible. We're going to investigate these kids. The old woman was a bitch. Well, may God rest her soul, but if that's the case, she kind of brought it on herself.
Deosdado Funes shook his head sadly.
"I don't think what you're saying is fair at all." And getting up, he shook her hand to say goodbye. Then he turned and explained:
—Don't just stick to the Luna brothers and their circle, investigate further. I'm waiting for your call about that barbecue we've been meaning to have.
Nodding slightly, the detective replied:
—Don't worry, it's a fact—. And he watched the retired commissioner walk away slowly, but confidently, just like when he was on duty in the force.
From the police station, looking at the computer screen, Detective López Lozano analyzed the various criminal profiles. Nearly thirty days after the homicide, the preliminary study provided by the forensic experts determined that the fingerprint analysis conclusively confirmed that the prints taken from the deceased's body belonged to Mrs. Vogel. At the scene, a gunshot wound to the head could not be detected due to the amount of blood distributed over her long hair. But when the medical examiner from the Forensic Institute performed the autopsy, other elements emerged that led to Mrs. Vogel's death. The report revealed a large pool of blood, approximately ninety by thirty centimeters, with well-defined edges, beneath her head and in the thoracoabdominal region. In the bedroom, a pool of blood, thirty by forty centimeters, with indistinct edges, was observed at the entrance. In the hallway, droplets formed a trail of blood. Bloodstains from drops on the frame and footprints are visible on the window frame. An external examination reveals a circular hole, five by five millimeters in diameter, with clean, regular edges and a diffuse Fisch contusion ring around it. Tattooing and soot are observed, suggesting the shot was fired at close range. Traces of brain matter and blood are present, indicating a projectile entry wound. No exit wound is detected. Multiple superficial lacerations, two to three centimeters in length, are found on the anterior aspect of both forearms. Fragments of tissue and hair are observed under the nails. In any case, the bullet caused her death, entering through the left temporal region, between the cheekbone and the temple, reaching the base of the skull and lodging in the apex of the eye socket, causing laceration of the structures along that path. The evidence showed that he tormented her with a knife before shooting her in the head.
The preliminary report that arrived in the following days determined that the Fingerprint and Traces Department reported finding a strange pattern in the footprints in the hallway of the deceased's house. One footprint was from a shoe, showing a full footprint, while the other was a partial footprint. Detective López Lozano paused, lost in thought, then picked up the phone and called the prosecutor.
—Doctor, excuse me if you're very busy, but I urgently need a search warrant to search that idiot Fernández's house; or… pardon my clumsiness, Doctor. Could it be… Benito Fernández?
AT LEAST ONE COFFEE
The Córdoba Library's main hall seemed to glow, packed with local journalists and fans of his work, so crowded it was almost impossible to breathe. The writer Luca Bongiorno, a renowned psychoanalyst and passionate man of letters, was finishing his presentation about his latest novel, "The Dark Zones of Your Entrails." It wasn't his first novel, by the way, the one that had propelled him to meteoric success. He had been rejected by every publisher in the country from the very beginning, and his lingering anguish, combined with other experiences, was reflected in his eyes. Even so, when the presentation began, he tried his best, while also incorporating elements from his previous books, of which he had already written more than a dozen. He shook his head, gray with age, with a hint of both helplessness and overwhelming joy; as if he wanted to vindicate the persistent effort behind his work and, of course, revalue it. Had his emotions betrayed him amidst dichotomies, unusual bursts of euphoria, and gestures he couldn't suppress before an audience that listened with ostensible kindness? He had lived with the specter of death and the inability to realize his dream. Yet, he could experience laurels and social and academic recognition in his lifetime. It was inevitable. Who could dispute his trajectory and the exalted position that placed him among the highest echelons of literature and intellectual circles? His works were being translated into more than thirty languages. Universities around the world invited him to lecture at the illustrious Luca Bongiorno. Reaching the end of his speech, he removed his glasses, dabbing his forehead with his white handkerchief to dry the perspiration, a product of the stifling heat and stress that such events often generate. Amidst applause followed by the continuous flashes of cameras, the slight gentleman in the third row, who had been observing him with apparent admiration, asked him:
—Do you, sir, think that your work could be self-referential?
Turning his gaze towards the slight gentleman in the third row, Bongiorno, who over the years had gone through countless interviews and was used to answering very similar questions, admitted in a very doctoral tone:
—Of course. Beyond the literary aspect, everything we do in life is self-referential. The circumstances we experience are not accidental. They are inherent to everyone, a whole, because in some way they concern us, however inappropriate we may feel. With this, I am not claiming that my works are strictly self-referential. Likewise, I would add that upbringing, education, the person we will love, or at least the one we believe we love and who we also think loves us, the purpose we have, which is not always clear, will at some point be a turning point in our lives. And what could possibly follow but an existential crisis? Everything is related, therefore, and from my point of view, I think that self-reference, although it may sound presumptuous, is linked to our existence. The people we pass by daily, whom we don't know, but when we look into their eyes, an inner voice tells us that we have been with them in other dimensions, in distant existences. Although it may seem far-fetched, I think from my point of view that it is subjective, that it is indeed because we are connected and our rational mind refuses to understand it for fear of losing its mind.
An elderly man in row seven, in good spirits, raised his hand. He waited until Bongiorno signaled him to ask whatever he pleased or to speak freely.
—With all due respect, I'd like to ask you something. Are you confident in your position, given that other authors have expressed disagreement with you? They believe they can be objective after writing their third or fourth book. This is understandable, as if the emotional weight of their environment—I'm referring to their family, their contact with society—might be reflected in a self-referential way at the beginning of their career. And then, of course, they might detach themselves from that self-referentiality to be more objective.
Bongiorno nodded slightly, then cleared his throat and prepared to say:
"Well. No one could have an absolute theory on this subject. And no one else, logically. It's just my opinion; you can take it or leave it. I understand my colleagues' disagreements. But I maintain that, although some authors don't recognize it and feel they've moved beyond it, considering that the central conflict of their works has nothing to do with their lives, the plot, the characters' moods, the development, the doubts, the crises, and a whole compendium of mental states that we don't notice at first glance will be reflected in the unconscious and in archetypes. But if we delve deeply, we'll realize that the work, which apparently doesn't connect with their own history, has its genesis in the author's here-and-now circumstances, their genetic inheritance, their passions. Writers perceive things that even we find hard to believe. We experience special things, like, for example, observing a couple sitting in a bar, talking about who knows what, and we might even get the idea to create the central conflict of a novel." I don't know how to explain it more clearly, but we tend to perceive things more emotionally—sensations, moods, even colors that I don't know if they exist. Anyway, I don't want to dwell on this too much.
"Excuse me," interrupted the short man in row three rudely and with considerable sarcasm, "Do you think you're special just because you're a writer?"
Bongiorno took off his glasses again and blinked in puzzlement. Then he looked at his editor, who was sitting directly to his right. He shook his head and, with a hint of indignation, replied:
“No, sir, I never felt special for being a writer. It’s true that this craft of writing brings me much joy, but in different circumstances it has frustrated me to the point of anguish. Well, writers are fallible, after all, human beings are too. And what are we if not human beings who reinvent our lives in the characters we illusorily create and project ourselves into to escape the monotony or mediocrity of existence? We are liars because adversity has led us to make our egos believe we are talented, and sometimes it’s not true. Of course not. We lie shamelessly when writing a story to try to convince readers that what they are reading is true. We like to generate fascination through literature. I admit it, of course, it’s a constant struggle with the ego, beyond my literary passion. However, it’s so hard to survive as a writer that, even if we lack talent, we at least try to convince ourselves that we do have it.”
There was a sudden burst of laughter and applause, until the small gentleman in row three, with emphatic concern, asked again:
—So, what conclusion are you trying to reach?
—As science readily demonstrates, without much analysis, we are the product of our past. We are biology, nature, a concatenation of emotions and feelings that condense and flow within us. We are often bewildered because, deep down, we are dualistic; something like sponges absorbing all kinds of situations and difficulties. Sometimes life takes us down adverse paths, and then duality and common sense emerge, which can vary depending on the circumstances. This can range from the joy of watching a beautiful sunset when we are in love, to the moment when dusk falls and night essentially takes hold of our solitude because we have lost our love.
—But what does that have to do with what you were saying before, how does it connect?— asked the short man in the third row.
—Listen carefully. We need to analyze someone going through a heartbreak or grief, what sorrows they feel, how melancholy flows through their emotions, what and how they perceive reality in order to stay grounded under those circumstances. Just as they loved that person, couldn't they have plotted revenge because they felt betrayed? There are cases where it leads to murder. Do you understand when I refer to duality? Another example could be a police officer who helps an elderly man cross the street because he's moved by the risk of seeing him face danger. On the other hand, we might learn that this same officer, along with other uniformed officers, clears an area for a drug dealer to sell drugs. Is it contradictory? Of course, absolutely. But everything has an explanation. When the police officer saw the elderly man, he made a connection with his own father, so, beyond his solidarity, which is certainly valid, symbolically he helped his father cross the street. This duality, among other things, explains its dark areas.
The slight man in the third row watched him, agitated, as if he were beginning to recall moments he would have preferred to forget forever, and to sow hatred toward Bongiorno. The audience nodded thoughtfully, as if they saw themselves reflected in certain passages of their own lives. A young man who appeared to be a psychology student or studying a related field, sitting in the fourth row, raised his hand. He asked:
—And what about people who appear to be upstanding, wealthy, and cultured, who seem happy, but for some reason fall into despair? What can we attribute this to? Is it that they put on a facade, that they adopt a persona to hide who they truly are, or is it due to a certain death drive, as Freud suggests?
Bongiorno opened his eyes with a touch of perplexity. He hadn't been mistaken when he realized the young man sitting in the fourth row was a psychology student. Even so, the fact that the young man had mentioned the life and death drives didn't guarantee he was actually studying psychology. For a few moments, he was also quite pleased that they could interact on a somewhat intellectual level, and that the conversation was more pleasant; he saw the young man as curious, eager to learn, and analytical, and he considered such people to be truly intelligent.
"Good question. Your interest revolves around, or is hypothetically interested in, someone who appears happy, and you don't know how to attribute their despair. Well, to various possibilities. It could be a type of depression, perhaps. The loss of a loved one, losing a partner, or experiencing an existential crisis—who knows the reasons. But I want to return to the theme of duality, which I personally connect to everything. Let me clarify: possessing money, a high level of education, and leading a prosperous life doesn't necessarily mean someone is happy. You have to know their story, their passions, their achievements or failures, their place in the world to intrinsically clarify their existential problem. There's a lot of talk about the life drive, Eros, and the death drive, Thanatos, but Freud also speaks of the drive for power. It occurs to me, to give an example, that a person who is the child of a very powerful man could have a peaceful life, travel, and study at prestigious international universities." These days, children blessed with money generally don't develop a very close bond with their parents. And if they do, it's very noticeable.
"My questions always allude to the title of your novel. Are you suggesting that being rich is harmful to people?" asked the boy in the fourth row.
"I have nothing against wealth. There are rich people who are happy. It depends on the upbringing they've received. What I want to make perfectly clear is that material things bring comfort and well-being, but they will never replace love. Sometimes, or rather in many cases, power dehumanizes us. A powerful father will, sooner or later, pass on his vision for his life so that his son will imitate him, or perhaps even surpass him. It depends on who the father is, what he wants for his son, and what his intentions are. Will he let him be himself or will he manipulate him to mold him in his own image?"
"What do you mean by this?" the boy asked.
"It's a very broad topic to explore. In this case, he's pressuring him to be someone he might not want to be. There are various factors involved, since we certainly can't just analyze a single stereotype. There are certain narcissistic parents who constantly humiliate their children and convince them they're idiots. I have no doubt about it. They're manipulative. It will depend on your son how he navigates life and builds his personality with his wounded narcissism, exacerbated by his father's perverse narcissism. It's quite possible that your son will convince himself he's an idiot and won't be able to build the life he desires. Let's not forget that upbringing and affection in relationships are passed down from generation to generation. An accumulation of power drives could be dangerous for the psyche, since this drive is violent. We run a high risk of becoming psychopaths or monsters trapped in our narcissism."
"Excuse my persistence regarding the title or plot details," said the boy in the fourth row. "Could you give us a little preview? I'm quite intrigued, Mr. Bongiorno."
—Absolutely. Regarding the title of my novel and some inferences, I can tell you a little about it. I believe, as I said before, that man is dual. In that sense, he conveys pernicious thoughts through his characters. Human miseries such as hatred, rancor, envy, resentment, hopelessness, and imbalances that lead us to sordid states that could drive us to suicide or homicide. These are clearly contrasted with good thoughts, empathy, love, understanding, and generosity.
—So, how would you approach the duality you're referring to, considering that the subject has already formed, so to speak, their personality?—the boy asked.
—Personality might be a persona that reveals a person more or less as they truly are, or perhaps not. We must consider that there are always underlying factors that our defense mechanisms keep hidden, or that operate depending on the various variables the individual experiences in their circumstances. Take affective ambivalence, for example: I love you, but sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I feel an overwhelming urge to kill you, but I refrain and wonder why I can't act on it. Is it our emotions or our moral structure that sometimes keeps the desire to kill in check, yet still carries the risk that the urge to kill will erupt? This happens to some people, even though they may never cross that line.
"They never cross it, Mr. Bongiorno, are you sure about that?" asked the psychology student in row four.
—Sometimes, yes. In most cases, I say no. It's as if different beings coexist in our heads, speaking to the self and trying to deconstruct it. What I'm saying sounds schizophrenic, since the ego structure constantly struggles against these sometimes reckless characters. The urge to kill is latent in everyone. An abusive, humiliating boss is committing psychological homicide, as a colleague explains in his doctoral thesis. He's causing a good person, tired of his belittling or mistreatment, to one day snap and kill him with hammer blows to the head. It's very symbolic that it's the head. Do you realize what it's like to destroy self-esteem? That's why we read in the newspapers that a woman, after thirty years of marriage, kills her husband with a shotgun while he's sleeping defenseless. I don't want to justify anyone, nor condone a crime, but can you imagine the abuse this poor woman suffered during those years? And vice versa, of course; there are also women who abuse men, but this is less frequent. Our reactions depend on moral consistency and the connection formed by neurosis, which sometimes falls short, on circumstances, and on our moods. I wonder: will our inhibitions kick in, or will they leave these individuals free to act according to their own whims?
"Ultimately," the boy in the fourth row continued, "we are a ticking time bomb, or a Pandora's box. Every human being is a universe to be analyzed."
—Of course, and always referring back to his history, to his ancestors. Killing isn't normal, but it doesn't surprise me that anyone would do it, regardless of whether that anyone was mentally unstable or not. The line is very fine. Indeed, there are extreme cases, special situations in which we react to an unforeseen event that puts us between a rock and a hard place. We should also consider people with emotional problems, the place that this mysterious being of normal appearance occupies today, who walks lost in thought, silent, along the same path we might walk, who sits in the same church pew, and sometimes we don't realize if he's at peace, or if he's about to explode at any moment. In any case, I want to clarify something. Normality doesn't exist, much less in these times.
The lady in row eight, wearing a beige suit, asked her:
"But why are you saying that? It scares me a lot. Now that I think about it, I'd be terrified to go out on the street and be surprised by someone who looks like that."
"Don't be so alarmed. We live with an illusion of invulnerability because we believe nothing bad will happen to us. We were able to study for a degree, work, get married, and start a family. We cling to a religion that tells us we'll be with God when we die. We construct a stereotype that is socially appealing and allows us to live with a certain degree of harmony. Despite everything, deep down we know that life is short and that we will die someday. Nothing gives us absolute certainty that this savior God exists, and that after death He will grant us eternal life or the paradise we so desperately long for. Nor does anything guarantee that we will remain mentally healthy. We see people who, before they even get old, begin to forget the present and only register the past, to become lost, whether it's senile dementia or some other pathology, but we project onto them and get very scared."
"Why are we transferring?" the boy in row four asked again.
—Because we are human beings, and a phenomenon occurs when we instinctively see ourselves reflected in our ancestors. We are aware that our genetic inheritance could affect us in some way. Everyone, absolutely everyone, is somewhat possessed by madness. Even so, despite the various adversities, I think it's worth living life as fully as possible. We are here, we remain, we plan, we build, because without a doubt, our existence has some meaning; life is a wonderful experience. At least that's my belief, and I hope to maintain it over time.
Loud laughter and comments erupted from the audience, as if they had recalled dramatic scenes from their own families, since this writer, quite out of the blue, reminded them that madness is inherent in human beings. And absolutely no one is exempt.
The psychology student in row four raised a hand:
—Now, I ask, perhaps shifting the focus a bit on these very interesting aspects associated with humanity. Considering education, the way affections are transmitted, I mean from parents to children, why might what appears happy sometimes turn out to be a sign of hopelessness?
Bongiorno admitted with a smile:
"It could be, of course. Everything is relative. I think it's about finding a balance. It's not that easy, nor that difficult. Parents who hug and kiss their children daily, showing them their love, understanding, and support, and who reinforce their abilities and talents, always with respect and authority—not authoritarianism—are nurturing a virtuous being. When they allow them to freely choose their careers so they can develop, beyond the achievements they attain, they don't have to worry so much about the future and the circumstances that may arise. Deep down, they know that the integrity forged from affection, education, and morality, by perceiving them as strong, will enable them to face any adversity. The harvest will likely be wonderful."
The short man in the third row rolled his eyes with a certain malice. In a grotesque tone, he shouted:
"He says he doesn't feel special, but he admits he's talented, or that he thinks he has to convince himself he's talented. His discourse is very contradictory, Mr. Bongiorno. He confuses this poor young man by relativizing everything. Impulses, and a bunch of psychoanalytic nonsense, for crying out loud. I understand, you as a psychoanalyst can manipulate them, but not me. I'm not an idiot. I'm quite intelligent. You have to be very foolish not to realize that frustration, unfulfilled goals, produce unhappiness. Frustration drives us crazy, self-esteem is destroyed, and we relegate everything to meaninglessness."
Bongiorno listened thoughtfully, as if he were just another patient who needed undue attention and to be allowed to express himself in the consulting room. This little man had his reasons for saying what he was saying; what was regrettable, clumsy, and crude were his resentful ways of expressing himself.
“Of course I understand what frustration is,” Bongiorno replied. “These emotions crush the weak and can depress them or drive them mad, while they make the strong even stronger, sir. But please continue; the conversation is quite interesting despite your ironic and irascible tone. I warn you, these people are intelligent. They aren’t idiots, as you treat or mistreat them.”
"That will become clearer later. It's a good thing you understand, Bongiorno, or so I believe. Even so, did you analyze what you just said? You write to escape the monotony or mediocrity of existence. So are you admitting that people who don't write are mediocre because they are perhaps workers, ordinary people, who have to put food on the table? Isn't that an insult to the audience who came to see a renowned writer, as reality surely demonstrates, and we, like fools, expect honesty and wisdom from you? Please, try to be clearer, Mr. Bongiorno."
The blonde lady in row five shouted:
"Please stop bothering him. I've never seen anyone so ruthless and cynical, sir. After all, who are you to question or challenge Mr. Bongiorno, who has taken such care to be clear with us? It's completely unfair the way you speak to a writer whom words cannot adequately applaud. Stop bothering him and shut your mouth, you rude person."
A large man with a horse-like face, sitting in row four, glared angrily at the slight man in row three. He declared:
"I'm holding back from beating him up. Control yourself or I'll lose it. The only reason I haven't hit him is out of respect for the writer I admire so much. Nobody deserves this kind of rudeness, especially not on the day of his novel's launch."
A commotion erupted, filled with astonished and indignant glances, until silence fell over the room. Bongiorno looked at him somewhat sternly but managed to maintain his composure. He made a calming gesture with his hand and said:
—You are an extremely aggressive person. Did you realize that you upset the public?
The short man in row three smiled rather maliciously and replied dismissively:
"I don't care if the audience is upset. It seems no one is interested in hearing the truth. After all, what's with all the fuss about saying what I think? Or is it wrong to speak your mind if you know deep down that you're very close to the truth? Now I have to put up with some crazy woman challenging me, and a thug threatening to beat me up. Please, this is outrageous. A cultural venue like this could turn into a battlefield."
Bongiorno stared at him in astonishment.
—Sir, you brought this on yourself. I ask you, please, not to disrespect anyone, least of all a lady. You're far from telling the truth. Besides, who can claim that anything is true? That we're approaching something true—I'm just hypothesizing, I should clarify—perhaps it has some plausibility. If you were to truly think calmly, if you were to analyze your questions or comments before making such hasty judgments, we wouldn't be speaking in these terms, do you understand?
The short man in row three smiled cynically. He said:
—The truth is, I don't understand it. How could I understand it when it's full of contradictions?
—Then you didn't understand anything at all. Now, going back to your incisive question, what can I say? I wasn't referring to anyone in particular, except myself and a few fellow writers who agreed when I explained that I write to escape monotony or mediocrity. Writing is good for me; it makes me feel fulfilled. However, it would be absurd of me to claim that writing is satisfying for everyone. Each person experiences what they feel, what they seek, and what they are meant to experience. Furthermore, I openly confess that I have felt mediocre at different points in my writing process, and there are other aspects that aren't relevant here because they are personal. I don't know if that's clear; I was speaking for myself in this instance, even though we agreed with some fellow writers.
“But don’t you feel talented?” the slight man in the third row asked again. “At times you’re so ambiguous that I find it hard to believe you. Are you talented, or do you think you’re talented? Have you finally convinced yourself now that you’ve achieved success, or do you need to win the Nobel Prize to be convinced? You crave the laurels of the Swedish Academy. I’d swear you dream of appearing in every newspaper in the world, just out of pride. Come on, tell the truth. I don’t like feigned humility. I’m fed up with so much hypocrisy. You’ve referred to duality, so I ask you to be consistent in your words and actions.”
Bongiorno smiled, looking somewhat tired. He explained:
"If I win, of course I'd accept it with great enthusiasm, why not? Now, whether I believe I'm talented? What does that matter? Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. But I admit I have to believe in myself, because after all, what's wrong with believing in yourself? I didn't mean to confuse the young man. I was just answering his questions. Unfortunately, I don't have the secret to happiness. But when you form an opinion, it's because you've analyzed and relativized the crux of the matter to the point of exhaustion. I'm just a writer who's come to present a book."
"You know what?" interrupted the short man in the third row. "It's like he thinks he's above everyone else. Just because he's been lucky in life doesn't put him above anyone at all, Mr. Bongiorno."
“I don’t feel superior to anyone, that’s absurd, for God’s sake, I hope that never happens to me. I’m as fallible as most people who walk this path of life, and we often struggle to understand where we stand. One thing is very true, though. I like to do things well; I’m quite a perfectionist. Well, anyway, does anyone else have any questions?” He looked at the audience expectantly. Then he nodded slightly in gratitude and concluded:
—Otherwise, I'm very grateful for your presence. I'd like to wrap things up because we're going over time. The staff here need to leave. Thank you so much for taking the time to join me for the presentation of this novel. I've never had an event that lasted so long. Honestly, I haven't. But I think it happened this way because the discussion became so interesting. I apologize if this meeting seemed more psychological than literary, but there are reasons for that. Besides, both aspects are closely related. I must admit it was very meaningful to delve into this dark territory to explore those areas we find so difficult to acknowledge and in which we sometimes willingly participate. It's good to become more aware of the values we still hold, and I hope they are never, ever lost. There were a few incidents with the gentleman whose name I don't know, something that has never happened to me before. I want to tell him that I'm still grateful, as the meeting was enriching. Oh, excuse me, I'd like to add something. I'm sure there are writers or enthusiasts here who are unsure about starting, or perhaps not so much, who knows? Maybe some of you have a clearer grasp of the craft of writing. That's normal. I felt the same way when I began. To those people, I say take heart, don't compromise your dreams, and don't let anyone else compromise you. There are plenty of frustrated people who never dared to try anything and then pass on their experiences to others. They might be called crazy or cowardly; however, writing is worthwhile. Don't compete with anyone, just be yourselves. As the great Borges, whom I deeply admire, advised, if you want to become a good writer, read and reread the classics. Then read whatever you like. Everything helps, everything adds up, nothing is left to chance. Sometimes this craft is very hard because you work in solitude, and you rarely achieve recognition. Don't remain in obscurity or succumb to the death drive; believe in yourselves. Persist, it's the only way to get there. Life has more meaning when you have a clear purpose. Take heart, it's what Freud described as the life drive. Thank you so much. Thank you again, I don't know how to thank you enough, you make me feel so good and I hope you feel the same way.
The audience slowly rose to their feet and began to applaud. So much so that some faces showed tears in their eyes, hands hurriedly wiping them away. Following this, a surge of emotions and unfinished memories converged in a flurry of camera flashes that made Mr. Bongiorno blink until he was almost dazed. A long line of people formed, waiting for him to sign their books. He took out a fountain pen and happily began signing, as he had always done on other occasions in his career, before he was a renowned author. But seeing people waiting for his signature must have made him immensely happy. To one side, two men in white jackets were serving wine and canapés; this helped to ease the tension, and they peacefully surrounded Bongiorno, who graciously answered questions from journalists and other fans of his work. The slight gentleman in the third row stood apart, holding a glass of wine and glancing at a copy of the novel, its back cover a mere glance. He looked as if he were about to explode in anger. Each sip of his drink was like a swallow of poison hitting his insides. He watched Bongiorno with both fascination and a dark resentment that had festered for years, ever since he began obsessively reading his works. Nevertheless, The Dark Zones of Your Entrails, even though he hadn't read it, had shaken him to his core, striking at the very core of his narcissism. He felt frustrated both as a writer and as a husband abandoned in tragic circumstances. Furthermore, Bongiorno's final comment about encouraging aspiring writers wasn't seen as a gesture of empathy or cooperation, but rather, concocted from his darkness, as an act of arrogance disguised as ultraism.
A little over forty-five minutes had passed since the toast began when a flash of lightning startled everyone. Suddenly, the room began to empty. A woman lamented not having brought an umbrella, as the rain was becoming increasingly heavy. Bongiorno spoke with his editor, shook his hand, and watched him leave. He then greeted the few people waiting at the entrance and took shelter with the others, waiting for the downpour to subside. He said to himself, "What an idiot I was not to have driven my car. Perhaps I'm just getting old," he mused, pressing his lips together in resignation. He hated driving in the city; the traffic stressed him out to the point of exhaustion. He lived too far away to walk. For a decade, he had traveled by taxi, but in these circumstances, how could he find one? Most of the taxis he saw passing were occupied, and the few that seemed available were snatched up by pedestrians hurrying to escape the storm that raged ominously over the city of Córdoba. He started walking in the rain along 27 de Abril Street. He heard a car horn, but didn't think it was meant for him. He continued walking, since his fate was in the hands of destiny, which played out between the inclement weather and his worry about getting home. After he had walked about a hundred meters, his suit was completely soaked. "What an idiot," he said to himself again, with the despondency of an older person who foresees a grim situation and feels that his strength to endure this ordeal is no longer what it once was when he was a young man. He heard another annoying honk and when he turned around, he saw the small man from the third row gripping the steering wheel of a dilapidated, faded Peugeot 504. This can't be, he thought, but it's crazy to run into this provocative fellow who's turned the meeting into almost a nightmare. It's true he added a certain perverse appeal, he admitted to himself, but he unsettled us all with his erratic conjectures. The small man from the third row rolled down his window and, after another series of honks, gestured for him to get in. He shouted:
"Come on, get in. My car's a clunker, but I'll take you wherever you need to go. It's certainly old, but it's never let me down because it's very loyal to me, and I value loyalty a lot, especially in these uncertain times when you don't know who's who."
Bongiorno remained thoughtful, analyzing what he had just heard. The comment from this strange man, who extolled the loyalty of an inanimate object to himself, sounded morbid to him. The comment even sounded schizophrenic. He said:
—Thank you, but I live very far away. I'll manage somehow, sir. Don't worry, these things happen.
"Excuse me. Could you tell me where you live or where you're going?" insisted the short man in row three.
"Villa Rivera Indarte," Bongiorno said, thinking he'd get rid of him once he realized how far the trip would be. "It would be pointless for you to give me a ride. Thank you very much. Don't worry, I'll get a taxi as soon as it stops raining."
The short man in row three opened his eyes with a sign of impatient happiness. He exclaimed:
"Exactly, what a coincidence. I live very close by and wouldn't mind giving you a ride. Keep in mind that at our age, with this sudden cold snap, we're prone to pneumonia. And you're not stupid, you're an old man and you know the consequences. Córdoba used to flood many years ago. The same thing could happen if this downpour doesn't stop. The construction of La Cañada was very well thought out back then, but when it rains heavily, the force of the water becomes so intense that it seems like it's going to overflow. High-voltage power lines often fall during storms. You're experiencing a very special moment in your writing career. I don't think you want to die just for the sake of getting into the car of the guy who bothered you on the very day of your novel's launch. Life should prepare us, or rather, we should prepare ourselves to face these kinds of incidents. Don't be foolish, come on, get in."
The writer felt overwhelmed by a reality that crushed him and by the opportunity this madman had taken advantage of a difficult situation to try and manipulate him. Bongiorno was a tall, burly man with blue eyes; the typical northern Italian with Germanic features. He had practiced boxing in his youth, but despite this, getting into a stranger's car after having acted aggressively in a crowded room just minutes before seemed more than absurd. A bus driver suddenly accelerated, splashing his suit with muddy water. Although he was already wet, he should try not to worry about the minor accident. Nevertheless, he was indignant at the bus driver's lack of consideration. Nobody respects even the elderly anymore, he thought aloud. He felt old, vulnerable. In his uncertainty, he looked at him thoughtfully. He saw him as so small, not only physically, but in the poverty of his angry thoughts, in his inconsistent and malicious banalities, that he shrugged, closing his eyes for a few moments. He thought to himself, "He's a poor wretch, and I'd be a fucking hypocrite if I agreed." Then he looked at him, undecided. And although an inner voice warned him not to accept the invitation, he decided to cross the street and get in anyway. As he started the car, the small man in the third row apologized for his aggressive behavior. He tried to justify his outburst by saying that he had a hard time controlling his impulses, as he felt something very similar to his head about to explode when he couldn't express his thoughts. Bongiorno, almost unfazed, replied that everything was manageable when there was true conviction and a will to improve things. He searched for the seatbelt without success, as it didn't exist because of the car's antiquated and neglected state. The small man in the third row glanced at him sideways and accelerated abruptly, then took a dirty rag from the glove compartment and wiped the inside of the windshield to dry the moisture that was affecting visibility. The trip felt rather long, whether due to the heavy traffic, the semi-flooded streets, or the circuitous and winding roads the small man in the third row had to navigate. Finally, after discussing various classic and contemporary writers, the car began to enter Villa Rivera Indarte. Bongiorno pointed with his index finger at the street they should turn onto. But the driver ignored him and continued on without flinching. Later, he looked at him indifferently and said:
—At least a coffee, Mr. Bongiorno, and I won't take no for an answer.
—But what are you doing? I can't, it's late, my wife is waiting for me. I wouldn't want her to worry about my absence.
"I don't understand. You have a wife and she didn't come to the book launch? If there's one thing I'll never understand, it's women. You give them everything, and this is how they repay you. They leave, they leave, they're awful. They're never satisfied, they're always looking for a reason to ruin our lives. They're wonderful people when they're in love, but that doesn't last very long. You, who have lived a lot of life, will surely agree with me. I'm more than convinced."
"My wife wasn't feeling well. I suggested she stay and rest. Please stop the car; I'm getting out. Please be considerate this time; we can have a coffee and a long chat another time, sir."
"I'm not going to stop, not a chance. We'll have a coffee, talk about literature, and then I'll take you home. Don't worry, we're colleagues. You talked a lot at your conference to those idiot followers of yours. Now you have the opportunity to talk to an intelligent person who happens to be in this old car, but who gave us a ride. Come on, don't be ungrateful."
Bongiorno opened his eyes in fury, realizing instantly that this sinister little man had meticulously planned everything from the start, and he, like a fool, had agreed despite knowing he was dealing with a dangerous individual. He gradually began to recall seeing him buying groceries at the same store where Bongiorno usually ran his errands. He remembered Mrs. Teresa's bakery, so old and beloved by the community, though he couldn't quite recall how many years he'd been going there to buy bread, croissants, or biscuits to go with his mate. The Machuca brothers' tire shop, where they had repaired his tires on several occasions, and where, once, the man driving next to him had argued loudly with them, was also a chance encounter. As if an old black and white film were playing in his mind, he recalled the countless times he'd seen this maniac pretending to shop or read a newspaper in different places, when the reasons for these apparent coincidences meant that he was being watched with a strange obsession he hadn't noticed before. But given the circumstances, his much-studied and analyzed subconscious was shaking his brain, making him realize that his life was in danger. Of course, these weren't coincidences, certainly not. When he left the Córdoba Library, the storm wasn't forecast, Bongiorno thought, yet he conspired to let this man take advantage of the bad weather and concoct a convincing stratagem to get him into his car. He felt his head explode, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, angry emotions he tried to suppress, and his naive decision to have listened to him and believed him, despite an inner voice warning him against it. What was this strange man plotting, this man who was forcibly taking him away, for who knows what purpose? Feeling the despair of knowing he was being manipulated, he shouted:
"You're committing a crime, sir. Stop, or I'll open the door. I don't want to get violent; that's not my way. Please stop, or there will be consequences you'll regret later. You're depriving me of my freedom. It's kidnapping."
With a malicious look and an expression that betrayed terror, the driver glanced at him sideways, smiled as if he enjoyed Mr. Bongiorno's unease, and wrinkling his nose, said:
—Do you superficially think I'm afraid of you? Don't make me laugh, ha ha, don't be so stupid, at least allow yourself a coffee or you'll regret it because you have no idea who you're talking to, Mr. Know-It-All Writer.
Bongiorno grabbed him by the neck and began shaking him. However, the car kept moving. After repeatedly punching him, the driver's head shattering the window, he grabbed the gearshift and locked it in neutral. The Peugeot 504 slowly crashed into a tree, and both men froze in shock from the minor accident. Bongiorno barely managed to open the door, got out, and started walking. It was dark, the rain was pouring down, and visibility was poor. He felt uncertain, as he was dizzy and about to lose his bearings. The street had practically turned to mud, and because of the storm, it seemed deserted. The small man in the third row, his forehead bleeding, also managed to get out. Pointing a gun at him, he shouted:
"Where do you think you're going, you idiot? Look what you've done, look what you've done, damn it! You acted like some intellectual lecturing at your conference. You shouldn't have done that; you've shown yourself to be a very primitive man. You act like most people; you couldn't control your impulses. You're a hypocrite."
Bongiorno caught a glimpse of the weapon, then, frightened, he looked him in the eyes and replied:
—To my house, where else would I want to go? I already told you my wife is waiting for me. Are you going to shoot me? What do you want me to do, stay with you?
"Well, that's up to you. I invited you for coffee, and you pay that way. Besides, my car brought us here, even though it's old. I don't see you thanking me for the ride. My car is reliable, it always has been. You still haven't apologized. The impact wrecked your front end. I'm soaked in blood. What happened to your inhibitions, Mr. Bongiorno? They don't seem to have worked this time. Are you going to lecture me about the duality of people? Life drive, death drive, or the urge to kill, which is what I truly feel right now."
—Please understand that anyone under this kind of intimidating pressure can react in different ways. Some don't react out of fear, while others do, perhaps out of desperation. You're coercing me to do what you want. That's not normal. As for your car, don't worry, I'll cover the costs. Don't fret about it; it's just metal, and it can be fixed.
"Keep your money. I don't care about your damn money. You rich people think everything can be fixed with money. I'm morally disgusted by your ill will and your bad manners. Now walk down that path. That's my house. Don't make a single false move, or I'll shoot you. I hear many voices telling me to shoot you. I'm struggling to suppress these voices in my head that are begging me to shoot you."
Bongiorno listened in disbelief and said:
"You're quite unbalanced. You're kidnapping me and telling me you're morally distraught? I'm being held against my will, but what kind of world do we live in, for God's sake? You're talking about bad manners? Don't be ridiculous, stop pointing that gun at me, I'm unarmed. I don't know why you're behaving this way. Didn't you think I'm a public figure? Do you think no one saw me get into your car? Don't you remember how aggressive you were during my book launch? People don't forget these things, especially if I disappear under these circumstances."
The short man in the third row laughed with complete nonchalance.
"Don't be an idiot, come inside my house or you'll seriously regret it," he said, so forcefully approaching him that he pressed the gun barrel against his throat as if he were about to shoot him. "I'm warning you, don't ever call me unbalanced again because it'll be much worse than you think. Hand over your cell phone. Besides, don't think you're so important, or do you think people have nothing better to do than be so concerned about your life? Haha, you make me laugh, public figure, important? Your ego's gotten quite inflated."
Bongiorno walked slowly, passed through the first gated entrance, and when he was about to go through the main entrance door, he felt a blow to the back of his neck that knocked him to the dining room floor. When he woke up, he didn't know how many minutes he had been lying there. He touched his bleeding head and, as he tried to get up, he felt weakness in his legs followed by intense pain in his neck and shoulders. He heard the television was on with the volume too high. Although she had already perceived signs that she was with a dangerous guy, she never imagined that she would be with one so crazy and willing to do so much. She wondered if she was living a nightmare. He deeply desired it. So much so that he closed his eyes as if he refused to see the place where he lay, his head already bleeding from the unusual expectation of another violent reaction; probably that of a psychopath, or at least that of a resentful pervert who did not understand how life is, its rules, and wants to take out his frustrations on the first fool he finds. But the reality was different and it made him feel like a real idiot. Glancing sideways down the long corridor that led to the bedrooms, he saw a large library crammed with books. The guy was a poor wretch; but it was obvious and you didn't need to be very bright to realize it - although considering at least that on the journey from Córdoba to Villa Rivera Indarte - he had shown himself to be a cultured, judicious man, with a certain worldliness from having lived in post-war Europe in the prime of his youth in the fifties. Without a doubt, something had happened to make him become such an evil man. He saw an old sewing machine disassembled as if it were waiting to be repaired, a toolbox on the dining room table; on the kitchen counter, he saw the Christmas tree folded up to be put away. He saw the filthy, abandoned house, with the old paint on the walls peeling away. He saw the portrait of Jean Paul Sartre with his characteristic pipe. He saw disorder everywhere and smelled nauseating odors. He could also see cockroaches walking on the floor where he was lying. He felt disgust, helplessness. He seemed to be experiencing a nightmare and had the feeling that it would last for a long time. He thought these sordid experiences only happened in American movies. He never imagined it could happen to him. Bongiorno recalled that during the presentation of his novel, this man appeared quite flustered when he referred to unfulfilled goals, frustration, and low self-esteem. As if the only lens through which I could see or perceive the world was grayish, blurry, decadent; devoid of meaning and of an almost vanished hope. She had worked with patients with similar characteristics, but this was the first time she had encountered such a controversial and at times delusional character. He saw him turn down the volume on the television and then take out an ice cube tray, wrap it in a plastic bag, and walk towards him. He handed her the bag to reduce the swelling in her head. He proposed to her:
"Put it on, it'll do you good if you keep it on for a while. See? I'm not as bad a guy as you must think. Well, it was just a blow for now, after all, you were the one who hit me first. I've been thinking about duality. The truth is, I really want to kill you, but now I feel sorry for you seeing you like this. From now on, I don't know how I'm going to react. You talked a lot in your lecture a few hours ago, and I was impressed by what you think about it. I'm more than sure that even if you won't admit it, you must have already called me crazy. That's what therapists do; I'm not going to judge you for that."
Touching his head, Bongiorno asked:
—Isn't your wife here? What would she say if she saw me like this?
"She's dead. She wanted to leave and she died. Life is a wheel; whoever tries to betray me ends up dead, definitely dead. If you want to see her, I have her ashes in that urn right on the shelf where her photograph rests. She was very beautiful when she was young, but I didn't choose her just for physical attraction. Her intelligence dazzled me. When she spoke, she overwhelmed with her intellectual bearing combined with her great beauty."
Bongiorno felt a chill. She realized that this little man had murdered her for abandoning him. But how could she have been so stupid as to let him into her car? Where had her brain or common sense gone to be so foolishly trusting? She looked him straight in the eyes with a certain fear, and said:
—I'm so sorry, it must have been painful for you. These are truly terrible situations to go through. Those of us who have lost a loved one can understand because it becomes a lifelong grief. You never forget.
The small man in row three smiled cynically.
"You're terrified. Haha. I can smell it. You're really scared of me, and don't be too sorry about it, because I don't feel anything for that woman. Stop pretending to save yourself, and don't take me for a fool, you know perfectly well what happened with her. She betrayed me, and look what happened to her. Now get up very carefully. I detest weak people. Mistakes must be paid for in this life. She paid for it, and how, you fucking bitch. I loved her madly, I gave her everything a woman deserves. She was ungrateful. I hope she rots in hell. Go to the bathroom and wash off the blood; you're getting it all over the floor. Afterward, sit in this chair. I'll clean up the blood."
If he had confessed to the crime, Bongiorno inferred as he washed his hair, he was sure he was going to kill him too. It was obvious. He glanced at the bathroom window, but upon closer inspection, he saw that it was too small for his body to fit through, so he dismissed the idea entirely. If it was true that he had murdered his wife, why was he free? How could he have justified himself to the police to get away with it so easily? Using his intelligence, Bongiorno thought, didn't guarantee success. He perceived paranoid traits in this little man, psychopathic disorders, delusions of grandeur, schizophrenic elements, but beyond his flaws, he seemed to him to be a fairly intelligent fellow who couldn't handle his emotions when frustrated. If Bongiorno's strategy upon leaving the bathroom was to treat him like a patient, it would backfire, since he didn't consider him an idiot and it would be underestimating him to try. Suddenly, he heard him approaching and shouting:
"Are you going to stay there? Here, take some rubbing alcohol and gauze. I'll bring you a bandage in case it keeps bleeding. Come on, get yourself sorted out once and for all. The blood is bothering me. I'm not doing this out of kindness, and let me make it clear that I don't feel guilty. You're the only one to blame for what happened. I'll make coffee as I told you beforehand. To think that just a few hours ago you were speaking like a professor. If your audience saw you looking so pathetic, your image would be ruined, Mr. Bongiorno."
—Do you seem happy to see me like this, or am I mistaken?
"Of course it makes me happy. Very happy. Did you think you could escape through that miserable little bathroom window? With a body like yours, it's practically impossible. You already tried to escape by banging my head against the glass. You could have killed me, for sure. There's not much difference between you and me. We're both prone to murder. But I'm not an amateur; I've thought everything through. If you plan to run, I'll shoot you without a doubt. It's raining, and we're out in the countryside. The houses are built on very large plots of land. Do you think anyone could hear what's going on inside this house?"
Bongiorno slowly lowered his gaze to the floor.
"It's heartbreaking to hear you're experiencing this. If I'm like this, it's not by choice. I'm under his control. I didn't choose to come to the house of a man who forces me in at gunpoint and hits me on the back of the head. I'm completely defenseless, sir. From what I can see, I have no options through dialogue."
"And how do you think you're going to get out of this mess? It's not going to be easy. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. You brought this on yourself by rejecting me in such a disgustingly contemptuous way. I suggested we at least have a coffee. I wanted to talk to a colleague about literature, about life, and you treated me like garbage by refusing my invitation."
"What do you want me to say? It's hard to answer objectively when you keep pointing your gun at me. I don't know, you have that power. Or are you planning to kill me? Violence gets us nowhere, yet I see that's how you operate, with those thug's codes. I believe in God, and the truth is, I don't care what you do to me. I'm not going to be violent, not at all. You're a coward because the only way you can control me is by pointing your gun at me."
The enraged little man shouted at him:
"Shut your mouth or I'll blow your brains out. You're in no condition to say anything. Can't you see I'm pointing my gun at you?" And with that, he drew his arm and fired his 9mm Bersa five times in quick succession at the different walls of the dining room. One of the bullets hit the coffee maker, which was whistling as it boiled over. The bullets ricocheted, but none of them struck them. It was a miracle that a tragedy wasn't averted.
Bongiorno began to tremble. He was quite nervous and frightened. He thought he was nearing the end of his life. Nevertheless, he dared to ask her:
"What are you doing? Have you gone mad? We could have died. I don't understand your decision to shoot. Well, I'm ready for whatever comes. Do what you want, or do you think I'm going to beg you? I can already imagine how this will end. You'll kill me and then commit suicide, not out of guilt, since you never felt guilt, but rather so that no one forgets who killed Luca Bongiorno. You're plotting this idea; you don't value your own life, much less mine or anyone else's. You're delving into the dark depths of your being."
The little man looked at him with a smile.
"Don't make me laugh. You're scared, very scared. You seem to think you're very important, that you have the world at your feet. Now tell me, how will your God save you? Where is He? Can you see Him? I couldn't even if I wanted to. I don't understand how an intellectual like you can believe that God will save you. Nobody saves us, don't be an idiot."
Bongiorno shook his head in disapproval.
"I couldn't understand it. We're not going to waste time talking about my faith. You're far from that. Now, I'm going to ask you something, and since you're going to kill me anyway, I think I have that right. You can answer me if you want."
—What do you want to ask, Mr. Bongiorno? Do you think your questions are going to save you? Don't try to psychoanalyze me because it will only make things worse.
"Not necessarily, but I'd at least like to know more about who my killer is. Did your mother leave your father? He must have abused her. Just in case, was your father an alcoholic? You know what? After she left him, I think your father took it out on you by abusing you, beating you, making you feel like a complete wretch. You have all the makings of an abused person. You tried to succeed as a writer and couldn't. Your marriage failed, and when your wife tried to run away, you killed her. And in this way, you also got revenge on your mother for abandoning you and making you a victim of your father. Now I clearly understand your misogynistic tendencies."
"And what's it to you? He's successful, renowned, he's triumphed like few others. All he cares about is his fame, his pride, his prestige. Stop lecturing me; you're not going to gain anything by hounding me to the very core of my being. We all have flaws, don't you think you don't? Tell me how you managed to reach the top of your career? Please, before I kill you, tell me your secret."
Bongiorno looked at him surprised.
"It's a shame, you're an intelligent and educated person. You could have been a brilliant writer if you'd truly wanted to be. You didn't achieve it because you're emotionally broken. Do you want me to tell you how I did it?... It took me my whole life, with countless efforts and frustrations I had to face. Or do you think it was easy? Do you know how many books I burned because I thought they were awful? Do you think I wasn't frustrated when I set them on fire? Nobody gives us anything for free. Everything depends on ourselves. It's a matter of believing we can do it. Even so, it's very difficult, sir."
The little man looked at him incredulously and pointed the Bersa at his eye. His expression was reckless. He shouted even more furiously:
"He's not telling me the truth. He's hiding something from me. He might be right about some things, but honestly, I find it hard to believe him. There must be some little secrets that writers keep to themselves because of their damn selfishness."
"Of course, since he couldn't believe his wife, that's why he killed her. He didn't listen to her; he just shut himself off in his own thoughts because his narcissism wouldn't let him see reality. You're a difficult person. You concocted a convincing story about your wife's death that the police stupidly believed. You feel weak, sir, that's why you make so many mistakes that you'll have to pay for someday. How to succeed as a writer? I don't know. Nobody helped me. Maybe luck was on my side. But I already explained it in the Library's main hall when I was talking about aspiring writers, how to become good at this; however, success is a mystery that comes when it's meant to."
The little man remained pensive, as if lost in another universe, but nevertheless, he gripped his pistol tightly. He looked at the floor for a few moments, then raised his gaze and replied:
"You're analyzing me, Mr. Bongiorno. I told you not to. I don't need your stupid therapy, although I confess you've hit the nail on the head. Well, given the circumstances, I feel compelled to confide in you. You want to know how the events unfolded, what caused the motive for the crime, if there was one at all, because it's still relatively unclear. I'll summarize the truth for you. My wife was going through a period of depression in her later years. She was under psychiatric treatment. She had attempted suicide twice with barbiturates. I saved her by taking her to the hospital for gastric lavage. The second time, I saw her in such a bad state that I had to call an emergency service because I felt I didn't have the strength to lift her and take her to the hospital. No one appreciated it, not even her own sisters. When she recovered, she told me she wanted us to separate."
—What did you do? What was your first reaction?
"I begged her not to leave me, but it was useless. We argued for hours, but it was no use. I felt like I'd go crazy if she left me. She tried to commit suicide again by taking her pills, but this time I did absolutely nothing. I was so listless, so hopeless, that I left it to chance. I waited a few hours. I called emergency services knowing it was late; they tried to save her. But they couldn't. The police arrived, looked into the case, and asked me a lot of questions. Her history of previous suicide attempts cleared up any doubts. Even so, her sisters blamed me. They accused me of driving her to suicide."
Bongiorno looked at him with a comforting expression.
"What happened is very regrettable. I don't want to judge you, but let's just say you witnessed a suicide. You were, understandably, in the emotional state of a distraught man. You could have called emergency services, but because of your state, your clouded state of hopelessness, you were unable to react. I don't justify it, but I understand it as a human being. However, I remind you that people are not anyone's property. Abandonment sometimes takes away our will to live. I understand that, but your attitude was not right. While she made the decision, you did nothing to save her."
The little man looked at him indignantly and slammed his fist on the table.
"He said he didn't want to judge me, but he's doing the exact opposite. Now that I've given him my confession, he doesn't think I'll let him live, does he? No, no, it would be foolish to trust you. If I let you go, you'll go straight to the police and tell them what happened. It was incredibly stupid of him to get into my car, considering his sharp intellect and terrible perception; frankly, it amazes me. His curiosity about how my wife died is his downfall."
Bongiorno shrugged.
"That he's going to kill me, there's no doubt about it. He's been saying it for a while now. Well, sometimes reason gives weight to reasonable doubt. It just so happens that folly and betrayal are closer than we think. Now, do you want me to congratulate you for letting your wife die? The answer is no. I'm a foolish septuagenarian, you're right about that, and you're a murderer. You were very aggressive at the book launch. You showed your true colors there. When I went outside to get a taxi, I don't think I need to tell you about the weather, I imagine. But anyway, when I saw you sitting in your car, I knew you were up to something and you took advantage of the situation to persuade me, although I never imagined it would end like this. In any case, I don't know for sure why you want to kill me."
The little man stared at an imaginary point. Then he frowned and replied:
—The world is represented by signs. In this way, it is not my intention to disdain man and his purposes. His long-awaited existential quest for the meaning of his participation in consciously awaiting his death is not at all encouraging, no matter how much religious belief weighs on his spirit or his faith.
—What do you specifically mean when you refer to signs?
"You wrote your last novel thinking of me, you arbitrarily drew inspiration from my misfortune, my frustrations, the death of my wife. You're very astute, Mr. Bongiorno, but nothing escapes me. There's a lot of symbolism in your works. I've read them all, and I admit you're a very good writer. They're partly self-referential, and partly you transfer your own darkness so that any naive person who falls into your clutches becomes your prey, and you create an interesting story. But in this case, unfortunately, it was my turn."
Bongiorno was more than stunned, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on him. Faced with such a twisted hypothesis, he didn't know what to say. He looked at him with astonishment and a certain resignation; perhaps the little man was hovering his eyes, waiting for an answer. After a few moments of abominable uncertainty, the writer asked him:
—Are you serious? I don't understand anything. What you're suggesting is absurd.
"Of course I'm serious. Don't you remember when you said that we are all connected to everything, to a whole? Those are your words; in fact, you said them just a few hours earlier at the Library when you were presenting your book. Either your memory is failing you, or you're crazy, sir. The people we pass every day, people we don't know, but when we look into their eyes, an inner voice tells us that we've been with them in other dimensions, in distant existences. Although it seems far-fetched, from my point of view, I think it's subjective, that it is indeed because we are connected, and our rational mind refuses to understand it for fear of losing its sanity. What are you going to tell me now?"
“I was referring to the unconscious and archetypes. It’s true—I presume to assert this, even though it sounds crazy—that we are all connected by the vibrations of our ancestors. Now, for me to have taken elements from your life to write a novel is absurd. It’s an insult to my intelligence. It would be to disqualify my creative ability, my effort, my passions. If you identified with any of my novels, I swear I’m very sorry. Your imagination has no limits if you truly believe this is possible. I’m very tired and I want to leave. Let me go, or shoot me if you think it’s fair. I remind you that even if I don’t feel guilty, the unconscious doesn’t forgive. Give me back my cell phone”—and he stood up to leave.
The little man glared at him furiously and shouted:
"I already warned you that you're not in a position to do anything I don't want you to. Sit down, or you'll regret it. Do you think I'm not capable of shooting you? Let's see, do you want to test me?"
"I can believe anything you say. But only a coward like you would shoot someone in the back. You really pissed me off, didn't you? I won't tell the police, if that's what you're worried about. I wouldn't care anyway. Your wife isn't coming back. You're completely out of your mind. You should get help. You should learn to listen and stop getting lost in your demented fantasies. I'm tired of dealing with manipulators. My first wife was one of them, and I left her. If there's one thing I love in this life, it's freedom. I don't want to be here under your control for another second. Try to be a good person; it's the most important thing. Try to believe in yourself, keep writing, give it a shot, maybe you'll make it. Or, well, do whatever you feel like. Goodbye, sir."
Bongiorno opened the door and walked out, even though the little man could kill him; in fact, he was still pointing the gun at him. A light drizzle still lingered. It was quite late, and the street, now a mud pit, made it difficult for him to walk quickly. After he had gone about fifty meters, he heard a gunshot. He stopped, turned around, and felt his body to check if the bullet had hit him. Then he realized that the little man had just committed suicide. He lamented, thought about calling emergency services, but decided it was too late to save him. As he walked, the rain fell on his face, and he felt like a free man.
FIN
REMEMBERING SOFIA PEARSO
The yellowing, peacefully dead leaves showed that autumn was not just a ghostly perception that stood before my eyes. The wind blew softly, as if melancholically suggesting that summer was about to end, giving way to nature's natural transition. Among the student crowd, a woman appeared unexpectedly in my life. Someone—of course I will never forget—left an indelible mark. So much so, that on the nights of my most morbid and agonizing loneliness, I have a feeling of death that begins in my gut, and then takes complete control of my heart. I don't know how to describe it, but there was something very significant in her gaze: introspective, intelligent, fascinating, something familiar it might be; or perhaps, as if I had known her from crazy remote times. She had messy, coppery hair, an angular face, intensely blue eyes, and very white skin covered with freckles that accumulated on the sides of her nose. Her rather slender body and a certain abruptness in moving her arms made her somewhat clumsy at times, since it generally contrasted with the intellectual and aristocratic air that emanated from her being. I had seen her a few times in the college cafeteria. Let me simply remember her, for I was almost enchanted just by observing her. She had an almost angelic sensuality about her, and something curiously attractive about her when she was seen reviewing her notes. As if she withdrew from the world and became absorbed in reading. So much so, that sometimes she seemed like a wax doll trapped in who knows what wonderful universes her mind traveled to. She was so beautiful that just seeing her made my heart beat with a fierce intermittency. I tried to get his attention, with inexorably idiotic gestures, like suddenly grabbing my notebooks, pretending to be in a hurry, and after paying for my drink, running off across the university campus. Other times, I would sit nearby, with my back to him, but seeing his silhouette reflected in the large window that overlooked one of the pavilions. But she remained reluctant to any possibility of contact, although it was obvious that she was aware of my intentions. My shyness also didn't help in making a successful approach. Of course she wasn't an antisocial girl, since with her group of friends or study group, she laughed with total abandon, a situation that annoyed me to the point of irritation. On certain occasions, I would wait for her at the photocopier in the philosophy building, since we were in the first year together, and there was no reason to be stigmatized as an idiot, since the place was part of our routine and it was well known that we needed her services. Many others met in the library, but most commonly, we met in the cafeteria. Once, when I mustered up the courage to ask her to borrow some notes and went over to where she was sitting, some idiot got there first and sat down at her table. I heard a cacophony of unbearable laughter from some misfits who were celebrating my misfortune, and, embarrassed, I rushed outside due to the excessive agitation caused by what had happened. She came out after me, grabbed my shoulders tightly, and when I was able to recover, she brought her mouth close to my lips. It was the most passionate and fruitful kiss I had ever experienced in my life. Then he looked me straight in the eyes and walked back towards the canteen. I was stunned watching her walk away after what had just happened. I felt like the luckiest guy on the planet. That night I couldn't sleep, because happiness had settled over my life. I couldn't believe it was true. I would go out into the garden to smoke, since my parents were bothered by certain habits, and I would repeat to myself that it wasn't true, that perhaps it had been a hallucination too beautiful for me, for this shy being who was unattractive to women. The next day I went to the faculty. I was so happy, so eager, that I rushed to meet her. I checked the canteen, he wasn't there. I looked for her inside the faculty, but I couldn't find her there either. I asked some mutual classmates if they had seen her, to which the response was "I don't know anything." I returned to the cafeteria somewhat worried, sat down for a while to wait for her, until I had to go into class. When the professor finished his work hour, I wandered around different pavilions until I decided to talk to the secretary of the department. He told me that he hadn't attended class and not to insist, that he wouldn't give me the address. Although it was possible that she was ill, or going through a family problem, the anguish was seeping into my gut, as if an inner voice were announcing a bad omen. I walked sadly towards the bus stop. There I found some boys who were also Sofia's classmates and I felt an almost ridiculous hope when I asked him about her. Nobody had seen her. I returned home completely listless, and when my mother served the food, I told her I had no appetite. I felt a total shudder at the thought that this girl wouldn't want to see me. The next day I went to the faculty, I headed towards the cafeteria. The employee looked at me with dismay, patted me on the back, and without hesitating for a moment, announced that the nice little English girl, as they usually called her, had committed suicide. I looked at him in horror at such news, but with the dish towel in his hand rubbing a glass he told me that it was the pure truth, that a professor had told another while they were having coffee and he had overheard because the dean's office didn't want the news to get out. Then he abruptly dropped the dish towel and, raising his voice, told me not to look for her anymore, to understand reality, to accept that the only plausible truth is death, that we all go to the same place when the time comes. I felt a strong urge to punch him, however I was able to suppress my furious instincts. With a distraught expression, I thought, but if her time hadn't come as the bartender said, in any case, Sofia had defied her destiny with such a decision to take her own life. I caressed my lips, as if I could beautifully recall that kiss from Sofia, and I couldn't detach my trembling fingers for a few moments. Pale, with my breath coming in short bursts from an unbearable tachycardia, I walked out very slowly. I was a young student then, but I felt like a poor, ravaged, decrepit old man. I still don't understand how I managed to stay on my feet. In the distance I heard the song of a bird as if announcing a revelation or perhaps a farewell. I interpreted it that way from a symbolic perspective, although deep down, an esoteric feeling crossed my insides. The next day the sun rose equally for everyone. As if nobody cared much about my sadness. Then I inferred that life is a series of unfinished incidents, fascinating moments, fractions of seconds that can take us to the top of a mountain, only to then see how unexpectedly everything crumbles with the vertiginous speed of a lightning bolt that destroys everything. There is no security. We live in a more or less coherent world, with schedules, commitments, and goals that keep us alive, but are also randomly vulnerable. It is very difficult to define what life is, although I almost always come to this conclusion. Twenty years have passed since that horrible event. I am an adjunct professor in a philosophy department. When I finish teaching a class and head towards the parking lot, I remember Sofia Pearson, and not always, but sometimes, I think I see her reading while sitting on one of those university benches where she could be seen reviewing her notes.
FIN
PRESUMED FORGOTTEN
Eduardo Cantarell woke up early that morning. Opening his eyes, he saw that through the slats of the blinds, the faint light filtering in and out, bouncing incessantly off the wall, was so thin it was about to vanish, and that his world could be condensed into a realm of morbid darkness. He felt uncertain about the time, since he had stopped using an alarm clock some time after retiring as a mathematical researcher, when his life had been propelled by formulas and algorithms that his brilliant mind, with good judgment, used to decipher. However, he concluded that he was in his apartment on Charcas Street in a well-known Buenos Aires neighborhood; but now, between the imprecise fluctuations of his memory and the unfinished recollections, he couldn't be certain. But of course, he told himself, the sun wasn't giving any reliable signs, so he inferred that the day was still cloudy, and that at least he hadn't lost touch with the universe. He clicked his half-asleep lips and felt faintly that his breath was unpleasant. He searched for his wife, running his hand over the bedspreads, but sadly realized she wasn't there. After a sigh, it dawned on him that she had died a few years ago. He couldn't recall the exact day of her passing, since at eighty-nine, he was bound to lose his lucidity, and at times, his sanity. Old age brings its miseries, he thought, and on top of everything, it caresses us with the scent of death. He clumsily extended his other arm across the flat surface of the bedside table and, reaching for the pillbox, knocked over the bowl of his dentures. Frustrated, he remained cursing, punctuating his outbursts with fits of coughing and the devil's temper. He then shook his head, realizing that he should take his blood pressure pill and not get so worked up over a stupid and insignificant accident that happened almost daily.
His daughter Carmen, besides calling him every hour, checked on him every day; she pampered him, prepared the tea they drank together, and rigorously reminded him of the medications prescribed by the cardiologist. She insisted they should hire someone to assist him, but her father's stubbornness was more than evident; he ignored her or argued that as long as he could take care of himself, he wouldn't need any help. His daughter would shrug and get ready to prepare his pillbox, fill the bags to take his dirty laundry to the wash, and chat until she saw him doze off. Then she would water the rosebush, the jasmine, the plants on the balcony, and carefully observe the furniture, the bookcase overflowing with books, the French chandeliers her parents had bought a few decades before, the marble dresser perched at an angle above the beveled glass panels embedded in the living room wall.
Facing each other between the two walls of the dining room, a series of Soldi paintings highlighted the three dark brown Antique clocks resting on the bayud, as if they came to life through the artist's genius. Near the window, more precisely about fifteen centimeters from the lintel, a portrait of the beautiful and distinguished Delfina, seated on a garden bench, her chin resting on one hand, her gaze lost in thought, perhaps at some imaginary point, exuded the charm of the era.
Carmen Cantarell watched with delight and a hint of nostalgia, as if her whole life were passing by in a black and white film; and at the end, feelings were stirred, unforgettable moments, beautiful memories that would remain treasured in her heart.
The entire place was preserved with the utmost tidiness that her mother's authority had established before her death; as if she were present in a ghostly way, giving domestic instructions, or making her memory prevail in every corner of the house. Her daughter had keys to the apartment and had entrusted the cleaning to the doorman's wife, along with some instructions on how to keep an eye on the old man. Nevertheless, she was never at ease, for as she got into her car to leave, she was overwhelmed by the thought that if her father went out into the street he might be hit by a car; then she would burst into inconsolable tears, as if the guilt persisted, growing ever stronger as the dreaded hour of having to leave him drew near.
At any moment Carmen would arrive to take him on a trip; an event that his father had forgotten and had no idea that he would be away from home that day and the following days.
A few weeks ago, Mr. Cantarell, deep in a profound melancholy, had asked his daughter to take him to Montevideo to revisit the memories that had accumulated over more than five years, as if the harsh and merciless passage of time had been unable to soften them. He sat up slowly, searching with his feet for the slippers lying on the rug until he was able to put them on. He gathered himself with a certain optimism, for his life, if he reasoned with sound judgment, had not been a bad experience.
He had met Delfina at one of his lectures in Montevideo. She was so impressed by his relentlessly effective delivery that, at the end of the conference, she approached him for an interview. Considering his scientific prestige and the circumstances he was in, he didn't abandon his academic demeanor as immediately as she might have expected. But the attraction was so intense that, gradually, as the university pavilion emptied, Eduardo Cantarell revealed his humanity by paying special attention to this young woman with large brown eyes who, in time, would captivate him to the point of madness, despite his being a stubbornly rational man with the outward appearance of a cold individual.
Although their subsequent meetings were professional in nature, it wasn't long before they both opened up about their feelings. Cantarell made regular visits to Montevideo, whether for matters related to his speeches, to strengthen friendships with his colleagues, or simply to seek something that was already quite obvious: to see Delfina. She, in turn, began traveling to Buenos Aires to visit him, and he, who at first had been reluctant to commit to a serious relationship, gave increasingly convincing indications of wanting to be with this beautiful Uruguayan woman. In the quiet of her private moments, she considered leaving Uruguay to settle permanently in Argentina and follow him, wherever fate might lead them.
One starry night, as they walked hand in hand, Delfina dared to ask him:
—Eduardo, I'm very intrigued to know something about the career you chose.
Cantarell shrugged. He said:
—I have no problem answering whatever comes to mind.
—Well, it's not at all impertinent, I think. Besides, there's a certain level of trust, I'd like to think. What sparked your interest in mathematics? Was there any family influence, or did you simply discover your career path through a true calling?
He looked at her with a smile and then closed his eyes. He then looked up into the vastness of the sky and replied:
—No, I knew this was my calling back in high school. My parents gave me complete freedom. I was determined to understand the world through rationalism. I also think I was basically searching for absolutes. I might sound crazy. I also wouldn't want to omit that I'm very intrigued by understanding the true meaning of existence. I've gone down the philosophical path, I know. I really enjoy concentrating when someone asks me a question. Despite this, I tend to go off on tangents. Sometimes it gets me into trouble, of course.
—I understand, you're a thinker on an existential quest, but I'd like to know more, of course. Passions are the driving force behind our goals, if I'm not mistaken.
—And of course, Delfina, how could it not be a passion? Just think, the origin of the universe can be verified through mathematics, calculating time, measuring the speed of light. In quantum physics, infinitesimal measurements. It's in almost everything: music, sounds, you name it. We could talk forever about the cold sciences. In any case, we can't unravel the philosophical problems that concern humankind and its countless uncertainties.
She looked at him with obvious expectation. She said to him.
—It's intelligence taken to its highest level. Can everything be understood through mathematics? Or am I asking a crazy question?
He looked at her with a hint of a smile and shook his head.
—I don't know if it's quite like that. But it could be. I want to believe there are other factors. The emotional aspect is very important. And it's connected to everything. I think that intelligence, among other things, is the wonderful ability to adapt to circumstances despite the adverse vicissitudes that arise daily, and which we develop with courage by facing this daring unknown called existence.
Delfina frowned, and lashed out:
—Why reckless?
Everything has a beginning and an end. At some point, we will cease to live. The thought that loved ones may have to leave before us causes us unease. Even if we cling to the idea that God exists, that we will transcend to a spiritual plane, even if we try to hide it, the idea of inexorable death distresses us.
—Well, this life must have some meaning, I want to believe. If we do what we do, and fight for a future, I think existence is very meaningful for me and for many others.
Cantarell stopped, looked at her perplexed, holding her by the shoulders, and said:
—Sometimes when I look at you, I see so much light in your eyes that I come to the conclusion that everything could go to hell, and I could remain eternally astonished by that special glow that seduces even the most significant aspects of my soul.
A tear escaped her eye, then he kissed her intensely.
The heart of a man, Cantarell had once thought in his youth, has many inscrutable passageways that a whole lifetime wouldn't suffice to unravel and find meaningful understanding of. That's why I sometimes think, Cantarell inferred, that reason has so many opposing arguments that, to try to balance my judgment, I must abstract myself into my own subjectivities, ignore my ego, reject stereotypes, plunge headlong into what I believe to be good and evil, and then, with some skill, regain my conscience. To realize that I am merely the result of a series of incidents fossilized in a variable succession of mirages. He felt like a rather foolish clown to think he might be falling in love; however, he experienced a wonderful feeling in his heart, as if he had the sensation that something very important was happening.
When Delfina returned to Uruguay, and in the days that followed, spent unbearably irritable missing her, he would go out looking for her in the corners of some restaurant they had frequented. He would stand in the doorway of the theater she loved so much, gazing at every woman's face that bore a resemblance to her. Or sometimes, more with euphoria than reason, he would park his car on the waterfront across from Aeroparque and stare out at the eastern country, longing to see her again, because even though he struggled to admit it to himself, he knew he would love her with all the strength of his soul. At times, he would close his eyes, remembering her smile, feeling the misty sound of the cold waves of the Río de la Plata throbbing against his face, as if it longed to draw her to itself. But he did so with such fervor that even the stars seemed to twinkle joyfully, painting comets high in the sky; then the nights became eternally magical. He thought he could smell the mingling of Delfina's perfume with her skin. He wrote love poems in a small notebook he kept in the car's glove compartment. He told himself, "I have to step away from my scientific obsessions for a while and understand, once and for all, that my happiness will also come from being with her."
Cantarell recalled that his father, a good, honest, and hardworking man, a railway employee, told him that one should strive to achieve one's goals and go as far as possible, but never lose humility, because this virtue is what truly makes us great. Another maxim that his father always repeated and hammered into his conscience was that selfish men do not conquer humanity, but rather their own ego. So how could he fight against his narcissism, his arduous dedication as a mathematical researcher that had elevated him to prestigious circles? Although he had been born and raised playing ball in the street like any other boy from Almagro, with the anthropological, ethnic, racial, and cultural characteristics that come with growing up in a working-class neighborhood, Eduardo Cantarell was the quintessential Buenos Aires intellectual who did not deny his humble roots, his mother working with her characteristic smile; He was not bothered by how incredibly hard it was, damn it, to see the old woman scrubbing clothes outside, freezing cold, with the kettle boiling for her morning mate. Nor was he bothered by the tango that was played constantly back then. But he did, over time, transform himself, as he had dreamed of as a teenager, into a man of the world, a famous figure in the field of exact sciences, an international lecturer like few others. He had a near-perfect command of British English, and had also taken public speaking courses to enhance his academic presence.
The fervor of his childhood returned to his mind in brief flashes or glimpses; sometimes closer to reality, and other times perhaps more fantastical. Perhaps, Canatrell inferred, it was due to the very desire to alter those lived experiences to a state of total apotheosis.
From time to time he visited the neighborhood, wandered its streets, and lingered in its plazas. He would stop for long periods at the entrance of the school where he had completed his primary and secondary education. As he walked, he was struck by the number of buildings that had been constructed and, consequently, deduced the countless old houses that had been demolished. It was painful and perhaps shameful, he reflected, but one had to understand that progress couldn't be stopped, since it was understandable that other people should have the opportunity to live there. Even so, one could still breathe in the essence of Buenos Aires in Almagro, and this comforted his spirit. The last time he visited his beloved neighborhood, it was against his will when he wanted to enter the house that had once belonged to his parents, where he had been born and raised, and which, despite his absence many decades before, still held a deep sense of belonging for him.
He arrived at Rocamora Street and, not finding his house, slapped himself on the forehead. Stunned, he couldn't believe what he was seeing: cranes, excavators, dump trucks, workers clearing the land to prepare it for digging the well and laying the foundations for what would later become an apartment tower. He asked permission to enter.
The engineer in charge of the construction project was about to approach him. He observed him with attention and compassion, but wisely refrained, respecting the nostalgic state the elderly gentleman was going through, overwhelmed by unfathomable memories and who knows what other thoughts might be captivating him, the engineer deduced. He ordered the workers to stop the cranes and the rest to take a break. Of course, he wasn't wrong, since Mr. Cantarell remained gazing with tearful eyes at what was to be his house, with its succession of bedrooms and the parallel gallery reflecting the architecture of the time. He caught a glimpse of the still-intact outdoor laundry tub. He saw the mosaics almost crushed by the constant passage of the cranes. What a lack of respect for my heart, Mr. Cantarell thought with a touch of indignation. He pictured himself playing ball in what had been the backyard. He remembered Christmas celebrations with his family, his first communion, his father fixing up the house with his toolbox, and a benevolent disposition in the heart of what had been his home. He looked up at the grapevine far in the distance, as if experiencing a profoundly meta-historical vision of his ancestors. Then he turned, said goodbye to the engineer and the workers, and left without hesitating for a moment, for he told himself as he left that he would never return. And he kept his word.
Looking back to his youth, Eduardo Cantarell, upon meeting Delfina, had discovered love. He envisioned a future of married life, a life he had never imagined, moving from simplifying his most selfish solitude to flirting with this dreamy journalist who would captivate him and cause the strong pillars supporting his increasingly rationalism to crumble as if by magic. However, he weighed the pros and cons of remaining solely immersed in his professional career and reaching the top, or giving his heart a chance and envisioning a life of happiness with Delfina. In any case, he concluded, I think I can do both. With this reflection and many others, he showed that his life shouldn't be confined to just an academic project, as he had planned. Love was cornering him, seducing him to share his projects, multiplying his potential toward other unimaginable discoveries. The image of the womanizing bachelor, with his somewhat arrogant intellectual airs—as his friends ridiculed him with unending laughter—was beginning to crumble, and the attraction he felt toward Delfina grew even stronger. However, he didn't like to give many explanations about his private life, and with a wave of his hand, he expressed his discomfort at the excessive intrusion into his relationship with his new partner. He would suggest to his friends that they change the subject, and at times his voice would begin to deepen, as if signaling that his anger was escalating. In any case, these good lads, many of them without any formal education, respected him immensely, since they never felt discriminated against by the friend who had grown up alongside them. And, as they used to say in the bar, his ambition to be someone had noticeably transformed him into a brilliant, meticulous, and impeccable man who had triumphed meteorically in achieving his goals. In fact, a few months later, he had to ask them to be witnesses at his wedding, which was celebrated discreetly with a small number of guests. Partly family and partly friends of both families had traveled for the wedding, which they attended with jubilation in a reception hall near the Almagro neighborhood. It seemed like a dream taking shape within a marital context they had both desired, and which the potential forces of adversity—given the distance and the fact that they belonged to different countries—could not overcome. The couple had a beautiful baby girl, whom they named Carmen, as requested by their Uruguayan in-laws, a request the newlyweds readily accepted. Delfina stopped working to focus on raising and educating her daughter, and once the child was older, she returned to her passion for journalism.
Regarding his work and thoughts, Cantarell was certainly not only vehemently focused on the exact sciences, but also, as a self-taught scholar, delved into philosophy, semiotics, and even Freudian exegesis. Images often resurfaced of the day he defended his doctoral thesis in mathematics. His parents were present, proudly watching their son achieve the highest academic degree. They gazed at him with tears in their eyes, yet happy, and he, seemingly impervious to all emotion, felt a pang of unease, a lump forming in his throat to keep from breaking down with emotion and to face with greater composure the panel of professors scrutinizing him. As he grew old, his parents were, of course, already part of his memory; then, with signs of regret, he wished he could turn back time to change that reprehensible and rigid behavior that had prevented him from embracing them and weeping with them. To tell them, thanks to you, to your sacrifice, I was able to achieve my goal. But it was too late to add reflection and questioning to an irreversibly impossible desire. So much so, that in a fraction of a second he felt like a complete idiot, yearning to repair the irreparable and reproaching himself for being a perfect fool for wanting to alter reality; especially him, who considered himself a rationalist. Afterward, he took a few minutes of self-pity, asking his heart to understand the stupid arrogance so rigid in his way of thinking. Indeed, amidst so much introspection, he recalled, almost traumatically, that psychoanalytic doctrine maintains that instinctual impulses repressed by consciousness remain in the unconscious and affect the subject. From this understanding, he began to delve more thoroughly into the treatises of psychoanalysis; But he did so with such fascination that he would lie awake at night trying to decipher the stratagems the subject would construct through the various processes of his neurosis to form the self. He even went so far as to establish the idea that education is a form of repression, albeit a definitely necessary and essential one for evolution.
He admired Freud as the most remarkable scientist in the field of medicine of the twentieth century. He emphatically sought the interrelation of transfinite numbers, time, and the terrifying anguish that man, as he analyzed, will sooner or later die. Nothing can prevent or stop it, because reason does not question reality, and reality does not question absolutes. The man is condemned to die. And this, although he has the possibility of projecting a future, loving and being loved and achieving certain goals, reasoned that the subject awaiting his death, is ultimately the uncertainly disturbing consequence that will inexorably lead through his processes to a tragic end of his existence. Without forgetting, curiously, that in this course of existence, we become aware of possible fatalities, earthquakes, pandemics, cataclysms, the devastation of war, social injustices, class struggles, the hypocritical and doubly immoral language of politicians; and likewise, however much we may dislike it, we live facing adversity. The subject, despite being aware of his finitude, coexists with an illusory imperative of invulnerability that will bravely encourage him to cope with his anxieties and build a more or less full life. Without disdaining love, which could be the driving force or vehicle of his projects, he expressed that man must find himself, reveal himself and discover his passions. Otherwise, in the course of their existence, they will go through different cycles that will overwhelmingly lead them to a meaninglessness in life, and there will be no other path than depression and constant impulses towards suicide. I thought that the extremely materialistic man sees in spiritual beings a halo of bohemianism condensed into imbecility; just as the elevated man sees in the materialistic man - although he does not admit it - a poor idiot lost in his miseries. When he meditated in his continuous and unalterable silences, he was convinced that reality, apparently, is circumscribed by the circumstances of the present. However, he considered that man, in his eagerness to live in the here and now, cannot and should not disregard the inexorability of the past, which has been the driving force behind his existence: his intrusion into the world of things, his awakenings, his primary desires, his evolution, the interaction of his innocence with the tortuous reality that overwhelms him. We must not deny the psychoendocrinogenetic phylogenetic link that connects it not only to its immediate past, but scientifically ratifies its connection to nine ancestral generations. Love and the ghostly uncertainty of its permanence, its weaknesses, the fantasies of being someone he will probably never be, the epistemic development of his dialectic, his hesitations that will condition him to belong to the stereotype of a winner, or possibly, on the contrary, to frustration. We are unpleasantly critical of others, but very cautious when we engage in self-criticism. We will live miserably subject to the labels we ourselves invent, and the effect will be so overwhelming that many more stereotypes than already exist will be compulsively reborn. Beyond the results, nature, in its expectation, will be waiting for a reaction. Free will makes us wiser, I thought, but curiously it leads us to visit madness. And what is madness, if not the inability to dissociate fantasy from reality?...That doesn't mean that whenever we delve into our inner selves, we will inexorably go mad, but rather, Cantarell reasoned, we learn to take off the suit that accompanies our humanly atrocious and superfluous character, to discover who we truly are. And he added ironically, clenching his jaw from the depths of his being, that the character some of us choose to be is sometimes as abominable as the person who created it. We are born free, but in the process of life, we become corrupted by so many cultural mandates that we end up enslaved by our own misfortune. It would be legitimate to admit, Cantarell inferred, that man's great problem is morality. And if this problem exists, it is because there is an underlying spiritual crisis of enormous magnitude that man cannot or does not want to understand, perhaps because he is stubbornly blinded by being someone who resembles the character that satisfies the social shell, rather than what he should be, or be behaving with greater vehemence towards his own self. Their cognitive and rational capacity can never function satisfactorily at its fullest potential without a prior judgment of the conscience itself regarding what one is, and the values and principles constantly intervening in every event. For this, will and intelligence cannot do without morality, since the objective, however promising it may seem, could be harmful. Walking back and forth across his room, he reflected that life, in any case, could constitute a kind of unfinished thoughts, perceptions, fantasies, sensations stuck in a past that seeks to reveal itself, immediate desires to know the future in order to satisfy the present that does not satisfy us. Man does not know where he is going, because he is ontologically ignorant of who he is, what the strict meaning of his nature is; what his existence relates to the universe and the relationship of the world of things? Do we decide with our thoughts, or is there a predetermined destiny that will set us on a rigid path full of stumbles and temptations? Is reality what is perceived, or are they mere interpretations that combine between the subconscious and our limited consciousness? What makes the difference between being created or inventing ourselves as independent beings, capable of deciding and altering our destiny? Man is instinctively dual because nature conceived him as such. It is very possible that the circumstances, Cantarell thought regarding Ortega y Gasset's perspectivism, which interact intrinsically in the subject, correspond with antagonism due to the variables between his nature, added to the accidents that concern it and the desire to be one's own creator. Adding to this analysis, he also referred to emotions as a crucial point. He believed that before people think, they are always preceded by an emotion, however small their thought may be. But if you ask me, why is man dual? I would say that perhaps, in my understanding, there is a conflict between cultural discourse, education, the meta-messages we receive from our parents, repressed impulses, and a morality that is so intimidating and full of prejudices for some, yet so accepted, edifying, and revealing for others.
Indeed, as we live in a world of sensations, excessive information, mixed feelings, and dichotomies, morality will exert a vital influence on the ego construction of the subject's character, even considering the possible repressions of their impulses, as well as the reckless rupture of the structures that have solidified their personality.
Indeed, he presumed the existence of a double standard in man, though masked, in most cases, by the rigid and effervescent facade of hypocrisy, depriving him of the possibility of finding himself and reconsidering his ethics. He considered that the illusory prospect of living a childlike life, in contrast to the overwhelming repression of the superego, was insufficient to counteract the shortcomings of immaturity.
Cantarell sensed that this fantastical pilgrimage predisposed man to be flawed, vulgar, and mediocre, vicious, with a certain tendency to overstep boundaries, walking uncertainly through a pusillanimous nebula. He reasoned that it wouldn't surprise him to learn that an engineer had learned to play the guitar; perhaps, Cantarell thought, this individual had repressed his unfulfilled desire to be a heroine in the world of music, but his upbringing, coupled with the fear instilled by his parents, had condemned him to become an engineer. And since, although one thing has nothing to do with the other, strumming a guitar could constitute a humanly acceptable passion that takes the individual out of rationalism and transports him to the marvelous and magical universe of music.
At certain times in his youth, he began to feel strange, as if legendary mythological figures inhabited him. Most of the time, this manifested in his dreams. But at times, while awake, as he gazed into the infinite, crossing a threshold, he heard a constant flow of liquids, cacophonies, echoes of voices traveling at incredible speeds, and strange beings, very similar to humans, whose appearance gave the impression of belonging to remote eras. From then on, as a prelude, his eternal fear of going mad led him to retreat into his solitude; he even screamed, while looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, his pupils dilated with euphoria, promising himself that he would take the secret to his grave, since he could not bear to know himself to be an unbalanced man.
Many times, Cantarell was tempted to consult a therapist, but his fears and prejudices made him give in. He chose mathematics as a refuge for his mental health: a science he mastered with brilliance and which calmed his spirit. His mind wandered among numerical calculations, derivatives, integrals, transfinite arithmetic, algorithms; between the development and proof of theorems, exact equations, and differential equations. After all, that had been his passion since childhood. Even so, despite his fears, he would not abandon his other passions, which were philosophy and psychoanalysis. He never honestly admitted these unsettling emotions that frightened him so much because he hated acknowledging his weaknesses. Nevertheless, in certain circumstances, he imagined himself lost on the street, living off handouts, sleeping on a park bench, covered with cardboard, surrounded by rats, like any vagrant who breaks with socio-cultural rules and mandates to retreat into his solitude. So, he thought, it would be better to say goodbye to the clock, to formalities, to academic pretensions, to cliques, to travel and unbearable conferences, to looking good for this cause, although he could have looked better if he had taken this other option, but what the heck. He thought, without much conviction, that perhaps these beings who, for some reason, remained outside the system, but detached from social impositions, free as birds, being themselves and nothing more beautiful and pure than themselves, the reason for being, were right. Perhaps, he thought, these people are truly free. Is it the detachment from material things and from nefarious rules that leads them toward that longed-for search for freedom? Perhaps, in what distorted mirrors did Mr. Cantarell look at himself, in that of his own madness, or in the reflection of the fanciful visits he often made due to self-referential impulses? But he was immediately enveloped by a blanket of anguish and fear until he shook his head and decided to change his mind, resting his gaze on the floor, as if he were about to pass through it and enter a room; and from there, another, and so on, connecting to an indescribable number of rooms, yet finding no way out. In each one, he found himself reflected in countless mirrors, his own image metamorphosing into an endless succession of mirages, the world seeming to be an abominably unresolved experiment. So many contradictions, flashes, and frustrating, inescapable searches made him think he was going mad again, and he began to tremble, searching for certain answers about the meaning of his existence in this world. But after all, who hasn't, at some point, been driven by circumstances, as Stevenson's novel so brilliantly portrays, to identify with the strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
He argued that it is imperative for the subject to maintain a firm conviction inherent in the backbone of his thinking. However, he maintained that this systemic coherence does not necessarily mean that countless paths will not appear along life's journey that relativize certain entrenched theories that impoverish or obscure the infinite possibilities of evolution, of this or that particular way of thinking, by sheltering behind that conviction that seemed to be absolute. He reasoned that the individual must encounter his solitude and confront his own ghosts; and understand that life is not an immaculate path, but that in part, miseries, pride, ego, and hypocrisy will appear. And the most terrible crossroads to face will be recognizing one's own. Behind each contradiction will emerge a revelation that will provoke various crises that will make him hesitate and even become unrecognizable to such an extent that he will doubt his own identity and the convictions that kept him rigid and seemingly self-assured in his discourse. In the course of his crises, his fragile ability to dissociate from reality will cause him to stumble from his course until he becomes unbalanced, and from this crisis, he will be predisposed to founder in madness. It will depend on the strength of his will whether he emerges victorious from the entanglement, or gets lost obscurely in its labyrinths. Regarding this analysis, he asked himself, how can thought not be interested in the fact that man is dual, if ultimately he is the consequence of infinite ancestral transformations that will induce him to experience certain crises due to unusual effects of archetypes? Would it be consistent for us to maintain the same discourse throughout our existence, however short it may be, when circumstances vary, interacting with emotions and the difficult adaptation to a reality that also varies with circumstances? These questions, discursively characteristic of his dialectic, reassured him to some extent, since he was suspected of possessing schizophrenic elements. As a prelude to this analysis, he went so far as to reason that neurosis, as a paradigm of normality, was not exactly nonsense. However, at times he inferred that this paradigm exerted a temporary power over human beings; since he considered that the superego does not always manage to repress the constant drives that underlie the unconscious and that manifest themselves in the conscious through emotions. Indeed, he came to conclude that neurosis could be a Pandora's box. Even so, amidst doubts and contradictions, he maintained that it was necessary to sharpen our senses and, if possible, embrace reality, since the unconscious will be challenging us ambiguously, either to make us succumb to despair, or to enhance our abilities, to stimulate us with the correct decisions of our actions, to remind us of the goals we did not complete, and even to punish us severely for the miserable acts we left behind. Now, thinking about man in his entirety, inferring the countless perceptions from his birth, the evaluative process of his evolution and until his death, Cantarell wondered: what symbolisms will haunt him in his death throes? Will archetypes, among other things, be the ones that ghostlike assist the subject in the moments leading up to his death? Analyzing the various adverse circumstances, it was concluded that the subject, throughout his existence, becomes numb by projecting himself onto different stereotypes that give him a certain well-being, until he manages to forge a personality, with which he believes it will be definitive; but he is never satisfied because he has discovered in the correlate of his existence that monotony suffocates him, sometimes drives him crazy.
Schopenhauer tells us, Cantarell said with notable enthusiasm: the will expresses itself in the psychic life of man in the continuous form of ever-unsatisfied desire, and when man manages to mitigate or escape suffering, he inevitably falls into the unbearable emptiness of boredom. If we analyze the will epistemologically, it comes from the Latin *voluntas*, meaning "to want." It is an intentional act of decisively orienting oneself toward something considered positive and valuable. I wonder, Cantarell said, is man an unsatisfied desire for God? Man is ontologically a prisoner of his existence, of his being, of his apparent ignorance, and of his limited worldview. It is imperative to analyze and understand that the drive that keeps him alive is because he hopefully cohabits with a fabulous and imaginary future of freedom. But adding these considerations, if there was one thing Mr. Cantarell was absolutely certain of, it was that however imprisoned and subject we may be to our existence, to a doctrine, or to a religion, the only plausible and true freedom is that of our thought, which, even recklessly paying the price of madness and even death, could affirm that being is indescribably free when it soars with its imagination toward free will, breaking with the structures and social imbecility that held it captive. Pressing his temples, as if he had a headache, Cantarell admitted that Heidegger was very much present in his longed-for existentialist quest, when he states, among other things, that the great problem of philosophy is not truth, but language. Hegel announces to us the deconstruction of philosophy. Perhaps I'm no one to contradict him, he would tell his more thoughtful friends in a café where they often gathered for discussions, but I think that as long as humankind exists, he exclaimed in a professorial tone, philosophy is not supposed to abandon us. Whether through literature, sociology, philology, or even psychology itself, they will be crucial tools for the construction of contemporary thought.
As if waking from a very long sleep and not entirely sure whether he was awake, or on the contrary, whether he felt trapped in an inscrutable dreamlike reverie, Eduardo Cantarell walked in his pajamas to the living room; then he sat down right in the armchair near the window to watch the street, the cars, buses, people passing by; in short: the external world from which he felt separated, whether because of his age, or who knows what other things, but which he somehow missed. Then he got up, heated water to make coffee, and remained motionless, staring at a portrait of Delfina. He heard the sound of keys in the lock of the main entrance door, followed by the intrusion of his daughter Carmen, who approached to kiss him and prepare to pack the luggage. He looked at her in surprise, until she reminded him that they would be leaving for Montevideo in the next few hours. She accompanied him to the bedroom, turned on the shower, then helped him get dressed, sprayed him with cologne so he would smell better, sealed the apartment, and they took a taxi to Aeroparque. Once inside the large establishment, they walked towards the counters to check their tickets and drop off their luggage. Taking advantage of a moment of inattention from the woman, Eduardo Cantarell turned around as if drawn by a strange force that made him gaze towards the Río de la Plata. His daughter Carmen had warned him not to move more than a few steps from where she was standing near the airline counters waiting to be served, but her father, possibly taking advantage of the fact that he didn't feel watched, started walking towards one of the doors to go outside the building. He paused for a few moments, until he decided to cross with no other concern than the compassion that motorists might have for an elderly man amidst the chaotic danger of crossing the waterfront without considering the consequences. He didn't wait for the traffic light to change. As a result, the insults, the sudden stops, the inclement weather, seemed not to matter to him, since once he reached the opposite sidewalk, his face showed not a hint of unease or regret; it seemed as if nothing mattered to him. Only the inherent magnetism of his feelings, drawn by a past that seemed to perpetuate itself in the present. Gazing at the Uruguayan coast for a long time, he began to metamorphose into his youth, when in Montevideo, just after the dissertation had ended, Delfina approached him to interview him. He was then a young, bright, good-looking man. He took the world by storm with his personality, which overwhelmed everyone with his mere presence. So much so, that even in front of a beautiful and dazzling woman like Delfina, he would not go unnoticed. However, at eighty-nine years of age, the reality was different; hypothetically, that of a man in his final days scratching through the darkness fragments of his long existence, treasuring moments that only had meaning for him. And apparently, so caught up in his selfishness, so oblivious to his present, that he didn't think that his daughter was desperately searching for him in every corner of the airport, running with her heart in her mouth and pushing through the crowd to find out about his existence. The woman, with a distressed face, looked for him in the various bathrooms, in the boarding area from where they were supposedly waiting to be called; although without much hope, since her father was not lucid enough to observe or retain certain information. He thought that perhaps his father could have taken another flight, but certainly to a neighboring country, since he did not have a passport. The mere thought of considering that possibility was more or less like experiencing a shiver that ran through his entire body. She spoke to security personnel to make sure that her father had not left the establishment, but she felt quite stupid for the question she had just asked. She burst into tears, covering her face, until a policewoman approached her. Carmen explained the situation and left Aeroparque accompanied by other police officers who had been warned; she took cover right where the taxis that bring and take passengers arrive, and dialed the cell phone that started ringing from a pocket of her father's suit, which he was annoyed to have weighed on his belt. The old man, overwhelmed by the pounding of the waves of the Río de la Plata and his melancholic state, did not hear the buzzing. His daughter, with tears in her eyes, tried another call, not noticing that when Eduardo Cantarell was about to answer, the device began to slip from his hands, bouncing stupidly between his fingers, until finally it fell face down into the river. He didn't seem to care either. He turned his head towards the Uruguayan coast to delve into his memories, while his daughter crossed the coastal avenue escorted by airport police officers because they had already located him.
Mr. Cantarell thought that in the plane of geometry, two parallel lines kept at a certain distance, never meet. However, in the projective plane, if two lines are parallel, the common point will be a point at infinity, which is the basis of the principle of duality. That's why, dear Delfina, she thought aloud with her head shivering from the cold and her eyes watering, even though it may seem crazy to you, we are two parallel lines that will meet at infinity. I take it for granted. Is there any doubt? I miss you so much, I don't know if you can imagine, but life has passed us by in a flash, and although it may not be accurate or I may not want to see reality, I must admit that I have that feeling frequently; however, to be frank, I was immensely happy. It would be foolish of me to deny it. So a kiss, a look, a smile, is ultimately the interaction of a beautiful phenomenon of what we were, or to be clearer, in my opinion, of what we really are; what we inferred so many times between smiles and sometimes tears, sitting in the living room looking into each other's eyes, talking about your things, about our things, you'll understand me. I want to tell you that the sea is like time, it has an eternal present. And you are in this sea, but where are you? It is so immense that it overwhelms me just by looking at it. Oh, Delfina, I need your presence. I have searched for you in Mozart's symphonies, in the peacefulness of vast sunsets when dusk falls inexorably and the last sounds blend into the conjunction of love and oblivion. I don't want to forget you, nor can I. Loneliness is already catching up with me in the apartment where we shared many moments, but what am I saying, our life together. So I don't give up, because I looked for you in algorithms, in transfinite numbers, in the magic of the tiles on Corrientes Street, in the metaphysical substrate that emanates from a corner of a Buenos Aires café, with a bandoneon resonance. I search for you in my subconscious with the illusory idea that I will find you. I believe that the great truths lie in that unknown upper world that holds the memory of the entire universe. At times I feel you are very close, as if you were speaking into my ear and trying to reassure me. I carry my madness on my back and a dream to you that drowns me in my tears. I have a lot of trouble standing up. That is why I would like to acknowledge that the world seemed more beautiful before you, because the moon was eclipsed in surprise and the stars shone more brightly. The birds' chirping was heard without limits, the sea stirred with joy, unfurling its waves. Perhaps the rosebush sensed your presence and awoke. Then a party was improvised, its petals bloomed, and it was effective that you had passed by. The world marveled at you, beautiful woman, honey eyes, crimson lips. Your smile charmed the streets and spread to every corner of the universe. The trees stretched before you, for the wind had torn their leaves to shreds. Oh, luminous future…I saw you pass by, your perfume mingled with my skin, your actions were so utterly magical that my heart burst. Oh woman, what a crazy love loomed before me.
FIN
HIS PASSION FOR RENOIR
I openly confess that, at first, I was not satisfied with the idea of starting to frequent Krauss Folembaider; perhaps even less so, knowing his dark and furious past that still persists today, ghostlike, like anachronistic voices crying out for justice, from every corner of the vast universe that concerns us all, even though some feel indifferent to these terrible outrages. Countless times, I have reflected on man's place in this world: his desires, his passions, his fears, and the meaning he has given to his deserved existence, in a qualitative order of priorities inherent to his reason for being. Freedom, justice, and truth have been and will continue to be highly significant points for thinkers, as they satisfactorily explore in vast philosophical treatises, arriving, among other things, at the conclusion that they are natural rights that concern man, and not mere theoretical documents that rest peacefully in a library. The reasons that led me to pursue this former Gestapo officer who took refuge in Paraguay are not improper for me. It would only be necessary to go back to events, which are unfortunately inexorable, but which allude to my despair and my madness, to understand, and not in a fallacious way, the reality of the events and lucubrations that I inferred throughout my tortuous existence. I introduced myself as Bertram Hendrich, omitting, logically, my real name. To my surprise, hidden within the eye sockets, the inscrutable gaze from those icy blue eyes, covered by eyelids decrepit with old age, seemed to pierce me to my core, as if warning me that I must be completely out of my mind. Then he took a general look towards the horizon, with a nonchalant air and the arrogance of a subject who has known how to manipulate extremely terrifying situations. My apocryphal profession as curator, my deep-seated obsession, and my perfect German have developed, in adversity, a more than effective instinct to locate his whereabouts and persuade him to an interview. Although I admit, it was not an easy task to remain composed in the face of the severity of his office. And even less so, in the first encounter in which he observed me with obstinate attention, conscientiously analyzing my intelligence, the body language in my movements, the probabilities that approach my ethnicity, and the unsuspected purpose of my first visit. We walked towards the garden, making our way through the leafy grove. He then invited me into his house; he gestured for me to see the small gallery crammed with oil paintings and sculptures, and suddenly began to speak with omniscience about Nietzsche, Heidegger and other existentialists whom he quoted with resounding fervor, before suddenly returning to the topic of painting. It would also be legitimate to admit his fine and respectable appreciation for art and his profound knowledge of semiotics and philology. Adding his passion for Renoir – when we discuss the painters – highlighted the good sense of Impressionism. The second time I interviewed him, he gave a magnificent description of the painter, emphasizing in the biography and highlighting the elegant sensuality of his work; and he even made the artist a sublime recognition of his figure. A few days passed before I decided to return to Kraus Folembaider's house. When I rang the bell, I could make him out behind the screen door, as if he had been waiting for me beforehand and foresaw the certainty of my arrival. The sun's rays struck the house, refracting its glare on the walls, and raising the temperature to an unbearable level. He watched me, drinking, with a cynical little smile, while signaling for me to come in. However, he received me in a good mood, inviting me with sherry and with enormous and inexplicable joy; perhaps the cause of his euphoria was my expected visit, I thought with overwhelmed bewilderment, since there were plenty of reasons for me to maintain my skepticism, as my intuition indicated to me. He unexpectedly began to talk about Renoir, while walking slowly with his arms crossed behind his back, stopping between steps to reflect. Suddenly his gaze seemed lost in the depths of infinity, as if stuck in the fleeting moments of melancholy, until he informed me that that day was the anniversary of his wife Gretna's death. He then let me know that his passion for Renoir was, without a doubt, the sweetest obsession that his wife had ever passed on to him during their years together. Far from losing his tough-guy composure, I perceived a certain sadness in his face, which did not move me, but did prompt me to make a brief comment about his regret and express my condolences. Turning his back on me, he began to say: "Mr. Hendrich, or whatever your name is, I knew from the beginning what your purpose was; you don't think I'm an idiot, do you?" Do what you have to do, please—. I waited until he turned around and we stood for a few moments looking at each other, then I opened fire and saw him fall face down on the carpet.
I am Stevenson Jacques, originally from Haiti, a professional electrician , theater actor, novelist, poet, writer, art lover, known as "Steve the Poet".
In 2008 I began to work more in the world of art, writing and theater; I was part of several theater companies.
Since 2014 I have been a member of “Tanbou Literè”; a group of dynamic young people who love art and literature.
I published in the anthology "Champurria" in 2018, and in the literary magazine "Desvanecimiento" in 2022. I have participated in several writing workshops and literary courses.
I am a member of a very dynamic and committed group of Haitian writers of my generation, “REK”; They are activist writers in defense and appreciation of the Haitian Kreyòl language.
After many years of publishing sporadically, I decided to publish my first bilingual poetry collection, "flor de tumba – Flè kav," along with its accompanying audiobook, in January 2023. In the same year, 2023, I published a novel in Creole, "Depi nan benbo," which I had been working on for over six years.