depths of the earth before they were spotted by that boy – no longer really a boy – who still circled the formicarium from time to time, his ear pressed to the glass, rapping with his knuckles.
What are you doing here, Víctor? Are you waiting for instructions? There are no instructions now, and no maestro to give them to you. The manual of darkness that lies in wait for you has not been written. No one has yet predicted whether you are going to be one hell of a blind man. And you’ve already got the little wretch thing nailed. Fate, however cruel it may seem, does not wish you harm. It is simply warning you what is about to happen to you. Get moving, get moving now. Stop hanging around. Yes, something very strange is happening to you. And not just to your eyesight. A man is accountable for his time, Víctor. He has a duty to take it with him, close to heel like a ferocious dog that must be muzzled.You stopped on that stair and set the dog loose. You wanted to stop and survey your life from its happiest moment. Well, this is the result. Time has turned on you, bared its fangs and attacked you with its chaos. One hell of a magician. A little wretch. One of these days you’ll kill yourself.
Caught up in memories and predictions, Víctor is oblivious to the present. The present is that the doorbell is ringing. Urgently. Relentless. Five rings and Víctor still has not noticed. He does not even know how long he has been sitting here. His right hand is still pressed against the glass of the formicarium. He thinks he has been tracking the course of the moon but he wouldn’t dare swear that the white dot is not in his left eye. Perhaps he has nodded off, sitting with his back rigid, his ankles tense, the toes of his shoes pressed to the ground.
When he finally hears the doorbell, he jumps to his feet, spilling the saucepan of water. He goes to the door and flings it open. Outside is Galván, his finger poised to ring the bell again.
‘If you’re here for your fifteen per cent,’ says Víctor, ‘it’s not a good time.’
Galván stands, open mouthed, looks Víctor up and down: the scruffy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, his trousers wet. The difference between this slob and the stylish man he has known for years is much more than aesthetic. The worst thing is the tone of his voice. And his words. What he just said. In twenty-two years, Víctor has never once been disrespectful to him. Especially not when it comes to money matters. Why is he being like this now? Who cares about the fucking fifteen per cent? Galván came out of concern for him, to find out why he disappeared from the party without saying goodbye. He is hurt. No one has the right to talk to him like that at his age, least of all Víctor. He turns on his heel and heads towards the stairs.
‘Mario!’ Víctor’s voice stops him. ‘Mario, I’m sorry … Don’t go, please … Come back.’
Galván hesitates for a moment until Víctor’s tone, the sadness in his voice, the feeling he might suddenly burst into tears like a child, forces him upstairs again. Hardly has he crossed the threshold when Víctor falls into his arms. It is the second time he has done this in less than forty-eight hours. But thecircumstances on the night of the party were different: the excitement, the culmination of the years they had both devoted to reaching that moment, could account for his distress. He had hugged Galván so hard it hurt. But this is not a hug. It is a breakdown. Galván knows that were he to take one step back, were he to let go, Víctor would collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. His arms still around Víctor, he manoeuvres him back into the apartment as though they were staggering back together from a night on the tiles.
It is difficult to get any coherent explanation from Víctor beyond the words ‘I’m going blind.’ Galván talks to him as one might a wayward child, forcing him to look into his eyes, repeating the same questions
What are you doing here, Víctor? Are you waiting for instructions? There are no instructions now, and no maestro to give them to you. The manual of darkness that lies in wait for you has not been written. No one has yet predicted whether you are going to be one hell of a blind man. And you’ve already got the little wretch thing nailed. Fate, however cruel it may seem, does not wish you harm. It is simply warning you what is about to happen to you. Get moving, get moving now. Stop hanging around. Yes, something very strange is happening to you. And not just to your eyesight. A man is accountable for his time, Víctor. He has a duty to take it with him, close to heel like a ferocious dog that must be muzzled.You stopped on that stair and set the dog loose. You wanted to stop and survey your life from its happiest moment. Well, this is the result. Time has turned on you, bared its fangs and attacked you with its chaos. One hell of a magician. A little wretch. One of these days you’ll kill yourself.
Caught up in memories and predictions, Víctor is oblivious to the present. The present is that the doorbell is ringing. Urgently. Relentless. Five rings and Víctor still has not noticed. He does not even know how long he has been sitting here. His right hand is still pressed against the glass of the formicarium. He thinks he has been tracking the course of the moon but he wouldn’t dare swear that the white dot is not in his left eye. Perhaps he has nodded off, sitting with his back rigid, his ankles tense, the toes of his shoes pressed to the ground.
When he finally hears the doorbell, he jumps to his feet, spilling the saucepan of water. He goes to the door and flings it open. Outside is Galván, his finger poised to ring the bell again.
‘If you’re here for your fifteen per cent,’ says Víctor, ‘it’s not a good time.’
Galván stands, open mouthed, looks Víctor up and down: the scruffy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, his trousers wet. The difference between this slob and the stylish man he has known for years is much more than aesthetic. The worst thing is the tone of his voice. And his words. What he just said. In twenty-two years, Víctor has never once been disrespectful to him. Especially not when it comes to money matters. Why is he being like this now? Who cares about the fucking fifteen per cent? Galván came out of concern for him, to find out why he disappeared from the party without saying goodbye. He is hurt. No one has the right to talk to him like that at his age, least of all Víctor. He turns on his heel and heads towards the stairs.
‘Mario!’ Víctor’s voice stops him. ‘Mario, I’m sorry … Don’t go, please … Come back.’
Galván hesitates for a moment until Víctor’s tone, the sadness in his voice, the feeling he might suddenly burst into tears like a child, forces him upstairs again. Hardly has he crossed the threshold when Víctor falls into his arms. It is the second time he has done this in less than forty-eight hours. But thecircumstances on the night of the party were different: the excitement, the culmination of the years they had both devoted to reaching that moment, could account for his distress. He had hugged Galván so hard it hurt. But this is not a hug. It is a breakdown. Galván knows that were he to take one step back, were he to let go, Víctor would collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. His arms still around Víctor, he manoeuvres him back into the apartment as though they were staggering back together from a night on the tiles.
It is difficult to get any coherent explanation from Víctor beyond the words ‘I’m going blind.’ Galván talks to him as one might a wayward child, forcing him to look into his eyes, repeating the same questions
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