Loe raamatut: «Narcosis»

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NARCOSIS

Francisco Garófalo

Translated by Philip Walker

NARCOSIS

Cover design and layout: Libros Duendes

www.librosduendes.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, whether by photocopying or any other means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holders.

To God, for the continued gift of life. To my parents, for setting me a good example and for giving me an education.

To all my friends who have known how to listen to me, who have read my work and who have given me their opinion. To them I dedicate this book.

I

He was sitting on a bench drinking a cup of tea. He lived in a white house, although he had never liked that colour. He had an absent expression, gazing in no particular direction. He was serene, nothing interrupted him, nothing bothered him, nothing disturbed him, until his hand touched a square object that felt awkward inside his jacket.

Overcome with curiosity, he decided to take it out of his pocket; it was an old, creased notebook with a worn cover, dirty after so many years of abandonment. The strange thing for him was finding his name written on the notebook, as the title was “Lorenzo’s Diary”.

Lorenzo opened the notebook to glance through it and after a short scan, he closed it. He was overcome by a deep sense of curiosity and anxiety. He opened it anew. Were they perhaps words that he did not remember, sentences without meaning, anecdotes or simply memories that at some time it had occurred to him to write down? He had no idea; he would have to investigate. He felt a pain in his chest. Were they events he could no longer remember, an existence he had lived, an endless number of thoughts grouped together by date? He would have to find out what it was about.

He made himself comfortable on his bench in the Ecuadorian sunshine so that he could read carefully.

It began: I, Lorenzo, have decided to write this diary in case one day I forget what I have experienced in my life. I have not recorded my surname because I don’t have one. The circumstances that, in the past, led me to commit acts I should never have committed now torment me in the present. I accumulated debts in the past but I did not honour them. Now I am paying them.

The fact is, we all pay what we owe, although sometimes some people pay more than they owe. The worst thing is that I do not remember everything I did or failed to do.

Who wants to remember their misery? Although nobody can say that my whole life has been miserable, perhaps my destiny was simply written in the stars. I don’t know.

I do not remember where everything happened, nor when, nor the places, nor the times when maybe I was happy. I do not remember much. That is why I write. That is why I wrote to remember it, to not forget what I did, to not forget my sins, to not forget what I have already forgotten.

My mother died giving birth to me and I never knew the whereabouts of my father. That’s why I went to live at my Aunt Carlota’s house. At the time I did not know why my aunt was taking responsibility for me.

We arrived at the blue house with bone-coloured interior walls and I must confess I did not like those colours. I have never been very receptive to colours. I do not believe a colour makes a difference to how you live each day, as some psychologists claim, propounding theories that perhaps could be true. Personally, I think it is nonsense. Only our good deeds and our shortcomings make a difference.

The important thing is how we act and proceed in this wretched world, and I use the word “wretched” not because it really is, but just because I was unlucky or because I borrowed too much and then I did not want to pay.

We know that we are good at borrowing but very bad when it is time to pay. We know that and yet still we carry on doing the same things, justifying ourselves with the banal pretext that “we are only human”. But if we are human we should know that we are the most intelligent animals in the world. Maybe our intelligence is what makes us complete. I don’t know, perhaps I will never know.

II

I arrived in a place where I was not welcome, where nobody was happy about my presence. I was simply somebody who arrived to invade everybody’s lives. Especially her life.

Later on I would realise that my aunt did not love me, nor did her husband or her son. It was to be expected. I was someone who had arrived to disrupt the family, an apparently happy family, and I emphasise the word “apparently” because it was all a façade, a false life, just as most people have. Most people who live each day without knowing what they are living for. Who lack purpose and sleepwalk through empty streets, like ghosts without ideas. Zombies who live their lives lost and trapped by the evil acts that condemn them to be confined in freedom to a life without meaning and without dreams.

When I took my first step nobody was pleased, when I said my first word nobody was excited. Who was going to be excited when for them I did not exist? I was a non-entity, not even an object in that house. Someone who was never among their priorities.

When I reached my fifth birthday nobody threw me a party, nobody congratulated me, nobody thought of me, but I understood it since nobody loved me. She was the only one who took any notice of me.

I remember her. Of course I remember her. Her pink blouse, her curly hair, her red lips, her black eyes, her smile that gave me a reason to keep living.

She started to become the reason for my existence. It was for her that I kept myself alive in that house. It was her that made me sigh; it was her that made me dream; she was the only one who wished me a happy birthday and who gave me a kiss as a present and said, ‘I love you very much.’ And from that day I knew that she was the one for me. That she would be my wife forever.

Yes, I was a little boy with the dreams of a little boy, a little boy who loved with the love of a little boy, a little boy who clung to her because she was the only one who paid him any attention. A little boy who wanted to be loved.

III

I learnt. I began to know a lot. I learnt things by myself. Nobody taught me. I was a little boy who learnt day by day and I spent all day watching television since that was the only way for me to amuse myself and discover the world at the same time. I learnt, or maybe I didn’t.

What can television teach us? Perhaps quite a lot. Mostly bad things, depending on what we choose to watch. And what does a little boy of five choose to watch? Cartoons which are either violent or where the main characters are two talking animals. It’s entertainment, or at least that’s what they tell us.

But the truth is you end up acting like them and you get caught up in a vicious circle of stupidity and nastiness. The soaps, what do they teach you? The songs that make no sense? From that I learnt.

I didn’t know how to select television channels. Action films fascinated me. Their cleverness for killing and the different ways of fighting. I ended up absorbed in pornographic films that I found in the drawer of my aunt’s dresser. An apparently moral woman. How could I find pornography in her drawer? There is seemingly no limit to people’s falseness. They put on a mask so that they are not exposed.

I filled my head with rubbish. It was what the world offered me at the time and I took full advantage. And I took in everything I looked at, everything I heard, everything I could cram into my brain. If you ask me today, I admit that it was the worst way to learn. Perhaps I should have pored over books but what do texts matter to a little boy? I wouldn’t even have understood the links between several meaningless chapters because I didn’t have the education to decipher the hidden message. I didn’t even have anyone to explain it to me.

My cousins learnt differently to me. They had parents who taught them things and cared about their education. They had set times for watching television. To see their favourite programmes, first they had to study and do their homework, then their parents gave them advice on this or that over an afternoon snack before they got their prize, time in front of the television. Every night at bedtime, their parents read them fables with morals so that they learnt good things and would grow up to become successful professionals. However, false words never bear fruit.

You can’t teach by saying one thing and doing the opposite. The best way to teach is by example. We should talk less and do what we say. Imposing is not the way. Encouragement is better.

If you want your child to take an interest in reading, let them see you reading. If you don’t want them to lie, don’t lie yourself. That is how to educate. You can’t educate if you don’t set an example. You can’t harvest healthy fruit if you sow weeds. You can’t do it, however much you may want to.

IV

I didn’t count for anything in that house, left to fester in any old corner. If I wanted to change my lot in life, I would have to do it myself. Only my cousin Carla, who was eight years old, helped me or showed me any sign of affection, although I think really it was a sentiment more akin to pity.

Carla was the only one who showed any concern for me and it is thanks to her that I survived in that house.

I gave a name to the pity she felt.

That day of my fifth birthday, I went upstairs to my Aunt Carlota’s room to steal some money from her as I had realised that was my only way of getting any money to help me escape.

I had no other options.

I had learnt how do it – another lesson from the television programmes.

I opened the door to her room very gradually as I wasn’t sure if she had gone out.

I went in very slowly, trying not to make any noise. I looked inside and saw my aunt laying on her bed next to a man who was not her husband. I moved a little closer to look at the guy’s face and I saw that it was don Arnulfo’s best friend, don Nicolás.

You can’t always see what is happening under your nose but know that the truth will always come out. However much you try to hide it, however much you think nobody can see you, know that they are watching you; nothing stays hidden forever and we pay for everything in this life.

Don Nico, as everybody called him, always came to the house for lunch and everybody adored him, nobody more so than don Arnulfo who always spoke highly of him. He used to say that don Nicolás was his best friend and that was why he thought of him as a brother.

That day I realised why my aunt was never annoyed when they arrived home drunk. Instead, she took care of them and quickly took don Arnulfo to the bedroom so he could sleep, then took don Nicolás to the other bedroom and stayed with him for a few hours before going back to her husband. I also realised why my aunt always invited don Nicolás over when her children were at school and her husband was at work; they spent the time ensconced in the bedroom. I never said anything because I didn’t understand but that day I realised what was really going on.

My aunt was like the evil women in novels. Those women who cheat on their husbands while giving the impression of being saints. Those heartless women who only think about money. Like the first woman who existed in the world. Like the woman who ate the forbidden fruit. The one who led the man to his downfall. To adultery.

I must admit that I hated my aunt. And I had been presented with an opportunity for revenge.

An idea went round in my mind. I liked it and for the first time I felt a desire. A desire that grew in intensity inside me.

V

I rushed out of my aunt’s bedroom to look for Carla. She was the only one I could confide in. I knew she could help me unmask my aunt. I wanted her to know that her mother was a hussy, not because I wanted to hurt her but so she could see what her mother was doing, and in my stupid brain I thought she would be grateful to me.

I don’t know why I looked for her. This news would cause her pain, it would break her heart. Maybe it was because she was the only one I trusted, because I felt she understood me.

I searched the whole house but I couldn’t find her. I looked in the garden, in her bedroom and finally I found her in the kitchen helping to prepare the food. Another quality in her favour.

She was a girl who always liked helping other people. She never looked down on the maid or treated her badly. She always helped her with her duties.

I grabbed her by the arm, without saying a single word to her, and I took her with me.

On the way to my aunt’s bedroom, she asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘I want you to see something.’

‘See what?’

And with a jerk she released herself from my weak arm.

‘Tell me what it is you want me to see.’

‘Your mother.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, she’s cheating on your father. She’s a hussy.’

‘Shut up.’

And she very nearly hit me for the insult.

‘Have a look for yourself and then decide, if you really think I’m lying. What are you afraid of?’

‘I’m not afraid.’

‘Let’s go then.’

‘All right, but if you are lying to me, I will never help you again.’

We went into the room and Carla almost fainted when she saw her mother making love to don Nicolás. She wanted to shout but a knot in her throat stopped any sound coming out.

Her eyes looked as though they were going to pop out of their sockets.

Her face changed colour.

We left without the lovers noticing us.

We headed for my bedroom. Or rather, I led her there, she was in shock.

She tried to clear her mind and digest what she had seen. It can’t be easy for any child to discover that their mother is not what they thought she was, what she appeared to be.

‘What should I do?’ she asked, finally.

I didn’t know what to say.

I wanted revenge on my aunt. It would have been easy for me to suggest that she phone her father and destroy my aunt’s marriage but I didn’t want Carla to suffer, I didn’t want to see her cry. Destroying my aunt’s marriage meant destroying Carla’s home and I didn’t want to do that.

‘Remember that I love you very much,’ I said, and without thinking, I kissed her on the lips.

It was something I had planned to do for so long without knowing how, although of course I had rehearsed it.

She took a step backwards.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘Watching TV and practising with my pillow.’

This confession amused her.

And I, in my imaginary world, sensed that she had liked it, that she wanted it too.

My ideas ran away with me. Neither thoughts nor dreams have limits.

I thought she felt the same about me as well.

That she, too, had dreamt of that kiss.

We left the room and Pedro, her older brother, who was eleven, blocked our path; he had seen the kiss.

He came towards Carla, seized her roughly by her right arm and looked like he was about to hit her in the face. I intervened immediately to prevent him from hitting her but with a single punch to my abdomen he knocked the hero to the floor. Carla tried to help me but couldn’t, her brother gave her a slap and dragged her away. I saw him dragging her from my position on the floor. They disappeared from my view and I never imagined that would be the last time I would see her.

I still think of that day during my eternal sleepless nights, imagining what might have become of her, what fate awaited her, what destiny had in store for her. Where had she ended up?

Ten minutes later I got to my feet and ran to look for Carla but my aunt had already heard what had happened, blocked my path, took me by the arm and marched me forcibly to my bedroom. Once we were inside, she gave me such a beating that I did not sleep for the whole night.

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