He turned on the lights. Complete chaos in his room: unmade bed, duvet half on the floor, a kettle, bread, and salami skin on the table, a crumpled newspaper under a chair, a necktie, the radio playing away. He smiled. He’d been in a hurry that morning and even got to work a few minutes late. He tidied the table, picked up the tie and paper. . “The 23rd of August Ice Rink is open daily between 10 A.M. and 10 P.M.” He undressed quickly and climbed into bed without turning off the light. He didn’t feel like reading: his eyes hurt, but for some time he’d been in the habit of going to sleep with the light on. The bulb had no shade, standing bare in its metal holder. And it was a hell of a bulb, with long claws that bored into his skull. If he looked straight at it, the glare sent little golden circles going round and round, picking up speed and fusing together. He turned on his side, pillow over face, and waited for sleep to come: first the steps, steeper than in the apartment block he climbed every day, so many of them, to reach the place where everything is shining and still, in dream. Then he remembered the skates; he saw Luci looking at him like an exhausted bird, and he remembered the skates. Adjustable hinges made it possible to lengthen them as required. “Keep your balance, you’re a big boy now,” they would say — but it was no good, he still couldn’t learn. Sometimes it happened that he’d wake up in the middle of the night, take them out of their box, and smilingly fondle them and stroke their cold, hard blades. Then he’d put them on and, struggling to balance himself, stand lost in admiration in front of the mirror. His feet curved and eventually began to tremble from the tension, but one day he’d have to learn to keep his balance and even glide elegantly around the rink, performing leaps and pirouettes, like this, with one leg bent and arms gracefully outstretched. He’d wear that fine black costume, a bow tie of white silk and a bowler hat. As he went down the steps to the rink, the night sky would be puffy and slightly red, and there would be a little mist. What art he would demonstrate on that mirror surrounded by thousands of spectators, so tall and distinguished as thousands of eyes moist with admiration or envy followed his flight across the ice.
On the Edge of the Sidewalk
When I left home I’d been planning to go to a friend’s, but it must have slipped my mind on the way. The sky was gray, like the paving on the streets, or rather like that empty square, as smooth as the round base of a stone jar, which I came to after much wandering; if it hadn’t been for the house walls I’d have started running to the edge of the square somewhere on the horizon, running blind, then spinning round faster and faster, climbing the slope of the sky, till I grew dizzy and there was no more up or down. But the house walls were in the way, and the few people out for a stroll or hurrying to an appointment would have stopped me — for humanitarian reasons, of course. So I walked quietly by the roadside, bending my knees a little, keeping my head down so as not to see the sky as gray as the pavement I was treading. I circled the square a couple of times; after all, there’s a difference between sky and sidewalk, between leaves and people’s shoes crushing them. The asphalt of the sky is smoother, cleaner — or maybe that’s an illusion due to distance. I held my hands down by my side, like wing stumps, in order to keep my balance, because I’m so alone and I like to walk on the edge of the sidewalk. And when, rarely, I have to cross the street, I break into a run: not for fear of cars — I like the way they whistle past — but to reach the other sidewalk, the other edge, more quickly. Since I lower my head and hold my arms by my side for the sake of balance, the gray of the sidewalk is exactly the same shade as the gray of the sky — that is, less whitish than usual, with a faintly blue vapor here and there when you look at it closely; sometimes turning pale, like when you think for a moment, without wishing to, that you’re going to die. For a moment an eye glistens cheerful and complicit from under a leaf, and then I stop and wait, arms wide open, but it only lasts a moment and perhaps it only seemed like that to me. There’s another difference between sky and sidewalk: sometimes the sky appears blue and friendly and you look at it as at a tall, kindly gentleman; you stop, roll your eyes around, and wait for it to stroke you on the head. Then, for just a moment, you think that what is called sky is not the stone trapdoor you know but perhaps a bottomless lake, or the soul of someone on the other side.
I looked up and noticed someone imitating my gestures. I could see he wasn’t very tall and had flap ears, and that his arms were open like wings; he was wearing a green overcoat like mine, unfastened and rather on the large side, and was walking on the edge of the sidewalk a few meters ahead. I stopped. So did he. I raised my arm in the direction of the treetop, toward a little break in the clouds. He did the same. Then I crouched down and he crouched down, though he didn’t see me; I stretched my arms out in front and to the side and moved them around as in gymnastics; we both lost balance, one foot slipped in the gutter, we fell onto one knee and, after getting up again, broke into a run; much as I tried I couldn’t catch him, the distance between us remained the same. I stopped. So did he. We mopped our face and brow with a handkerchief; I saw him panting, his head a little bent, his shoulders rising and falling in time with his breathing. He was tired. And I too was tired. I felt sorry for him. Why was I chasing him like that? People passed by, we were on a busy street, they all looked at me with surprise or contempt, some even stopped for a few moments and shook their head in disapproval. An eye gleamed mockingly from under a leaf in the gutter; I got scared, I felt guilty. Still a few meters in front of me, his head bent in fear or shame, the stubborn man did not move, did not go away. We both looked down at the gray stone of the sidewalk. I felt the slab of sky sink lower and lower to squash us. I again crouched down, my head more and more bent, seeing nothing but asphalt and the gleam of the mocking eye in the gutter. I heard the swishing of car wheels, the pounding of heel plates on the sidewalk, and again I was alone. Then I raised my eyes toward him, got to my feet, and saw him remove the belt from his trousers; he pulled it free as if it were a sword, then bent it and passed one end through the buckle to form a noose — oh my God! — and hurried over to the high black lattice of a front gate. What’s he up to — he’s not mad, is he? I ran after him, but I stopped to shout for help; a policeman’s uniform appeared from round the corner. Help! He wants to kill himself, you’ve got to stop him; it’s all my fault. The policeman ran up, rubber truncheon swinging at his hip; a blue-denimed arm grabbed me round the neck, while a large powerful hand pressed on the vein in my throat. Help! He tore the belt from my hand, shouting: you no-good drunk! And my throat hurt from his rough fist. Then he let go of me. He was looking at the belt in his hand as if it were a snake; his fury and bewilderment had passed. I kept my head down, only occasionally looking up slyly to see what he was doing: he was trying to put on a protective smile, or at least to find a comforting phrase, but he wasn’t succeeding; he twirled the belt angrily, but I had no desire to help him. I stepped aside and took to my heels. My dash was so unexpected that, after I had covered a hundred meters, I turned my head and saw him still standing stupefied beside the gate with the tall black lattice; the belt had wound itself like a snake around his hand; he could make no sense of it all. I thumbed my nose at him, then turned back and briskly continued on my way down the sidewalk. My trousers kept falling down, and from time to time I had to pull them back over my hips. One arm was therefore a suspender, only the other a wing, but I was free and the stones on the sidewalk gave off a bluish vapor; the sky was again glowing far away, a bottomless lake or perhaps the soul of someone on the other side.