“But the hour is drawing nigh. I’m not going to ask you to shoot me, for a number of reasons. You’re a peaceful man, no doubt about it; forcing you to shoot me would be an act of violence against you. Your hands worry me as well. Let’s be frank: you’re a disabled man. You have a grotesque hand: missing its index finger, with a hideous swelling in the palm. I must admit that the first time I shook your hand after the accident it gave me goose bumps; I, who have seen so much worse than that. Perhaps because you’re my friend, who knows? It’s a minor defect, almost imperceptible, almost invisible, I’d say. Just one finger, a few inches, if we want to be precise about it, if we want to be obscene about it. Allow me a moment of levity, Walser, my friend, don’t be offended. These are my last moments of levity, and someone who’s dying has a right to one last dance. But I was saying that your hands worry me: that’s another reason I won’t hand the gun over to you. If you were to shoot me with your left hand, I would be offended: no one should kill a man with his weak hand. But you, Joseph, have two weak hands, and that’s what worries me. Honestly, it’s a small defect, the one you have, confined to the index finger on your right hand. But do you know what that finger is? It’s the finger that pulls the trigger, the finger that’s essential for shooting: it’s the finger — please excuse these final embellishments — but it is, indeed, the finger that’s essential for killing. That’s the one, there isn’t another one that can be the crux, the medulla, to use that beautiful word, aside from the finger you no longer have. It would be rude to insist that you shoot me with your deformed hand. I would be highlighting your defect, that absence there. It wouldn’t be the right thing for me to do. For that reason, I’ll be the one who shoots. I would have liked for it to be you, Walser, I say that in all sincerity. To be killed by another human being would make more sense, it would be more appropriate for this century. But no, all I want is for you to see me: it’s the most just and least offensive way for the both of us. Joseph Walser, my friend: your index finger was never missed so sorely as it is today. A damned amputation, my friend. And take note of the way these machines are, the way your machine is: look at what it took from you. It could have taken thousands of different things from your body, but it only took one, an apparently laughable one: your index finger.
“But don’t lose the historical perspective. Even when you’re inside an office, under lock and key — don’t forget about the key, it’s right here — but, as I was saying, even locked in an office, feeling too hot, and with the roar of the machines outside the door, even here, in this situation, we must not forget about History. And, my friend, your machine could hardly have been more precise than it was: in the middle of a war, what did it do to you, what did your machine do? Merely this: it took from you your most useful finger, the one that shoots, the finger that performs a final contraction just before someone in front of you disappears. The machines were mocking you, my dear fellow. We should be wary of the machines, I’ve told you that before. Their malice is far too precise. We’ll never be able to achieve anything like it, ourselves.
“I’m going to put, then, a bullet precisely in the middle of my head, I’m going to insert a detail into it, but an outside detail, a metal one. And then, perhaps, dear Joseph, you’ll be able to salvage it for your collection. What do you think?
“What an excellent word: medulla! That which is in the middle; and the head is in the middle, you see? Remember what I told you about the head being on top of the body? But no: in fact, it’s in the middle after all.
“But enough of that, I thank you for listening to me so attentively, once again. I’m your friend, I hope that you finally realize that. You deserve to live, Walser, and I don’t know of a better thing to say to a man; I don’t know of a more just thing to say: you deserve to live.
“But let’s hurry to fulfill our duties. We shouldn’t slow down the tempo just because it’s Sunday. Dear friend, look at these dice, let’s roll them, what do you think? Two dice, you know them well. I always heard you were good player. I want to play! Let’s play together. We’ve never played together, have we?
“You all always thought of me as someone you wouldn’t want to play such games with, an undesirable. And you were right. I was never exactly efficient at joining in the games of others. That might seem like an odd way to put it, but it’s precisely what we’re talking about: being competent or not. And I, Joseph Walser, my friend, was never competent at games or diversions.
“But we’ve been here too long. I’m going to roll the dice, and you, my friend, will roll them next. I have a bullet in this gun: it’s going to go into the head of the one who loses. It’s simple. What do you think? It’s a game. Excellent, isn’t it? A double pastime.