Icarus
He forgot to switch off the light and fell asleep. He’d slept like that since he was a child: face down, half buried in the pillow, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, the other beneath his body with the palm turned up; a knee tucked under his belly, resembling a swimmer trapped in a fluid that has suddenly become viscous. The blanket had slipped to one side, the sheet was creased from all his twisting. Now and then he turned his head, shifting his arms and giving relief to a burning cheek, in movements so smooth that if you reduced the pauses between them you’d say they were crawl strokes. There were also moments when he turned on his back, leg bent, mouth slightly open, emitting a faint snore like the buzzing of a bumblebee. But he didn’t hold that position for long, probably because the light disturbed him; he then twisted abruptly onto his stomach, the buzzing stopped, and all that could be heard in the room was a deep regular breathing that slightly moistened his pillow.
The blanket was now a heap at the foot of the bed, having been kicked off by a sudden movement. His pajama buttons were open, and his fat white body showed through with a thin covering of long hair. Seeking the coolness of the wall, he abandoned the hot pillow and later tossed it toward a box filled with coals. The shovel propped up against the container fell against the little door of the stove, and the sound roused him from the depths of slumber. His arm rose in the air, pressing against the wall rug that had come three-quarters loose. He rolled over again and, still half-asleep, got up and went to the table. He took a gulp of water from the jug, without bothering to pour it into a glass first. He looked around and, as if remembering something important, went into the bathroom and came back clutching an ironing board. He tried it out across his shoulders, then a little lower at the level of the blades, so that his back was bent forward. His image in the closet mirror looked pretty ridiculous, but that didn’t concern him. He removed the suspenders from a pair of pants lying on the back of a chair, and a smile flickered briefly on his lips. But he was in a hurry. With the help of the suspenders, and a ribbon that had once adorned a chocolate egg, he managed to attach the board more or less across his shoulder blades. Then he looked again in the mirror. His striped convict’s pajamas and the wooden wings. . There was nothing funny about it, nothing at all. He moved awkwardly, though, the board wobbling a little on his back, as he went to the window and opened it resolutely. He climbed onto the ledge with some difficulty and looked out.
The city lights floating in the distance held no attraction. The noise of a streetcar jarred on his ears. Fear crept up on him; he hesitated, but only for a moment. He felt the uneven wall under his feet, under his clenched toes, then the fall. Falling, rising, then a smoother descent. . He kept his head up as much as possible, holding his arms at his side. The board weighed heavily on his shoulder blades. He twisted his whole body to the right, beating his legs, pressed together, like a tail, and steered round the block at the end of the street. Again he swung his legs briefly, like a dolphin, and began to climb. His neck muscles hurt; the beam of a star pierced his eyes. He flew for a long time. The city remained somewhere below, with all its sounds and lights; the air became ever colder and purer. He reached a patch of less dark sky, spread his arms, and saw that they were blue and long. Beside him, the flapping of huge silken wings. An eagle-like butterfly zigzagged around him, closer and closer, touching his face with a cool veil.
Arm darting out, he threw the pillow onto the coal box. The shovel fell onto the stove, a star exploded way above to the left, and the sound, coming in waves, shook him from the depths of slumber. He raised his arm, pressing it against the florid wall rug that had come loose and fallen over him. He rolled over to the edge of the bed, got up, and went half-asleep to the table. He drank some water from the jug, without bothering to pour it into a glass. He was thirsty. He looked around and, suddenly remembering, hurried into the bathroom and came back with the ironing board. He tried it out across his shoulders, then a little lower at the level of the blades, so that his back was bent forward. The image in the mirror was a little ridiculous, but what could he do? He removed the suspenders from the pants on the back of the chair and gave a weary smile.
Confidences
I met him in the street, quite by chance. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, and now he was walking head down in the rain — so there was no need for me to stop. We’d lost touch after he married Olga and went to live in One
ti. He was walking with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground, so I thought he had problems — or else why the hell put on such a performance? He no longer had that brisk gait of old, rolling on the soles of his feet like a high jumper; his shoes now dragged along the sidewalk, his shoulders were pulled up and a little forward. He’d had big plans when he left, and Olga, clinging to his arm, had been happy and in love: she’d have gone anywhere with him. The rain was as fine as on the day they left, but he kept his head bent low and the drops fell coldly on his neck. I’m sure he didn’t notice me; I could have just kept going. Yet I grabbed his coat sleeve and stopped him. He looked at me placidly, as if he didn’t recognize me. His hand was soft and sticky, like a lump of dough. “How are you, old boy?” I asked, forcing myself to appear as warm and lively as possible. His languor, his indifference, irritated me; the rain kept falling, cold and persistent. “It’s been ages since we met!” The overcoat hung loose and creased on his frame, its sleeves threadbare, and the lack of a tie showed off the grime of his shirt collar. Unshaven, with bags under his eyes, he looked like an old man. His eyes lay weary at the back of their sockets. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?” He shrugged in annoyance at my questions. Then he led me off to a bar.
I don’t like drinking, and some drinks make me feel ill. I shouldn’t have gone with him. The place smelled of alcohol, yeast, something sour, together with ash, sweat, and cigarette stubs ground into the floor. I felt sick: I wanted to get out of there, or at least to be by the window, where I could see the rain fall ever finer and cleaner. “I’m not going any farther inside,” I said. He muttered something or other, but he came back and we sat down in front of the window. He ordered a carafe of vodka for two, although I’d already told him I didn’t drink. Then he sat there without saying a word, his eyes fixed on the vodka. Maybe he was waiting for me to drink first, angry that I was making such a fuss. “Why aren’t you drinking?” I tried to sound gentle and friendly, but my voice wound up sounding dry, almost hostile. “Why aren’t you drinking?” I repeated, this time ashamed at sounding both severe and unctuous. And, irritated by his silence, I added: “We came here to drink, right? So why are you sitting there like a mummy? Why don’t you drink?” Whereupon I downed a glass of vodka in one gulp. He began to laugh like a man possessed, banging the table with his fist until the carafe toppled over. He was laughing at me, of course, at my contortions and the fit of coughing that had come over me. “Go to hell!” I croaked, the drink burning my throat. I could feel it pass into my stomach and set everything on fire. He called over the waiter and asked for another quarter-liter. There was no more doubt in my mind: he wanted to have some fun at my expense. I got up to leave. “Please don’t go! I want to tell you something.” His voice was clogged and rasping. I wasn’t the least bit curious, but I sat down again — out of politeness or cowardice, call it what you will. The rainy street gleamed through the window, a river growing brighter and brighter through which people trod with shoulders bent.