arid, reassuring existence entirely apart from other living beings. The archivist appeared on the screen, looking disheveled and listless.
“Gabi still hasn’t come out from under the bed. Last night I left her dinner near the bed, and this morning I brought her some breakfast. Nothing. She hasn’t even touched the food. I don’t know what to do.”
Bruna diagnosed a state of sustained melancholia in Yiannis, not yet deep enough to set off the endorphin pump. She was already getting caught up in that hormonal business.
“I’ll stop by.”
But what about Bruna? Who was diagnosing her? Who was concerned about her? Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by her responsibilities: she had to decide what to do with the wretched girl, with the fragile Yiannis; on top of that she ought to investigate the nuclear incident and find out how Gabi had received such a high amount of radiation. Then there was the Loperena case. It didn’t seem to be a very exciting job, but it was the only one she had, and there were only four thousand gaias left in her bank account. She also had her first appointment with the tactile in a few hours and she couldn’t miss it, since her license was on the line. But wait, there was more! Because of the Gabi situation, Bruna had taken Bartolo back home with her; she’d left him on his own, and who knew what disaster he might have perpetrated? The rep gave a deep sigh, trying to untangle the disturbing knot of anxiety. One small step at a time, as Merlín used to say. First the child. Then the tactile. After that she’d take care of the missing diamond.
She took a small detour on her way to Yiannis’s apartment and stopped off at the hospital. To her surprise the doctor who had attended her was on indefinite sick leave and unreachable. She asked after the clinical assistant, but he had quit. She asked to see her own record from the emergency room. Everything was there except for the business about the girl’s radiation. Lizard was right: it was very disturbing.
Bruna didn’t say a word about all this to the archivist, whom she found flitting about his apartment, caught up in a manic phase. She didn’t want to sour his short-lived chemical happiness.
“The girl’s still there, refusing to come out. Which in one sense is very comfortable, as she’s quite a fastidious little thing. To have her quiet and still under the bed is a relief,” said Yiannis with a laugh.
The rep went into the bedroom, which was still spotless and tidy, and sat down on the floor. Lined up in perfect formation in front of her were a glass of water, a plate with an algae-and-tofu sandwich on it, a bowl full of fruit, and another bowl with wheat flakes and milk, which after sitting untouched for so long had turned into a compact, milky blob.
“Do you have any intention of ever eating again, Gabi?”
Silence.
“Do you have no intention of coming out from under there?”
Silence.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
Silence.
“Do you know what dying is?”
There was a sound like a snort.
“Well, I take it you do know. Let’s see. The wheat flakes will probably be revolting, but the fruit and the sandwich look fine. What do you want in return for eating the sandwich? If you ask for something reasonable, I’ll give it to you.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to come out. You can eat a sandwich anywhere.”
Silence.
“Come on. There must be something you want. Ask me for something. We’ll negotiate.”
“I want you to tell me a story,” said a quiet little voice.
“What?”
“Tell me a story.”
A memory flashed into the rep’s mind, a powerful and touching memory: her mother telling her a story before she went to sleep; her mother next to her bed, a shadowy figure outlined by the light in the hallway; her mother smelling of rain and freshly cut grass and spring; her mother cornering the night monsters and calming the world with her words. All very moving, but it was a fake memory, a memory
“Gabi still hasn’t come out from under the bed. Last night I left her dinner near the bed, and this morning I brought her some breakfast. Nothing. She hasn’t even touched the food. I don’t know what to do.”
Bruna diagnosed a state of sustained melancholia in Yiannis, not yet deep enough to set off the endorphin pump. She was already getting caught up in that hormonal business.
“I’ll stop by.”
But what about Bruna? Who was diagnosing her? Who was concerned about her? Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by her responsibilities: she had to decide what to do with the wretched girl, with the fragile Yiannis; on top of that she ought to investigate the nuclear incident and find out how Gabi had received such a high amount of radiation. Then there was the Loperena case. It didn’t seem to be a very exciting job, but it was the only one she had, and there were only four thousand gaias left in her bank account. She also had her first appointment with the tactile in a few hours and she couldn’t miss it, since her license was on the line. But wait, there was more! Because of the Gabi situation, Bruna had taken Bartolo back home with her; she’d left him on his own, and who knew what disaster he might have perpetrated? The rep gave a deep sigh, trying to untangle the disturbing knot of anxiety. One small step at a time, as Merlín used to say. First the child. Then the tactile. After that she’d take care of the missing diamond.
She took a small detour on her way to Yiannis’s apartment and stopped off at the hospital. To her surprise the doctor who had attended her was on indefinite sick leave and unreachable. She asked after the clinical assistant, but he had quit. She asked to see her own record from the emergency room. Everything was there except for the business about the girl’s radiation. Lizard was right: it was very disturbing.
Bruna didn’t say a word about all this to the archivist, whom she found flitting about his apartment, caught up in a manic phase. She didn’t want to sour his short-lived chemical happiness.
“The girl’s still there, refusing to come out. Which in one sense is very comfortable, as she’s quite a fastidious little thing. To have her quiet and still under the bed is a relief,” said Yiannis with a laugh.
The rep went into the bedroom, which was still spotless and tidy, and sat down on the floor. Lined up in perfect formation in front of her were a glass of water, a plate with an algae-and-tofu sandwich on it, a bowl full of fruit, and another bowl with wheat flakes and milk, which after sitting untouched for so long had turned into a compact, milky blob.
“Do you have any intention of ever eating again, Gabi?”
Silence.
“Do you have no intention of coming out from under there?”
Silence.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
Silence.
“Do you know what dying is?”
There was a sound like a snort.
“Well, I take it you do know. Let’s see. The wheat flakes will probably be revolting, but the fruit and the sandwich look fine. What do you want in return for eating the sandwich? If you ask for something reasonable, I’ll give it to you.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to come out. You can eat a sandwich anywhere.”
Silence.
“Come on. There must be something you want. Ask me for something. We’ll negotiate.”
“I want you to tell me a story,” said a quiet little voice.
“What?”
“Tell me a story.”
A memory flashed into the rep’s mind, a powerful and touching memory: her mother telling her a story before she went to sleep; her mother next to her bed, a shadowy figure outlined by the light in the hallway; her mother smelling of rain and freshly cut grass and spring; her mother cornering the night monsters and calming the world with her words. All very moving, but it was a fake memory, a memory
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