The Day I Killed My Father by Mario Sabino Page A

one verse:
    Queasy, I vomit
a leftover shred,
love, eternal dreaming
multiplied.
    One of them (or was it Hemistich?) brought his ugly face close to Antonym’s.
    â€˜Nature, if you are neither mother nor stepmother,’ he said, ‘if human adventures and misadventures matter not to you (as you have affirmed more than once), all we can do, then, is writhe in your cornucopia, in the hope of a metaphysical echo, or ignore such indifference, and enjoy the mysterious pleasures of existence …’
    â€˜Echoes of Leopardi … I once read Leopardi … How I love Bernadette! Maybe if I wore clothes in happy colours, like these musicians … She got tired of asking. A yellow shirt, a cloud in trousers … No, I’m not sad. The nostalgia of my shipwrecked love offers so many possibilities. Everyone’s fucking. I want to, too, but I don’t know if I can … What did you put in this food, Hemistich? What did you put in this wine, Hemistich? Hemistich, where are you? Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Bernadette!’
    Antonym cried out, and everything went black.

VII
    â€˜Hi, remember me?’
    Antonym examined the discreet crow’s-feet that belied her youthful appearance.
    â€˜I have to admit I don’t.’
    â€˜It’s Kiki. We went to school together.’
    â€˜Oh, right, Kiki. But where are we, Kiki?’
    â€˜In Hemistich’s office. You passed out last night, and we brought you here.’
    â€˜We? Were you in the restaurant?’
    â€˜I arrived at the end of the party. I haven’t seen anyone from our class for ages … We should get everyone together every now and then, shouldn’t we? I always read your articles. I don’t understand much, but I generally like them. You were always good at writing …’
    â€˜I don’t write any more.’
    â€˜You’re kidding!’
    â€˜Let him be, Kiki.’
    â€˜Ah, come on, Hemistich. You’re always giving me a hard time. I’m going to give you my card, Antonym. Give me a call, OK? You’re looking hot. Ciao .’ As he watched Kiki’s arse moving away, Antonym thought how embarrassing it was to be part of certain people’s pasts.
    â€˜Do you know Kiki?’
    â€˜Yeah. We went to school together.’
    â€˜Top-notch pussy.’
    â€˜A bit past her prime.’
    â€˜But she’s still a babe. And the best thing is she loves to fuck.’
    â€˜This is starting to sound like something out of a porn flick. That was wild, last night. Is it always like that at your steakhouse?’
    â€˜Let’s just say it was a special night, in your honour.’
    â€˜Was it like that for Bernadette?’
    â€˜Of course not. She had an absolutely normal dinner.’
    â€˜I’m curious. Why did you get into this business?’
    â€˜It’s a long story. I’m not sure you’re up to hearing it now.’
    â€˜I’m fine. Go ahead.’
    â€˜You probably aren’t aware of it, but I fell into a deep depression two years ago. My intellectual career wasn’t going anywhere — except to debates on Byzantine topics and to the beds of post-grad lit students — and even that had lost some of its thrill. I felt lethargic; it was hard to get out of bed in the morning, and I was plagued by thoughts of death. Anyway, the symptoms of depression are well known. I went to a psychiatrist, who gave me one of those new drugs. I got better enough to realise that my existence had been a series of mistakes up to that point. If I’d kept going like that, the most I could aspire to was a fifteen-second obituary on educational TV to the sound of a classical guitar … Have you ever noticed that behind every TV news story about culture, there’s always a guitar being strummed? But it wasn’t the need for recognition that bothered me the most. I’d stopped seeing any sense in my writing — and in the